X.

He saw a turnkey in a trice

66

Unfetter a troublesome blade;

Nimbly" quoth he, "do the fingers move
If a man be but used to his trade."

XI.

He saw the same turnkey unfetter a man
With but little expedition,

Which put him in mind of the long debate
On the slave-trade abolition.

XII.

He saw an old acquaintance

As he pass'd by a Methodist meeting;—

She holds a consecrated key,

And the devil nods her a greeting.

XIII.

She turned up her nose, and said,
"Avaunt! my name's Religion,"
And she looked to Mr.

And leered like a love-sick pigeon.

XIV.

He saw a certain minister
(A minister to his mind)
Go up into a certain house,
With a majority behind.

XV.

The devil quoted Genesis,

Like a very learned clerk,

How "Noah and his creeping things

Went up into the ark."

XVI.

He took from the poor,

And he gave to the rich,

And he shook hands with a Scotchman,

For he was not afraid of the

He saw with consternation,

And back to hell his way did he take,
For the Devil thought by a slight mistake
It was general conflagration.

THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE

TOMB-STONE.

SEE the apology for the "Fire, Famine, and Slaughter," in first volume. This is the first time the author ever published these lines. He would have been glad, had they perished; but they have now been printed repeatedly in magazines, and he is told that the verses will not perish. Here, therefore, they are owned, with a hope that they will be taken-as assuredly they were composed-in mere sport.

THE devil believes that the Lord will come,
Stealing a march without beat of drum,
About the same time that he came last,

On an old Christmas-day in a snowy blast:

Till he bids the trump sound, neither body nor soul

stirs,

[bolsters.

For the dead men's heads have slipt under their

Oh! ho! brother bard, in our church-yard,
Both beds and bolsters are soft and

Save one alone, and that's of stone,

green;

And under it lies a counsellor keen. 'Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too long, And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, spearlike, and strong.

This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip,
With a waxy face, and a blubber lip,

And a black tooth in front, to show in part
What was the colour of his whole heart.
This counsellor sweet,

This Scotchman complete,

(The devil scotch him for a snake) I trust he lies in his grave awake.

On the sixth of January,
When all around is white with snow,
As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy,
Brother bard, ho! ho!

Believe it, or no,

On that stone tomb to you I'll show
Two round spaces void of snow.

I swear by our knight, and his forefathers' souls,
That in size and shape they are just like the holes
In the house of privity

Of that ancient family.

On those two places void of snow,

There have sate in the night for an hour or so, Before sunrise, and after cock-crow,

He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns,
All to the tune of the wind in their borns,
The devil, and his grannam,

With a snow-blast to fan 'em ;

Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow,
For they are cock-sure of the fellow below.

LINES

TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW.

WHAT though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus

From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak:
So was it, neighbour, in the times before us,

When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak,
Romped with the Graces; and each tickled Muse
(That Turk, Dan Phœbus, whom bards call divine,
Was married to—at least, he kept-all nine)
Fled, but still with reverted faces ran;

Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse,
They had allur'd the audacious Greek to use,
Swore they mistook him for their own good man.
This Momus-Aristophanes on earth

Men called him-maugre all his wit and worth
Was croaked and gabbled at. How then, should you,
Or I friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew?
No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee,
"I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!

CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT.

SINCE all that beat about in Nature's range,
Or veer or vanish; why shouldst thou remain
The only constant in a world of change,
O yearning thought! that livest but in the brain?
Call to the hours, that in the distance play,
The faery people of the future day—

Fond thought! not one of all that shining swarm
Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,
Till when, like strangers sheltering from a storm,
Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!
Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,
She is not thou, and only thou art she,

Still, still as though some dear embodied good,
Some living love before my eyes there stood
With answering look a ready ear to lend,
I mourn to thec and say-"Ah! loveliest friend!
That this the meed of all my toils might be,
To have a home, an English home, and thee!”
Vain repetition! home and thou are one.
The peaceful'st cot, the moon shall shine upon,
Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark,
Without thee were but a becalmed bark,
Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide
Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.
And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when