Classic Poem

1

I laugh at each dull bore, taste's parasite
 Who stares upon me with his goatish eyes;
 And those raw freshmen, lean as hungry flies,
 Who gape and sniff at me in petty spite.
I laugh, too, at those apes, whose learning trite
 Puffs them with pride to pose as critics wise;
 And at those dastard rogues, my enemies,
 'Gainst poisoned weapons daring me to fight.
Yet when Joy's nosegay of delightful things
 Is shattered for us by the hand of Fate,
 And at our feet flung withered, without scent,
And when the heart within the breast is rent,
 Rent, and stabbed through, sore-wounded, desperate—
 What's left us but the laugh that shrilly rings?

2

Give me a mask, I'll join the masquerade,
 Playing the knave that charlatans I see,
 Flaunting in gaudy robes of dignity,
 May count me not a craftsman of their trade.
Come vulgar words and manners to my aid,
 In popular art I'll take my base degree,
 All those rare sparks of genius banned shall be,
 Wherewith stale rogues of late fine tricks have played.
And thus will I dance at the grand masqued-ball,
 'Mid German knights, monks, kings in motley crew,
 Capped to by Harlequin, known to but few,
With their blunt swords of lath cudgelled by all.
 That is their sport. Should I unmask, beware!
 I should dumbfounder every jail-bird there.