rdid Alchemy and dread,
Turns half the Glory of your Gold to Lead;
Thus Time,--at Ronsard's wreath that vainly bit,--
Has marred the Poet to preserve the Wit,
Who almost left on Addison a stain,
Whose knife cut cleanest with a poisoned pain,--
Yet Thou (strange Fate that clings to all of Thine!)
When most a Wit dost most a Poet shine.
In Poetry thy Dunciad expires,
When Wit has shot 'her momentary Fires.'
'T is Tragedy that watches by the Bed
'Where tawdry Yellow strove with dirty Red,'
And men, remembering all, can scarce deny
To lay the Laurel where thine Ashes lie!

VI. To Lucian of Samosata.

In what bower, oh Lucian, of your rediscovered Islands Fortunate are you
now reclining; the delight of the fair, the learned, the witty, and the
brave? In that clear and tranquil climate, whose air breathes of 'violet
and lily, myrtle, and the flower of the vine,'

Where the daisies are rose-scented,
And the Rose herself has got
Perfume which on earth is not,

among the music of all birds, and the wind-blown notes of flutes hanging
on the trees, methinks that your laughter sounds most silvery sweet,
and that Helen and fair Charmides are still of your company. Master of
mirth, and Soul the best contented of all that have seen the world's
ways clearly, most clear-sighted of all that have made tranquillity
their bride, what other laughers dwell with you, where the crystal and
fragrant waters wander round the shining palaces and the temples of
amethyst?

Heine surely is with you; if, indeed, it was not one Syrian soul that
dwelt among alien men, Germans and Romans, in the bodily tabernacles of
Heine and of Lucian. But he was fallen on evil times and evil tongues;
while Lucian, as witty as he, as bitter in mockery, as happily dowered
with the magic of words, lived long and happily and honoured, imprisoned
in no 'mattress-grave.' Without Rabelais, without Voltaire, without
Heine, you would find, methinks, even the joys of your Happy Islands
lacking in zest; and, unless Plato came by your way, none of the
ancients could meet you in the lists of sportive dialogue.

There, among the vines that bear twelve times in the year, more
excellent than all the vineyards of Touraine, while the song-birds bring
you flowers from vales enchanted, and the shapes of the Blessed come
and go, beautiful in wind-woven raiment of sunset hues; there, in a land
that knows not age nor winter, midnight, nor au