That is, to guard against mistake,—
To extirpate them for their doctrine's sake;
A distinction Churchmen always make,—
Insomuch that, when they've prime control,
Though sometimes roasting heretics whole,
They but cook the body for sake of the soul.

Next jump'd St. Johnston jollily forth,
The spiritual Dogberry of the North,168
A right" wise fellow, and, what's more,
An officer,"
"169 like his type of yore;
And he asked, if we grant such toleration,
Pray, what's the use of our Reformation ?170
What is the use of our Church and State?
Our Bishops, Articles, Tithe, and Rate?
And, still as he yell'd out "what's the use?"
Old Echoes, from their cells recluse
Where they'd for centuries slept, broke loose,
Yelling responsive, "What's the use?"

Long, dolefully long, seem'd the voyage we made; For "The Truth," at all times but a very slow sailer,

By friends, near as much as by foes, is delay'd, And few come aboard her, though so many hail her.

At length, safe arrived, I went through "tare and tret,"

Deliver'd my goods in the "primest condition," And next morning read, in the Bridgetown Gazette, "Just arrived by The Truth,' a new moral position."

"The Captain"-here, startled to find myself named As "the Captain”—(a thing which, I own it with

pain,

I through life have avoided,) I woke, look'd ashamed, Found I wasn't a captain, and dozed off again.

Ay, yoke ye to the bigots' car,

Ye chosen of Alma Mater's scions ;Fleet chargers drew the God of War, Great Cybele was drawn by lions, And Sylvan Pan, as Poets dream, Drove four young panthers in his team. Thus classical Lefroy, for once, is,

Thus, studious of a like turn-out, He harnesses young sucking dunces,

To draw him, as their Chief, about, And let the world a picture see Of Dulness yoked to Bigotry: Showing us how young College hacks Can pace with bigots at their backs, As though the cubs were born to draw Such luggage as Lefroy and Shaw.

Oh shade of Goldsmith, shade of Swift,
Bright spirits whom, in days of yore,
This Queen of Dulness sent adrift,

As aliens to her foggy shore;-176
Shade of our glorious Grattan, too,

Whose very name her shame recalls; Whose effigy her bigot crew

Reversed upon their monkish walls,-177 Bear witness (lest the world should doubt) To your mute Mother's dull renown, Then famous but for Wit turn'd out

And Eloquence turn'd upside down; But now ordain'd new wreaths to win, Beyond all fame of former days,

By breaking thus young donkeys in To draw M. P.s, amid the brays Alike of donkeys and M. A.s ;Defying Oxford to surpass 'em

In this new "Gradus ad Parnassum."

TRANSLATION FROM THE GULL LANGUAGE.

Scripta manet.

178

1833.

'Twas graved on the Stone of Destiny," In letters four, and letters three; And ne'er did the King of the Gulls go by But those awful letters scared his eye; For he knew that a Prophet Voice hath said, "As long as those words by man were read, "The ancient race of the Gulls should ne'er "One hour of peace or plenty share." But years on years successive flew, And the letters still more legible grew,

At top, a T, an H, an E,

And underneath, D, E, B, T.

Some thought them Hebrew,-such as Jews,
More skill'd in Scrip than Scripture, use;
While some surmised 'twas an ancient way
Of keeping accounts, (well known in the day
Of the famed Didlerius Jeremias,
Who had thereto a wonderful bias,)
And proved in books most learnedly boring,
'Twas call'd the Pontick way of scoring.

Howe'er this be, their never was yet
Seven letters of the alphabet,

That, 'twixt them form'd so grim a spell,
Or scared a Land of Gulls so well,
As did this awful riddle-me-ree
Of T. H. E. D. E. B. T.

*

66

Hark! it is struggling Freedom's cry; Help, help, ye nations, or I die; ""Tis freedom's fight, and, on the field "Where I expire, your doom is seal'd." The Gull-King hears the awakening call, He hath summon'd his Peers and Patriots ali, And he asks, "Ye noble Gulls, shall we "Stand basely by at the fall of the Free, "Nor utter a curse, nor deal a blow?" And they answer, with voice of thunder, "No."

I pledge myself, though much bereft Of ways and means of ruling ill, To make the most of what are left, And stick to all that's rotten still.

Though gone the days of place and pelf, And drones no more take all the honey,

I pledge myself to cram myself

With all I can of public money;

To quarter on that social purse

My nephews, nieces, sisters, brothers, Nor, so we prosper, care a curse

How much 'tis at th' expense of others.

I pledge myself, whenever Right

And Might on any point divide, Not to ask which is black or white, But take, at once, the strongest side.

For instance, in all Tithe discussions,

I'm for the Reverend encroachers:I loathe the Poles, applaud the Russians,Am for the Squires against the Poachers.

Betwixt the Corn-Lords and the Poor I've not the slightest hesitation,— The people must be starved t' insure The Land its due remuneration.

I pledge myself to be no more

So here's, with three times three hurrahs, A toast, of which you'll not complain,— "Long life to jobbing; may the days "Of Peculation shine again!"

ST. JEROME ON EARTH.

FIRST VISIT.

1832.

As St. Jerome, who died some ages ago, Was sitting, one day, in the shades below, "I've heard much of English bishops," quoth he, "And shall now take a trip to earth, to see "How far they agree, in their lives and ways, "With our good old bishops of ancient days."

He had learn'd-but learn'd without misgivingsTheir love for good living, and eke good livings; Not knowing (as ne'er having taken degrees) That good living means claret and fricassees, While its plural means simply-pluralities. "From all I hear," said the innocent man, "They are quite on the good old primitive plan. "For wealth and pomp they little can care, "As they all say 'No' to th' Episcopal chair; "And their vestal virtue it well denotes, "That they all, good men, wear petticoats."

I vote her grievances a bore,

So she may suffer, and be d-d.

Or if she kick, let it console us,

We still have plenty of red coats, To cram the Church, that general bolus, Down any giv'n amount of throats.

I dearly love the Frankfort Diet,-
Think newspapers the worst of crimes;
And would, to give some chance of quiet,
Hang all the writers of The Times;

Break all their correspondents' bones,

All authors of "Reply," "Rejoinder," From the Anti-Tory, Colonel Jones, To the Anti-Suttee, Mr. Poynder.

Such are the Pledges I propose;

And though I can't now offer gold, There's many a way of buying those Who've but the taste for being sold

And knocks at th' Archbishop of Canterbury's.
The door was oped by a lackey in lace,
Saying, "What's your business with his Grace?"
"His grace!" quoth Jerome—for posed was he,
Not knowing what sort this Grace could be;
Whether Grace preventing, Grace particular,
Grace of that breed called Quinquarticular—181
In short, he rummaged his holy mind,
Th' exact description of Grace to find,
Which thus could represented be
By a footman in full livery.

At last, out loud in a laugh he broke,
(For dearly the good saint loved his joke,) 182
And said surveying, as sly he spoke,

The costly palace from roof to base