To come to the point, I may safely assert you Will find in each yard every cardinal virtue[6]; Each has six truest patriots: four discoverers of ether, Who never had thought on ’t nor mentioned it either; Ten poets, the greatest who ever wrote rhyme: Two hundred and forty first men of their time: One person whose portrait just gave the least hint Its original had a most horrible squint: One critic, most (what do they call it?) reflective, Who never had used the phrase ob- or subjective: Forty fathers of Freedom, of whom twenty bred Their sons for the rice-swamps, at so much a head, And their daughters for--faugh! thirty mothers of Gracchi: Non-resistants who gave many a spiritual black-eye: Eight true friends of their kind, one of whom was a jailer: Four captains almost as astounding as Taylor: Two dozen of Italy’s exiles who shoot us his Kaisership daily, stern pen-and-ink Brutuses, Who, in Yankee back-parlors, with crucified smile,[7] Mount serenely their country’s funereal pile: Ninety-nine Irish heroes, ferocious rebellers ’Gainst the Saxon in cis-marine garrets and cellars, Who shake their dread fists o’er the sea and all that,-- As long as a copper drops into the hat: Nine hundred Teutonic republicans stark From Vaterland’s battles just won--in the Park, Who the happy profession of martyrdom take Whenever it gives them a chance at a steak: Sixty-two second Washingtons: two or three Jacksons: And so many everythings-else that it racks one’s Poor memory too much to continue the list, Especially now they no longer exist;-- I would merely observe that you’ve taken to giving The puffs that belong to the dead to the living, And that somehow your trump-of-contemporary-doom’s tones Is tuned after old dedications and tombstones.” Here the critic came in and a thistle presented[8]-- From a frown to a smile the god’s features relented, As he stared at his envoy, who, swelling with pride, To the god’s asking look, nothing daunted, replied,-- “You’re surprised, I suppose, I was absent so long, But your godship respecting the lilies was wrong; I hunted the garden from one end to t’other, And got no reward but vexation and bother, Till, tossed out with weeds in a corner to wither, This one lily I found and made haste to bring hither.” “Did he think I had given him a book to review? I ought to have known what the fellow would do,” Muttered Phœbus aside, “for a thistle will pass Beyond doubt for the queen of all flowers with an ass; He has chosen in just the same way as he’d choose His specimens out of the books he reviews; And now, as this offers an excellent text, I’ll give ’em some brief hints on criticism next.” So, musing a moment, he turned to the crowd, And, clearing his voice, spoke as follows aloud:--