A captive now, alas!
Thou for aye art doomed to pass
Thy life far from the mass
Of thy race.
Like Stoic thou dost stand,
Exiled from his native land,
With that look so sage and grand
In thy face.
Were Pythagorean lore,
Current now as once before,
In the classic days of yore,
I could swear,
That the spirit of some sage,
From some dark and mythic age,
In thy body found a cage
Or a lair.
And once more on Earth was sent,
To retrieve a life misspent,
Till his crimes he should repent.
In that form.
But hereafter might arise,
After penance to the skies,
Where bliss awaiting lies
His reform.
My lamp burns low. Farewell.
Thus ends my verse's spell.
And now thy mournful yell—
Fearful din—
May commence, my eyeballs ache,
For my couch I now must make,
I to sleep and thou to wake,
May'st begin.
Immense applause greeted this last ode of our artist's, and the health of the new poet laureate was proposed by Mr. Oldstone and drunk all round, after which our artist returned thanks in a humorous speech which called forth much laughter from the other members, and much clapping of hands and rattling of glasses ensued. Glasses were then refilled, and after a little more pleasant conversation the party broke up for the night and each retired to his solitary bed-chamber.