king knack
Would conquer fifty Catos--
The Queen of tarts, and tuck, and tack,
And cream, and fried potatoes.

And rashers! Sweet Ulysses, say
Old Homer was mistaken;
The Goddess must have had her way,
And turned thee into bacon.

That Circe came, and wished us joy,
And said, "Goodbye, my dearie!"
Because I was an honest boy,
And _pauper tneo aere_.

So Tom and I, like men on strike,
Shook hands with all our cronies,
Walked fifty yards, to save the pike,
And jumped upon our ponies.

Of apples, nuts, and goose galore
I chattered, like a stupid,
And thought of shooting coneys, more
Than being shot by Cupid.

* * * * *

At racing pace the turnpike road
(Great Western, in this quicker age)
Was swallowed up with whip and goad,
And soon we saw the Vicarage.

A sweet seclusion, to forget
The world and its disasters,
And fill the mind with mignonette,
Clove-pinks, and German asters;

In pensive, or in playful mood,
To saunter here, and dally
With leafy calm of solitude,
Or sunshine of the valley.

The Vicar loved his parish well,
And well was he loved by it;
Religion did not him compel
To harass and defy it

No price he charged for Heavenly love,
No discount on _Resurgo_;
His conscience told him--one side-shove
Is worth ten kicks _a tergo_.

But while the path of life he showed
To win the Christian guerdon,
No post was he, to point the road,
But a man to share the burden.

The lapse of years made manifest
The sanctuary of holy age;
As clearer grows the ring-dove's nest,
When time hath stripp'd the foliage.

The Vicar's wife was much the same,
In fairer form presented--
A lively, yet a quiet dame,
With home, sweet home, contented.

In parish, needs; and household arts,
A lesson to this glib age;
Well versed in pickles, jams, and tarts,
Piano, chess, and cribbage.

And well she loved the flowers, that speak
A language undefiled--
The flowers that lift the dimpled cheek,
Or droop the dewy eyelid.

* * * * *

Now, if she lingers after us,
What ground have we for snarling?
What act prohibits private buss,