Well used to a breach, the brave Subaltern dreads
Awkward breaches of syntax a hundred times more;
And tho' often condemned to see breaking of heads,
He had ne'er seen such breaking of Priscian's before.
However, the job's sure to pay—that's enough—
So, to it he sets with his tinkering hammer,
Convinced that there never was job half so tough
As the mending a great Major-General's grammar.
But lo! a fresh puzzlement starts up to view—
New toil for the Sub.—for the Lord new expense:
'Tis discovered that mending his grammar won't do,
As the Subaltern also must find him in sense!
At last—even this is achieved by his aid;
Friend Subaltern pockets the cash and—the story;
Drums beat—the new Grand March of Intellect's played—
And off struts my Lord, the Historian, in glory!
[1] Or Lieutenant-General, as it may happen to be.
IMITATION OF THE INFERNO OF DANTE.
"Cosi quel fiato gli spiriti mali Di quà, di là, di giu, di su gli mena."
Inferno, canto 5.
I turned my steps and lo! a shadowy throng
Of ghosts came fluttering towards me—blown along,
Like cockchafers in high autumnal storms,
By many a fitful gust that thro' their forms
Whistled, as on they came, with wheezy puff,
And puft as—tho' they'd never puff enough.
"Whence and what are ye?" pitying I inquired
Of these poor ghosts, who, tattered, tost, and tired
With such eternal puffing, scarce could stand
On their lean legs while answering my demand.
"We once were authors"—thus the Sprite, who led
This tag-rag regiment of spectres, said—
"Authors of every sex, male, female, neuter,
"Who, early smit with love of praise and—pewter,[1]
"On C—lb—n's shelves first saw the light of day,
"In —-'s puffs exhaled our lives away—
"Like summer windmills, doomed to dusty peace,
"When the brisk gales that lent them motion, cease.
"Ah! little knew we then what ills await
"Much-lauded scribblers in their after-state;
"Bepuft on earth—how loudly Str—t can tell—
"And, dire reward, now doubly puft in hell!"