CANTO VI.
Dyscomfyture.
| As one who strives a hill to climb, Who never climbed before: Who finds it, in a little time, Grow every moment less sublime, And votes the thing a bore: Yet, having once begun to try, Dares not desert his quest, But, climbing, ever keeps his eye On one small hut against the sky, Wherein he hopes to rest: Who climbs till nerve and force are spent, With many a puff and pant: Who still, as rises the ascent, In language grows more violent, Although in breath more scant: |
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| Who, climbing, gains at length the place That crowns the upward track; And, entering with unsteady pace, Receives a buffet in the face That lands him on his back: And feels himself, like one in sleep, Glide swiftly down again, A helpless weight, from steep to steep, Till, with a headlong giddy sweep, He drops upon the plain— So I, that had resolved to bring Conviction to a ghost, And found it quite a different thing From any human arguing, Yet dared not quit my post |
| But, keeping still the end in view To which I hoped to come, I strove to prove the matter true By putting everything I knew Into an axiom: Commencing every single phrase With ‘therefore’ or ‘because,’ I blindly reeled, a hundred ways, About the syllogistic maze, Unconscious where I was. Quoth he “That’s regular clap-trap: Don’t bluster any more. Now do be cool and take a nap! Such a ridiculous old chap Was never seen before! “You’re like a man I used to meet, Who got one day so furious In arguing, the simple heat Scorched both his slippers off his feet!” I said “That’s very curious!” |

