THE DOOM OF THE MINOR POETS.
When Minor Poets grew so rife,
They found a Minor Poet's life
Was very little fun
The Spirit of the Age they prayed
They might be melted down, and made
Into a Major one.
Each had a very little spark
Of genius, that in the dark
Might clearly be discerned.
But in a universal glare!
Who could perceive a rushlight, where
By myriads they burned?
The Spirit heard the prayer they urged,
That all their merits might be merged
In one enduring Fame:
"Yet, ere you all are whelmed and gone,
You," she declared, "must fix upon
The Major Poet's name."
Up rose a mighty clamour then,
For Smith proposed the cognomen
Of Smith, in ardent tones.
"More suitable for high renown,"
Cried Brown, "appears the name of Brown."
Jones advocated Jones.
Expecting yet some verdict clear,
The Spirit waited half a year,
Then spread her wings and fled,
But ere she fled, pronounced this curse:
"You all shall read each other's verse
Till all of you are dead!"
Some, overburdened by the doom,
Sank speedily into the tomb.
In padded cells and lone
There wander others, who abuse
All day the volumes they peruse,
But never ope their own!
THINGS THAT ARE SAID.
"Now, Major do your very best to come to us on Tuesday. I shall expect you. But if you can't come, of course I shall not be disappointed!"