In spite of all the fanatic compiles,
I cannot think the day a bit diviner,
Because no children, with forestalling smiles,
Throng, happy, to the gates of Eden Minor-
It is not plain, to my poor faith, at least,
That what we christen "Natural" on Monday,
The wondrous history of Bird and Beast,
Can be unnatural because it's Sunday
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Whereon is sinful fantasy to work?

The Dove, the winged Columbus of man's haven? The tender Love-Bird-or the filial Stork ?

The punctual Crane - the providential Raven? The Pelican whose bosom feeds her young? Nay, must we cut from Saturday till Monday That feathered marvel with a human tongue, Because she does not preach upon a Sunday – But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ?

The busy Beaver

that sagacious beast!

The Sheep that owned an Oriental Shepherd That Desert-ship, the Camel of the East,

The horned Rhinoceros- the spotted Leopard

The Creatures of the Great Creator's hand

Are surely sights for better days than Monday The Elephant, although he wears no band,

Has he no sermon in his trunk for Sunday?
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

What harm if men who burn the midnight-oil,
Weary of frame, and worn and wan of feature,
Seek once a week their spirits to assoil,

And snatch a glimpse of " Animated Nature"? Better it were if, in his best of suits,

The artisan, who goes to work on Monday, Should spend a leisure-hour amongst the brutes, Than make a beast of his own self on Sunday But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Why, zounds! what raised so Protestant a fuss

(Omit the zounds! for which I make apology) But that the Papists, like some Fellows, thus Had somehow mixed up Dens with their Theology? Is Brahma's Bull- —a Hindoo god at home

A Papal Bull to be tied up till Monday Or Leo, like his namesake, Pope of Rome,

That there is such a dread of them on Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

Spirit of Kant! have we not had enough

To make Religion sad, and sour, and snubbish,
But Saints Zoological must cant their stuff,
As vessels cant their ballast — rattling rubbish!
Once let the sect, triumphant to their text,
Shut Nero up from Saturday till Monday,
And sure as fate they will deny us next
To see the Dandelions on a Sunday-
But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy?

A BLACK JOB.

"No doubt the pleasure is as great

Of being cheated as to cheat."-HUDIBRAS.

THE history of human-kind to trace
Since Eve the first of dupes -

our doom unriddled,

A certain portion of the human race
Has certainly a taste for being diddled.

Witness the famous Mississippi dreams!

A rage that time seems only to redoubleThe Banks, Joint-Stocks, and all the flimsy schemes, For rolling in Pactolian streams,

That cost our modern rogues so little trouble.

No matter what,

to pasture cows on stubble,

To twist sea-sand into a solid rope,

To make French bricks and fancy bread of rubble, Or light with gas the whole celestial cope

Only propose to blow a bubble,

And, Lord! what hundreds will suscribe for soap!

Soap! it reminds me of a little tale,

Though not a pig's, the hawbuck's glory,
When rustic games and merriment prevail—
But here's my story:

Once on a time -no matter when-
A knot of very charitable men
Set up a Philanthropical Society,
Professing on a certain plan
To benefit the race of man,
And in particular that dark variety,
Which some suppose inferior- as in vermin,
The sable is to ermine,

As smut to flour, as coal to alabaster,

As crows to swans, or soot to driven snow,
As blacking, or as ink to "milk below,"
Or yet, a better simile to show,
As ragman's dolls to images in plaster!

However, as is usual in our city,
They had a sort of managing Committee,

A board of grave, responsible Directors -
A Secretary, good at pen and ink —
A Treasurer, of course, to keep the chink,

And quite an army of Collectors! Not merely male, but female duns,

Young, old, and middle-aged

of all degrees

With many of those persevering ones,

Who mite by mite would beg a cheese! And what might be their aim?

To rescue Afric's sable sons from fetters To save their bodies from the burning shame Of branding with hot letters

Their shoulders from the cowhide's bloody strokes,
Their necks from iron yokes?

To end or mitigate the ills of slavery,
The Planter's avarice, the Driver's knavery?
To school the heathen negroes and enlighten 'em,
To polish up and brighten 'em,

And make them worthy of eternal bliss ?
Why, no- the simple end and aim was this
Reading a well-known proverb much amiss
To wash and whiten 'em!

They looked so ugly in their sable hides;
So dark, so dingy, like a grubby lot
Of sooty sweeps, or colliers, and besides,
However the poor elves,

Might wash themselves,

Nobody knew if they were clean or not

On Nature's fairness they were quite a blot!

Not to forget more serious complaints

That even while they joined in pious hymn,
So black they were and grim,

In face and limb,

They looked like Devils, though they sang like Saints The thing was undeniable!

They wanted washing! not that slight ablution

To which the skin of the white man is liable
Merely removing transient pollution -

But good, hard, honest, energetic rubbing
And scrubbing,

Sousing each sooty frame from heels to head
With stiff, strong saponaceous lather,
And pails of water- hottish rather,
But not so boiling as to turn 'em red!

So spoke the philanthropic man

Who laid, and hatched, and nursed the plan -
And, O! to view its glorious consummation!
The brooms and mops,

The tubs and slops,

The baths and brushes in full operation!

To see each Crow, or Jim, or John,

Go in a raven and come out a swan!

While fair as Cavendishes, Vanes, and Russels,

Black Venus rises from the soapy surge,

And all the little Niggerlings emerge

As lily-white as mussels.

Sweet was the vision-but, alas!

However in prospectus bright and sunny, To bring such visionary scenes to pass One thing was requisite, and that was money! Money, that pays the laundress and her bills, For socks, and collars, shirts, and frills, Cravats, and kerchiefs money, without which The Negroes must remain as dark as pitch;

A thing to make all Christians sad and shivery, To think of millions of immortal souls Dwelling in bodies black as coals,

And living-so to speak-in Satan's livery!