_With_ THE COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON
GREETING, old friend! a merry Christmas time
To you, who nothing merry ever see;--
Great Murderer of poets in their prime,--
Why have you struck at _me_?
With vengeful hooks of sharpened critic-steel
You tortured giants in the days gone by,--
And now upon your creaking, rusty wheel,
You’d break a Butterfly!
Alas! you’re far too cumbrous for such things!
Your heavy, clanking axle drags i’ the chase;--
The happy Insect has the use of wings,
And keeps its Sunshine-place!