Of things vice-nurtured—from the Porch and Shrine!
And know, Macready, midst the desert there,
That soon shall bloom a garden, swells a mine
Of wealth no less than honour—both most bare
To meaner enterprise. Let that be thine—
Who knowest how to risk, and how to share!
L. B.
Hereupon, a bard started up in the very remotest corner, and interposed in favour of the epigram, seeing that such oddities as sonnets and enigmas were allowed to pass current. Immediately, and by unanimous invitation, he produced some lines written in the album of a fair damsel, whose sire has but one leg, and complains of torture in the toes that he has not.
"The heart that has been spurn'd by you
Can never dream of love again,