One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine,
His honor, proudly free, severely merry,
Conceived it would be vastly fine

To crack a joke upon his secretary.

"Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade
Did your good father gain a livelihood?"
"He was a Saddler, sir," Modestus said,

"And in his time was reckoned good."
"A Saddler, eh! and taught you Greek,
Instead of teaching you to sew:
Pray, why did not your father make
A Saddler, sir, of you ?"

Each parasite, as in duty bound,
The joke applauded, and the laugh went round.
At length Modestus, bowing low,

Said (craving pardon, if too free he made)
"Sir, by your leave, I fain would know
Your father's trade."

"My father's trade! by Heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low

He was a gentleman, I'd have you know."

"Excuse the liberty I take,”

Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?"

CXXXV.

ODE TO A PIG WHILE HIS NOSE WAS BEING BORED.

Southey.

Hark! hark! that pig-that pig! the hideous note,
More loud, more dissonant, each moment grows-
Would one not think the knife was in his throat?
And yet they're only boring through his nose.

You foolish beast, so rudely to withstand
Your master's will, to feel such idle fears!
Why pig, there's not a lady in the land

Who has not also bored and ring'd her ears.
Pig! 'tis your master's pleasure-then be still,

And hold your nose to let the iron through! Dare you resist your lawful Sovereign's will?

Rebellious Swine! you know not what you do!

To man o'er beast the power was given;

Pig, hear the truth and never murmur more! Would you rebel against the will of heaven ?

You impious beast, be still, and let them bore!

The social pig resigns his natural rights

When first with man he covenants to live; He barters them for safer stye delights,

For grains and wash, which man alone can give.

Sure is provision on the social plan,

Secure the comforts that to each belong:
Oh happy Swine! the impartial sway of man
Alike protects the weak Pig and the strong.
And you resist! you struggle now because

Your master has thought fit to bore your nose!
You grunt in flat rebellion to the laws
Society finds needful to impose!

Go to the forest, Piggy, and deplore
The miserable lot of savage Swine!
See how the young Pig's fly from the great Boar,
And see how coarse and scantily they dine!
Behold their hourly danger, when who will

May hunt or snare or seize them for his food!
Oh, happy Pig! whom none presumes to kill,

Till your protecting master thinks it good! And when at last, the closing hour of life Arrives, (for pigs must die as well as man,)

When in your throat you feel the long sharp knife,
And the blood trickles to the pudding-pan;

And when, at last, the death wound yawning wide,
Fainter and fainter grows the expiring cry,
Is there no grateful joy, no loyal pride,

To think that for your master's good you die?

CXXXVI.

HOTSPUR'S DESCRIPTION OF A FOP.-Shakspeare.
I do remember, when the fight was done,
When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,
Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,
Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed;
Fresh as a bridegroom, and his chin, new reaped,
Shewed like a stubble land at harvest home.
He was perfumed like a milliner;

And 'twixt his finger and his thumb he held
A pouncet box, which ever and anon
He gave his nose, and took't away again;
Who, therewith angry, when it next came there,
Took it in snuff.--And still he smiled, and talked;
And as the soldiers' bare dead bodies by,
He called them untaught knaves, unmannerly,
To bring a slovenly, unhandsome corse
Betwixt the wind and his nobility.
With many holiday and lady terms

He questioned me: amongst the rest demanded
My prisoners, in your Majesty's behalf.

I then, all smarting with my wounds, being gall'd
To be so pestered with a popinjay,
Out of my grief, and my impatience,
Answered, negligently, I know not what :

He should, or should not; for he made me mad,
To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,
And talk so like a waiting gentlewoman,

Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)

And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earth
Was spermaceti, for an inward bruise;
And that it was great pity, so it was,
This villainous salt-petre should be digged
Out of the bowels of the harmless earth,
Which many a good tall fellow had destroyed
So cowardly and but for these vile guns,
He would himself have been a soldier.

CXXXVII.

THE SAILOR BOY'S DREAM.

In slumbers of midnight the sailor boy lay;

His hammock swung loose at the sport of the wind; But watch-worn and weary, his cares flew away,

And visions of happiness danced o'er his mind.

He dreamt of his home, of his dear native bowers,
And pleasure that waited on life's merry morn;
While Memory stood sideways, half covered with flowers,
And restored every rose, but secreted its thorn.
Then Fancy her magical pinions spread wide,

And bade the young dreamer in ecstacy rise-
Now far, far behind him the green waters glide,

And the cot of his forefathers blesses his eyes. The jessamine clambers in flower o'er the thatch,

And the swallow sings sweet from her nest in the wall; All trembling with transport, he raises the latch,

And the voices of loved ones reply to his call.

A father bends o'er him with looks of delight,

His cheek is impearled with a mother's warm tear, And the lips of the boy in a love kiss unite

With the lips of the maid whom his bosom holds dear. The heart of the sleeper beats high in his breast,

Joy quickens his pulse-all hardships seem o'er, And a murmur of happiness steals through his rest"O God thou hast blessed me—I ask for no more."

Ah! what is that flame, which now bursts on his eye? Ah! what is that sound which now larums his ear? 'Tis the lightning's red glare, painting hell on the sky! 'Tis the crash of the thunder, the groan of the sphere! He springs from his hammock-he flies to the deck,

Amazement confronts him with images direWild winds and wild waves drive the vessel a wreckThe masts fly in splinters-the shrouds are on fire! Like mountains the billows tremendously swellIn vain the lost wretch calls on Mary to save; Unseen hands of spirits are ringing his knell,

And the death angel flaps his broad wing o'er the wave! Oh! sailor boy, woe to thy dream of delight!

In darkness dissolves the gay frost work of blissWhere now is the picture that fancy touched bright,

Thy parents' fond pressure, and love's honeyed kiss? Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! never again

Shall home, love, or kindred, thy wishes repay; Unblessed and unhonored, down deep in the main,

Full many a score fathom, thy frame shall decay. No tomb shall e'er plead to remembrance for thee.

Or redeem form or frame from the merciless surge; But the white foam of waves shall thy winding sheet be, And winds, in the midnight of winter, thy dirge.

On beds of green sea-flower thy limbs shall be laid;
Around thy white bones the red coral shall grow;
Of thy fair yellow locks threads of amber be made,
And every part suit to thy mansion below.

Days, months, years and ages, shall circle away,

And still the vast waters above thee shall rollEarth loses thy pattern forever and aye

Oh! sailor boy! sailor boy! peace to thy soul.