VI.

She missed his large horns, and she missed his fair tail,
That had hung so retrospective;

And his raven plumes, and some other marks
Regarding his feet, that had left their sparks
In a mind but too susceptive :

VII.

And she held in scorn that a mortal born
Should the Prince of Spirits rival,
To clamber at midnight her garden fence-
For she knew not else by what pretence
To account for his arrival.

VIII.

"What thief art thou," quoth she, "in the dark That stumblest here presumptuous?

Some Irish Adventurer I take you to be—

A Foreigner, from your garb I see,

Which besides is not over sumptuous."

IX.

Then Satan, while dissembling his rank,
A piece of amorous fun tries :

Quoth he, "I'm a Netherlander born;
Fair Virgin, receive not my suit with scorn;
I'm a Prince in the Low Countries-

X.

"Though I travel incog. From the Land of Fog
And Mist I am come to proffer

My crown, and my sceptre to lay at your feet;
It is not every day in the week you may meet,
Fair Maid, with a Prince's offer."

XI.

"Your crown and your sceptre I like full well, They tempt a poor maiden's pride, Sir;

But your lands and possessions-excuse if I'm rudeAre too far in a Northerly latitude

For me to become your Bride, Sir.

XII.

"In that aguish clime I should catch my death,

Being but a raw newcomer

Quoth he, "We have plenty of fuel stout;
Ấnd the fires which I kindle never go out
In Winter, nor yet in Summer.

XIII.

"I am Prince of Hell, and Lord Paramount
Over Monarchs there abiding.

My Groom of the Stables is Nimrod old;
And Nebuchadnezzar my stirrups must hold,
When I go out a-riding.

XIV.

"To spare your blushes and maiden fears,
I resorted to these inventions-

But, Imposture, begone; and avaunt, Disguise!"
And the Devil began to swell and rise

To his own diabolic dimensions.

XV.

Twin horns from his forehead shot up to the moon,

Like a branching stag in Arden;

Dusk wings through his shoulders with eagle's strength
Pushed out, and his train lay floundering in length
An acre beyond the garden.

XVI.

To tender hearts I have framed my lay-
Judge ye, all love-sick Maidens,

When the virgin saw in the soft moonlight,
In his proper proportions, her own true knight,
If she needed long persuadings.

XVII.

Yet a maidenly modesty kept her back,

As her sex's art had taught her:

For "the biggest Fortunes," quoth she, "in the land-
Are not worthy "-then blushed-" of your Highness's hand-
Much less a poor Taylor's daughter.

XVIII.

"There's the two Miss Crockfords are single still,
For whom great suitors hunger;

And their Father's hell is much larger than mine
Quoth the Devil," I've no such ambitious design,
For their Dad is an old Fishmonger;

XIX.

"And I cannot endure the smell of fish

I have taken an anti-bias

To their livers, especially since the day

That the Angel smoked my cousin away
From the chaste spouse of Tobias.

XX.

"Had my amorous kinsman much longer stayed,
The perfume would have sealed his obit;

For he had a nicer nose than the wench,
Who cared not a pin for the smother and stench,
In the arms of the Son of Tobit."

XXI.

"I have read it," quoth she, "in Apocryphal Writ❞—
And the Devil stooped down and kissed her ;
Not Jove himself, when he courted in flame,
On Semele's lips, the love-scorched Dame,
Impressed such a burning blister.

XXII.

The fire through her bones and her vitals shot"O I yield, my winsome marrow

I am thine for life"-and black thunders rolledAnd she sank in his arms through the garden mould, With the speed of a red-hot arrow.

XXIII.

Merrily, merrily, ring the bells

From each Pandemonian steeple;

For the Devil hath gotten his beautiful Bride,
And a wedding dinner he will provide,

To feast all kinds of people.

XXIV.

Fat bulls of Bashan are roasted whole,
Of the breed that ran at David;

With the flesh of goats, on the sinister side
That shall stand apart when the world is tried ;
Fit meat for souls unsaved!

XXV.

The fowl from the spit were the Harpies' brood,
Which the bard sang near Cremona,

With a garnish of bats in their leathern wings impt;
And the fish was-two delicate slices, crimpt,
Of the whale that swallowed Jonah.

XXVI.

Then the goblets were crowned, and a health went round To the bride, in a wine like scarlet ;

No earthly vintage so deeply paints,

For 'twas dashed with a tinge from the blood of the Saints By the Babylonian Harlot.

XXVII.

No Hebe fair stood Cup Bearer there,
The guests were their own skinkers;
But Bishop Judas first blest the can,
Who is of all Hell Metropolitan,
And kissed it to all the drinkers.

XXVIII.

The feast being ended, to dancing they went,
To a music that did produce a

Most dissonant sound, while a hellish glee
Was sung in parts by the Furies Three;
And the Devil took out Medusa.

XXIX.

But the best of the sport was to hear his old Dam,

Set up her shrill forlorn pipe

How the withered Beldam hobbled about,

And put the rest of the company out

For she needs must try a hornpipe.

XXX.

But the heat, and the press, and the noise, and the din,

Were so great, that, howe'er unwilling,

Our reporter no longer was able to stay,

But came in his own defence away,

And left the Bride quadrilling.

TRANSLATIONS.

FROM THE LATIN OF VINCENT BOURNE,1

it.

I.

THE BALLAD SINGERS.

WHERE seven fair Streets 2 to one tall Column draw,
Two Nymphs have ta'en their stand, in hats of straw;
Their yellower necks huge beads of amber grace,
And by their trade they're of the Sirens' race:
With cloak loose-pinned on each, that has been red,
But, long with dust and dirt discoloured,
Belies its hue; in mud behind, before,
From heel to middle leg becrusted o'er.

One a small infant at the breast does bear;
And one in her right hand her tuneful ware,

Which she would vend. Their station scarce is taken,
When youths and maids flock round. His stall forsaken,

Forth comes a Son of Crispin, leathern-capt,
Prepared to buy a ballad, if one apt

To move his fancy offers. Crispin's sons

Have, from uncounted time, with ale and buns,
Cherished the gift of Song, which sorrow quells;
And, working single in their low-rooft cells,

Oft cheat the tedium of a Winter's night
With anthems warbled in the Muses' spight.

Who now hath caught the alarm? the Servant Maid
Hath heard a buzz at distance; and, afraid
To miss a note, with elbows red comes out.
Leaving his forge to cool, Pyracmon stout
Thrusts in his unwashed visage. He stands by
Who the hard trade of Porterage does ply

With stooping shoulders. What cares he? he sees

The assembled ring, nor heeds his tottering knees,

1 Vincent Bourne was usher of the fifth form at Westminster School when Cowper was in He is known as an excellent Latin poet.

* Seven Dials; a column once stood where the streets meet.