Than ear. These shall burn first: their ignible And seasoned substances--trunks, legs and arms, Blent indistinguishable in a mass, Like winter-woven serpents in a pit-- None vantaged of his fellow-fools in point Of precedence, and all alive--shall serve As fueling to fervor the retort For after cineration of true men. A DEMAND. You promised to paint me a picture, Dear Mat, And I was to pay you in rhyme. Although I am loth to inflict your Most easy of consciences, I'm Of opinion that fibbing is awful, And breaking a contract unlawful, Indictable, too, as a crime, A slight and all that. If, Lady Unbountiful, any Of that By mortals called pity has part In your obdurate soul--if a penny You care for the health of my heart, By performing your undertaking You'll succor that organ from breaking-- And spare it for some new smart, As puss does a rat. Do you think it is very becoming, Dear Mat, To deny me my rights evermore And--bless you! if I begin summing Your sins they will make a long score! You never were generous, madam, If you had been Eve and I Adam You'd have given me naught but the core, And little of that. Had I been content with a Titian, A cat By Landseer, a meadow by Claude, No doubt I'd have had your permission To take it--by purchase abroad. But why should I sail o'er the ocean For Landseers and Claudes? I've a notion All's bad that the critics belaud. I wanted a Mat. Presumption's a sin, and I suffer For that: But still you _did_ say that sometime, If I'd pay you enough (here's enougher-- That's more than enough) of rhyme You'd paint me a picture. I pay you Hereby in advance; and I pray you Condone, while you can, your crime, And send me a Mat. But if you don't do it I warn you, Dear Mat, I'll raise such a clamor and cry On Parnassus the Muses will scorn you As mocker of poets and fly With bitter complaints to Apollo: "Her spirit is proud, her heart hollow, Her beauty"--they'll hardly deny, On second thought, _that_! THE WEATHER WIGHT. The way was long, the hill was steep, My footing scarcely I could keep. The night enshrouded me in gloom, I heard the ocean's distant boom-- The trampling of the surges vast Was borne upon the rising blast. "God help the mariner," I cried, "Whose ship to-morrow braves the tide!" Then from the impenetrable dark A solemn voice made this remark: "For this locality--warm, bright; Barometer unchanged; breeze light." "Unseen consoler-man," I cried, "Whoe'er you are, where'er abide, "Thanks--but my care is somewhat less For Jack's, than for my own, distress. "Could I but find a friendly roof, Small odds what weather were aloof.