Nu, Satan-if I ask thy aid,
To give my arms the blooming maid.
I will not, though the nation all,
Proclaim thee (like a gracless imp)
A vile old good-for-nothing pimp,
But say, ""Tis thy vocation, Hal."
Since truth must out-I seldom knew
What 't was high pleasure to pursue,
Till thou hadst won my heart-
So social were we both together,
And beat the hoof in every weather,
I never wished to part.
Yet when a child-good Lord! I thought That thou a pair of horns hadst got,
With eyes like saucers staring! And then a pair of ears so stout, A monstrous tail and hairy snout, With claws beyond comparing.
Taught to avoid the paths of evil,
By day I used to dread the devil,
And trembling when 't was night,
Methought I saw thy horns and ears,
They sung or whistled to my fears,
And ran to chase my fright.
And every night I went to bed,
I sweated with a constant dread,
And crept beneath the rug;
There panting, thought that in my sleep
Thou slyly in the dark wouldst creep,
And eat me, though so snug.
A haberdasher's shop is thine,
With sins of all sorts, coarse and fine,
To suit both man and maid:
Thy wares they buy, with open eyes;
How cruel then, with constant cries,
To vilify thy trade!
To speak the truth, indeed, I'm loath-
Life's deemed a mawkish dish of broth,
Without thy aid, old sweeper;
So mawkish, few will put it down,
Even from the cottage to the crown,
Without thy salt and pepper.
O Satan, whatsoever geer,
Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear,
Black, red, or blue, or yellow;
Whatever hypocrites may say,
They think thee (trust my honest lay)
A most bewitching fellow.
"Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas!)
To praise the bridge o'er which we pass
Yet often I discover
A numerous band who daily make
An easy bridge of thy poor back,
And damn it when they 're over.
Why art thou, then, with cup in hand,
Obsequious to a graceless band,
Whose souls are scarce worth taking;
O prince, pursue but my advice,
I'll teach your highness in a trice
To set them all a quaking.
Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy:
Lock up each charming fille de joie ;
Give race-horses the glander-
The dice-box break, and burn each card.-
Let virtue be its own reward,
And gag the mouth of slander;
In one week's time, I'll lay my life,
There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife,
That will not glad agree,
If thou will charm 'em as before,
To show their nose at church no more,
But quit their God for thee.
Tis now full time my ode should end:
And now I tell thee like a friend,
Howe'er the world may scout thee;
Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning,
And folks so very fond of sinning,
They can not do without thee.
THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE.
In seventeen hundred seventy-eight,
The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain,
Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite
The peaceful natives of the western main,
With faggots and the blood-delighting sword,
To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!
For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling,
Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling,
Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further;
For which most pious reason, hard to work,
They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork,
To charm the God of mercy with their murther!
I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed,
In tapestry so rich, portrayed,
A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle:
Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried
To fix his foot the palfry to bestride;
In vain !-he could not o'er the palfry straddle!
Stiff as a Turk, the beast of yarn remained,
And every effort of the King disdained,
Who, 'midst his labors, to the ground was tumbled,
And greatly mortified, as well as humbled.
Prodigious was the struggle of the day,
The horse attempted not to run away;
At which the poor-chafed monarch now 'gan grin,
And swore by every saint and holy martyr,
He would not yield the traitor quarter,
Until he got possession of his skin.
Not fiercer famed La Mancha's knight,
Hight Quixote, at a puppet-show,
Did with more valor stoutly fight,
And terrify each little squeaking foe;
When bold he pierced the lines, immortal fray!
And broke their pasteboard bones, and stabbed their hearts
Not with more energy and fury
The beauteous street-walker of Drury
Attacks a sister of the smuggling trade,
Whose winks, and nods, and sweet resistless smile,
Ah, me her paramour beguile,
And to her bed of healthy straw persuade;
Where mice with music charm, and vermin crawl,
And snails with silver traces deck the wall.
And now a cane, and now a whip he used,
And now he kicked, and sore the palfry bruised;
Yet, lo, the horse seemed patient at each kick,
And bore with Christian spirit whip and stick;
And what excessively provoked this prince,
The horse so stubborn scorned even once to wince.
Now rushed the monarch for a bow and arrow
To shoot the rebel like a sparrow;
And, lo, with shafts well steeled, with all his force,
Just like a pincushion, he stuck the horse!
Now with the fury of the chafed wild boar,
With nails and teeth the wounded horse he tore,
Now to the floor he brought the stubborn beast;
Now o'er the vanquish'd horse that dared rebel,
Most Indian-like the monarch gave a yell,
'Pleased on the quadruped his eyes to feast; Blessed as Achilles when with fatal wound He brought the mighty Hector to the ground.
Yet more to gratify his godlike ire,
He vengeful flung the palfry in the fire!
Showing his pages round, poor trembling things,
How dangerous to resist the will of kings.
Lo, to the cruel hand of fate,
My poor dear Grizzle, meek-souled mate,
Resigns her tuneful breath—
Though dropped her jaw, her lip though pale.
And blue each harmless finger-nail,
She's beautiful in death.
As o'er her lovely limbs I weep,
I scarce can think her but asleep-
How wonderfully tame!.
And yet her voice is really gone,
And dim those eyes that lately shone
With all the lightning's flame.
Death was, indeed, a daring wight,
To take it in his head to smite-
To lift his dart to hit her;
For as she was so great a woman,
And cared a single fig for no man,
I thought he feared to meet her.
Still is that voice of late so strong,
That many a sweet capriccio sung,
And beat in sounds the spheres;
No longer must those fingers play
"Britons strike home," that many a dɛy
Hath soothed my ravished ears.
Ah me! indeed I'm much inclined
To think how I may speak my mind,
Nor hurt her dear repose;
Nor think 1 now with rage she'd roar,
Were I to put my fingers o'er,
And touch her precious nose.
Here let me philosophic pause-
How wonderful are nature's laws,
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