These set the appetite a-raving,
Yet satisfy the fiercest craving:
And let me tell you when you've pass'd
An idle day from first to last,
And labour'd hard at doing little,—
The stomach hungereth after victual.
"Tis getting late :-Oh, that's no matter→→ Here! stay there's brandy-there's the waterThe sugar,-mix, yourself!-no doubt
(Some drink "warm with," some" cold without," You'll take what best your taste delights :But something must be had a-nights!
Then sitting, lad, behind the glass,
While the late moments mutely pass,
We whiff the fragrant mild cigar,
And mount upon the silver car
Of its bright clouds, in spirits then,-
And dream into ethereal men !
-To bed-to bed as Macbeth's wife
Whisper'd in sleep: the springs of life
Are gone down with the sunken day ;-
And, we must rest. To bed-away!
Such be your in- door pastime :-can
A tidier be contrived for man?-
If you would read ;-Ned Ward (not I)
The wit;-Tom Brown-Arbuthnot-lie
In a recess mahogany ;—
With Swift and Congreve-Vanbrugh-all
That made our language magical !—
The less of reading, though, the better-
This is the burden of my letter.
No more now write, and say you come,
Change your book cell for a warm room ;—
With London spirits all about you,
And one with you, who's nought without you!
NED WARD, Jun.
P. S. Should you not "stir at this," I'll write
More wonders on another night;-
And show you "London Town" outright!
"POURQUOI EXISTONS-NOUS ?"-VOLTAIRE.
DOCTORS, though skill'd in Nature's laws,
Are posed to find a final cause
Why first she breathed upon man's clay,
And call'd him forth to light and day.
To man, they ask, can it be given,
Poor worm, to glorify high Heaven?
Or can Omnipotence require
The nasal praise of earthly quire ?
And, more presumptuous still, they task
The fountain of their breath, and ask,
Can Providence its business further
By wars and famine, lust, and murder,-
In tears, in sighs, and blood delighting,
The equal fruits of love and fighting?
Such are the knotty points and curious
Which men, by too much love made furious,
Turn on all sides,-as dogs an urchin,-
Yet gain no truth by all their searching.
Their reasoning, like the tread- mill's round,
Covers the same eternal ground,
And all their steps repeated o'er
Leave them-just where they were before.
Some old man born to live alone,
To fast and prey, to sigh and moan;
Others as sapiently suppose
Life's end is seated on the nose,*
All virtue and perfection stinting
Within the narrow bounds of squinting.
So Western sages make it vicious
When men grow thinking and suspicious;
And deem it not a venial slip,
To look beyond the nose's tip;
Some recommend a spiritual purging
Of sin, by means of corporal scourging;
While some would spend our prime's best age
In vagabonding pilgrimage.
Of strange opinions there's no dearth—
Some think our business here on earth
Is to consume the night's still noon
In closest conference with the moon;
To fly upon the visual wing
And pick up news from Saturn's ring.
There are, and surely these have reason,
Who life with mirth and pleasure season.
There are who hold, most indiscreet,
That life is one perpetual treat,
A feast, a mere debauch, a revel,
And in hard drinking seek their level.
* The Indian Fakeers sit for days with their eyes fixed on the point of their nose.
The wiser deem the task of man
On earth is but himself to scan,
To help a brother in distress,
To the great goal of knowledge press,
T' enlarge the narrow bounds of mind,
New remedies for evils find,
Firmly to guard his country's laws,
And bravely bleed in Freedom's cause..
When the great cause of life I'd know,
To such philosophers I'd go:
With them I'd laugh at all those blockheads,
Who for opinion's sake would knock heads,
And limit every Christian brain
To hold, just what their own contain:
With them I'd think, with them I'd doubt,
And hope I'd made the puzzle out.
But, since the Fates degree to twine,
thy thread of life with mine,
The sceptic sinks into the lover;
Nor care I longer to discover
A better cause why man should be,
Than simply to exist with thee.
Reposing on thy faithful breast,
All doubts for ever sink to rest.
On thee I gaze, and the bless'd sight
Proves that "whatever is, is right;"
While, pleased, I own, howe'er life tend,
The means must sanctify the end.
WRITTEN ON SEEING A GREEK AT VAUXHALL.
THE author of the following beautiful lines has, if we mistake not, erred, in placing the scene at Vauxhall, as the Greek could not have happened to enter the gardens by chance, and; if he went purposely, his purpose must be to enjoy, like others, the festivities of the place. How, then, could he be said to
"Gaze around” him "with unquiet eye,
As if the music and light revelry
But stamp'd a deeper sadness in" his "mind?"
Still he beheld nor mingled with the throng,
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate.
Thy soul is o'er the waters-there is not.
For scenes like these a sympathy within;
And thou dost turn thee from the restless din
Of pleasure's many voices, to the spot
Where all thy soul's affections are enshrined;
And gaze around thee with unquiet eye,
As if the music and light revelry
But stamp a deeper sadness in thy mind.
Thou think'st of those firm hearts and trusty hands
Which throb and strive for liberty and right,
And every tranquil vale and giant height,
Which lies or rises in that "land of lands,"
Where the blue sky hangs smilingly above
The rushing Hellespont, with looks of love.
London Magazine.“
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