Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and
There's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,
Because you thus by vain pretense degrade
To paltry purposes traditions grand,
Dudley, great placeman, man of mark and note,
Worthy of honor from a feeble pen
Blunted in service of all true, good men,
You serve the Lord-in courses, _table d'hote:
Au, naturel,_ as well as _a la Nick
'Eat and be thankful, though it make you sick.'
Time was the local poets sang their songs
Beneath their breath in terror of the thongs
I snapped about their shins. Though mild the stroke
Bards, like the conies, are 'a feeble folk,'
Who's this that lispeth in the thickening throng
Which crowds to claim distinction in my song?
Fresh from 'the palms and temples of the South,'
The mixed aromas quarrel in his mouth:
Of orange blossoms this the lingering gale,
Cried Age to Youth: 'Abate your speed!
The distance hither's brief indeed.'
But Youth pressed on without delay
The shout had reached but half the way
'I've found the secret of your charm,' I said,
Expounding with complacency my guess.
Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled,
For all its secret was unconsciousness.
Down in the state of Maine, the story goes,
A woman, to secure a lapsing pension,
Married a soldier-though the good Lord knows
That very common act scarce calls for mention.
What makes it worthy to be writ and read
The man she married had been nine hours dead!
Hail, blessed Blunder! golden idol, hail!
Clay-footed deity of all who fail.
Celestial image, let thy glory shine,
Thy feet concealing, but a lamp to mine.
'Sas agapo sas agapo,'
He sang beneath her lattice.
''Sas agapo'?' she murmured-'O,
I wonder, now, what _that_ is!'