To E. W. G.
(Who also had rhymed on the _Fortunate Islands_ of Lucian).
_Each in the self-same field we glean_
_The field of the Samosatene_,
_Each something takes and something leaves_
_And this must choose_, _and that forego_
_In Lucian’s visionary sheaves_,
_To twine a modern posy so_;
_But all my gleanings_, _truth to tell_,
_Are mixed with mournful asphodel_,
_While yours are wreathed with poppies red_,
_With flowers that Helen’s feet have kissed_,
_With leaves of vine that garlanded_
_The Syrian Pantagruelist_,
_The sage who laughed the world away_,
_Who mocked at Gods_, _and men_, _and care_,
_More sweet of voice than Rabelais_,
_And lighter-hearted than Voltaire_.