"Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier; Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote; My lily be, and I will be thy river; Be thou my life-and I will be thy liver." This, with more tender logic of the kind, He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear, That timidly against his lips inclined; Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere That even now began to steal behind A dewy vapour, which was lingering near, Wherein the duli moon crept all dim and pale, Just like a virgin putting on the veil : Bidding adieu to all her sparks-the stars, That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train, Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant MarsNever to flirt with heavenly eyes again. Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, But turn'd to Julio at the dark eclipse, With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips. He took the hint full speedily, and back'd By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd (Though quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness; That made her think all other kisses lack'd Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness: Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, Insipid things-like sandwiches of veal. He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring The pretty fingers all instead of one; Anon his stealthy arm began to cling About her waist that had been clasp'd by none: Their dear confessions I forbear to sing, Since cold description would but be outrun; For bliss and Irish watches have the power, In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour! ODE TO RAE WILSON, ESQ. A WANDERER, Wilson, from my native land, I guess the features:-in a line to paint And call the devil over his own coals- Who write down judgments with a pen hard-nibb'd Commending sinners, not to ice thick-ribb'd, Of such a character no single trace There wants a certain cast about the eye; A certain lifting of the nose's tip; A certain curling of the nether lip, In scorn of all that is, beneath the sky; In brief it is an aspect deleterious, A face decidedly not serious, A face profane, that would not do at all To make a face at Exeter Hall,-- That Hall where bigots rant, and cant, and pray, And laud each other face to face, Till ev'ry farthing-candle ray Conceives itself a great gas-light of grace. Well!-be the graceless lineaments confest! "Within the limits of becoming mirth ;"- My heart ferments not with the bigot's leaven, What else? no part I take in party fray, With tropes from Billingsgate's slang-whanging tartars I fear no Pope-and let great Ernest play At Fox and Goose with Fox's Martyrs! I own I laugh at over-righteous men, I own I shake my sides at ranters, And treat sham-Abr'am saints with wicked banters, I even own, that there are times—but then It's when I've got my wine-I say d I've no ambition to enact the spy On fellow souls, a Spiritual Pry— canters! 'Tis said that people ought to guard their noses, Who thrust them into matters none of theirs ; And tho' no delicacy discomposes Your Saint, yet I consider faith and pray'rs I do not hash the Gospel in my books, As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks, Mere verbiage,-it is not worth a carrot ! A mere professor, spite of all his cant, is An insect, of what clime I can't determine, But where's the reverence, or where the nous I honestly confess that I would hinder Who looks on erring souls as straying pigs, On such a vital topic sure 'tis odd How much a man can differ from his neighbour: 1 One wishes worship freely giv'n to God, Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Should nail the conscious needle to the north? I do confess that I abhor and shrink From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, It will not own a notion so unholy, As thinking that the rich by easy trips May go to heav'n, whereas the poor and lowly One place there is-beneath the burial sod 1 |