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But only on a formal visit dwells

To his tuned spirit the wild heather-bells Where wasps instead of bees have formed the Ring Sabbath knells ; comb.

The jubilate of the soaring lark Shun pride, O Rae ! - whatever sort beside

Is chant of clerk ; You take in lieu, shun spiritual pride!

For choir, the thrush and the gregarious linnet; A pride there is of rank, - a pride of birth, The sod 's a cushion for his pious want; A pride of learning, and a pride of purse, And, consecrated by the heaven within it, A London pride, in short, there be on earth The sky-blue pool, a font. A host of prides, some better and some worse ; Each cloud-capped mountain is a holy altar ; But of all prides, since Lucifer's attaint,

An organ breathes in every grove ; The proudest swell's a self-elected Saint.

And the full heart's a Psalter,

Rich in deep hymns of gratitude and love ! To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry-yard.

Once on a time a certain English lass Behold him in conceited circles sail,

Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline, Strutting and dancing, and now planted stiff,

Cough, hectic flushes, every evil sign, In all his pomp of pageantry, as if

That, as their wont is at such desperate pass, He felt "the eyes of Europe" on his tail !

The doctors gave her over — to an ass.
As for the humble breed retained by man,
He scorns the whole domestic clan,

Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,
He bows, he bridles,

Each morn the patient quaffed a frothy bowl He wheels, he sidles,

Of asinine new milk, As last, with stately dodgings in a corner, Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal, He pens a simple russet hen, to scorn her Which got proportionably spare and skinny; Full in the blaze of his resplendent fan ! Meanwhile the neighbors cried, “ Poor Mary

Ann ! “Look here," he cries, (to give him words,)

She can't get over it ! she never can ! ” Thou feathered clay, thou scum of birds !”.

When, lo ! to prove each prophet was a ninny, Flirting the rustling plumage in her eyes,

The one that died was the poor wet-nurse Jenny. “ Look here, thou vile predestined sinner, Doomed to be roasted for a dinner,

To aggravate the case, Behold these lovely variegated dyes !

There were but two grown donkeys in the place; These are the rainbow colors of the skies, And, most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter, That heaven has shed upon me con amore, The other long-eared creature was a male, A Bird of Paradise ? - a pretty story !

Who never in his life had given a pail I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick!

Of milk, or even chalk-and-water. Look at my crown of glory!

No matter : at the usual hour of eight Thou dingy, dirty, dabbled, draggled jill !” Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate, And off goes Partlett, wriggling from a kick, With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back :With bleeding scalp laid open by his bill ! “Your sarvant, miss,

werry springlike That little simile exactly paints

day,

Bad time for hasses, though! good lack! god How sinners are despised by saints.

lack ! By saints !- the Hypocrites that ope heaven's Jenny be dead, miss, — but I'ze brought ye door

Jack,
Obsequious to the sinful man of riches;
But put the wicked, naked, barelegged poor

He does n't give no milk, – but he can brar." In parish stocks, instead of breeches.

So runs the story,

And, in vain self-glory, Thrice blessed, rather, is the man with whom

Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blind. The gracious prodigality of nature,

ness ; The balm, the bliss, the beauty, and the bloom, But what the better are their pious saws The bounteous providence in every feature,

To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Recall the gooil Creator to his creature,

Without the milk of human kindness ? Making all earth a fane, all heaven its dome !

THOMAS HOOD

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HUMOROUS POEMS.

II.

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III.

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. And thence I date my contempt for Asses,

And my deep respect for the Devil's Tail ! WHERE, 0, where are the visions of morning,

Fresh as the dews of our prime ?
Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, I shall never forget the exquisite feeling
Down the back entry of time.

Of elevation, sans thought, sans care,

When I twisted my tail round the wood's bough. Where, 0, where are life's lilies and roses,

ceiling, Nursed in the golden dawn's smile ?

And swung, meditatively, in the air. — Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, There's an advantage !- Fairer shapes can On the old banks of the Nile.

Aspire, yearn upward, tremble and glow,

But, by means of their posteriority, apes can Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore ?

Look down on aspirants that walk below! Look in the columns of old Advertisers, Married and dead by the score.

There was a life for a calm philosopher,

Self-supplied with jacket and trousers and Where the

gray
colts and the ten-year-old fillies,

socks, Saturday's triumph and joy ?

Nothing to learn, no hopes to get cross over, Gone like our friend módas waús Achilles,

A head that resisted the hardest knocks, Homer's ferocious old boy.

Liquor and meat in serene fruition,

A random income from taxes free, Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion,

No cares at all, and but one ambition, Hopes like young eagles at play,

To swing by the Tail to the bough of a tree ! Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, How ye have faded away!

Whence I firmly believe, to the consternation Yet, though the ebbing of Time's mighty river

Of puppies who think monkeyosophy sin, Leave our young blossoms to die,

In gradual human degeneration Let him roll smooth in his current forever, And a general apely origin. Till the last pebble is dry.

Why, the simple truth 's in a nutshell or thimble,

Though it rouses the monkey in ignorant elves ; And the Devil's Tail is a delicate symbol

Of apehood predominant still in ourselves. METEMPSYCHOSIS.

V. ROSALIND. Look here what I found on a palm-tree: I was

Pure class government, family glory, never so be-rhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish Were the delights of that happy lot; rat, which I can hardly remember. - AS YOU LIKE IT.

My politics were serenely Tory,
I.

And I claimed old descent from Heaven knows I DISTINCTLY remember (and who dares doubt me?) what :

Having been (now, I care not who believes !) Whence I boast extraction loftier, nobler, An ape with a forest around about me,

Than the beggarly Poets one often meets, Prodigious trees and enormous leaves, A boast I am happy to share with the cobbler Great bulks of Alowers, gigantic grasses,

Who whisked his Tail out, – to whip John Boughs that bent not to any gale ;

Keats.

IV.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

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There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet, sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu-
tor, law-professor at the U-

Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in;
Here doomed to starve on water gru-
el, never shall I see the U-

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE
KNIFE-GRINDER.

niversity of Gottingen,
niversity of Gottingen.

GEORGE CANNING.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

NEEDY knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road; your wheel is out of order.
Bleak blows the blast ;- your hat has got a hole
in 't;

So have your breeches '

Weary knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
road, what hard work 't is crying all day Knives
and
Scissors to grind O!'

Tell me, knife-grinder, how came you to grind

knives?

Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

Was it the squire for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer made you lose your little

All in a lawsuit ?

(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom
Paine ?)

Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,
Ready to fall as soon as you have told your
Pitiful story.

KNIFE-GRINDER.

Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir;
Only, last night, a-drinking at the Chequers,
This old hat and breeches, as you see, were
poor
Torn in a scuffle.

Constables came up for to take me into
Custody; they took me before the justice;
Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish-
stocks for a vagrant.

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

niversity of Gottingen, I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned
niversity of Gottingen.
first,

Wretch

whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeance, Sordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded, Spiritless outcast!

I should be glad to drink your honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle
With politics, sir.

Kicks the knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of republican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]

GEORGE CANNING.

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