TO T. C.

["Old lion, smooth thy mane: no need to bristle, 'Tis but a puny rhymster's penny whistle] Mn. CARI.YLE, you earnest man,

Preach to a frivolous world you can, Preach to a frivolous world you must, Lest in its scabbard your good sword rust ; But, Mr. Carlyle, we are earnest too,— May a poor rhymster, Sir, preach to you ?

Masculine Titan of ruggedest mind, Frowning majestic on weak mankind, Is it in acorn or in pity more That you bid those dreadfullest thunders roar At sour, pharisaical, wry-faced cant?

But, Mr. Carlyle, don't you sometimes rant ?

Much as I love you, Thomas Carlyle, I am stirred sometimes by a righteous bile, As thy infinitesimal sparks of sense Float mistily dim in the vast immense :- Must the Infinities' sorrowful gaze Rest ever on billowy tenebrous haze ?

Many a windbag, thou shifty knight,

Hath been pierced by the point of thy falchion-bright ;

Vainly from thee are impostors screened, Stately bewigged and bebombazined : Thou strippest all bare the pretentious prig : Off with the bombazine : off with the wig.

The shivering Duke of Windlestraw Shrinks at thy presence in mumbling awe ; His pinchbeck coronet's Brummagem lustre Looks common, however his Grace may bluster.

But he huddles his old rags on him again, As thy voice dies out in his moonstruck brain.

Could he but feel thy scathing scorn, He would curse the hour he ever was born ; The smirking gigman would cower in his gig ; But, ah ! true Thomas, he cares not a fig ; His mind is too gross, and his aims too low, To wince at a bolt from Olympian snow.

Thou a tempestuous ocean-wave Wrathfully storming each dismal cave, Striving with manfullest force to drag The shelving sand from the treacherous crag : To beat man's pitiful barriers down, And the world in a levelling deluge drown.

So rising over the weltering tide The granite peaks shall alone abide, And a hero race of resistless might Guide the frail nations in justice and right :

0 great strong heart ! thou art true as steel,—

Prick Rosinante :—the windmills reel.

But we, poor poets, ah r what are we ?

Just rivers that make for the swallowing sea,—

Now in a cataract pouring steep, Now through a meadow-land calm and deep ; Some of us nothing but babbling rile, Restlessly breaking the peace of the hills.

We water the earth with a fostering care ; We glass in our bosom the landscape fair ; And the blissful calm of our ceaseless roll Brings manifold peace to the weary soul.

E'en the.tiniest brooklet narrow and mean

Makes some little corner of woodland green.

Go on, true Thomas ; but own we, too, Have a poor task in the world to do, And our waters at last pass into the sea, To be dashed on the rugged coast, Thomas, by thee.

We welcome thy prose with a loving smile,

And hail thee one of us, Thomas Carlyle.