ODE TO THE PRINTER'S DEVIL,

WHO BROUGHT ME A PROOF TO BE CORRECTED, AND WHO FELL ASLEEP WHILE IT WAS UNDERGOING CORRECTION: BEING AN ODE FOUNDED ON FACT!

"Fallen Cherub!"-MILTON'S PARADISE LOST.

OH bright and blessed hour ;

The Devil's asleep!-I see his little lashes
Lying in sable o'er his sable cheek;

Closed are his wicked little window-sashes,

And tranced is Evil's power!

The world seems hushed and dreaming out-a-doors,

Spirits but speak;

And the heart echoes, while the Devil snores.

Sleep, Baby of the damned!

Sleep, when no press of trouble standeth by!
Black wanderer amid the wandering,

How quiet is thine eye!

Strange are thy very small pernicious dreams

With shades of printers crammed,

And pica, double pica, on the wing!

Or in cold sheets thy sprite perchance is flying

The world about

Dying-and yet, not like the Devil dying—
Dele,-the Evil out!

Before sweet sleep drew down

The blinds upon thy Day & Martin eyes,
Thou did'st let slip thy slip of mischief on me,
With weary, weary sighs;

And then, outworn with demoning o'er town,
Oblivion won thee!

Best of compositors! thou didst compose
Thy decent little wicked self, and go

A Devil-cruiser round the shores of sleep-
I hear thee fathom many a slumber-deep,
In the waves of woe;
Dropping thy lids of lead

To sound the dead!

Heaven forgive me! I

Have wicked schemes about thee, wicked one;

And in my scheming, sigh

And stagger under a gigantic thought;
"What if I run my pen into thine eye,
And put thee out?

Killing the Devil will be a noble deed,
A deed to snatch perdition from mankind—
To make the Methodist's a stingless creed-
To root out terror from the Brewer's mind-
And break the bondage which the Printer presses—

To change the fate of Lawyers-
Confirm the Parson's holy sinecure-
Make worthless sin's approaches-
To justify the bringing up addresses
To me, in hackney coaches,
From operative Sawyers!"

"To murder thee"

Methinks-" will never harm my precious headFor what can chance me, when the Devil is dead?" But when I look on thy serene repose,

Hear the small Satan dying through thy nose,

My thoughts become less dangerous and more

deep;

I can but wish thee everlasting sleep!

Sleep free from dreams

Of type, and ink, and press, and dabbing-ballSleep free from all

That would make shadowy, devilish slumber

darker,

Sleep free from Mr. Baldwin's Mr. Parker!

Oh! fare thee well!

Farewell, black bit of breathing sin! Farewell, Tiny remembrancer of a Printer's Hell!

Young thing of darkness, seeming

A small, poor type of wickedness set up!
Full is thy little cup

Of misery in the waking world! So dreaming

Perchance may now undemonize thy fate

And bear thee, Black-boy, to a whiter state!
Yet mortal evil is, than thine, more high ;-
Thou art upright in sleep; men sleep-and lie!
And from thy lids to me a moral peeps,
For I correct my errors—while the Devil sleeps!

ANACREONTIC,

FOR THE NEW YEAR.

COME, fill up the Bowl, for if ever the glass
Found a proper excuse or fit season,
For toasts to be honored, or pledges to pass,

Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason:
For, hark! the last chime of the dial has ceased,
And Old Time, who has leisure to cozen,
Having finished the months, like the flasks at a

feast,

Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whom The past Year has been pleasant and sunny; Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honeyDays ushered by dew-drops, instead of the tears, Maybe, wrung from some wretcheder cousin―

Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers
That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast,
And been bowed to the earth by its fury;
To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently
passed,

Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury—

Still, fill to the future! and join in our chime,
The regrets of remembrance to cozen,
And having obtained a New Trial of Time,
Shout, in hopes of a kindlier dozen!

Hip! Hip! and Hurrah!

EPIGRAM.

ON THE DEPRECIATED MONEY.

THEY may talk of the plugging and sweating
Of our coinage that's minted of gold,

But to me it produces no fretting

Of its shortness of weight to be told: All the sov'reigns I'm able to levy

As to lightness can never be wrong, But must surely be some of them heavy For I never can carry them long.