The man whose hardy spirit shall engage
To lash the vices of a guilty age,
At his first setting forward ought to know,
That every rogue he meets must be his foe;
That the rude breath of satire will provoke
Many who feel, and more who fear the stroke.
Churchill.

Unless a love of virtue light the flame,
Satire is, more than those he brands, to blame!
He hides behind a magisterial air
His own offences, and strips others bare;
Affects indeed a most humane concern,
That man, if gently tutor'd, will not learn,
That mulish folly, not to be reclaim'd
By softer methods, must be made asham'd;
But (I might instance in St. Patrick's dean)
Too often rails to gratify his spleen.

Most sat'rists are indeed a public scourge;
Their mildest physic is a farrier's purge;
Their acrid temper turns, as soon as stirr'd,
The milk of their good purpose all to curd.
Their zeal begotten, as their works rehearse,
By lean despair upon an empty purse,
The wild assassins start into the street,
Prepar'd to poniard whomsoe'er they meet.
No skill in swordmanship, however just,
Can be secure against a madman's thrust;
And even virtue, so unfairly match'd,
Although immortal, may be prick'd or scratch'd.
Cowper.
Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

Byron's English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Say, shall I wound with satire's rankling spear, The pure, warm hearts that bid me welcome here?

SCHOOL.

O. W. Holmes.

Whipping, that's virtue's governess,
Tutoress of arts and sciences;
That mends the gross mistakes of nature,
And puts new life into dull matter;

That lays foundation for renown,

And all the honours of the gown.

Butler's Hudibras.

Whoe'er excels in what we prize,
Appears a hero in our eyes:

Each girl, when pleas'd with what is taught,
Will have the teacher in her thought.
A blockhead with melodious voice,

In boarding-schools may have his choice;
And oft the dancing-master's art

Climbs from the toe to touch the heart.
In learning let a nymph delight,
The pedant gets a mistress by 't.

Swift's Cadenus and Vanessa
In every village mark'd with little spire,
Embower'd in trees, and hardly known to fame,
There dwells in lowly shed, and mean attire,
A matron old, whom we school-mistress name;
Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame,
They grieven sore, in piteous durance pent,
Aw'd by the power of this relentless dame;
And, oft-times, on vagaries idly bent,
For unkempt hair, or task unconn'd, are sorely
shent.
Shenstone's School-Mistress.
The noises intermix'd, which thence resound,
Do learning's little tenement betray;
Where sits the dame, disguis'd in looks profound,
And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel
around.
Shenstone's School-Mistress.

Yet nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
Ev'n now sagacious foresight points to show
A little bench of heedless bishops here,
And there a chancellor in embryo,

Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die!
Though now he crawl along the ground so low,
Nor weeting how the muse should soar so high,
Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may
fly.
Shenstone's School-Mistress.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way
With blossom'd furze, unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule,
The village master taught his little school:
A man severe he was, and stern to view,
I knew him well, and every truant knew;
Well had the boding tremblers learn'd to trace
The day's disasters in his morning's face;
Full well they laugh'd with counterfeited glee
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was in fault,
The village all declar'd how much he knew.
'T was certain he could write and cypher tou
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And even the story ran, that he could gauge.
Goldsmith's Deserted Village

Oh ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain.

Byron.

See, toward yon dome where village science dwells,

Where the church-clock its warning summons swells,

What tiny feet the well-known path explore,
And gaily gather from each rustic door.
Light-hearted group! — who carol wild and high,
The daisy cull, or chase the butterfly,

Or by some traveller's wheels arous'd from play,

The stiff salute, with deep demureness, pay,
Bare the curl'd brow, and stretch the sunburnt
hand,

The home-taught homage of an artless land.
The stranger marks, amid their joyous line,
The little baskets, whence they hope to dine,
And larger books, as if their dexterous art
Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part!.
Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame
To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame.
Mrs. Sigourney's Poems.

In a green lane that from the village street
Diverges, stands the schoolhouse; long and low
The frame, and blacken'd with the hues of time.
Street's Poems.

The room displays Long rows of desk and bench; the former stain'd And streak'd with blots and trickles of dried ink, Lumber'd with maps and slates, and well-thumb'd books,

And carv'd with rude initials.

Street's Poems. Yet is the schoolhouse rude, As is the chrysalis to the butterfly, To the rich flower the seed. The dusky walls Hold the fair germ of knowledge, and the tree Glorious in beauty, golden with its fruits, To this low schoolhouse traces back its life.

SCOLD.

Street's Poems.

Oh! rid me of this torture quickly there,
My madam with the everlasting voice:
'The bells in time of pestilence ne'er made
Like noise, as were in that perpetual motion!
All my house

But now steam'd like a bath with her thick breath;
A lawyer could not have been heard, nor scarce
Another woman such a hail of words
Sho nas let fa..

Jonson's Silent Woman.

I

Think not there is no smile

can bestow upon thee. There is a smile,
A smile of nature too, which I can spare,
And yet perhaps, thou wilt not thank me for it
Joanna Baillie's De Montford
Fame is the thirst of youth, but I am not
So young as to regard men's frown or smile,
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot;

I stood and stand alone, remember'd or forgot
Byron's Childe Herald
That brow in furrow'd lines had fix'd at last,
That spake of passions, but of passions past;
The pride, but not the fire, of early days,
Coldness of mien, and carelessness of praise:
A high demeanour, and a glance, that took
Their thoughts from others by a single look;
And that sarcastic levity of tongue,
The stinging of a heart the world hath stung,
That darts in seeming playfulness around,
And makes those feel that will not own the