So from the way in which he was train'd up
His feet departed not; he toil'd and moil'd,

Poor muck-worm! through his threescore years and ten;

And when the earth shall now be shovell'd on him, If that which served him for a soul were still Within its husk, 'twould still be dirt to dirt.

STRANGER.

Yet your next newspapers will blazon him For industry and honorable wealth

A bright example.

TOWNSMAN.

Even half a million

Gets him no other praise. But come this way Some twelve months hence, and you will find his

virtues

Trimly set forth in lapidary lines,

Faith with her torch beside, and little Cupids Dropping upon his urn their marble tears.

Bristol, 1803.

NONDESCRIPTS.

1.

WRITTEN THE WINTER AFTER THE

INSTALLATION AT OXFORD. 1793.

TOLL on,
toll on, old Bell! I'll neither pass
The cold and weary hour in heartless rites,
Nor doze away the time. The fire burns bright;
And, bless the maker of this Windsor-Chair!
(Of polish'd cherry, elbow'd, saddle-seated,)
This is the throne of comfort. I will sit
And study here devoutly; - not my Euclid, -
For Heaven forbid that I should discompose
That Spider's excellent geometry!

I'll study thee, Puss! Not to make a picture;
I hate your canvass cats, and dogs, and fools,
Themes that disgrace the pencil. Thou shalt give
A moral subject, Puss. Come, look at me; —
Lift up thine emerald eyes! Ay, purr away!
For I am praising thee, I tell thee, Puss,
And Cats as well as Kings like flattery.
For three whole days I heard an old Fur-gown
Bepraised, that made a Duke a Chancellor;
Bepraised in prose it was, bepraised in verse;
Lauded in pious Latin to the skies;
Kudos'd egregiously in heathen Greek;
In sapphics sweetly incensed; glorified
In proud alcaics; in hexameters

Applauded to the very Galleries,

That did applaud again, whose thunder-claps,
Higher and longer, with redoubling peals,

Rung when they heard the illustrious furbelow'd
Heroically in Popean rhyme

Prose, verse, Greek, Latin, English, rhyme and Apotheosi-chancellor'd in all,

[blank,

Till Eulogy, with all her wealth of words,
Grew bankrupt, all-too-prodigal of praise,
And panting Panegyric toil'd in vain,
O'er-task'd in keeping pace with such desert.

Though I can poetize right willingly,

Puss, on thy well-streak'd coat, to that Fur-gown

I was not guilty of a single line:

'Twas an old furbelow, that would hang loose, And wrap round any one, as it were made

To fit him only, so it were but tied

With a blue ribbon.

What a power there is

In beauty! Within these forbidden walls
Thou hast thy range at will, and when perchance
The Fellows see thee, Puss, they overlook
Inhibitory laws, or haply think

The statute was not made for Cats like thee;
For thou art beautiful as ever Cat
That wantoned in the joy of kittenhood.
Ay, stretch thy claws, thou democratic beast,
I like thine independence. Treat thee well,
Thou art as playful as young Innocence;
But if we act the governor, and break

The social compact, Nature gave those claws,
And taught thee how to use them. Man, methinks,
Master and slave alike, might learn from thee
A salutary lesson: but the one

Abuses wickedly his power unjust;

The other crouches, spaniel-like, and licks
The hand that strikes him. Wiser animal,
I look at thee, familiarized, yet free;
And, thinking that a child with gentle hand
Leads by a string the large-limb'd Elephant,
With mingled indignation and contempt
Behold his drivers goad the biped beast.

II.

SNUFF.

A DELICATE pinch! oh, how it tingles up
The titillated nose, and fills the eyes

| And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze
The full-collected pleasure bursts at last!
Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this
The only Christopher in my Calendar.
Why, but for thee the uses of the Nose
Were half unknown, and its capacity
Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath,
At midnoon glowing with the golden gorse,
Bears its balsamic odor, but provokes,
Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,
That with their unsubstantial fragance tempt
And disappoint, bloom for so short a space,
That half the year the Nostrils would keep Lent,
But that the kind tobacconist admits

No winter in his work; when Nature sleeps,

His wheels roll on, and still administer

A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.

What are Peru and those Golcondan mines

To thee, Virginia? Miserable realms,
The produce of inhuman toil, they send
Gold for the greedy, jewels for the vain.
But thine are common comforts! - To omit
Pipe-panegyric and tobacco-praise,

Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives,
Europe, and far above Pizarro's name
Write Raleigh in thy records of renown!
Him let the school-boy bless if he behold
His master's box produced; for when he sees
The thumb and finger of Authority

Stuff'd up the nostrils; when hat, head, and wig
Shake all; when on the waistcoat black, brown dust,
From the oft-reiterated pinch profuse
Profusely scattered, lodges in its folds,
And part on the magistral table lights,
Part on the open book, soon blown away,
Full surely soon shall then the brow severe
Relax; and from vituperative lips

Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise,
And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed.
Westbury, 1799.

III.

COOL REFLECTIONS

DURING A MIDSUMMER WALK FROM WARMINSTER TO SHAFTESBURY. 1799.

O SPARE me-
Thou hast not let another Phaeton
Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car;
Mercy! I melt! I melt! No tree, no bush,
No shelter, not a breath of stirring air
East, West, or North, or South! Dear God of day,
Put on thy nightcap; crop thy locks of light,
And be in the fashion; turn thy back upon us,
And let thy beams flow upward; make it night
Instead of noon;
-one little miracle,
In pity, gentle Phœbus!

- spare me, Phœbus! if indeed

What a joy,
Oh what a joy, to be a seal and flounder
On an ice island! or to have a den
With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow!
It were a comfort to shake hands with Death,-
He has a rare cold hand!—to wrap one's self
In the gift shirt Dejanira sent,

Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep
The sun off; or toast cheese for Beelzebub, -
That were a cool employment to this journey
Along a road whose white intensity
Would now make platina uncongealable
Like quicksilver.

Were it midnight, I should walk
Self-lantern'd, saturate with sunbeams. Jove!
O gentle Jove! have mercy, and once more
Kick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven;
Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roar
For cardamum, and drink down peppermint,
Making what's left as precious as Tokay;
Send Mercury to salivate the sky

Հ

Till it dissolve in rain. O gentle Jove!
But some such little kindness to a wretch
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat, –
Who swells with calorique as if a Prester
Had leaven'd every limb with poison-yeast;
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings
And fan me, and I will build temples to thee,
And turn true Pagan.
Not a cloud nor breeze,-
most heathen Deities! if ever
My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them,
It hath resolved itself into a dew,)

you

I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Thou vile Phœbus,
Set me a Persian sun-idolater

Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him
With no inquisitorial argument

But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, wretch,
That I was in a heretic country born!
Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach,
And burn away the calx of their offences

In that great Purgatory crucible,

Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion!

I am made a copper-Indian of already;
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me,
My very cellular membrane will be changed,-
I shall be negrofied.

A brook a brook!

O what a sweet, cool sound!

We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words;
We must not take them as unheeding hands
Receive base money at the current worth,
But with a just suspicion try their sound,
And in the even balance weigh them well.
See now to what this obstinacy comes;
A poor, mistreated, democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt
That Pigs were made for Man, -born to be brawn'd
And baconized; that he must please to give
Just what his gracious masters please to take;
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave
For self-defence, the general privilege;
Perhaps,

hark, Jacob! dost thou hear that horn?

Woe to the young posterity of Pork! Their enemy is at hand.

Again. Thou say'st
The Pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the Lover flattery.
His face,-nay, Jacob, Jacob! were it fair
To judge a Lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it dress'd, and with saltpetre rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse:
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty, but the aptitude

Of parts harmonious? Give thy fancy scope,
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the Peacock's pride,

hoofs

Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss

When Venus from the enamor'd sea arose ;-
Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him!
All alteration man could think, would mar
His Pig-perfection.

The last charge, — he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents,
And show by sanction of authority
That 'tis a very honorable 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
An o'ergorged Epicure to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.
If matter be not, but, as Sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, the infinitely modified,

Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mire
Wherein he stands knee-deep!

And there the breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to a smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
Westbury, 1799.

V.

THE DANCING BEAR.

To doubt that truth. Therefore, as thou wert born, Bruin for Man, and Man makes nothing of thee In any other way,- -most logically

It follows, thou wert born to make him sport; That that great snout of thine was form'd on purpose

To hold a ring; and that thy fat was given thee
For an approved pomatum !

To demur
Were heresy. And politicians say
(Wise men who in the scale of reason give
No foolish feelings weight) that thou art here
Far happier than thy brother Bears who roam
O'er trackless snow for food; that being born
Inferior to thy leader, unto him

-

Rightly belongs dominion; that the compact
Was made between ye, when thy clumsy feet
First fell into the snare, and he gave up
His right to kill, conditioning thy life
Should thenceforth be his property; - besides,
'Tis wholesome for thy morals to be brought
From savage climes into a civilized state,
Into the decencies of Christendom
Bear! Bear! it passes in the Parliament
For excellent logic, this! What if we say
How barbarously Man abuses power?
Talk of thy baiting, it will be replied,
Thy welfare is thy owner's interest,
But were thou baited it would injure thee,
Therefore thou art not baited. For seven years
Hear it, O Heaven, and give ear, O Earth!
For seven long years this precious syllogism
Hath baffled justice and humanity!
Westbury, 1799.

It were an easy thing to crack that nut,
Or with thy crackers or thy double teeth;
So easily may all things be destroy'd!
But 'tis not in the power of mortal man
To mend the fracture of a filbert shell.
There were two great men once amused themselves
Watching two maggots run their wriggling race,
And wagering on their speed; but, Nick, to us
It were no sport, to see the pamper'd worm
Roll out and then draw in his folds of fat,
Like to some Barber's leathern powder-bag
Where with he feathers, frosts, or cauliflowers
Spruce Beau, or Lady fair, or Doctor grave.
Enough of dangers and of enemies

Hath Nature's wisdom for the worm ordain'd;
Increase not thou the number! Him the Mouse;
Gnawing with nibbling tooth the shell's defence,
May from his native tenement eject;

Him may the Nut-hatch, piercing with strong bill,
Unwittingly destroy; or to his hoard

The Squirrel bear, at leisure to be crack'd.
Man also hath his dangers and his foes,

As this poor Maggot hath; and when I muse
Upon the aches, anxieties, and fears,
The Maggot knows not, Nicholas, methinks
It were a happy metamorphosis

To be enkernell'd thus; never to hear
Of wars, and of invasions, and of plots,
Kings, Jacobines, and Tax-commissioners;
To feel no motion but the wind that shook
The Filbert Tree, and rock'd us to our rest;
And in the middle of such exquisite food
To live luxurious! The perfection this
Of snugness! it were to unite at once
Hermit retirement, Aldermanic bliss,
And Stoic independence of mankind.
Westbury, 1799.

VII.

THE CATARACT OF LODORE.

DESCRIBED IN RHYMES FOR THE NURSERY.

"How does the Water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy ask'd me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he task'd me

To tell him in rhyme. Anon at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another,

To second and third

The request of their brother,
And to hear how the Water
Comes down at Lodore,
With its rush and its roar,

As many a time
They had seen it before.
So I told them in rhyme,
For of rhymes I had store;

And 'twas in my vocation
For their recreation
That so I should sing;
Because I was Laureate
To them and the King.

From its sources which well
In the Tarn on the fell;
From its fountains
In the mountains,
Its rills and its gills;
Through moss and through brake,
It runs and it creeps
For awhile, till it sleeps
In its own little Lake.
And thence at departing,
Awakening and starting,
It runs through the reeds,
And away it proceeds,
Through meadow and glade,
In sun and in shade,
And through the wood-shelter,
Among crags in its flurry,
Helter-skelter,

Hurry-scurry.

Here it comes sparkling,
And there it lies darkling;
Now smoking and frothing
Its tumult and wrath in,
Till in this rapid race
On which it is bent,
It reaches the place
Of its steep descent.

The Cataract strong
Then plunges along,
Striking and raging
As if a war waging

Its caverns and rocks among;
Rising and leaping,
Sinking and creeping,
Swelling and sweeping,
Showering and springing,

Flying and flinging,
Writhing and ringing,
Eddying and whisking,
Spouting and frisking,
Turning and twisting,
Around and around
With endless rebound:"
Smiting and fighting,

A sight to delight in ;
Confounding, astounding,

Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting,
Receding and speeding,
And shocking and rocking,
And darting and parting,
And threading and spreading,
And whizzing and hissing,
And dripping and skipping,
And hitting and splitting,

And shining and twining, And rattling and battling,

And shaking and quaking,

And pouring and roaring,
And waving and raving,
And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,

And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,

And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering ;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting,
Delaying and straying and playing and spraying,
Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing,
Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and
beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,
And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,
And curling and whirling and purling and twirling,
And thumping and plumping and bumping and
jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing;

And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions forever and ever are blending, All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar, And this way the Water comes down at Lodore. Keswick, 1820.

VIII.

ROBERT THE RHYMER'S

TRUE AND PARTICULAR ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF.

ROBERT the Rhymer, who lives at the Lakes,
Describes himself thus, to prevent mistakes;
Or rather, perhaps, be it said, to correct them,
There being plenty about for those who collect them.
He is lean of body, and lank of limb;

The man must walk fast who would overtake him.
His eyes are not yet much the worse for the wear,
And time has not thinn'd nor straighten'd his hair,

Notwithstanding that now he is more than halfway
On the road from Grizzle to Gray.

He hath a long nose with a bending ridge;
It might be worthy of notice on Strasburg bridge.
He sings like a lark when at morn he arises,
And when evening comes he nightingalizes,
Warbling house-notes wild from throat and gizzard,
Which reach from A to G, and from G to Izzard.
His voice is as good as when he was young,
And he has teeth enough left to keep-in his tongue.
A man he is by nature merry,

Somewhat Tom-foolish, and comical, very;

Who has gone through the world, not mindful of pelf,

Upon easy terms, thank Heaven, with himself,
Along by-paths and in pleasant ways,

Caring as little for censure as praise;
Having some friends whom he loves dearly,
And no lack of foes, whom he laughs at sincerely;
And never for great, nor for little things,
Has he fretted his guts to fiddle-strings.
He might have made them by such folly
Most musical, most melancholy.

Sic cecinit Robertus, anno ætatis suæ 55.

THE DEVIL'S WALK.

ADVERTISEMENT.

AFTER the Devil's Thoughts had been published by Mr. Coleridge in the collection of his Poetical Works, and the statement with which he accompanied it, it might have been supposed that the joint authorship of that Siamese production had been sufficiently authenticated, and that no supposititious claim to it would again be advanced. The following extract, however, appeared in the John Bull of Feb. 14, 1830:"In the Morning Post of Tuesday, we find the following letter:

"To the Editor of the Morning Post.

"SIR, Permit me to correct a statement which appeared in a recent number of the John Bull, wherein it is made to appear that Dr. Southey is the author of the Poem entitled The Devil's Walk. I have the means of settling this question, since I possess the identical MS. copy of verses, as they were written by my uncle, the late Professor Porson, during an evening party at Dr. Beloe's.

"I am, Sir, your very obedient servant,
"R. C. PORSON.

"Bayswater Terrace, Feb. 6, 1830.'

"We are quite sure that Mr. Porson, the writer of the above letter, is convinced of the truth of the statement it contains; but although The Devil's Walk is perhaps not a work of which either Mr. Southey or Mr. Porson need be very proud, we feel it due to ourselves to restate the fact of its being from the pen of Mr. Southey. If we are wrong, Mr. Porson may apply to Mr. Southey; for although Mr. Porson's eminent uncle is dead, the Poet Laureate is alive and merry. "The Lines-Poem they can scarcely be called — were written by Mr. Southey one morning before breakfast, the idea having struck him while he was shaving; they were subsequently shown to Mr. Coleridge, who, we believe, pointed some of the stanzas, and perhaps added one or two.

"We beg to assure Mr. R. C. Porson that we recur to this matter out of no disrespect either to the memory of his uncle,

which is not likely to be affected one way or another, by the circumstance; or to his own veracity, being, as we said, quite