Chapter VII: Part THE THIRD (4)

When Nature saw she'd made a perfect man
She broke the mould and threw away the pieces,
Which being found by Satan, he began
And stuck the bits together--hence the creases,
The twists, the crooked botches, that we find--
Sad counterfeits of Nature's perfect moulding;
Hearts wrongly placed--a topsy-turvy mind--
Things that deserve the scorn of all beholding.
It needs no oracle in Delphic shade
To name the model from which _thou_ wert made.

IMPROMPTU:

ON AN INVETERATE SPOUTER.

If wealth of words men wealth of wisdom call'd,
And measured Genius by the way she bawled,
Then ---- would be the head of all the crew,
The King of Genius and of Wisdom too.

A CHARACTER.

In childhood spoilt: a misery at school;
In wooing, what you might expect--a fool.
In small things honest, and in great a knave;
At home a tyrant, and abroad a slave.

COUPLET:

ON A PAUPER WHOSE WEALTH GREW FASTER THAN HIS MANNERS.

Paupers grown rich forget what once they've been,
Though, born a pig the snout is always seen.

PAUSE!

ON THE HESITATION OF THE CZAR TO FORCE A PASSAGE
OF THE DANUBE, JUNE, 1877.

Aye--hesitate! "Soldiers who stop to think
Are lost." So said a soldier (_a_) ere he died:
Lost, then, art thou--thus shivering on the brink.
Death was thy father's cure for humbled pride!

(_a_) Wellington.

THE TEST OF THE STICK.

Mick Malone on the tramp, weary, dusty, and warm,
Thought a pint of good ale wouldn't do him much harm;
But before he indulged--just for Conscience's sake--
He thought he'd the views of Authority take.
So poising his stick on the ground--so they say,
He resolved on the beer if it fell the beer way;
If it went the contrary direction--why then
He'd his coppers retain, and trudge onward again.
The shillalegh, not thirsty, went wrong way for Mick,
Who again and again tried the Test of the Stick,
Till, worn out with refusing, the sprig tumbled right:
"Bring a pint!" sang out Pat, which he drank with delight;
And smacking his lips as he finished his beer,
Cried--"Success, Mick, me boy! always persevere!"

NOTE:

CONCERNING IUAN WYLLT, AN EISTEDDFOD AT NEATH, AND MY FIRST PRIZE POEM.

I think I ought to mention here, that the "Ode on the Death of a very Intimate Friend" (page 199), was written in 1853, before I came to reside in Wales. About three or four years after this--I forget the date--a prize was offered at an Eisteddfod held at Neath, by Mr. James Kenway, the then Mayor, for the best monody on the death of Mr. Edward Evans. I competed for the prize, and obtained it. The model of the Ode was taken by me in writing the Monody, the general conditions of the two events being somewhat similar, and much of the same language is used in both poems. I may add, as a matter that may be interesting to some, that the Neath Eisteddfod prize was the first for which I competed, and the first I obtained. The adjudicator was the late Mr. J. Roberts (Iuan Wyllt), whose death, as I write these lines, is being recorded in the newspapers. In adjudicating upon the poem, Mr. Roberts said: "In this production we have the traces of a muse of a superior order. The language is chaste and poetic, the versification is clear and melodious, and the mournfully pathetic strain that pervades the whole elegy harmonises well with the sorrowful character of the subject. As regards both matter and manner, the writer has excelled by many degrees all the other competitors, and his elegy is fully deserving the offered prize." It is not too much to say, that to the encouragement contained in the foregoing remarks of Iuan Wyllt was due the spirit of emulation which led me subsequently to compete at the various Elsteddfodau in the Principality with so much success.

THE END.