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Behold the place, where if a poet
Shined in description, he might show it;
Tell how the moon-beam trembling falls,
And tips with silver all the walls;
Palladian walls, Venetian doors,
Grotesco roofs, and stucco floors:
But let it (in a word) be said,
The moon was up, and men a-bed,
The napkins white, the carpet red:
The guests withdrawn had left the treat,
And down the mice sate, tête-à-tête." 2
Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Tastes for his friend of fowl and fish ;
Tells all their names, lays down the law:
"Que ca est bon ! Ah, goutez ca !" 3
"That jelly's rich, this malmsey healing,
Pray, dip your whiskers and your tail in.”
Was ever such a happy swain!


He stuffs and swills, and stuffs again.
"I'm quite ashamed-'tis mighty rude
"To eat so much, but all's so good-
"I have a thousand thanks to give-


My lord alone knows how to live."
No sooner said, but from the hall
Rush chaplain, butler, dogs, and all :
"A rat, a rat! clap to the door."
The cat comes bouncing on the floor.
O for the heart of Homer's mice,
Or gods to save them in a trice!
And when the mice at last had stole,
With trembling hearts into a hole,

"An't please your honour," quoth the peasant,
"This same dessert is not so pleasant:

Give me again my hollow tree,

A crust of bread, and liberty!"

2 tête à tête; face to face.

3 Que ça est bon! Ah goutez ça! "How good that is! Just taste this!" The poet is ridiculing the affectation of using French phrases in conversation.


IN slumbers of midnight the Sailor boy lay,

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But, watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away, And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamed of his home, of his dear native bowers, And pleasures that waited on life's merry morn; While Memory stood side-ways, half-covered with flowers,

And restored every rose, but secreted the thorn.

Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,
And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise;
Now, far, far behind him the green waters glide,
And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes.

The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,
And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall;
All trembling with transport he raises the latch,
And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,
His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear;
And the lips of the boy in a love-kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear.

The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse-all his hardships seem o'er; And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest— Kind heaven has blest me, I ask for no more.

Ah! whence is that flame which now bursts on his eye ?
Ah! what is that sound that now larums his ear?
Tis the lightning's red glare painting hell on the sky!
'Tis the crashing of thunders, the groan of the sphere !

He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck;
Amazement confronts him with images dire;
Wild winds and mad waves drive the vessel a wreck,
The masts fly in splinters—the shrouds are on fire!

Like mountains the billows tumultuously swell,

In vain the lost wretch calls on mercy to save ;— Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the Death-Angel flaps his broad wings o'er the


Oh, Sailor boy! wo to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost-work of bliss ;Where now is the picture that Fancy touched bright, Thy parent's fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss?

Oh! Sailor boy! Sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonoured, down deep in the main Full many a score fathom thy frame shall decay.

No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee,
Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge;
But the white foam of waves shall thy winding-sheet be,
And winds in the midnight of winter thy dirge.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid,
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years, and ages, shall circle away,
And still the vast waters above thee shall roll;
Earth loses thy pattern for ever and aye-
Oh, Sailor boy! Sailor boy! peace to thy soul!


JACOB, I do not love to see thy nose
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder pig.
It would be well, my friend, if we, like him,
Were perfect in our kind. And why despise
The sow-born grunter? He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly; and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. Now I pray thee
Hear the pig's counsel.

Is he obstinate?

We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words,
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit and not his. He hath not learned
That pigs were made for man, born to be brawned
And baconized. And for his ugliness-

Nay, Jacob, look at him;

Those eyes have taught the lover flattery.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
And what is beauty but the aptitude

Of parts harmonious? give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify the beast. All would but mar
His pig perfection.

The last charge, he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him

With precedents right reverend and noble,
And show by sanction of authority
That 'tis a very honourable thing

To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defence.
The pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt? Jacob, what is dirt?

If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts
The o'ergorged epicure is nothing more.
And there, that breeze

Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossomed field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.


I LOVE Thee, O my native Isle !
Dear as my mother's earliest smile;
Sweet as my father's voice to me
Is all I hear, and all I see,

When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,
The Guardian-angels of thy coast,
Who watch the dear domestic Host,
The Heart's Affections, pleased to roam
Around the quiet heaven of Home.

I love Thee, when I mark thy soil
Flourish beneath the peasant's toil,
And from its lap of verdure throw
Treasures which neither Indies know.

I love Thee,-when I hear around
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And arts, and industry, and wealth
Exulting in the joys of health.

I love Thee,-when I trace thy tale
To the dim point where records fail;

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