Like the weak worm that gems the starless night, And was it strange if he withdrew the ray The ascending day-star with a bolder eye The spots and struggles of the timid dawn; SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM; A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND, FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF BUTLER'S BOOK OF THE CHURCH. POET. I NOTE the moods and feelings men betray, These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed! made up of impudence and trick, With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick, Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy, FRIEND. Enough of! we're agreed, Who now defends would then have done the deed. POET (aside). (Rome's smooth go-between!) FRIEND. Laments the advice that sour'd a milky queen— (For "bloody" all enlighten'd men confess An antiquated error of the press :) Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, With actual cautery staunch'd the Church's wounds! Yet blames them both-and thinks the Pope might err ! What think you now? shield Boots it with spear and Against such gentle foes to take the field Whose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wield? POET. What think I now? Even what I thought before;boasts though may deplore, What Still I repeat, words lead me not astray When the shown feeling points a different way. And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest; 's gong to swell, Content with half-truths that do just as well; But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks, And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks! So much for you, my friend! who own a Church, And would not leave your mother in the lurch ! But when a Liberal asks me what I think— Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink, And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam, In search of some safe parable I roam— An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome! Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood, I see a tiger lapping kitten's food: And who shall blame him that he purs applause, When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause; And frisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes his claws! Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt, I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws LINES TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW. WHAT though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak : Romp'd with the Graces; and each tickled Muse Men call'd him-maugre all his wit and worth, CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. SINCE all that beat about in Nature's range, Or veer or vanish; why shouldst thou remain The only constant in a world of change, O yearning thought! that livest but in the brain? Call to the hours, that in the distance play, The faery people of the future day- Still, still as though some dear embodied good, I mourn to thee and say-" Ah! loveliest friend! * An image with a glory round its head; The enamour'd rustic worships its fair hues, *This phenomenon, which the author has himself experienced, and of which the reader may find a description in one of the earlier volumes of the Manchester Philosophical Trans |