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Francis Jackson Garrison, William Lloyd Garrison, 1805-1879; the story of his life told by his children: volume 3, Chapter 6: third mission to England.—1846. (search)
'T is natural he should love a hit; A gentleman, withal, and scholar, Only base things excite his choler, And then his satire's keen and thin As the lithe blade of Saladin. Good letters are a gift apart, And his are gems of Flemish art, True offspring of the fireside Muse, Not a chip-gathering of news Like a new hopfield which is all poles, But of one blood with Horace Walpole's. There, with one hand behind his back, Stands Phillips buttoned in a sack, W. Phillips. Our Attic orator, our Chatham; Old fogies, when he lightens at 'em, Shrivel like leaves; to him 't is granted Always to say the word that's wanted, So that he seems but speaking clearer The tiptoe thought of every hearer; Each flash his brooding heart lets fall Fires what's combustible in all, And sends the applauses bursting in Like an exploded magazine. His eloquence no frothy show, The gutter's street-polluted flow, No Mississippi's yellow flood Whose shoalness can't be seen for mud;— So simply clear, serenely deep,