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Rh ’Mongst friends and foes a bomb-shell of fierce rhymes, Shivering their names and fames to all succeeding times.

And our own ’s fire-and-fagot tale
 * Of Conquest, with her “garments rolled in blood,”

And banners blackening, like a pirate’s sail,
 * The Mayflower’s memories of the brave and good,

Though but a brain-born dream of rain and hail,
 * And in his epic but an episode,

Proves mournfully the strange and sad admission Of much sour grape-juice in his disposition.

O Genius! powerful with thy praise or blame,
 * When art thou feigning? when art thou sincere?

, who banned his living friends with shame,
 * In funeral-sermons blessed them on their bier,

And made their death-beds beautiful with fame—
 * Fame true and gracious as a widow’s tear

To her departed darling husband given; Him whom she scolded up from earth to heaven.

Thanks for his funeral-sermons; they recall
 * The sunshine smiling through his folio’s leaves,

That makes his readers’ hours in bower or hall
 * Joyous as plighted hearts on bridal eves;