And dig, and sweat, and turn themselves about,
And plant, and reap, and spin, and grind, and sow,
Till all the arts at length are brought about,
Especially of War and taxing,—how,
I say, will these great relics, when they see 'em,
Look like the monsters of a new Museum!
XLI.
But I am apt to grow too metaphysical:
"The time is out of joint,"[504]—and so am I;
I quite forget this poem's merely quizzical,