How strange it is while on all vital questions,
That occupy the House and public mind,
We always meet with some humane suggestions
Of gentle measures of a healing kind,
Instead of harsh severity and vigour,
The Saint alone his preference retains
For bills of penalties and pains,
And marks his narrow code with legal rigour!
Why shun, as worthless of affiliation,
What men of all political persuasion
Extol-and even use upon occasion-
That Christian principle, conciliation?
But possibly the men who make such fuss
With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm,
Attach some other meaning to the term,
As thus:
One market morning, in my usual rambles,
Passing along Whitechapel's ancient shambles,
Where meat was hung in many a joint and quarter,
I had to halt awhile, like other folks,
To let a killing butcher coax
A score of lambs and fatted sheep to slaughter.
A sturdy man he look'd to fell an ox,
Bull-fronted, ruddy, with a formal streak
Of well-greased hair down either cheek,
As if he dee-dash-dee'd some other flocks
Besides those woolly-headed stubborn blocks
That stood before him, in vexatious huddle-
Poor little lambs, with bleating wethers group'd,
While, now and then, a thirsty creature stoop'd
And meekly snuff'd, but did not taste the puddle.
Fierce bark'd the dog, and many a blow was dealt,
That loin, and chump, and scrag and saddle felt,
Yet still, that fatal step they all declined it,—
And shunn'd the tainted door as if they smelt
Onions, mint sauce, and lemon juice behind it.
At last there came a pause of brutal force,
The cur was silent, for his jaws were full
Of tangled locks of tarry wool,
The man had whoop'd and bellow'd till dead hoarse,
The time was ripe for mild expostulation, And thus it stammer'd from a stander-by“Zounds!—my good fellow,—it quite makes me— why
It really—my dear fellow—do just try
Stringing his nerves like flint,
The sturdy butcher seized upon the hint,-
At least he seized upon the foremost wether,-
And hugg'd and lugg'd and tugg'd him neck and
crop
Just nolens volens thro' the open shop-
If tails come off he didn't care a feather,-
Then walking to the door, and smiling grim,
He rubb'd his forehead and his sleeve together—
"There!-I've conciliated him!"
Again-good humouredly to end our quarrel—
(Good humour should prevail !)
I'll fit you with a tale
Whereto is tied a moral.
Once on a time a certain English lass
Was seized with symptoms of such deep decline,
Cough, hectic flushes, ev'ry evil sign,
That, as their wont is at such desperate pass,
The doctors gave her over-to an ass.
Accordingly, the grisly Shade to bilk,
Each morn the patient quaff''d a frothy bowl
Of asinine new milk,
Robbing a shaggy suckling of a foal,
Which got proportionably spare and skinnyMeanwhile the neighbours cried "poor Mary Ann!
She can't get over it! she never can
When lo! to prove each prophet was a ninny The one that died was the poor wetnurse Jenny.
There were but two grown donkeys in the place;
And most unluckily for Eve's sick daughter,
The other long-ear'd creature was a male,
Who never in his life had given a pail
Of milk, or even chalk and water.
No matter at the usual hour of eight
Down trots a donkey to the wicket-gate,
With Mister Simon Gubbins on his back,-
"Your sarvant Miss,-a werry spring-like day,-
Bad time for hasses tho'! good lack! good lack!
Jenny be dead, Miss,—but I’ze brought ye Jack,
He doesn't give no milk-but he can bray."
So runs the story,
And, in vain self-glory,
Some Saints would sneer at Gubbins for his blind
But what the better are their pious saws To ailing souls, than dry hee-haws, Without the milk of human kindness?
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.*
Ан me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds,
My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!
*No connection with any other Ode.
Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turn'd our table-beer!
There I was birch'd! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning's woful tree!
The weary tasks I used to con!--
The hopeless leaves I wept upon !–
Most fruitless leaves to me !-
The summon'd class!-the awful bow!-
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
And Mrs. S***?-Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet
Some favour'd two or three,-
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize-bohea ?
Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read!—
Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?
Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk ?
Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?
Where's Poynter? Harris? Bowers? Chase? Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew?
Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,"
And some have perish'd young!-
Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wayne of life;
And blithe Carew-is hung!
Grave Bowers teaches A B C
To Savages at Owhyee;
Poor Chase is with the worms !-
All, all are gone-the olden breed!—
New crops of mushroom boys succeed,
"And push us from our forms!"
Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout,
And leap, and skip, and mob about,
At play where we have play'd!
Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
And some are in the shade!
Lo there what mix'd conditions run!
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
And Fortune's favour'd care-
The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Mac-Adamised the future path-
The Nabob's pamper'd heir!
Some brightly starr'd-some evil born,-
For honour some, and some for scorn,-
For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indiff'rent-none may lack!
Look, here's a White, and there's a Black!
And there's a Creole brown!
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, And wish their frugal sires would keep
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