“There comes ----, for instance; to see him’s rare sport, Tread in Emerson’s tracks with legs painfully short; How he jumps, how he strains, and gets red in the face, To keep step with the mystagogue’s natural pace! He follows as close as a stick to a rocket, His fingers exploring the prophet’s each pocket. Fie, for shame, brother bard; with good fruit of your own, Can’t you let Neighbor Emerson’s orchards alone? Besides, ’tis no use, you’ll not find e’en a core,-- ---- has picked up all the windfalls before. They might strip every tree, and E. never would catch ’em, His Hesperides have no rude dragon to watch ’em; When they send him a dishful, and ask him to try ’em, He never suspects how the sly rogues came by ’em, He wonders why ’tis there are none such his trees on, And thinks ’em the best he has tasted this season. “Yonder, calm as a cloud, Alcott stalks in a dream, And fancies himself in thy groves, Academe, With the Parthenon nigh, and the olive-trees o’er him, And never an act to perplex him or bore him, With a snug room at Plato’s when night comes, to walk to, And people from morning till midnight to talk to, And from midnight till morning, nor snore in their listening;-- So he muses, his face with the joy of it glistening, For his highest conceit of a happiest state is Where they’d live upon acorns, and hear him talk gratis; And indeed, I believe, no man ever talked better,-- Each sentence hangs perfectly poised to a letter; He seems piling words, but there’s royal dust hid In the heart of each sky-piercing pyramid. While he talks he is great, but goes out like a taper, If you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper; Yet his fingers itch for ’em from morning till night, And he thinks he does wrong if he don’t always write; In this, as in all things, a lamb among men, He goes to sure death when he goes to his pen.