(F. L. L.: IN MEMORIAM) 'HIS Books.' Oh yes, his Books I know, -- Each worth a monarch's ransom; But now, beside their row on row, I see, erect and handsome, The courtly Owner, glass in eye, With half-sad smile, forerunning Some triumph of an apt reply, -- Some master-stroke of punning. Where shall we meet his like again? Where hear, in such perfection, Such genial talk of gods and men, -- Such store of recollection; Or where discern a verse so neat, So well-bred and so witty, -- So finished in its least conceit, So mixed of mirth and pity? POPE taught him rhythm, PRIOR ease, PRAED buoyancy and banter; What modern bard would learn from these? Ah, tempora mutantur! The old regime departs, -- departs; Our days of mime and mocker, For all their imitative arts, Produce no FREDERICK LOCKER. |