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Appollo looked up, hearing footsteps approaching, And slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was broaching — "Good day, Mr.

Ihre Vorteile

D—", I'm happy to meet, With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat, Who through Grub Street the soul of a gentleman carries; What news from the suburb of London and Paris Which latterly makes such shrill claims to monopolize The credit of being the New World's metropolise? Now nobody knows when an author is hit, If he don't have a public hysterical fit; Let him only keep close in his snug garret's dim ether, And nobody'd think of his critics — or him either; If an author have any least fibre of worth in him, Abuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him; All the critics on eart cannot crush with their ban One word that's in tune with the nature of man.

The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, When he hears of that order the British Museum Has sent for one set of what books were first printed In America, little or big, — for 'tis hinted That this is the first truly tangible hope he Has ever raised for the sale of a copy. So perfect a balance there is in his head, That he talks of things sometimes as if they were dead; Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort, He looks at as merely ideas; in short, As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, Of such vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, With the quiet precision of science he'll sort 'em But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mortem.

Bears: Massive Omnivores (Kid Genius Book 2)

He follows as close as a stick to a rocket, His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket. Fie, for shame, brother bard; with good fruit of your own, Can't you let Neighbor Emerson's orchards alone? Besides, 'tis no use, you'll not find e'en a core, — —— has picked up all the windfalls before. They might stirp every tree, and E. While he talk he is great, but goes out like a taper, If you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper; Yet his fingers itch for 'em from morning till night, And he thinks he does wrong if he don't always write; In this, as in all things, a lamb among men, He goes to sure death when he goes to his pen.

He's the Salt River boatman, who always stands willing To convey friend or foe without charging a shilling, And so fond of the trip that, when leisure's to spare, He'll row himself up, if he can't get a far. The worst of it is, that his logic's so strong, That of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong; If there is only one, why, he'll split it in two, And first pummel this half, then that, black and blue. That white's white needs no proof, but it takes a deep fellow To prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow.

He offers the true faith to drink in a sieve, — When it reaches your lips there's naught left to believe But a few silly- syllo-, I mean -gisms that squat 'em Like tadpoles, o'erjoyed with the mud at the bottom.

His prose had a natural grace of its own, And enough of it, too, if he'd let it alone; But he twitches and jerks so, one fairly gets tired, And is forced to forgive where he might have admired; Yet whenever it slips away free and unlaced, It runs like a stream with a musical waste, And gurgles along with the liquidest sweep; — 'Tis not deep as a river, but who'd have it deep?

In a country where scarcely a village is found That has not its author sublime and profound, For some one to be slightly shoal is a duty, And Willis's shallowness makes half his beauty. His prose winds along with a blithe, gurgling error, And reflects all of Heaven it can see in its mirror.

No volume I know to read under a tree, More truly delicious than his A l'Abri, With the shadows of leaves flowing over your book, Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook; With June coming softly your shoulder to look over, Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book over, And Nature to criticise still as you read, — The page that bears that is a rare one indeed.

His nature's a glass of champagne with the foam on 't, As tender as Fletcher , as witty as Beaumont ; So his best things are done in the flush of the moment, If he wait, all is spoiled; he may stir it and shake it, But, the fixed air once gone, he can never remake it. He might be a marvel of easy delightfulness, If he would not sometimes leave the r out of sprightfulness; And he ought to let Scripture alone — 'tis self-slaughter, For nobody likes inspiration-and-water.

He'd have been just the fellow to sup at the Mermaid, Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the barmaid, His wit running up as Canary ran down, — The topmost bright bubble on the wave of The Town. There was heresy here, you perceive, for the right Of privately judging means simply that light Has been granted to me , for deciding on you ; And in happier times, before Atheism grew, The deed contained clauses for cooking you too, Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot With the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and Knut, And we all entertain a sincere private notion, That our Thus far!

His hearers can't tell you on Sunday beforehand, If in that day's discourse they'll be Bibled or Koraned , For he's seized the idea by his martyrdom fired That all men not orthodox may be inspired; Yet though wisdom profane with his creed he may weave in, He makes it quite clear what he doesn't believe in, While some, who decry him, think all Kingdom Come Is a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum, Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb Would be left, if we didn't keep carefully mum, And, to make a clean breast, that 'tis perfectly plain That all kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane; Now P.

Hey may rank Griswold says so first bard of your nation There's no doubt that he stands in supreme ice-olation , Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on, — He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has 'em, But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, Like being stirred up with the very North Pole. But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in him, He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities — To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet?

No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and granite. If you're one who in loco add foco here desipis , You will get of his outermost heart as I guess a piece; But you'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice, And would break the last seal of its inwardest fountain, If you only could palm yourself off for a mountain. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning, Some scholar who's hourly expecting his learning, Calls B.

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No, don't be absurd, he's an excellent Bryant; But, my friends, you'll endanger the life of your client, By attempting to stretch him up into a giant: If you choose to compare him, I think there are two per- -sons fit for a parallel — Thompson and Cowper ; [1] I don't mean exactly, — there's something of each, There's T. Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din, Preaching brotherly love and then driving it in To the brain of the tough old Goliah of sin, With the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling?

I need not to name them, already for each I see History preparing the statue and niche; They were harsh, but shall you be so shocked at hard words Who have beaten your pruning-hooks up into swords, Whose rewards and hurrahs men ere surer to gain By the reaping of men and of women than grain?

Why should you stand aghast at their at their fierce wordy war, if You scalp one another for Bank or for Tariff? Your calling them cut-throats and knaves all day long Don't prove that the use of hard language is wrong; While the World's heart beats quicker to think of such men As signed Tyranny's doom with a bloody steel-pen, While on Fourth-of-Julys beardless orators fright one With hints at Harmodius and Aristogeiton, You need not look shy at your slaters and brothers Who stab with sharp words for the freedom of others; — No, a wreath, twine a wreath for the loyal and true Who, for sake of the many, dared stand with the few, Not of blood-spattered laurel for enemies braved, But of broad, peaceful oak-leaves for citizens saved!

That he once was the Idle man none will deplore, But I fear he will never be anything more; The ocean of song heaves and glitters before him, The depth and the vastness and longing sweep o'er him, He knows every breaker and shoal on the chart, He has the Coast Pilot and so on by heart, Yet he spends his whole life, like the man in the fable, In learning to swim on his library-table.

Ah, men do not know how much strength is in poise, That he goes the farthest who goes far enough, And that all beyond that is just bother and stuff. No vain man matures, he makes too much new wood; His blooms are too thick for the fruit to be good; 'Tis the modest man ripens, 'tis he that achieves, Just what's needed of sunshine and shade he receives; Grapes, to mellow, require the cool dark of their leaves; Neal wants balance; he throws his mind always too far, Whisking out flocks of comets, but never a star; He has so much muscle, and loves so to show it, That he strips himself naked to prove he's a poet, And, to show he could leap Art's wide ditch, if he tried, Jumps clean o'er it, and into the hedge t'other side.

He has strength, but there's nothing about him in keeping; One gets surelier onward by walking than leaping; He has used his own sinews himself to distress, And had done vastly more had he done vastly less; In letters, too soon is as bad as too late; Could he only have waited he might have been great; But he plumped into Helicon up to the waist, And muddied the stream ere he took his first taste. The success of her scheme gave her so much delight, That she tried it again, shortly after, in Dwight ; Only, while she was kneading and shaping the clay, She sang to her work in her sweet childish way, And found, when she'd put the last touch to his soul, That the music had somehow got mixed with the whole.

Choose any twelve men, and let C. He has drawn you one character, though, that is new, One wildflower he's plucked that is wet with the dew Of this fresh Western world, and, the thing not to mince, He has done naught but copy it ill ever since; His Indians, with proper respect be it said, Are just Natty Bumpo , daubed over with red, And his very Long Toms are the same useful Nat, Rigged up in duck pants and a sou'wester hat Though once in a Coffin, a good chance was found To have slipped the old fellow away underground.

Benedict, piously burning With the holiest zeal against secular learning, Nesciensque scienter as writers express it, Indoctusque sapienter a Roman recessit. When he left Alma Mater, he practised his wits In compiling the journals' historical bits, — Of shops broken open, men falling in fits, Great fortunes in England bequeathed to poor printers, And cold spells, the coldest for many past winters, — Then, rising by industry, knack, and address, Got notices up for an unbiased press, With a mind so well poised, it seemed equally made for Applause or abuse, just which chanced to be paid for; From this point his progress was rapid and sure, To the post of a regular heavy reviewer.

And here I must say he wrote excellent articles On the Hebraic points, or the force of Greek particles, They filled up the space nothing else was prepared for; If any old book reached a fiftieth edition, He could fill forty pages with safe erudition: He could gauge the old books by the old set of rules, And his very old nothings pleased very old fools; But give him a new book, fresh out of the heart, And you put him at sea without compass or chart, — His blunders aspired to the rank of an art; For his lore was engraft, something foreign that grew in him, Exhausting the sap of the native and true in him, So that when a man came with a soul that was new in him, Carving new forms of truth out of Nature's old granite, New and old at their birth, like Le Verrier's planet.

Which, to get a true judgment, themselves must create In the soul of their critic the measure and weight, Being rather themselves a fresh standard of grace, To compute their own judge, and assign him his place, Our reviewer would crawl all about it and round it, And, reporting each circumstance just as he found it, Without the least malice, — his record would be Profoundly aesthetic as that of a flea, Which, supping on Wordsworth , should print, for our sakes, Recollections of nights with the Bard of the Lakes, Or, lodged by an Arab guide, ventured to render a General view of the ruins at Denderah.

As I said, he was never precisely unkind, The defect in his brain was just absence of mind; If he boasted, 'twas simply that he was self-made, A position which I, for one, never gainsaid, My respect for my Maker supposing a skill In his works which our Hero would answer but ill; And I trust that the mould which he used may be cracked, or he, Made bold by success, may enlarge his phylactery, And set up a kind of a man-manufactory, — An event which I shudder to think about, seeing That Man is a moral, accountable being.

He meant well enough, but was still in the way, As a dunce always is, let him be where he may; Indeed, they appear to come into existence To impede other folks with their awkward assistance; If you set up a dunce on the very North pole All alone with himself, I believe, on my soul, He'd manage to get betwixt somebody's shins, And pitch him down bodily, all in his sins, To the grave polar bears sitting round on the ice, All shortening their grace, to be in for a slice; Or, if he found nobody else there to pother, Why, one of his legs would just trip up the other, For there's nothing we read of in torture's inventions, Like a well-meaning dunce, with the best of intentions.

A terrible fellow to meet in society, Not the toast that he buttered was ever so dry at tea; There he'd sit at the table and stir in his sugar, Crouching close for a spring, all the while, like a cougar; Be sure of your facts, of your measures and weights, Of your time, — he's as fond as an Arab of dates; — You'll be telling, perhaps, in your comical way, Of something you've seen in the course of the day; And, just as you're tapering out the conclusion, You venture an ill-fated classic allusion, — The girls have all got their laughs ready, when, whack!

The cougar comes down on your thunderstruck back!


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You had left out a comma, — your Greek's put in joint, And pointed at cost of your story's whole point, In the course of the evening, you venture on certain Soft speeches to Anne, in the shade of the curtain: You tell her your heart can be likened to one flower, "And that, O most charming of women's the sunflower, Which turns" — here a clear nasal voice, to your terror, From outside the curtain, says, "That's all an error.

Appollo looked up, hearing footsteps approaching, And slipped out of sight the new rhymes he was broaching — "Good day, Mr.

PDF Bears: Massive Omnivores (Kid Genius Book 2)

D—", I'm happy to meet, With a scholar so ripe, and a critic so neat, Who through Grub Street the soul of a gentleman carries; What news from the suburb of London and Paris Which latterly makes such shrill claims to monopolize The credit of being the New World's metropolise? Now nobody knows when an author is hit, If he don't have a public hysterical fit; Let him only keep close in his snug garret's dim ether, And nobody'd think of his critics — or him either; If an author have any least fibre of worth in him, Abuse would but tickle the organ of mirth in him; All the critics on eart cannot crush with their ban One word that's in tune with the nature of man.

The publisher, sure, will proclaim a Te Deum, When he hears of that order the British Museum Has sent for one set of what books were first printed In America, little or big, — for 'tis hinted That this is the first truly tangible hope he Has ever raised for the sale of a copy. So perfect a balance there is in his head, That he talks of things sometimes as if they were dead; Life, nature, love, God, and affairs of that sort, He looks at as merely ideas; in short, As if they were fossils stuck round in a cabinet, Of such vast extent that our earth's a mere dab in it; Composed just as he is inclined to conjecture her, Namely, one part pure earth, ninety-nine parts pure lecturer; You are filled with delight at his clear demonstration, Each figure, word, gesture, just fits the occasion, With the quiet precision of science he'll sort 'em But you can't help suspecting the whole a post mortem.

He follows as close as a stick to a rocket, His fingers exploring the prophet's each pocket. Fie, for shame, brother bard; with good fruit of your own, Can't you let Neighbor Emerson's orchards alone? Besides, 'tis no use, you'll not find e'en a core, — —— has picked up all the windfalls before. They might stirp every tree, and E. While he talk he is great, but goes out like a taper, If you shut him up closely with pen, ink, and paper; Yet his fingers itch for 'em from morning till night, And he thinks he does wrong if he don't always write; In this, as in all things, a lamb among men, He goes to sure death when he goes to his pen.

He's the Salt River boatman, who always stands willing To convey friend or foe without charging a shilling, And so fond of the trip that, when leisure's to spare, He'll row himself up, if he can't get a far. The worst of it is, that his logic's so strong, That of two sides he commonly chooses the wrong; If there is only one, why, he'll split it in two, And first pummel this half, then that, black and blue. That white's white needs no proof, but it takes a deep fellow To prove it jet-black, and that jet-black is yellow. He offers the true faith to drink in a sieve, — When it reaches your lips there's naught left to believe But a few silly- syllo-, I mean -gisms that squat 'em Like tadpoles, o'erjoyed with the mud at the bottom.

His prose had a natural grace of its own, And enough of it, too, if he'd let it alone; But he twitches and jerks so, one fairly gets tired, And is forced to forgive where he might have admired; Yet whenever it slips away free and unlaced, It runs like a stream with a musical waste, And gurgles along with the liquidest sweep; — 'Tis not deep as a river, but who'd have it deep?

In a country where scarcely a village is found That has not its author sublime and profound, For some one to be slightly shoal is a duty, And Willis's shallowness makes half his beauty. His prose winds along with a blithe, gurgling error, And reflects all of Heaven it can see in its mirror.

No volume I know to read under a tree, More truly delicious than his A l'Abri, With the shadows of leaves flowing over your book, Like ripple-shades netting the bed of a brook; With June coming softly your shoulder to look over, Breezes waiting to turn every leaf of your book over, And Nature to criticise still as you read, — The page that bears that is a rare one indeed.

His nature's a glass of champagne with the foam on 't, As tender as Fletcher , as witty as Beaumont ; So his best things are done in the flush of the moment, If he wait, all is spoiled; he may stir it and shake it, But, the fixed air once gone, he can never remake it.


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He might be a marvel of easy delightfulness, If he would not sometimes leave the r out of sprightfulness; And he ought to let Scripture alone — 'tis self-slaughter, For nobody likes inspiration-and-water. He'd have been just the fellow to sup at the Mermaid, Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the barmaid, His wit running up as Canary ran down, — The topmost bright bubble on the wave of The Town.

There was heresy here, you perceive, for the right Of privately judging means simply that light Has been granted to me , for deciding on you ; And in happier times, before Atheism grew, The deed contained clauses for cooking you too, Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot With the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and Knut, And we all entertain a sincere private notion, That our Thus far! His hearers can't tell you on Sunday beforehand, If in that day's discourse they'll be Bibled or Koraned , For he's seized the idea by his martyrdom fired That all men not orthodox may be inspired; Yet though wisdom profane with his creed he may weave in, He makes it quite clear what he doesn't believe in, While some, who decry him, think all Kingdom Come Is a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum, Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb Would be left, if we didn't keep carefully mum, And, to make a clean breast, that 'tis perfectly plain That all kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane; Now P.

Hey may rank Griswold says so first bard of your nation There's no doubt that he stands in supreme ice-olation , Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, But no warm applauses come, peal following peal on, — He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal on: Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has 'em, But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul, Like being stirred up with the very North Pole.

But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in him, He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him; And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is, Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities — To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet? No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and granite. If you're one who in loco add foco here desipis , You will get of his outermost heart as I guess a piece; But you'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice, And would break the last seal of its inwardest fountain, If you only could palm yourself off for a mountain.

Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning, Some scholar who's hourly expecting his learning, Calls B. No, don't be absurd, he's an excellent Bryant; But, my friends, you'll endanger the life of your client, By attempting to stretch him up into a giant: If you choose to compare him, I think there are two per- -sons fit for a parallel — Thompson and Cowper ; [1] I don't mean exactly, — there's something of each, There's T.

Can that be thy son, in the battle's mid din, Preaching brotherly love and then driving it in To the brain of the tough old Goliah of sin, With the smoothest of pebbles from Castaly's spring Impressed on his hard moral sense with a sling? I need not to name them, already for each I see History preparing the statue and niche; They were harsh, but shall you be so shocked at hard words Who have beaten your pruning-hooks up into swords, Whose rewards and hurrahs men ere surer to gain By the reaping of men and of women than grain?

Ever since Kyra was abducted by For Morgan Yancy, an operative and team leader Pinkalicious: Story Time. Virjan , Kathleen McInerney. Join Pig and her friends in another fun read-aloud adventure as they figure out a way to keep the picnic fun and games going, even with a little rain.

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Skip to content. Per page: 4 8 12 24 Never Split the Difference by Chris Voss , Tahl Raz , Michael Kramer A former international hostage negotiator for the FBI offers a new, field-tested approach to high-stakes negotiations—whether in the boardroom or at home. The Vegas Diaries by Holly Madison , Holly Madison The 1 New York Times bestselling author returns with this candid, humorous, and captivating memoir chronicling her journey toward reinvention and self-acceptance.