Or, called to more superior bliss,

Thou tread'st, with seraphims, the vast abyss:
Whatever happy region is thy place,

Cease thy celestial song a little space;

Thou wilt have time enough for hymns divine,
Since heaven's eternal year is thine.

Hear, then, a mortal Muse thy praise rehearse,
In no ignoble verse;

But such as thine own voice did practice nere,
When thy first fruits of poesy were given;
To make thyself a welcome inmate there:
While yet a young probationer

And candidate of heaven.

If by traduction came thy mind,

Our wonder is the less to find

A soul so charming from a stock so good;
Thy father was transfused into thy blood;
So wert thou born into a tuneful strain,
An early, rich, and inexhausted vein.

But if thy pre-existing soul

Was formed at first with myriads more,

It did through all the mighty poets roll,

Who Greek or Latin laurels wore.

And was that Sappho last, which once it was before. If so, then cease thy flight, O heaven-born mind! Thou hast no dross to purge from thy rich ore·

Nor can thy soul a fairer mansion find

Than was the beauteous frame she left behind.

Return to fill or mend the choir of thy celestial kind.

*

O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heav'nly gift of poesy?
Made prostitute and profligate the Muse,
Debased to each obscene and impious use,
Whose harmony was first ordained above
For tongues of angels and for hymns of love?
O wretched we why were we hurried down
This lubrique and adulterate age-

Nay, added fat pollutions of our own-

T' increase the steaming ordures of the stage?
What can we say t' excuse our second fall?
Let this thy vestal, heaven, atone for all;
Her Arethusian stream remains unsoiled,
Unmixed with foreign filth, and undefiled;

Her wit was more than man; her innocence a child.

When in mid-air the golden trump shall sound,

To raise the nations under ground;

When in the valley of Jehoshaphat,

The judging God shall close the book of fate;

And there the last assizes keep

For those who wake, and those who sleep;
The sacred poets first shall hear the sound,
And foremost from the tomb shall bound,
For they are covered with the lightest ground;
And straight, with inborn vigor, on the wing,
Like mountain larks, to the new morning sing.
There thou, sweet saint, before the choir shall go,
As harbinger of heaven, the way to show,
The way which thou so well hast learnt below.

The Vagabonds.

E are two travelers, Roger and I.

Roger's my dog come here, you scamp! Jump for the gentlemen,-mind your eye!

Over the table,-look out for the lamp!The rogue is growing a little old;

Five years we've tramped through wind and weather, And slept out-doors when nights were cold,

And ate and drank—and starved together.

We've learned what comfort is, I tell you!

A bed on the floor, a bit of rosin,

A fire to thaw our thumbs (Poor fellow!
The paw he holds up there's been frozen),
Plenty of catgut for my fiddle

(This out-door business is bad for the strings), Then a few nice buckwheats hot from the griddle, And Roger and I set up for kings!

No, thank ye, sir,-I never drink;

Roger and I are exceedingly moral,

Are n't we, Roger?-see him wink!

Well, something hot then, we won't quarrel.
He's thirsty too-see him nod his head?
What a pity, sir, that dogs can't talk!

He understands every word that's said,

And he knows good milk from water-and-chalk.

The truth is, sir, now I reflect,
I've been so sadly given to grog,
I wonder I've not lost the respect
(Here's to you, sir!) even of my dog.
But he sticks by through thick and thin;
And this old coat, with its empty pockets

And rags that smell of tobacco and gin,
He'll follow while he has eyes in his sockets.

There isn't another creature living

Would do it, and prove through every disaster, So fond, so faithful, and so forgiving

To such a miserable, thankless master! No, sir! see him wag his tail and grin!

By George! it makes my old eyes water!—

That is, there's something in this gin

That chokes a fellow. But no matter!

We'll have some music, if you're willing.

And Roger (hem! what a plague a cough is, sir!) Shall march a little. Start, you villain!

Stand straight! 'Bout face! Salute your officer! Put up that paw! Dress! Take your rifle!

(Some dogs have arms you see!) Now hold your Cap while the gentlemen give a trifle,

To aid a poor old patriot soldier!

March! Halt! Now show how the rebel shakes,
When he stands up to hear his sentence.
Now tell us how many drams it takes

To honor a jolly new acquaintance.

Five yelps, that's five; he's mighty knowing!
The night's before us, fill the glasses!-
Quick, sir! I'm ill,-my brain is going!-
Some brandy,-thank you,-there!-it passes!

Why not reform? That's easily said;

But I've gone through such wretched treatment, Sometimes forgetting the taste of bread,

And scarce remembering what meat meant, That my poor stomach's past reform;

And there are times when, mad with thinking,

I'd sell out heaven for something warm

To prop a horrible inward sinking.

Is there a way to forget to think?

At your age, sir, home, fortune, friends,
A dear girl's love, but I took to drink,-

The same old story; you know how it ends.
If you could have seen these classic features,-
You need n't laugh, sir; they were not then
Such a burning libel on God's creatures:
I was one of your handsome men!

If you had seen her, so fair and young,

Whose head was happy on this breast!

If you could have heard the songs I sung

When the wine went round, you wouldn't have guesseà

That ever I, sir, should be straying

From door to door, with fiddle and dog,

Ragged and penniless, and playing

To you to-night for a glass of grog!