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,[H] 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."-- [Footnote F: That is in most cases we do, but not all, Past a doubt, there are men who are innately small, Such as Blank, who, without being 'minished a tittle, Might stand for a type of the Absolute Little.] [Footnote G: (And at this just conclusion will surely arrive, That the goodness of earth is more dead than alive.)] [Footnote H: Not forgetting their tea and their toast, though, the while.] Here the critic came in and a thistle presented[I]-- 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." [Footnote I: Turn back now to page--goodness only knows what, And take a fresh hold on the thread of my plot.]