The Chanter, who beheld the stroke from far,
In vain seeks courage for a sacred war :
His heart abandons him he yields, he flies
His soldiers follow with bewilder'd eyes :
All fly, all fear, but none escape the pain;
The conq'ring fingers follow and detain.
Everard alone, upon a book employ'd,
Had hoped the sacred insult to avoid;
But the wise chief, keeping a side-long eye,
And feigning to the right to pass him by,
Suddenly turn'd, and facing him in van,
Beyond redemption bless'd th' unhappy man.
The man, confounded with the mortal stroke,
From his long vision of rebellion woke,
Fell on his knees in penitential wise,
And gave decorum what he owed the skies.

Home trod the Dean victorious, and ordain'd
The resurrection of the Desk regain'd:
While the vain Chapter, with its fallen crest,
Slunk to its several musings, lost and bless'd.

LOVE AND AGE.

FROM MADAME D'HOUDETÔT.

WHEN young, I lov'd. At that enchanting age, So sweet, so short, love was my sole delight; And when I reach'd the time for being sage, Still I lov'd on, for reason gave me right.

Snows come at length, and livelier joys depart, Yet gentle ones still kiss these eyelids dim; For still I love, and love consoles my heart; What could console me for the loss of Him?

EPITAPH ON AN ENGLISHMAN.

FROM DESTOUCHES.

HERE lies Sir John Plumpudding, of the Grange, Who hung himself one morning, for a change.

LOVE AND REASON.

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PHILOSOPHER AND HIS MISTRESS FROM THE CHEVALIER DE BOUFFLERS.

Phil. Think of reason,

Love's a poison

Tender hearts should fear to touch.

Mist. From this poison

There's no reason,

I conceive, to fear so much.

Phil. Dreadful poison !
Beauteous reason!

Mist. Horrid reason!
Charming poison !

Phil. Farewell, poison;

"Tis to reason

I direct my placid view :

Mist. Nonsense, reason!
'Tis the poison,

Sir, I must expect of you.

LOVE AND WAR.

FROM THE SAME.

IF war were an evil not to be done away, it would be right to construe its necessity as handsomely as possible; and, among others, the argument implied in this jeu d'esprit would not be one of the least satisfactory. Had Uncle Toby married the Widow Wadman, and left us a son, the young gentleman might have sung the song, going to the wars, to the dance of the band of music and his own feather.

LET us make love, let us make war,

This is your motto, boys, these are your courses; War may appear to cost people too dear,

But love re-imburses, but love re-imburses.

The foe and the fair, let 'em see what we are,
For the good of the nation, the good of the nation;
What possible debtor can pay his debts better,
Than De-population with Re-population?

ABEL AND MABEL; OR, WISE AND WISER.

FROM THE FRENCH OF TABOUROT.

ABEL fain would marry Mabel ;
Well, it's very wise of Abel.

But Mabel won't at all have Abel;
Well, it's wiser still of Mabel.

ON THE LAUGH OF MADAME D'ALBRET.

FROM CLEMENT MAROT.

YES, that fair neck, too beautiful by half,

Those eyes, that voice, that bloom, all do her Yet after all, that little giddy laugh [honour : Is what, in my mind, sits the best upon her.

Good God! 'twould make the very streets and ways Through which she passes, burst into a pleasure! Did melancholy come to mar my days,

And kill me in the lap of too much leisure,

No spell were wanting, from the dead to raise me, But only that sweet laugh, wherewith she slays me.

A LOVE-LESSON.

FROM THE SAME.

A SWEET "No, no"-with a sweet smile beneath,
Becomes an honest girl: I'd have you learn it :-
As for plain "Yes," it may be said, 'ifaith,
Too plainly and too oft:-pray, well discern it.

Not that I'd have my pleasure incomplete,
Or lose the kiss for which my lips beset you ;
But that in suffering me to take it, sweet,

I'd have you say, "No, no, I will not let you."

THE CURATE AND HIS BISHOP.

FROM THE FRENCH. WRITTEN DURING THE OLD KEGIME. AUTHOR UNKNOWN.

ON business call'd from his abode,
A Curate jogg'd along the road.
In patient leanness jogg'd his mare;
The Curate, jogging, breath'd a prayer;
And jogging as she fac'd the meads,
His maid, behind him, told her beads.

They hear a carriage; it o'ertakes 'em ;
With grinding noise and dust it rakes 'em ;
'Tis he himself! they know his port ;
My Lord the Bishop, bound to court.
Beside him, to help meditation,
The lady sits, his young relation.

The carriage stops! the Curate doffs
His hat, and bows; the lady coughs:
The Prelate bends his lordly eyes,
And "How now, sir!" in wrath he cries;
"What! choose the very King's highway,
And ride with girls in open day!

Good heav'ns! what next will curates do?
My fancy shudders at the view.—
Girl, cover up your horrid stocking:
Was ever seen a group so shocking!"

"My Lord," replies the blushing man,
"Pardon me, pray, and pardon Anne;
Oh deem it, good my Lord, no sin:
I had no coach to put her in."