To ploughing ships give way, the ship being past,
They reunite, so these unite as fast.
The older songstress hitherto hath spent
Her elocution in the argument
Of their great song in prose; to wit, the woes
Which maiden true to faithless sailor owes-
Ah! " Wandering He!"-which now in loftier verse
Pathetic they alternately rehearse.
All gaping wait the event. This critic opes.
His right ear to the strain. The other hopes
To catch it better with his left. Long trade
It were to tell, how the deluded maid
A victim fell. And now right greedily
All hands are stretching forth the songs to buy,
That are so tragical; which she, and she,
Deals out, and sings the while; nor can there be
A breast so obdurate here, that will hold back
His contributions from the gentle rack
Of music's pleasing torture. Irus' self,
The staff-propp'd beggar, his thin-gotten pelf
Brings out from pouch, where squalid farthings rest,
And boldly claims his ballad with the best.
An old dame only lingers. To her purse
The penny sticks. At length, with harmless curse
"Give me," she cries. "I'll paste it on my wall,
While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall
Fond hearts, seduced from innocency's way;
Low maidens fall, and mariners betray."
OF THE PARISH OF SAINT MARGARET, WESTMINSTER,
For much good-natured verse received from thee,
A loving verse take in return from me.
"Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry
And to our David "twice as good,” say I.
Not Peter's monitor, shrill chanticleer,
Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear,
Or tells the hours more faithfully. While nigh:
Fills half the world with shadows of affright,
You with your lantern, partner of your round,
Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound.
The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up,
The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup,
Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appal;
Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all.
But if the market gard'ner chance to pass,
Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass,
The gentle salesman you with candour grect,
And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet.
Announcing your approach by formal bel!,
Of nightly weather you the changes tell;
Whether the moon shines, or her head doth steep
In rain-portending clouds. When mortals sleep
In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet
Of winter; and in alley, or in street,
Relieve your midnight progress with a verse.
What though fastidious Phœbus frown averse
On your didactic strain-indulgent night
With caution hath seal'd up both ears of spite,
And critics sleep while you in staves do sound
The praise of long-dead saints, whose days abound
In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim :
Who stirs not at that prince of cobblers' name?
Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine,
And wish long days to all the Brunswick line!
To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read;
Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead;
Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice;
How death at last all ranks doth equalize;
And, in conclusion, pray good years befall,
With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all.”
For this and other tokens of good-will,
On boxing day may store of shillings fill
Your Christmas purse; no householder give less,
When at each door your blameless suit you press:
And what you wish to us (it is but reason)
Receive in turn the compliments o' th' seasor
ON A DEAF AND DUMB ARTIST *
AND hath thy blameless life become
A prey to the devouring tomb?
A more mute silence hast thou known,
A deafness deeper than thine own,
While time was? and no friendly muse,
That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,
Repair with quickening verse the breach,
And write thee into light and speech?
'The Power that made the torgue restrain'd
Thy lips from lies and speeches feign'd;
Who made the hearing, without wrong
Did rescue thine from siren's song.
He let thee see the ways of men,
Which thou with pencil, not with pen,
Careful beholder, down didst note,
And all their motley actions quote,
Thyself unstain'd the while. From look
Or gesture reading, more than book,
In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,
Contented with the silent art,
Thyself as silent. Might I be
As speechless, deaf, and good as he!
GREAT Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,
Owed to schoolmistress sage his alphabet;
But quickly wiser than his teacher grown,
Discover'd properties to her unknown;
Of A plus B, or minus, learn'd the use,
Known quantities from unknown to educe;
* Benjamin Ferrers-Died A. D. 1732.
And made no doubt, to that old dame's surprise-The Christcross-row his ladder to the skies.
Yet, whatsoe'er geometricians say,
Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA !
THE frugal snail, with forecast of repose,
Carries his house with him where'er he goes;
Peeps out-and if their comes a shower of rain,
Retreats to his small domicil amain.
Touch but a tip of him, a horn-'tis well-
He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay
Long as he will, he dreads no quarter-day.
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites
And feasts himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure
Chattels; himself is his own furniture,
And his sole riches. Whereso'er he roam-
Knock when you will-he's sure to be at home.
NIGH London's famous bridge, a gate more famed
Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,
So judged antiquity; and therein wrongs
A name, allusive strictly to two tongues.
Her school hard by the goddess Rhetoric opes,
And gratis deals to oyster-wives her tropes.
With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,
Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.
One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,
And one in literalities abounds;
* Billingis in the Latin.
In mood and figure these keep up the din,
Words multiply, and every word tells in.
Her hundred throats here bawling Slander strains ;
And unclothed Venus to her tongue gives reins
In terms which Demosthenic force outgo,
And baldest jests of foul-mouth'd Cicero.
Right in the midst great Ate keeps her stand,
And from her sovereign station taints the land.
Hence pulpits rail; grave senates learn to jar;
Quacks scold; and Billinsgate infects the bar.
PINDARIC ODE TO THE TREAD-MILL.
INSPIRE my spirit, spirit of De Foe,
That sang the pillory,
In loftier strains to show
A more sublime machine
'Than that where thou wert seen,
With neck outstretch'd and shoulders ill awry, Courting coarse plaudits from the vile crowds belowA most unseemly show!
Who could expose thy face,
Historiographer of deathless Crusoe!
That paint'st the strife
And all the naked ills of savage life,
Far above Rousseau ?
Rather myself had stood
In that ignoble wood,
Bare to the mob, on holyday or high day.
If naught else could atone
For waggish libel,
I swear on the Bible,
would have spared him for thy sake alone, Man Friday!
Our ancestors' were sour days,
Great master of romance!
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