POEMS. THE EPIC. AT Francis Allen's on the Christmas-eve,- I bump'd the ice into three several stars, Fell in a doze; and half-awake I heard The parson taking wide and wider sweeps, Right thro' the world, "at home was little left, To hold by." Francis, laughing, clapp'd his hand "And I," quoth Everard, " by the wassail-bowl." Why yes," I said, we knew your gift that way At college but another which you had, : I mean of verse (for so we held it then,) What came of that?" "You know," said Frank, "he flung His epic of King Arthur in the fire !" And then to me demanding why? "Oh, sir, He thought that nothing new was said, or else God knows he has a mint of reasons: ask. |