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Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,
The ascending day-star with a bolder eye
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.
I NOTE the moods and feelings men betray,
And heed them more than aught they do or say ; The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed Still-born or haply strangled in its birth; These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed ! These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth !
made up of impudence and trick,
Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy,
Enough of — ! we're agreed, Who now defends would then have done the deed. But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, Who but must meet the proffer'd hand half way When courteous
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 ! And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blur We damn the French and Irish massacre, Yet blames them both—and thinks the Pope might
err ! What think you now? Boots it with spear and
shield Against such gentle foes to take the field Whose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wield ?
What think I now? Even what I thought before;What boasts though
- may deplore,
can say grace at slander's feast, And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest; Leaves the full lie on -'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 thinkScared 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 roamAn emblem sometimes may comprise a tome !
Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood,
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 : So was it, neighbour, in the times before us, When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, Romp'd with the Graces; and each tickled Muse (That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, Was married to—at least, he kept—all nine) Fled, but still with reverted faces ran; Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, They had allured the audacious Greek to use, Swore they mistook him for their own good man. This Momus-Aristophanes on earth Men call'd him—maugre all his wit and worth, Was croak'd and gabbled at. How, then, should you, Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew ? No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, “I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!”
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-
* 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