nor more he listened to the politician,

who lectured on his left, a formal prig,

[pg 322]

of belgium’s, greece’s, turkey’s sad condition,

not worth a cheese, an olive, or a fig;

nor yet unto the critic, fierce and big,

who, holding forth, all lonely, in his glory,

called one a sad bad poet—and a whig,

and one, a first-rate proser—and a tory;

so critics judge, now, of a song or story.

nay, when the coachman spoke about the ’leger,

of popsy, mopsy, bergamotte, and civet,

of breeder, trainer, owner, backer, hedger,

and nags as right, or righter than a trivet,

the theme his crack’d attention could not rivet,

though leaning forward to the man of whips,

he seem’d to give an ear,—but did not give it,

for ellen’s moon (that saddest of her slips)

would not be hidden by a “new eclipse.”