Short Poems

Lee's waste was greater than his gain.
“I 'll try the merchant's trade,” he thought,
“Though less the toil to kill than feign,—
Things sweeter robbed than bought.
But, then, to circumvent them at their arts!”
Ship manned, and spoils for cargo, Lee departs.

He wiped his axe; and turning round,
Said with a cold and hardened smile,
“The hemp is saved; the man is drowned.
Will let him float awhile?
Or give him Christian burial on the strand?
He 'll find his fellows peaceful under sand.”

“Ask him who floats there; let him tell;
I make the brute, not man, my mark.
Who walks the cliffs, needs heed him well!
Last night was fearful dark.
Think ye the lashing waves will spare or feel?
An ugly gash!—These rocks—they cut like steel.”

Amid the uproar of the storm,
And by the lightning's sharp, red glare,
Were seen Lee's face and sturdy form;
His axe glanced quick in air.
Whose corpse at morn lies swinging in the sedge?
There 's blood and hair, Matt, on thy axe's edge.

Cruel of heart, and strong of arm,
Loud in his sport, and keen for spoil,
He little reeked of good or harm,
Fierce both in mirth and toil;
Yet like a dog could fawn, if need there were;
Speak mildly, when he would, or look in fear.

Twelve years are gone since Matthew Lee
Held in this isle unquestioned sway;
A dark, low, brawny man was he;
His law,—“It is my way.”
Beneath his thick-set brows a sharp light broke
From small gray eyes; his laugh a triumph spoke.

As I was going up Pippen Hill,
Pippen Hill was dirty.
There I met a pretty miss
And she dropt me a curtsey.

Mayst thou, tho' fond of all the vicious tribe,
May old Fuffitius too, thy hackney'd scribe,
At least detest vile Otho's shallow brain,
That vulgar upstart of the rabble train!
May stinking Libo your displeasure share,
Whose unbath'd feet the filthy brute declare!——
Fume on, proud Monarch, as thou read'st this strain;
It breathes but truth; then fume, and read again!

In the Forum, one day, I was laughing aloud;
Little Calvus to hear, in the midst of a crowd,
Against all the base deeds of Vatinius exclaim;
And so picture, with voluble phrase, his ill-fame:
When, with uplifted hands, a sly wag archly cries;
“What vast wit, ye great Gods, in a small compass “lies!”

Catullus, prithee, tell me why
You thus despair, and wish to die?
See Nonius seated in the chair;
That perjur'd wretch Vatinius see,
Because thro' thick and thin he'd swear,
Rais'd to a Consul's high degree!
Then, dear Catullus, tell me why
You thus despair, and wish to die?