Sivut kuvina

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,

With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. Then shifting his side, (as a lawyer knows how)

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes :
But what were his arguments few people know,

For the court did not think they were equally wise So his Lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,

Decisive and clear, without one if or but That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,

By day-light or candle-light-Eyes should be shut

THE MAN OF ROSS. -All our praises why should Lords engross? Rise, honest Muse! and sing the Man of Ross : Pleased Vaga echoes through her winding bounds, And rapid Severn hoarse applause resounds. Who hung with woods yon mountain's sultry brow? From the dry rock who bade the waters flow? Not to the skies in useless columns tost, Or in proud falls magnificently lost, But clear and artless, pouring through the plain Health to the sick, and solace to the swain. Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows ? Whose seats the weary traveller repose ? Who taught that heaven-directed spire to rise ? “ The Man of Ross,” each lisping babe replies. Behold the market-place with poor o'erspread ! The Man of Ross divides the weekly bread : He feeds yon almshouse, neat, but void of state, Where age and want sit smiling at the gate : Him portioned maids, apprenticed orphans blest, The young who labour, and the old who rest. Is any sick? The Man of Ross relieves, Prescribes, attends, the medicine makes, and gives.

Is there a variance ? Enter but his door,
Balked are the courts, and contest is no more.
Despairing quacks with curses fled the place,
And vile attorneys, now a useless race.
Thrice happy man! enabled to pursue
What all so wish, but want the power to do!
Oh say, what sums that generous hand supply?.
What mines, to swell that boundless charity ?

Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear,
This man possessed-five hundred pounds a year.
Blush Grandeur, blush! proud courts withdraw your blaze!
Ye little stars ! hide your diminished rays.

And what! no monument, inscription, stone?
His race, his form, his name almost unknown?

Who builds a church to God, and not to Fame,
Will never mark the marble with his name:
Go, search it there, where to be born and die,
Of rich and poor makes all the history;
Enough that virtue filled the space between,
Proved by the ends of being, to have been,


It was a summer's evening,

Old Kaspar's work was done ;
And he, before his cottage door,

Was sitting in the sun;
And by him sported on the green

His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin

Roll something large and round,
Which he beside the rivulet,

In playing there had found;
He came to ask what he had found,
That was so large, and smooth, and round.

For many

Old Kaspar took it from the boy,

Who stood expectant by;
And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh, “ 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,” said he, “ Who fell in the great victory. “I find them in the garden, For there's


here about; And often, when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out!

thousand men,” said he, "W'ere slain in that great victory.' “ Now tell us what 'twas all about,"

Young Peterkin, he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up

With wonder-waiting eyes; “ Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for.” " It was the English,” Kaspar cried,

“Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for,

I could not well make out.
But every body said,” quoth he,
“ That 'twas a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,

Yon little stream hard by;
They burnt his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly;
So with his wife and child he fled,
Nor had he where to rest his head.
“ With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide,
And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby, died ;
But things like that, you know, must be
At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won ; For many

thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun ; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory. “Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won,

And our good Prince Eugene” “Why, 't was a very wicked thing !"

Said little Wilhelmine. “ Nay—nay—my little girl," quoth he, “ It was a famous victory. “And every body praised the Duke,

Who this great fight did win.” “ But what good came of it at last ?”

Quoth little Peterkin. “Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, “ But'twas a famous victory.”

All upstarts, insolent in place,
Remind us of their vulgar race.

As in the sunshine of the morn,
A butterfly (but newly born,)
Sat proudly perking on a rose,
With pert conceit his bosom glows;
His wings (all-glorious to behold,)
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he displays; the spangled dew
Reflects his eyes, and various hue.

His now-forgotten friend, a snail,
Beneath his house, with slimy trail,
Crawls o'er the grass; whom, when he spies,
In wrath he to the gardener cries:

“What means yon peasant's daily toil, “From choaking weeds to rid the soil ?

Why wake you to the morning's care ?

Why with new arts correct the year ? “Why glows the peach with crimson hue? “ And why the plum's inviting blue? “Were they to feast his taste designed, “That vermin of voracious kind ! “ Crush then the slow, the pilfering race; “So purge thy garden from disgrace.

“ What arrogance !" the snail replied ; “ How insolent is upstart pride! “ Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain, “ Provoked my patience to complain, “I had concealed thy meaner birth, “ Nor traced thee to the scum of earth. For scarce nine suns have waked the hours, "To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers, “Since I thy humbler life surveyed, “In base, in sordid guise arrayed ; - A hideous insect, vile, unclean, “ You dragged a slow and noisome train; And from your spider-bowels drew “ Foul film, and spun the dirty clue. I own my humble life, good friend ;

Snail was I born, and snail shall end. " And what's a butterfly? At best, “ He's but a caterpillar drest; " And all thy race (a numerous seed,) “ Shall prove of caterpillar breed.”


She listens ;—' 'Tis the wind,” she cries :

The moon, tliat rose so full and bright, Is now o'ercast : she weeps, she sighs,–

She fears 'twill be a stormy night.

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