8
With Sisyphic attempts Fame's temple try
No niche is there for eccentricity———
High roads Colossus once was yours the power
To move each bullock team as coach and four.
Why did you fail, when yours the ironed man
To make the "high hills hop" as hop'd "Bashan?"
Go grave your maps, in survey you succeed
Where praise is worthy, let me grant the meed,
Thousands of men and money shout for land
But here as elsewhere work is at a stand.—
Let Customs Chief sedately take his place,
Midst waning moon-calves shew one gibbous face,
'Tis true no Pylian's mantle did descend
To guide his eloquence, his peers defend,
But cast amid this heterogeneous race,
A man midst Chimpanzees—quite out of place—
He does his work sans peur et sans reproche
And dont embezzle to display a coach.—
What umbrella major now appears
And takes his seat quite overcome by fears?
What pale timidity sits on his brow
As though his heart anticipates a row
Clever to plead for place, or lick a plate
To cough in Council, or to clean a grate,
From lowest grade this Magnate's riz so high
He quite forgets his proud antiquity.—
Tried every post he now the master rules
And misdirects the foolery of fools——
Hoard up your money while 'tis easy earned
No distant day, the tables must be turned.—
See Pinchgut member fumble at the door
In case his comates aint gone in before
A precious mull he made the other day
To vote by accident the other way,——
How ludicrous the nod, the beck, and wink
Come here, "no there," "'tis right fornent, I think;"
