his egg of chalk, Thought,—­sure, I feel life stir within, each day with greater strength, When lo, the chick! from former chicks he differed not a jot, 70 But grew and crew and scratched and went, like those before, to pot!’ So muse the dim Emeriti, and, mournful though it be, I must confess a kindred thought hath sometimes come to me, Who, though but just of forty turned, have heard the rumorous fame Of nine and ninety Coming Men, all—­coming till they came.  Pure Mephistopheles all this? the vulgar nature jeers?  Good friend, while I was writing it, my eyes were dim with tears; Thrice happy he who cannot see, or who his eyes can shut, Life’s deepest sorrow is contained in that small word there—­But!

* * * * *

We’re pretty nearly crazy here with change and go ahead, 80
With flinging our caught bird away for two i’ th’ bush instead,
With butting ’gainst the wall which we declare shall be a portal,
And questioning Deeps that never yet have oped their lips to mortal;
We’re growing pale and hollow-eyed, and out of all condition,
With mediums and prophetic chairs, and crickets with a mission,
(The most astounding oracles since Balaam’s donkey spoke,—­
’Twould seem our furniture was all of Dodonean oak.)
Make but the public laugh, be sure ’twill take you to be somebody;
’Twill wrench its button from your clutch, my densely earnest glum body;
’Tis good, this noble earnestness, good in its place, but why 90
Make great Achilles’ shield the pan to bake a penny pie? 
Why, when we have a kitchen-range, insist that we shall stop,
And bore clear down to central fires to broil our daily chop? 
Excalibur and Durandart are swords of price, but then
Why draw them sternly when you wish to trim your nails or pen? 
Small gulf between the ape and man; you bridge it with your staff;
But it will be impassable until the ape can laugh;—­
No, no, be common now and then, be sensible, be funny,
And, as Siberians bait their traps for bears with pots of honey,
From which ere they’ll withdraw their snouts, they’ll suffer many a
  club-lick, 100
So bait your moral figure-of-fours to catch the Orson public. 
Look how the dead leaves melt their way down through deep-drifted snow;
They take the sun-warmth down with them—­pearls could not conquer so;
There is a moral here, you see:  if you would preach, you must
Steep all your truths in sunshine would you have them pierce the crust;
Brave Jeremiah, you are grand and terrible, a sign
And wonder, but were never quite a popular divine;
Fancy the figure you would cut among the nuts and wine! 
I, on occasion, too, could preach, but hold it wiser far
To give the public sermons it will take with its cigar, 110
And morals fugitive, and vague as are these smoke-wreaths light
In which ...  I trace ... a ... let me see—­bless me! ’tis out of sight.