Classic Poem

That nigh your town a length of bridge may bend,
Where willing dance, and pastime shall extend
Their joyous ranks, Colonia, is your pray'r!
For now the tott'ring structure much you fear,
Lest its weak legs irreparably fall,
And the deep pool should bury piers and all.
Soon to your wish be built a bridge so stout,
E'en Salii there might hold their ritual rout.
Then, o Colonia! I'll request of thee
One mirthful boon, but mirthful most to me.
Fain from your height a freed man of this town,
Tied neck and heels, I'd in your sludge have thrown,
Just where the bog is deepest, I desire,
Where the green scum betrays the filthiest mire:
Ideot all o'er; a child of two years' age,
Rock'd in its parents' arms, is far more sage;
Still he to wed a damsel could presume
Of buxom beauty in its earliest bloom,
Dainty as wanton kid; a youthful fair,
That like the ripen'd vintage needs our care;
This fair he suffers as she lists to sport;
Nor, rous'd to rapture, heeds one jot her court:
But by the axe as fell'd some alder lies,
And in Ligurian delve inglorious dies;
E'en so he just perceives the blessing near,
Yet disregards it as tho' nought were there:
This dolt nor hears, nor sees; and has forgot
Who, what he is, if he exists or not.
Then from your bridge I'd have him headlong thrown;
The fall may haply move the languid drone:
He in thick mud might leave his torpid soul,
As in stiff sloughs her iron shoe the mule.