III.
A VILLAGE TOPER.
John loved strong waters and ne'er stirred his feet
Abroad in leafy spring or summer's heat,
Autumnal breeze or winter's rimy chill,
Unsolaced by the nectar of the still.
Spirits came always kindly to his lips,
And time he measured not by hours but "nips."
Teetotalers to him were curse and gall,
Grim Banquos at the world's wide festival,
Men, whom a weird and fate-ordainéd bale,
Had smitten with the hate of cakes and ale,
A soda-water, syphon-squirting crew,
Guilty of treason to the revenue:
Their lurid language and their unctuous warnings,
Their moral-pointings and their tale-adornings,
And, worst of all, their shameful waste of ink
In signing pledges to abstain from drink,
Proved them a witless and a churlish band,
Unfit to dwell in any Christian land.
IV.
A REVEREND HELLENIST.
In that old ivied manse exists
A scholar, wrinkled, bent, and gray,
His student lamp gleams through the mists
And twinkles on till break of day.
This sage is wedded to his books,
And Sultan-like his harem's full,
He dotes upon them in their nooks
With love and joy that never cool.
No wonder that his back is bent,
Or that his eye has mystic glows,
He pores on pages redolent
Of love and love's undying rose.
No earthly maiden, fresh and sweet,
Could please his fancy half so well
As a Greek nymph with twinkling feet
Skipping in some Arcadian dell.