Pray, gentle reader, did you chance to know One Monsieur d'Aube, who died not long ago? One whom the disputatious mania woke Early each morning? If, by chance, you spoke Of your own part in some well-fought affair, Better than you he knew how, when, and where; What though your own the deed and the renown? His "letters from the army" put you down; E'en Richelieu he'd have told--if he attended-- How Mahon fell, or Genoa was defended. Although he wanted neither wit nor sense, His every visit gave his friends offence; I've seen him, raving in a hot dispute, Exhaust their logic, force them to be mute, Or, if their patience were entirely spent, Rush from the room to give their passion vent. His kinsmen, whom his property allured, At last were wearied, though they long endured. His neighbors, less athletic than himself, For health's sake laid him wholly on the shelf. Thus, 'midst his many virtues, this one failing Brought his old age to solitary wailing;-- For solitude to him was deepest woe-- A sorrow which the peaceful ne'er can know At length, to terminate his cureless grief, A mortal fever came to his relief, Caused by the great, the overwhelming pang, Of hearing in the church a long harangue Without the privilege of contradiction; So, yielding to this crowning dire affliction, His spirit fled. But, in the grasp of death, 'Twas some small solace, with his parting breath, To indulge once more his ruling disposition By arguing with the priest and the physician. Oh! may the Eternal goodness grant him now The rest _he_ ne'er to mortals would allow! If, even there, he like not disputation Better than uncontested, calm salvation. * * * * * But see, my friends, this bold defiance made To every one of the disputing trade, With a young bachelor their skill to try; And God's own essence shall the theme supply. Come and behold, as on the theatric stage, The pitched encounter, the contending rage; Dilemmas, enthymemes, in close array-- Two-edged weapons, cutting either way; The strong-built syllogism's pondering might, The sophism's vain ignis fatuus light; Hot-headed monks, whom all the doctors dread, And poor Hibernians arguing for their bread, Fleeing their country's miseries and morasses To live at Paris on disputes and masses; While the good public lend their strict attention To what soars far above their sober comprehension.