What, though some time in hell he stay, "Sour vinegar must make sweet whey :" Rome was not finish'd in a day;

Be of my mind,

Your ditty sad and songs delay,

For "words are wind."

Each methodist, or stupid ass,

Will tell you, Sirs, that "flesh is grass ;"

And it will also come to pass,

"That grass will fire;"

The ember lies just where it was,

The smoke mounts higher.

So, let the good folks do their will,
The sexton will e'en take his fill,

It brings more "grist unto his mill,"

And "drains the bog;'

Heav'n rest him, they may make him still, 66 A hog, or dog."

For, being" old dog" as I may say,

At every wicked gambol gay,

"When cat is out, the mice will play,"

And mock old Nick,

He'll sport, if fortune, in this way,

Don't shew" dog's trick."

Then, "sure's a gun" he'll find to's cost,
"He reckon'd on without his host,"
And "cock-a-hoop" not mind what's lost,
"Till pay-day come,"

When he must desolate the coast

"Without beat o' drum.”

If he don't chance with saws, to tether
Satan's two ears, like "bird of a feather,"
He must go without "why or whether,"
To" fill the oven,'

Kick'd out, with all his goods together,
By foot" so cloven. '

I warrant, though the queer rogue tickles
His highness' taste, with flatt'ring pickles,
And ere a month, or some short week, lies,
"Claim cater cousin,

And be as great with Master Nichol's,

As "six to the dozen."

Then cease, he's snug enough "in port,"
Prince serjeant of th' infernal court,
Following his own congenial sport,

As is the fashion,

And proverbs mouthing of each sort, 'Twas "his vocation."

TO FEELING.

WHY thrills each nerve at Fancy's pictur'd woe,
At pity's tale why starts the tender breast?
Can scenes, by thought's delusive pencil drest,
Bid the full drop of pregnant anguish flow?
What cruel pow'r thus wrings my easy heart ?/
'Tis feeling, prophetess of distant ills,

With pensive ecstacy she points the dart,

In pleasing poison ting'd, that slow, but surely kills.

Oft o'er the cradled infant hath she wept,
And mark'd, with eye deprest, the woes of age;
Oft while the babe, in harmless silence slept,
She trac'd the vary'd passions, and their rage;
Wild-bursting wrath, revenge, with blood-shot

glance,

Pale jealousy, on love, with scowling brow

Still watchful fix'd, false honor's impious glow,

All sunk as yet beneath the mental trance,

Nor rous'd by fervid youth, to shake this mortal

stage.

Oft while the matron hung with fondest mirth
On him, whose truth first won her partial thought,
And all her smiling offspring throng the hearth,
Has feeling her funereal vision wrought;

Oft seem'd to view the baleful hearse await
The ghastly sire, the matron's widow'd weeds,
The smiling offspring snatch'd by feverish fate;
Meanwhile, fallacious grief! her tortur'd bosom
bleeds.

Ah! me, too many are our cares unfeign'd,
Too many troubles guard life's thorny way;
Yet ne'er have I of thy soft pangs complain'd,
Nor sought, with heedless haste, the giddy gay;
Beneath thy willows have I lov'd to mourn,
While stream'd the tribute tear from pity's sluice,
Still deck'd with flow'rs the hapless stranger's urn,
Sincerely sad-the martyr of the Muse!

AN ODE TO

A GREAT MAN'S GREAT PORTER.

SWEET Cerberus, let dainty sonnets move thee,
So may Apollo and the Muses love thee;
Crown thy proud front with wreaths so fine;
O! let a poor, lean, hungry Orpheus dine!

In vain no modulations charm thy breast,
Harder than brass, or bookseller, or marble;
Thou long'st to crush the muses little nest,
Lo! thou wouldst castrate ev'ry bard,
Which usage is confounded hard,

To spoil their vigour, not to make them warble.--
Some critic, felon, gave thee form,

With nails corroded, and obstetic pain,

Th' impenetrable offspring of his brain,

While printer's devils bestrode the howling storm; Yes, caitiff, thou hast vitriol suck'd, with aquafortis,

For murd'ring songsters thy infernal sport is!