270 "OH, NOSE OF WAX! TRUE SYMBOL OF THE MIND.'

As to the ocean-tempest's rage
The bleak and billow-beaten rock.
There ills on ills commingling press,
Morose, unjoying helplessness,
And pain, and slow disease:

As, when the storm of winter raves,
The wild winds rush from all their caves,

To swell the northern seas.

"OH, NOSE OF WAX! TRUE SYMBOL OF THE

MIND."

[Date unknown.]

H, nose of wax! true symbol of the mind

Which fate and fortune mould in all mankind

(Even as the hand moulds thee) to foul or fair

Thee good John Bull for his device shall bear,
While Sawney Scot the ductile mass shall mould,
Bestowing paper and receiving gold,

Thy image shrined in studious state severe,

Shall grace the pile which Brougham and Campbell rear: Thy name to those scholastic bowers shall pass

And rival Oxford's ancient nose of brass.

A GOODLYE BALLADE OF LITTLE JOHN: SHEWINGE HOW HE RAYSED A DYVELL, AND COULDE NOTTE

L'

LAYE HYMME.

[Date unknown.]

FYTTE THE FIRST.

ITTLE John he sat in a lonely hall,

Mid spoils of the Church of old :
And he saw a shadowing on the wall,
That made his blood run cold.

He saw the dawn of a coming day,

Dim-glimmering through the gloom :
He saw the coronet pass away

From the ancient halls where it then held sway,
And the mitre it's place resume.

He saw, the while, through the holy pile
The incense vapour spread ;

He saw the poor, at the Abbey door,
Receiving their daily bread.

He saw on the wall the shadows cast

Of sacred sisters three:

He blessed them not, as they flitted past :
But above them all he hated the last,
For that was Charitie.

Now down from its shelf a book he bore,
And characters he drew,

And a spell he muttered o'er and o'er,
Till before him cleft was the marble floor,
And a murky fiend came through.

"Now take thee a torch in thy red right hand,"

Little John to the fiend he saith:

"And let it serve as a signal brand,

To rouse the rabble, throughout the land,
Against the Catholic Faith."

Straight through the porch, with brandished torch,
The fiend went joyously out:

And a posse of parsons, established by law,

Sprang up, when the lurid flame they saw,
To head the rabble rout.

And braw Scots Presbyters nimbly sped
In the train of the muckle black de'il;

And, as the wild infection spread,
The Protestant hydra's every head,

Sent forth a yell of zeal.

And pell-mell went all forms of dissent,

Each beating its scriptural drum;

Wesleyans and Whitfieldites followed as friends,
And whatever in onion Iarian ends,

Et omne quod exit in hum.

And in bonfires burned ten thousand Guys,
With caricatures of the pious and wise,
'Mid shouts of goblin glee,

And such a clamour rent the skies,
That all buried lunatics seemed to rise,
And hold a Jubilee.

FYTTE THE SECOND.

The devil gave the rabble scope

And they left him not in the lurch: But they went beyond the summoner's hope; For they quickly got tired of bawling "No Pope!" And bellowed, "No State Church!")

"Ho!" quoth Little John, "this must not be:

The devil leads all amiss:

He works for himself, and not for me:
And straightway back I'll bid him flee
To the bottomless abyss."

Again he took down his book from the wall,
And pondered words of might :

He muttered a speech, and he scribbled a scrawl:
But the only answer to his call

Was a glimpse, at the uttermost end of the hall, Of the devil taking a sight.

And louder and louder grew the clang
As the rabble raged without:
The door was beaten with many a bang;
And the vaulted roof re-echoing rang
To the tumult and the shout.

The fiendish shade, on the wall portrayed,
Threw somersaults fast and free,

And flourished his tail like a brandished flail,
As busy as if it were blowing a gale,

And his task were on the sea.

And up he toss't his huge pitchfork,

As visioned shrines uprose;

And right and left he went to work,

Till full over Durham, and Oxford, and York,
He stood with a menacing pose.

The rabble roar was hushed awhile,
As the hurricane rests in its sweep;
And all throughout the ample pile
Reigned silence dread and deep.

Then a thrilling voice cried: "Little John,
A little spell will do,

When there is mischief to be done,
To raise me up and set me on;
For I, of my own free will, am won
To carry such spiritings through.

"But when I am riding the tempest's wing,
And towers and spires have blazed,
'Tis no small conjuror's art to sing,
Or say, a spell to check the swing
Of the demons he has raised."

FAREWELL TO MEIRION.

[No date.]

EIRION, farewell! thy sylvan shades,

MThy mossy rocks and bright cascades,

Thy tangled glens and dingles wild,

Might well detain the Muses' child.
But can the son of science find,
In thy fair realm, one kindred mind,
One soul sublime, by feeling taught,
To wake the genuine pulse of thought,
One heart by nature formed to prove
True friendship and unvarying love?
No-Bacchus reels through all thy fields,
Her brand fanatic frenzy wields,
And ignorance with falsehood dwells,
And folly shakes her jingling bells.

VOL. III.

18

Meirion, farewell-and ne'er again.
My steps shall press thy mountain reign,
Nor long on thee my memory rest,
Fair as thou art-unloved, unblessed.
And ne'er may parting stranger's hand
Wave a fond blessing on thy land.
Long as disgusted virtue flies
From folly, drunkenness, and lies:
Long as insulted science shuns
The steps of thy degraded sons;
Long as the northern tempest roars
Round their inhospitable doors.

Dr. G.

"OH BLEST ARE THEY, AND THEY ALONE.”

O'
Ο

[No date.]

H blest are they, and they alone,

To fame to wealth to power unknown;
Whose lives in one perpetual tenor glide,
Nor feel one influence of malignant fate :
For when the gods on mortals frown
They pour no single vengeance down,
But scatter ruin vast and wide
On all the race they hate.
Then ill on ill succeeding still,
With unrelaxing fury pours,

As wave on wave the breakers rave
Tumultuous on the wreck-strown shores,
When northern tempests sweep
The wild and wintry deep,
Uprending from its depths the sable sand,
Which blackening eddies whirl,
And crested surges hurl

Against the rocky bulwarks of the land,
While to the tumult, deepening round,
The repercussive caves resound.

In solitary pride,

By Dirce's murmuring side,

The giant oak has stretched its ample shade,