  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,— 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. |
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