Come, then, ye mountebanks of all degrees, New Cagliostros! fly beyond the seas; Fiddlers from Rome, philanthropists from France, Lords of the lyre, the lancet, and the dance; Hydropathists, and mesmerisers, come; Ye who Cremonas and Clementis thrum, Here build your altars, hang your banners out, Laurel yourselves, and your own pæan shout; Assume what little, take what coin you will, Profess all science, arrogate all skill: What though no university enroll Your name and honors on a Latin scroll? Sure each may constitute himself a college, And be himself the warrant of his knowledge. Then at small cost in some gazette obtain Alike an apotheösis and fane: Amid its hallowed columns once enshrined, Converts and worshippers you soon shall find, Buy of the editor--'tis cheap enough-- The sacred incense of his potent puff; The public nose will catch the sweet aroma, Tut! they who advertise need no diploma. 'Good heavens!' methinks I hear my Thomas cry, 'With what a low, derogatory eye You view the beautiful, primeval shore Where first-born forests guard the torrent's roar. What! is there nothing in that lovely land Mid all that's fair, and excellent, and grand, Nothing more worthy of a poet's pen Than sots and rogues and bastard Englishmen?' Patience! philosopher: as yet I dwell In the dull echoes of a tavern-bell; My inspiration is not born of rocks, Nor meads, nor mountains white with snowy flocks; Streets and their sights are all that fire me now To tap the bump ideal of my brow; Mine ears are thrilled not by Niagara's noise, But that of drays and cabs and bawling boys; And scarce the day one quiet hour affords To fit my fancies with harmonious words; Yet oft at evening, when the moon is up, When trees on dew and men on slumber sup, Along the gas-lit rampart of the bay In rhymeful mood as undisturbed I stray, Awhile my present 'whereabout' I lose, And on my loved ones o'er the water muse. Sometimes lulled ocean heaves an orient sigh, Which brings our terrace and its roses nigh; While each Æolian murmur of the sea Seems whispering fragrantly of home and thee; But something soon dispels the pleasing dream, The fire-fly's flash, the night-hawk's whistling scream, Or katydid, complaining in the dark, Or other sound unheard in Regent's Park. For wheresoe'er by night or noon I tread, Thought guides me still, like Ariadne's thread, Through shops and crowds and placard-pasted walls Till on my brain Sleep's filmy finger falls And cuts the filament, with gentle knife, That leads me through this labyrinth of life. I feel it now, the power of the dull god; The verse imperfect halts--Thomas, I nod; 'Tis late--o'er Caurus hangs the northern car; My page is out--and so is your cigar. T.W.P.