Such as Crusoe might dip in, although there are few so
Outrageously cornered by fate as poor Crusoe;
And since the philanthropists just now are banging
And gibbeting all who’re in favor of hanging
(Though Cheever has proved that the Bible and Altar
Were let down from Heaven at the end of a halter. 490
And that vital religion would dull and grow callous,
Unrefreshed, now and then, with a sniff of the gallows),—­
And folks are beginning to think it looks odd,
To choke a poor scamp for the glory of God;
And that He who esteems the Virginia reel
A bait to draw saints from their spiritual weal,
And regards the quadrille as a far greater knavery
Than crushing his African children with slavery,—­
Since all who take part in a waltz or cotillon
Are mounted for hell on the Devil’s own pillion, 500
Who, as every true orthodox Christian well knows,
Approaches the heart through the door of the toes,—­
That He, I was saying, whose judgments are stored
For such as take steps in despite of his word,
Should look with delight on the agonized prancing
Of a wretch who has not the least ground for his dancing,
While the State, standing by, sings a verse from the Psalter
About offering to God on his favorite halter,
And, when the legs droop from their twitching divergence,
Sells the clothes to a Jew, and the corpse to the surgeons;—­
Now, instead of all this, I think I can direct you all 511
To a criminal code both humane and effectual;—­
I propose to shut up every doer of wrong
With these desperate books, for such term, short or long,
As, by statute in such cases made and provided,
Shall be by your wise legislators decided: 
Thus:  Let murderers be shut, to grow wiser and cooler,
At hard labor for life on the works of Miss——­;
Petty thieves, kept from flagranter crimes by their fears,
Shall peruse Yankee Doodle a blank term of years,—­ 520
That American Punch, like the English, no doubt,—­
Just the sugar and lemons and spirit left out.

’But stay, here comes Tityrus Griswold, and leads on
The flocks whom he first plucks alive, and then feeds on,—­
A loud-cackling swarm, in whose leathers warm drest,
He goes for as perfect a—­swan as the rest.

’There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one,
Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on,
Whose prose is grand verse, while his verse, the Lord knows,
Is some of it pr——­ No, ’tis not even prose; 530
I’m speaking of metres; some poems have welled
From those rare depths of soul that have ne’er been excelled;
They’re not epics, but that doesn’t matter a pin,
In creating, the only hard thing’s to begin;
A grass-blade’s no easier to make than an oak;
If you’ve once found the way, you’ve achieved the grand stroke;
In the worst of his poems are mines of rich matter,
But thrown in a heap with a crash and a clatter;