Awhile he throned her on the snowy hills

O'ercanopied with glare of northern dawn Where Hecla's front its liquid fire distils.

Anon, he twined her on the oaky lawn Of Albion's coast a seldom-fading bower, Corruptions mildews hence! it scurns the axe of Power.


many a fane

Then far in west he built her

To the hoarse sound of Civil Discords song, And proudly pointed to her future reign,

When swarthy tribes their sugar-isles among Should lisp her praise, and gathering whirlwinds bear Her deed-inspiring name to Gallia's troubled ear.




Jacob! I do not love to see thy nose
Turned up in scornful curve at yonder Pig.
It would be well, my friend, if thou and I
Had like that Pig attained the perfectness
Made reachable by Nature ! why dislike
The sow-born grunter -he is obstinate,
Thou answerest, ugly, and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. Now I pray you
Hear the Pig's Counsel.

Is he obstinate ?
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words,
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit and not his. He hath not learnt
That Pigs were made for man, born to be brawn'd
And baconized; that he must please to give

Just what his gracious masters please to take ;
Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave
For self-defence, the general privilege ;
Perhaps--hark Jacob ! dost thou hear that horn?
Woe to the young posterity of pork !
Their enemy is at hand.

Again. Thou say'st
The Pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him!
Those eyes have taught the Lover fattery.
His face,---nay Jacob, Jacob! were it fair
To judge a Lady in her dishabille?
Fancy it drest, and with salt-petre rouged.
Behold his tail, my friend; with curls like that
The wanton hop marries her stately spouse;
So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair
Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love.
And what is beauty, but the aptitude
Of parts harmonious ? give thy fancy scope
And thou wilt find that no imagined change
Can beautify this beast. Place at his end
The starry glories of the Peacock's pride,
Give him the Swan's white breast, for his horn-hoofs
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss,
When Venus from the enamour'd sea arose ;-

Jacob, thou can’st but make a monster of him,
All alteration man could think, would mar
His Pig-perfection.

The last charge he lives
A dirty life. Here I could shelter him
With noble and right-reverend precedents,
And show by sanction of authority
That 'tis a very honourable thing
To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest
On better ground the unanswerable defence.
The Pig is a philosopher, who knows
No prejudice. Dirt ? Jacob, what is dirt ?
If matter, why the delicate dish that tempts
An o'ergorged Epicure to the last morsel
That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more.
If matter be not, but as Sages say,
Spirit is all, and all things visible
Are one, the infinitely modified,
Think, Jacob, what that Pig is, and the mire
In which he stands knee-deep?

And there ! that breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.



The story of the Pious Painter is related in the Pia Hilaria of Gazæus, but the Catholic Poet has omitted the conclusion. This is to be found in the Fabliaux of Le Grand.


There once was a Painter in Catholic days,

Like Job who eschewed all evil. Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise

And delight was in painting the Devil,

They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew,

Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell ; Such burning hot eyes, such a damnable hue ! You could even smell brimstone their breath was so blue,

He painted the Devil so well.

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