Classic Poem

BROWNING Supplies the Matter; D OBSON the Meter.

Oh, master of song and the lyric
Satiric,
Your verse is a storehouse of riches,
The which is
Far greater than any great measure
Of treasure.
How the lines that begin. " Donec gratus "
Elate us.
The odes to Maecenas and Phyllis,
They thrill us
With hints of old stories and glories
O Mores!
No more dare we laugh with you, Horace;
A chorus
Of students and sages are gleaning
The meaning
That lurks in your light-hearted phrases.
Their craze is
To find 'neath the jest in each column
Some solemn,
Deep thought — or where some hidden woe lay.
'Tis droll, eh?
How they treat you in Learning's dim halls; so

You're also
(You, Horace — you drainer of Massic)
A classic!
We must place, then, your book with those late ones,
" The Great Ones, "
Whose volumes lie, more than respected, —
Neglected.
So farewell — (and what irony plans it!)
Sic transit —