THE WISE MEN OF GOTHAM. By S. T. C., Esq.,* PROFESSOR OF MYSTICISM. ΣΚΙΑΣ ΟΝΑP. PINDAR. In a bowl to sea went wise men three, They carried a net, and their hearts were set The sea was calm, the air was balm, Not a breath stirred low or high, And the moon, I trow, lay as bright below, The wise men with the current went, Nor paddle nor oar had they, And still as the grave they went on the wave, Far, far at sea, were the wise men three, The sea was bright with a dancing light Which the broken moon shot forth as soon As the net disturbed her beams. They drew in their net: it was empty and wet, And they had lost their pain, Soon ceased the play of each dancing ray, Three times they threw, three times they drew, And evermore their wonder grew, Their silence they broke, and each one spoke A man at sea their voices three Full three leagues off might hear. The three wise men got home again To their children and their wives: But, touching their trip, and their net's vain dip, They disputed all their lives. The wise men three could never agree, Why they missed the promised boon; They agreed alone that their net they had thrown, And they had not caught the moon. I have thought myself pale o'er this ancient tale, But now I see that the wise men three "Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub," Is a mystic burthen old, Which I've pondered about till my fire went out, And I could not sleep for cold. I now divine each mystic sign, Which robbed me oft of sleep, Three men in a bowl, who went to troll, Three men were they who science drank The cash they sank in the Gotham bank, The breaking of the imaged moon, The dispute which lasted all their lives, Which the son's son's son of every one The son's son's sons will baffled be, But they'll only agree, like the wise men three, And they'll build systems dark and deep, But two of three will never agree And he who at this day will seek Will find at least three sages there, CHORUS OF BUBBLE BUYERS. "When these practisers come to the last decoction, blow, blow, puff, puff, and all flies in fumo. Poor wretches! I rather pity their folly and indiscretion, than their loss of time and money for these may be restored by industry: but to be a fool born is a disease incurable."-BEN JONSON'S Volpone. : OH! where are the hopes we have met in the morning, When we laughed at the croakers that bade us take warn ing, Who once were our scorn, and now make us their sport. Oh! where are the regions where well-paid inspectors. So kindly bought for us by honest directors, Who charged us but three times as much as they cost. Oh! where are the riches that bubbled like fountains, Oh! where are the lakes overflowing with treasure? That water our prospects a damp could not throw on ; And send coals from Newcastle to boil it when there. Oh! where are the bridges to span the Atlantic? Oh! there is the seat of most exquisite feeling: The first pair of nerves to the pocket doth dive: A wound in our hearts would be no time in healing, But a wound in our pockets how can we survive? Now curst be the projects, and curst the projectors, For what is a man but his coat and his breeches, But shades as we are, we, with shadowy bubbles, When the midnight bell tolls, will through Capel Court glide, And the dream of the Jew shall be turmoils and troubles, When he sees each pale ghost on its bubble astride. And the lecturing Scots that upheld the delusion, "The Scot, to rival realms a mighty bar, THE Scotts, Kerrs, and Murrays, and Deloraines all, LEYDEN. Wine flows not from heath, and bread grinds not from stone, They must reeve for their living, or life they'll have none. When the Southron's strong arm with the steel and the law, They still drove the trade which the wise call convey.t They whitewashed the front of their old border fort; And they shot the proud Southron with promise to pay. Sir Walter Scott. + Steal! odious is the word-convey the wise it call.-Pistol. |