When-whether from a fly's malicious comment
Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank;
Or whether
Only in some enthusiastic moment-
However, one brown monster, in a frisk,
Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk,
Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble;
And after a pas seul-or, if you will, a
Horn-pipe before the Basket-maker's villa,
Leapt o'er the tiny pale-
Backed his beefstakes against the wooden gable,
And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail
Right o'er the page,
Wherein the sage
Just then was spelling some romantic fable.
The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce,
Could not peruse-who could? two tales at once;
And being huffed
At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft;
Banged-to the door,
But most unluckily enclosed a morsel
Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel:
The monster gave a roar,
And bolting off with speed increased by pain,
The little house became a coach once more,
And, like Macheath, 'took to the road' again!
Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree,
The ancient woman stooping with her crupper
Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be,
Was getting up some household herbs for supper;
Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale,
And quaintly wondering if magic shifts
Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail,
To turn it to a coach; what pretty gifts
Might come of cabbages, and curly kale;
Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail,
Nor turned, till home had turned a corner, quite
Gone out of sight!
At last, conceive her, rising from the ground,
Weary of sitting on her russet clothing
And looking round
Where rest was to be found,
There was no house-no villa there-no nothing! No house!
The change was quite amazing;
It made her senses stagger for a minute,
The riddle's explication seemed to harden;
But soon her superannuated nous
Explained the horrid mystery; and raising
Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it,
On which she meant to sup-
'Well! this is Fairy Work! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketched me up, And set me down in some one else's garden!'
Now the loud Crye is up, and harke!
The barkye Trees give back the Bark;
The House Wife heares the merrie rout,
And runnes-and lets the beere run out,
Leaving her Babes to weepe-for why?
She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye,
And see the wild Stag how he stretches
The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches,
Running like one of Human kind
Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind-
As if he had not payde his Bill
For Ven'son, or was owing still
For his two Hornes, and soe did get
Over his Head and Ears in Debt;
Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye
With his long Legges the while he maye:
But he is chased, like silver Dish,
As well as anye Hart may wish,
Except that one whose Heart doth beat
So faste it hasteneth his Feet;
And runninge soe he holdeth Death
Four Feet from him-till his Breath
Faileth, and slacking Pace at last,
From runninge slow he standeth faste,
With hornie Bayonettes at baye
To baying Dogges around, and they
Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore,
And goreth them that seek his Gore-
Whatever Dogge his Horne doth rive
Is dead-as sure as he's alive!
Soe that courageous Hart doth fight
With Fate, and calleth up his might,
And standeth stout that he may fall
Bravelye, and be avenged of all,
Nor like a Craven yeeld his Breath
Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death!
DECEMBER AND MAY.
SAID Nestor, to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day, 'Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes
You ought to be more fortified.' 'Ah, brute, be quiet, do, I know I'm not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied, as you!
'Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard, You'd die for me you swore, and I-I took you at your word.
I was a tradesman's widow then-a pretty change I've made;
To live and die the wife of one, a widower by trade!'
'Come, come, my dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober truth,
You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth; Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me you huff.'
'Why, yes,' she said, 'and so I do-but you're not old enough!'
'Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a quiet hive;
I'll be the best of men-I mean, I'll be the best alive! Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core.' 'I thank ye, sir, for telling me-for now I'll grieve the more!'
A WINTER NOSEGAY.
OH, withered winter blossoms,
Dowager-flowers-the December vanity,
In antiquated visages and bosoms,
What are ye planned for,
Unless to stand for
Emblems and peevish morals of humanity?
There is my Quaker Aunt,
A Paper-Flower-with a formal border
No breeze could e'er disorder, Pouting at that old beau-the Winter Cherry, A puckered berry;
And Box, like a tough-lived annuitant
From quarter-day even to quarter-day;
And poor old Honesty, as thin as want,
Well named-God-wot;
Under the baptism of the water-pot,
The very apparition of a plant;
And why,
Dost hold thy head so high,
Old Winter-Daisy;
Because thy virtue never was infirm,
Howe'er thy stalk be crazy ?
That never wanton fly, or blighting worm,
Made holes in thy most perfect indentation?
'Tis likely that sour leaf,
Forcepped or winged, was never a temptation;
Well, still uphold thy wintry-reputation;
Still shalt thou frown upon all lovers' trial:
And when, like Grecian maids, young maids of ours
Converse with flowers,
Then thou shalt be the token of denial.
Away! dull weeds,
Born without beneficial use or needs!
Fit only to deck out cold winding sheets;
And then not for the milkmaid's funeral-bloom,
Or fair Fidele's tomb-
To tantalize-vile cheats!
Some prodigal bee, with hope of after-sweets,
Frigid and rigid,
As if ye never knew
One drop of dew,
Or the warm sun resplendent;
Indifferent of culture and of care,
Giving no sweets back to the fostering air,
Churlishly independent-
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