Classic Poem

" His Books." Oh yes, his Books I know, —
Each worth a monarch's ransom;
But now, beside their row on row,
I see, erect and handsome,

The courtly Owner, glass in eye,
With half-sad smile, forerunning
Some triumph of an apt reply, —
Some master-stroke of punning.

Where shall we meet his like again?
Where hear, in such perfection,
Such genial talk of gods and men, —
Such store of recollection;

Or where discern a verse so neat,
So well-bred and so witty, —
So finished in its least conceit,
So mixed of mirth and pity?

Pope taught him rhythm, P RIOR ease,
P RAED buoyancy and banter;
What modern bard would learn from these?
Ah, tempora mutantur!

The old regime departs, — departs;
Our days of mime and mocker,
For all their imitative arts,
Produce no F REDERICK Locker .