All this is now o'er and so dismal _my_ loss is,
So hard 'tis to part from the smack of the throng,
That I mean (from pure love for the old whipping process),
To take to whipt syllabub all my life long.
[1] One of the operations in cotton mills usually performed by children.
THE GHOST OF MILTIADES.
_ah quoties dubies Scriptis exarsit amator_.
OVID.
The Ghost of Miltiades came at night,
And he stood by the bed of the Benthamite,
And he said, in a voice that thrilled the frame,
"If ever the sound of Marathon's name
Hath fired thy blood or flusht thy brow,
"Lover of Liberty, rouse thee now!"
The Benthamite yawning left his bed--
Away to the Stock Exchange he sped,
And he found the Scrip of Greece so high,
That it fired his blood, it flusht his eye,
And oh! 'twas a sight for the Ghost to see,
For never was Greek more Greek than he!
And still as the premium higher went,
His ecstasy rose--so much _per cent_.
(As we see in a glass that tells the weather
The heat and the _silver_ rise together,)
And Liberty sung from the patriot's lip,
While a voice from his pocket whispered "Scrip!"
The Ghost of Miltiades came again;--
He smiled, as the pale moon smiles thro' rain,
For his soul was glad at that patriot strain;
(And poor, dear ghost--how little he knew
The jobs and the tricks of the Philhellene crew!)
"Blessings and thanks!" was all he said,
Then melting away like a night-dream fled!
The Benthamite hears--amazed that ghosts
Could be such fools--and away he posts,
A patriot still? Ah no, ah no--
Goddess of Freedom, thy Scrip is low,
And warm and fond as thy lovers are,
Thou triest their passion, when under _par_,
The Benthamite's ardor fast decays,
By turns he weeps and swears and prays.
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