When <g>one</g> would fatten, pamper, cram,—
Another milk and shear and flay,—
Where, think you, will the flock be found?
Death and destruction, I'm your man!
I'm fire and fury for the plan!
Thrill'd, agitated, nay, affected!
Providence prompted the design
That led me to your door to-night,
For sure, without the hint of <g>mine</g>,
<g>Your</g> plan had scarcely been projected,
Or, at the least, scarce seen the light!
And thus the Church, conceived aright,
Will by <g>my</g> means have been erected!
Brand.
But, don't forget, we must lay low
That towering relic of the past!
The Mayor.
[Looking out.]
Seen in the twofold glimmer cast
By the new moon and the fresh snow,
It seems a sort of—rubbish-heap.
Brand.
What, Mayor!
The Mayor.
It is too old to keep!
I fail entirely to explain it,
Till now it never struck my eye,—
The weathercock stands all awry;
It would be monstrous to retain it.
And where are architecture, style,
Rightly regarded, in the pile?
What terms can give that arch its due?
An architect would call it <g>vile</g>;—
