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Content his own applause to win
Would never dash thro' thick and thin,
And he can make, so say the wise,
No claim who makes no sacrifice ;-
And bard still less-what claim had he,
Who swore it vex'd his soul to see
So grand a cause, so proud a realm
With Goose and Goody at the helm ;
Who long ago had fall'n asunder
But for their rivals, baser blunder,
The coward whine and Frenchified
Slaver and slang of the other side?

Thus, his own whim his only bribe,
Our bard pursued his old A. B. C.
Contented if he could subscribe
In fullest sense his name "Eotηus;
('Tis Punic Greek, for he hath stood !')
Whate'er the men, the cause was good;
And therefore with a right good will,
Poor fool, he fights their battles still.
Tush! squeak'd the Bats ;—a mere bravado
To whitewash that base renegado ;
'Tis plain unless you're blind or mad,
His conscience for the bays he barters ;-
And true it is-as true as sad-
These circlets of green baize he had-
But then, alas! they were his garters!
Ah! silly Bard, unfed, untended,
His lamp but glimmer'd in its socket;
He liv'd unhonor'd and unfriended
With scarce a penny in his pocket ;-
Nay-tho' he hid it from the many—
With scarce a pocket for his penny!

THE REPROOF AND REPLY.

"FIE, Mr. Coleridge !-and can this be you? Break two commandments? and in church-time too! Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain,

The birth and parentage-recording strain?

Confessions shrill, that out-shrill'd mack'rel drown-
Fresh from the drop, the youth not yet cut down.
Letter to sweetheart-the last dying speech-
And didn't all this begin in Sabbath breach?
You, that knew better! In broad open day,
Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away?
What could possess you? Ah! sweet youth, I fear,
The chap with horns and tail was at your ear!"

Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought
From fair to the Poet's thought.

Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply:-
A bow, a pleading look, a downcast eye,-
And then:

"Fair dame! a visionary wight,
Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white,
His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home,
Long hath it been your Poet's wont to roam,
And many a morn, on his becharmed sense
So rich a stream of music issued thence
He deem'd himself, as it flowed warbling on,
Beside the vocal fount of Helicon !

But when, as if to settle the concern,

A nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn,—

Say, can you blame?-No! none that saw and heard
Could blame a bard, that he thus inly stirr'd;

A muse beholding in each fervent trait,

Took Mary for Polly Hymnia!
Or haply as there stood beside the maid
One loftier form in sable stole array'd,
If with regretful thought he hail'd in thee
his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene!

But most of you, soft warblings, I complain !
'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain
Lured the wild fancies forth, a freakish rout,
And witched the air with dreams turn'd inside out.

Thus all conspir'd—each power of eye and ear,
And this gay month th' enchantress of the year,

To cheat poor me (no conjurer, God wot!)
And -'s self accomplice in the plot.
Can you then wonder if I went astray?
Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they ;—
All nature day-dreams in the month of May.
And if I pluck'd each flower that sweetest blows,—
Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his nose.
Thus, long accustom'd on the twy-fork'd hill,
To pluck both flower and floweret at my will;
The garden's maze, like No-man's-land, I tread,
Nor common law, nor statute in my head;
For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling,
With autocratic hand at once repealing
Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing!
But yet from who despairs of grace?
There's no spring-gun or man-trap in that face!
Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue,
That look as if they had little else to do:
For speaks, "Poor youth! he's but a waif!
The spoons all right? the hen and chickens safe?
Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards-

The Eighth Commandment was not made for Bards!"

CHOLERA CURED BEFOREHAND.

Or a premonition promulgated gratis for the use of the Useful Classes, specially those resident in St. Giles's, Saffron Hill, Bethnal Green, &c. and likewise, inasmuch as the good man is merciful even to the beasts, for the benefit of the Bulls and Bears of the Stock Exchange.

PAINS ventral, subventral,

In stomach or entrail,

Think no longer mere prefaces

For grins, groans, and wry faces;

But off to the doctor, fast as ye can crawl!

Yet far better 'twould be not to have them at all.

Now to 'scape inward aches,
Eat no plums nor plum-cakes;
Cry avaunt! new potatoe―
And don't drink, like old Catɔ,

Ah! beware of Dispipsy,
And don't ye get tipsy!
For tho' gin and whiskey
May make you feel frisky,
They're but crimps to Dispipsy;

And nose to tail, with this gipsy

Comes, black as a porpus,

The diabolus ipse,

Call'd Cholery Morpus ;

Who with horns, hoofs, and tail, croaks for carrion to feed him, Tho' being a Devil, no one never has seed him!

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Och och how you'll wail,
When the offal-fed vagrant

Shall turn you as blue

As the gas-light unfragrant,

That gushes in jets from beneath his own tail;—
'Till swift as the mail,

He at last brings the cramps on,
That will twist you like Samson.

So without further blethring,
Dear mudlarks! my brethren!
Of all scents and degrees,
(Yourselves and your shes)
Forswear all cabal, lads,
Wakes, unions, and rows,

Hot dreams, and cold salads

And don't pig in sties that would suffocate sows!

Quit Cobbett's, O'Connell's, and Beelzebub's banners,

And whitewash at once bowels, rooms, hands, and manners!

COLOGNE.

IN Köhln, a town of monks and bones,
And pavements fang'd with murderous stones,
And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
I counted two and seventy stenches,

All well-defined, and several stinks!

Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
The river Rhine, it is well known,

Doth wash your city of Cologne ;

But tell me, Nymphs! what power divine
Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine?

ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM THE SAME CITY.

As I am rhymer,

And now at least a merry one,

Mr. Mum's Rudesheimer

And the church of St. Geryon

Are the two things alone

That deserve to be known

In the body and soul-stinking town of Cologne.

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.

PARRY seeks the polar ridge;

Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge,

Author of works, whereof-tho' not in Dutch-
The public little knows-the publisher too much.

TO THE AUTHOR OF THE ANCIENT MARINER,

YOUR poem must eternal be,

Dear Sir! it can not fail!

For 'tis incomprehensible,

And without head or tail.

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