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THOMAS WILLIAM PARSONS.

SAINT PERAY.
ADDRESSED TO H. T. P.

WHEN to any saint I pray,
It shall be to Saint Peray.
He alone, of all the brood,
Ever did me any good:
Many I have tried that are
Humbugs in the calendar.

On the Atlantic faint and sick,
Once I prayed to Saint Dominick:
He was holy, sure, and wise; -
Was't not he that did devise
Auto da Fes and rosaries? -
But for one in my condition
This good saint was no physician.

Next in pleasant Normandie,
I made a prayer to Saint Denis,
In the great cathedral, where

All the ancient kings repose;
But, how I was swindled there
At the "Golden Fleece,"
knows!

Worn with travel, tired and lame,
To Assisi's walls I came:

Sad and full of homesick fancies,
I addressed me to Saint Francis:
But the beggar never did
Any thing as he was bid,
Never gave me aught—but fleas -
Plenty had I at Assise.

But in Provence, near Vaucluse,
Hard by the Rhone, I found a

saint

Gifted with a wondrous juice,

-

Potent for the worst complaint.
'Twas at Avignon that first-
In the witching time of thirst -
To my brain the knowledge came
Of this blessed Catholic's name;
Forty miles of dust that day
Made me welcome St. Peray.
Though till then I had not heard
Aught about him, ere a third
Of a litre passed my lips,
All saints else were in eclipse.
he For his gentle spirit glided

In my wanderings, vague and vari

ous,

Reaching Naples — as I lay
Watching Vesuvius from the bay,
I besought Saint Januarius.
But I was a fool to try him;
Naught I said could liquefy him;
And I swear he did me wrong,
Keeping me shut up so long
In that pest-house, with obscene
Jews and Greeks and things un-
clean-

What need had I of quarantine?

In Sicily at least a score —
In Spain about as many more
And in Rome almost as many
As the loves of Don Giovanni,
Did I pray to -sans reply;
Devil take the tribe! - said I,

With such magic into mine,
That methought such bliss as I did,
Poet never drew from wine.

Rest he gave me, and refection,
Chastened hopes, calm retrospec-
tion,

Softened images of sorrow,
Bright forebodings for the morrow,
Charity for what is past,
Faith in something good at last.

Now, why should any almanac
The name of this good creature lack?
Or wherefore should the breviary
Omit a saint so sage and merry?
The pope himself should grant a day
Especially to Saint Peray.

But since no day hath been appointed
On purpose, by the Lord's anointed,
Let us not wait - we'll do him right;
Send round your bottles, Hal, and
set your night.

WHITTLING.

JOHN PIERPONT.

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Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers staunch,

And waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.

Thus,

by his genius and his jackknife driven

Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;

Make any gimcrack, musical or mute,

A plough, a couch, an organ, or a flute;

Make you a locomotive or a clock, Cut a canal, or build a floatingdock,

Or lead forth beauty from a marble block;

Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,

From a child's rattle to a seventyfour:

Make it, said I?-Ay, when he undertakes it,

He'll make the thing and the machine that makes it.

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How hints, like spawn, scarce quick in embryo lie,

How new-born nonsense first is taught to cry;

Maggots half-formed in rhyme exactly meet,

And learn to crawl upon poetic feet. Here one poor word an hundred clenches makes,

And ductile Dullness new meanders takes;

There motley images her fancy strike, Figures ill-paired, and similes unlike. She sees a mob of metaphors advance,

Pleased with the madness of the mazy dance:

How Tragedy and Comedy embrace; How Farce and Epic get a jumbled

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Or gives to Zembla fruits, to Barca flowers;

Glittering with ice here hoary hills

are seen,

There painted valleys of eternal

green,

In cold December fragrant chaplets blow,

And heavy harvests nod beneath the

snow.

All these, and more, the cloudcompelling queen

Beholds through fogs, that magnify the scene:

She, tinselled o'er in robes of varying lues,

With self-applause her wild creation views;

Sees momentary monsters rise and fall,

And with her own fool's-colors gilds them all.

[From The Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot, The Prologue to the Satires.]

AN AUTHOR'S COMPLAINT.

SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigued, I said,

Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead,

The Dog-star rages: nay, 'tis past a doubt,

All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out: Fire in each eye, and papers in each

hand,

They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

What walls can guard me, or what

shades can hide?

They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide,

By land, by water, they renew the charge,

They stop the chariot, and they board the barge;

No place is sacred, not the church is free,

Even Sunday shines no Sabbath-day

to me:

Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,

Happy to catch me, just at dinnertime.

Is there a parson much be-mused in beer,

A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer, A clerk, foredoomed his father's soul to cross,

Who pens a stanza, when he should engross?

Is there, who, locked from ink and

paper, scrawls

And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, "Keep your
piece nine years.'

Nine years! cries he, who high in
Drury Lane,

Lulled by soft zephyrs through the
broken pane,

Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before Term ends,

Obliged by hunger, and request of friends:

"The piece, you think, is incorrect? Why, take it,

I'm all submission, what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound,

With desperate charcoal round his My friendship, and a prologue, and

darkened walls?

All fly to Twick'nam, and in humble

strain

Apply to me, to keep them mad or

vain.

Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,

Imputes to me and to my works the

cause:

Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife
elope,

And curses wit, and poetry, and
Pope.

ten pound.

Pitholeon sends to me: "You know

his Grace,

I want a patron; ask him for a place."

Pitholeon libelled me- "but here's a letter

Informs you, sir, 'twas when he knew no better.

Dare you refuse him? Curl invites to dine,

He'll write a journal, or he'll turn divine."

Friend to my life! (which did Bless me! a packet. not you prolong,

stranger sues,

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The world had wanted many an idle | A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse." If I dislike it, Furies, death, and rage!"

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I sit with sad civility, I read

If I approve, "Commend it to the

stage.

There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends,

The players and I are, luckily, no friends.

Fired that the house reject him,
"Sdeath, I'll print it,

And shame the fools-Your inter-
est, sir, with Lintot."
Lintot, dull rogue! will think your
price too much:

"Not, sir, if you revise it, and re-
touch."

All my demurs but double his attacks;

With honest anguish and an aching | At last he whispers, "Do; and we go

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You think this cruel ? take it for a rule,

No creature smarts so little as a fool. Let peals of laughter, Codrus! round thee break,

Thou unconcerned canst hear the mighty crack:

Pit, box, and gallery in convulsions hurled,

Thou standest unshook amid a bursting world.

Who shames a scribbler? break one cobweb through,

He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew:

Destroy his fib, or sophistry, in vain, The creature's at his dirty work again,

Throned in the centre of his thin designs,

Proud of a vast extent of flimsy lines!

Of all mad creatures, if the learned

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AND

[From the Rape of the Lock.]
BELINDA.

now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed,

Each silver vase in mystic order laid. First, robed in white the nymph intent adores,

With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers.

A

heavenly image in the glass ap

pears,

To that she bends, to that her eyes

she rears;

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