Imatges de pàgina
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The book, like butter, dumps against his head. With s scorn the Canon chafed: "Now mark," said he,

"Ye secret couple, base and cowardly; See if this arm consents against the foe

To launch a book, that softens in the blow."

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He said; and on an old Infortiat seiz'd, 82

In distant ages much by lawyers greas'd,

A huge black-letter mass, whose mighty hoards More mighty look'd, bound in two ponderous boards.

Half sides of old black parchment wooed the

grasp,

And from three nails there hung the remnant of a

clasp.

To heave it on its shelf, among the I's,

Would take three students of the common size.
The Canon, nathless, rais'd it to his head,

And on the pair, now crouching and half dead,
Sent with both hands the wooden thunder down:
Groan the two warriors, clashing in the crown,
And murder'd and undone with oak and nails,
Forth from the platform roll, and seek the guttery
vales.

The Dean, astonish'd at a fall so dire,
Utters a cry as when the punch'd expire.
He curses in his heart all devilish broils,
And making awful room, six steps recoils.
Not long for now all eyes encountering his,
To see how Deans endure calamities,

Like a great chief he makes no further stand,
But drawing from his cloak his good right hand,
And stretching meek the sacred fingers twain,
Goes blessing all around him, might and main.
He knows full well, not only that the foe
Once smitten thus, can neither stand nor go,
But that the public sense of their defeat

Must leave him lord, in church as well as street.
The crowd already on his side he sees;

The cry is fierce, "Profane ones, on your knees: "
The Chanter, who beheld the stroke from far,
In vain seeks courage for a sacred war:
His heart abandons him: he yields, he flies;
His soldiers follow with bewilder'd eyes:
All fly, all fear, but none escape the pain;
The conq'ring fingers follow and detain.
Everard alone, upon a book employ'd,
Had hoped the sacred insult to avoid;
But the wise chief, keeping a side-long eye,
And feigning to the right to pass him by,
Suddenly turn'd, and facing him in van,
Beyond redemption bless'd th' unhappy man.
The man, confounded with the mortal stroke,
From his long vision of rebellion woke,
Fell on his knees in penitential wise,
And gave decorum what he owed the skies.

Home trod the Dean victorious, and ordain'd
The resurrection of the desk regain'd:
While the vain Chapter, with its fallen crest,
Slunk to its several musings, lost and bless❜d.

EPITAPH ON AN ENGLISHMAN.

FROM DESTOUCHES.

HERE lies Sir John Plumpudding, of the Grange, Who hung himself one morning, for a change..

19

ABEL AND

MABEL; OR, WISE
WISER.

AND

FROM THE FRENCH OF TABOUROT.

ABEL fain would marry Mabel;
Well, it's very wise of Abel.
But Mabel won't at all have Abel;
Well, it's wiser still of Mabel.

LOVE AND REASON.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PHILOSOPHER AND HIS

MISTRESS.

FROM THE CHEVALIER DE BOUFFLERS.

Phil. Think of reason,

Love's a poison

Tender hearts should fear to touch.

Mist. From this poison

There's no reason,

I conceive, to fear so much.

Phil. Dreadful poison!

Beauteous reason!

Mist. Horrid reason!
Charming poison!

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IF war were an evil not to be done away, it would be right to construe its necessity as handsomely as possible; and, among others, the argument implied in this jeu d'esprit would not be one of the least satisfactory. Had Uncle Toby married the Widow Wadman, and left us a son, the young gentleman might have sung the song, going to the wars, to the dance of the band of music and his own feather.

LET us make love, let us make war,

This is your motto, boys, these are your courses; War may appear to cost people too dear,

But love reimburses, but love reimburses.

The foe and the fair, let 'em see what we are,
For the good of the nation, the good of the nation;
What possible debtor can pay his debts better,
Than De-population with Re-population?

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THE CURATE AND HIS BISHOP.

FROM THE FRENCH. WRITTEN DURING THE OLD REGIME.83

ON business call'd from his abode,
A curate jogg'd along the road.
In patient leanness jogg'd his mare;
The curate, jogging, breath'd a prayer;
And jogging as she fac'd the meads,
His maid, behind him, told her beads.

They hear a carriage, it o'ertakes 'em;
With grinding noise and dust it rakes 'em ;
'Tis he himself! they know his port;
My Lord the Bishop, bound to court.
Beside him to help meditation,
The lady sits, his young relation.

The carriage stops! the curate doffs
His hat, and bows; the lady coughs:
The prelate bends his lordly eyes,
And How now, sir!" in wrath he cries;
"What! choose the very King's highway,
And ride with girls in open day!

Good heav'ns! what next will curates do?
My fancy shudders at the view.-
Girl, cover up your horrid stocking:
Was ever seen a group so shocking!"

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'My Lord," replies the blushing man,
"Pardon me, pray, and pardon Anne;
Oh deem it, good my lord, no sin :
I had no coach to put her in."

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