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So wonderous small, 'twould much it pose
To melt the ice-drop on one's nose;
And yet so big, it covers o'er

Full half the spacious room and more.

A window vainly stuff'd about,
To keep November's breezes out,
So crazy, that the panes proclaim,
That soon they mean to leave the frame.

My furniture I sure may crack-
A broken chair without a back;
A table, wanting just two legs,
One end sustain'd by wooden pegs;
A desk of that I am not fervent,
The work of, sir, your humble servant;
(Who, though I say't, am no such fumbler)
A glass-decanter and a tumbler,

From which my night-parch'd throat I lave,
Luxurious, with the limpid wave.

A chest of drawers, in antique sections,
And saw'd by me in all directions;
So small, sir, that whoever views em,

Swears nothing but a doll could use 'em.
To these, if you will add a store

Of oddities upon the floor,

A pair of globes, electric balls,

Scales, quadrants, prisms and cobler's awls, And crowds of books, on rotten shelves, Octavos, folios, quartos, twelves;

[blocks in formation]

I think, dear Ned, you curious dog,
You'll have my earthly catalogue.

But stay, I nearly had left out

My bellows destitute of snout;

And on the walls,-Good Heavens! why there
I've such a load of precious ware,

Of heads, and coins, and silver medals,
And organ works, and broken pedals,
(For I was once a building music,
Though soon of that employ I grew sick)
And skeletons of laws which shoot
All out of one primordial root;

That you, at such a sight, would swear
Confusion's self had settled there.
There stands, just by a broken sphere,
A Cicero without an ear,

A neck, on which, by logic good,
I know for sure a head once stood;
But who it was the able master
Had moulded in the mimic plaster,
Whether 'twas Pope, or Coke, or Burn,
I never yet could justly learn:
But knowing well, that any head
Is made to answer for the dead,
(And sculptors first their faces frame,
And after pitch upon a name,

Nor think it ought of a misnomer

To christen Chaucer's busto Homer,

Because they both have beards, which you know,

Will mark them well from Joan, and Juno,)

For some great man, I could not tell
But NECK might answer just as well,
So perch'd it up, all in a row,
With Chatham and with Cicero.

Then all around in just degree,
A range of portraits you may see,
Of mighty men, and eke of women,
Who are no whit inferior to men.

With these fair dames, and heroes round,
I call my garret classic ground.
For though confin'd, 'twill well contain
The ideal flights of Madam Brain.
No dungeon's walls, no cell confin'd,
Can cramp the energies of mind!

Thus, though my heart may seem so small,
I've friends, and 'twill contain them all;
And should it e'er become so cold
That these it will no longer hold,

No more may heaven her blessings give,
I shall not then be fit to live.


MILD offspring of a dark and sullen sire!
Whose modest form, so delicately fine,

Was nurs'd in whirling storms,

And cradled in the winds.

Thee, when young Spring first question'd Winter's sway, And dar'd the sturdy blusterer to the fight,

Thee on this bank he threw

To mark his victory.

In this low vale, the promise of the year,
Serene, thou openest to the nipping gale,
Unnoticed, and alone,

Thy tender elegance.

So Virtue blooms, brought forth amid the storms
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk

Of life she rears her head,

Obscure and unobserv'd;

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows,
Chastens her spotless purity of breast,

And hardens her to bear

Serene the ills of life.



To the River Trent. Written on Recovery from Sickness. ONCE more, O TRENT! along thy pebbly marge. A pensive invalid, reduced and pale,

From the close sick-room newly let at large,

Wooes to his wan-woru cheek the pleasant gale.
O! to his ear how musical the tale

Which fills with joy the throstle's little throat! And all the sounds which on the fresh breeze sail, How wildly novel on his senses float!

It was on this that many a sleepless night,

As, lone, he watched the taper's sickly gleam, And at his casement heard, with wild affright, The owl's dull wing, and melancholy scream, On this he thought, this, this, his sole desire, Thus once again to hear the warbling woodland choir.


GIVE me a cottage on some Cambrian wild,
Where, far from cities, I may spend my days,
And, by the beauties of the scene beguil'd,
May pity man's pursuits, and shun his ways.

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