"The Klondyke's goin' to hell down-grade in a hand-car.

My early mistress, now my ancient Muse, That strong Circæan liquor cease t'infuse, Wherewith thou didst intoxicate my youth, Now stoop with disenchanted wings to truth; As the dove's flight did guide Aeneas, now May thine conduct me to the golden bough: Tell (like a tall old oak) how learning shoots To heaven her branches, and to hell her roots.

Say what repays the gamester's nightly toil, Can hell itself more hideous woes impart? Can glitt'ring heaps of ill-begotten spoil, Appease the cravings of his callous heart?