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Anon he touches up his lyre to boost a patent rubber tire, or sings a noble song that thrills concerning someone's beeswax pills. His lyre's a wonder to behold; its frame is pearl, its strings are gold. His sheetiron laurels never fade; the grocer's glad to get his trade. While he can make the muses sweat he'll never go to jail for debt.
If there be laureate laurels, or bays, or palms, In these red, Radical, revelling, riotous times, They should be the true bard's, though mid-age calms His revolutionary fierce rolling rhymes, Fulfilled with clamour and clangour and storm of psalms That great lyre's golden echoes rolled away! Forth tripped another claimant of the bay.
So it is with you: you have always a book in your hand, you are always reading; but what it is all about, you have not an idea; you do but prick up asinine ears at the lyre's sound.
Of these but one can still be met in London streets, but all now wear crowns of varying brightness Where the oldest bard is as the young, And the pipe is ever dropping honey, And the lyre's strings are ever strung.
The pitch, exquisitely soft, as far removed from masculine bass as from ultra-feminine treble, is that of a boy before his voice breaks; sweet, seductive, suavely penetrating; it ceases, and still vibrating murmurs play, echo-like, about the listener's ears, and Persuasion leaves her honeyed track upon his mind. But oh! the joy, to hear her sing, and sing to the lyre's accompaniment.
They want new men for our army there, and I've half a mind to go too for a change and act as the Lyre's correspondent there. They'll do anything I ask them now." "I'd like it very much," said Sam. "I'm tired of this literary business. But here we are. This is our dépôt." The two men entered the long low building in which confiscated property was stored.
With daring mind, as heavenly fancy glows, Man masks the fearful shape with fair resembling: His torch put out, a mild youth doth repose; Soft is the end as the lyre's mournful trembling. Remembrance fades i' the gloom a shadow throws: So sang the song, a dreadful doom dissembling. Yet undefined remained eternal Night, The stern reminder of some distant might."
It is only on the external and material side that it is really a Daily Lyre's war. There's really no contradiction, none at all, as you see." "Oh! none at all," said Sam, with a sigh of relief. "I never quite understood it before, and you make it all so clear!"
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