OF THE PARISH OF ST. MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN.
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 night Fills half the world with shadows of affright, You with your lantern, partner of your round, Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallowed bound. The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall; Armed with thy faithful staff, thou slightest them all. But if the market gardener chance to pass, Bringing to town his fruit or early grass, The gentle salesman you with candor greet, And with reiterated "good mornings" meet. Announcing your approach by formal bell, 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 Phoebus frown averse On your didactic strain-indulgent Night With caution hath sealed 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' the season!
ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING.
BEAUTIFUL Infant, who dost keep
Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep,
May the repose unbroken be,
Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee,
While thou enjoyest along with it
That which no art, or craft, could ever hit,
Or counterfeit to mortal sense,
The heaven-infused sleep of innocence!
POOR Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie,
That wont to tend my old blind master's steps,
His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted,
Had he occasion for that staff, with which
He now goes picking out his path in fear
Over the highways and crossings, but would plant
Safe in the conduct of my friendly string,
A firm foot forward still, till he had reached
His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide
Of passers-by in thickest confluence flowed;
To whom with loud and passionate laments
From morn to eve his dark estate he wailed.
Nor wailed to all in vain; some here and there,
The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.
I meantime at his feet obsequious slept;
Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear
Pricked up at his least motion, to receive
At his kind hand my customary crumbs,
And common portion in his feast of scraps;
Or when night warned us homeward, tired and spent
With our long day and tedious beggary.
These were my manners, this my way of life,
Till age and slow disease me overtook,
And severed from my sightless master's side.
But lest the grace of so good deeds should die,
Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost,
This slender tomb of turf hath Irus reared,
Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand,
And with short verse inscribed it, to attest,
In long and lasting union to attest,
The virtues of the Beggar and his dog.
A TUNEFUL challenge rings from either side
Of Thames' fair banks. Thy twice six Bells, St. Bride, Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply
The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.
Such harmony from the contention flows,
That the divided ear no preference knows;
Betwixt them both disparting Music's State,
While one exceeds in number, one in weight.
NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.
GREAT Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt,
Owed to School Mistress sage his Alphabet;
But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown,
Discovered properties to her unknown;
Of A plus B, or minus, learned the use,
Known Quantities from unknown to educe;
And made no doubt to that old dame's surprise-
The Christ-Cross-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 there comes a shower of rain,
Retreats to his small domicile 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. Wheresoe'er he roam-
Knock when you will-he's sure to be at home.
A more mute silence hast thou known,
A deafness deeper than thine own,
While Time was? and no friendly Muse,
That marked thy life, and knows thy dues,
Repair with quickening verse the breach,
And write thee into light and speech?
The Power, that made the Tongue, restrained
Thy lips from lies, and speeches feigned;
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 unstained the while. From look
Or gesture reading, more than book,
In lettered pride thou took'st no part,
Contented with the Silent Art,
Thyself as silent. Might I be
As speechless, deaf, and good, as He!
THE FEMALE ORATORS.
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;
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
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