The Banyan, though unknown to us,

Is sacred to the Eastern Magi;

Some like the taste of Tityrus,

"Recubans sub tegmine fagi."

Some like the Juniper-in gin;

Some fancy that its berries droop, as

Knowing a poison lurks within,

More rank than that distill'd from th' Upas.

But he who wants a useful word,

To tag a line or point a moral, Will find there's none to be preferr'd

To that inspiring tree-the Laurel.

The hero-butchers of the sword,

In Rome and Greece, and many a far land,

Like Bravos, murder'd for reward,

The settled price-a laurel-garland.

On bust or coin we mark the wreath,

Forgetful of its bloody story,

How many myriads writhed in death,

That one might bear this type of glory.

Cæsar first wore the badge, 'tis said,

'Cause his bald sconce had nothing on it,

Knocking some millions on the head,

To get his own a leafy bonnet.

Luckily for the Laurel's name,

Profaned to purposes so frightful,

"Twas worn by nobler heirs of fame, All innocent, and some delightful.

With its green leaves were victors crown'd In the Olympic games for running,

Who wrestled best, or gallop'd round

The Circus with most speed and cunning.

Apollo, crown'd with Bays, gives laws

To the Parnassian Empyrean;

And every schoolboy knows the cause,
Who ever dipp'd in Tooke's Pantheon.

Daphne, like many another fair,

To whom connubial ties are horrid, Fled from his arms, but left a rare

Memento sprouting on his forehead.

For Bays did ancient bards compete,
Gather'd on Pindus or Parnassus,

They by the leaf were paid, not sheet,

And that's the reason they surpass us.

One wreath thus twines the heads about,

Whose brains have brighten'd all our sconces,

And those who others' brains knock'd out,

'Cause they themselves were royal dunces.

Men fight in these degenerate days,

For crowns of gold, not laurel fillets;

And bards who borrow fire from bays,
Must have them in the grate for billets.

Laureats we have (for cash and sack)

Of all calibres and diameters,

But 'stead of poetry, alack!

They give us lachrymose Hexameters.

And that illustrious leaf for which

Folks wrote and wrestled, sang and bluster'd,

Is now boil'd down to give a rich

And dainty flavour to our custard!

TO THE LADIES OF ENGLAND.

BEAUTIES! (for, dress'd with so much taste, All may with such a term be graced,)—

Attend the friendly stanza,

Which deprecates the threaten'd change
Of English modes for fashions strange,

And French extravaganza.

What! when her sons renown have won

In arts and arms, and proudly shone
A pattern to the nations,

Shall England's recreant daughters kneel

At Gallic shrines, and stoop to steal

Fantastic innovations?