THEY come from mansions far up-town,
And from their country villas,
And some, Charybdis’ gulf whirls down,
And some fall into Scylla’s.
Lo! here young Paris climbs the stairs
As if their slope were Ida’s,
And here his golden touch declares
The ass’s ears of Midas.
It seems a Bacchic, brawling rout
To every business-scorner,
But such, methinks, must be an “out,”
Or has not made a “corner.”
In me the rhythmic gush revives;
I feel a classic passion:
We, also, lead Arcadian lives,
Though in a Broad-Street fashion.
Old Battos, here, ’s a leading bull,
And Diomed a bear is,
And near them, shearing bankers’ wool,
Strides the Tiltonian Charis;
And Atys, there, has gone to smash,
His every bill protested,
While Cleon’s eyes with comfort flash,—
I have his funds invested!
Mehercle! ’tis the same thing yet
As in the days of Pindar:
The Isthmian race, the dust and sweat,
The prize—why, what’s to hinder?
And if I twang my lyre at times,
They did so then, I reckon;
That man’s the best at modern rhymes
Whom you can draw a check on!
_Bayard Taylor._