excellent poem,
which contained only words of a single syllable, forcibly illustrating
the power of simple language. We should be glad to reproduce it here, by
way of contrapose to our own accompanying poem, but cannot now recall it
to memory in its completeness. Any child, who could talk as we all talk
in our families, could read and understand fully the poem to which I
refer. But ask any child to read the lines we have hammered out below,
and tell you what they mean! Nay, ask any man to do it, and see if he
_can_ do it. Probably not one in a hundred usual readers, could 'read
and translate' the word-stilts with which we have trammelled our poetic
feet, except with the aid of patient and repeated communion with his
English dictionary. There are, however, no words employed here which may
not be found in the standard dictionaries of our tongue.

To it:

THE POET INVOKETH HIS MUSE.

Come, ethel muse, with fluxion tip my pen,
For rutilant dignotion would I earn;
As rhetor wise depeint me unto men:
A thing or two I ghess they'll have to learn
Ere they percipience can claim of what I'm up
To, in macrology so very sharp as this;
Off food oxygian hid them come and sup,
Until, from very weariness, they all dehisce.

THE POET SEEKETH THE READER'S FORBEARANCE.

Delitigate me not, O reader mine,
If here you find not all like flies succinous;
My hand is porrect--kindly take't in thine,
While modestly my caput is declinous;
Nor think that I sugescent motives have,
In asking thee to read my chevisance.
I weet it is depectible--but do not rave,
Nor despumate on me with look askance.

Existimation greatly I desire;
'Tis so expetible I have sad fears
That, excandescent, you will not esquire
My meaning; see, I madefy my cheek with tears,
On my bent knees implore forbearance kind;
Be not retose in haught; I know 'tis sad,
But get your Webster down, and you will find
That he's to blame, not I--so don't get mad!

THE POET COMMENCETH TO SING.

The morning dawned. The rorid earth upon,
Old Sol looked down, to do his work siccate,
My sneek I raised to greet the ethe sun,
And sauntering forth passed out my garden gate.
A blithe specht sat on yon declinous tree
Bent on delection to its bark extern;
A merle anear observed (it seemed to me)
The work, in hopes to make owse how to learn.

A drove of kee passed by; I made a sto