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Here, reader, will we pause:- if there's no harm in

My Muse 'gan weep, but,ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the Chiefs of every High- This first-you'll, have, perhaps, a second

land clan




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It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. | What nature made him at his birth, as bare (Here Satan's sole good work deserves in- As the mere million's base unmummied sertionclay

"Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) | Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,
Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont,
And heaven none they form the tyrant's
With nothing but new names subscribed
upon 't;

Twill one day finish: meantime they in


"With seven heads and ten horns," and all
in front,
Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours
are born

Less formidable in the head than horn.

In the first year of freedom's second dawn
Died George the Third: although no tyrant,


Who shielded tyrants, till each sense with-

Left him nor mental nor external sun:
A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,
A worse king never left a realm undone !
He died—but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad—and t'other no less blind.

He died!—his death made no great stir on

earth; His burial made some pomp; there was profusion

He's dead-and (upper earth with him has

He's buried; save the undertaker's bill,
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone
For him, unless he left a German will;
But where's the proctor who will ask his son?
In whom his qualities are reigning still,
Except that household virtue, most un-


Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

"God save the king!" It is a large economy
In God to save the like; but if he will
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I
Of those who think damnation better still:
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I
In this small hope of bettering future ill
By circumscribing, with some slight re-

The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.

I know this is unpopular; I know
'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd
For hoping no one else may e'er be so;
I know my catechism; I know we are cramm'd
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;
I know that all save England's church have

And that the other twice two hundred

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth Of aught but tears save those shed by And synagogues have made a damn'd bad collusion ; For these things may be bought at their true worth:

Of elegy there was the due infusionBought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,

Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the

Who cared about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe.
There throbb'd not there a thought which
pierced the pall;
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,
It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold
The rottenness of eighty years in gold.


God help us all! God help me, too! I am,
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish,
And not a whit more difficult to damn
Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish,
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb ;
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish
As one day will be that immortal fry
Of almost every body born to die.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,
And nodded o'er his keys; when lo! there


A wonderous noise he had not heard of

A rushing sound of wind, and stream,
and flame;
In short, a roar of things extremely great,
Which would have made aught save a saint

So mix his body with the dust! It might
Return to what it must far sooner, were
The natural compound left alone to fight But he, with first a start and then a wink,
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; | Said, “There's another star gone out, I
But the unnatural balsams merely blight|


But ere he could return to his repose,
A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his


At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubb'd

his nose:

"Saint porter," said the Angel," prithee rise!" Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows

An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes;

To which the Saint replied, "Well, what's the matter;

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter?"

"No," quoth the Cherub; "George the Third is dead,"

“And who is George the Third?” replied the Apostle;

"What George? what Third?” “The King of England, “said The Angel. "Well! he wo'nt find kings to jostle

Him on his way; but does he wear his head? Because the-we saw here had a tussle, And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces,

Had he not flung his head in all our faces.

He was, if I remember, king of-
That head of his, which could not keep a


On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance |
A claim to those of martyrs-like my own:
If I had had my sword, as I had once
When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;
But having but my keys, and not my brand,
I only knock'd his head from out his hand.

And then he set up such a headless howl,
That all theSaints came out, and took him in;
And there he sits by Saint Paul, cheek by

That fellow Paul - the parvenu! The skin
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin
So as to make a martyr, never sped
Better than did this weak and wooden head.

But had it come up here upon its shoulders, There would have been a different tale to tell:

The fellow-feeling in the Saints beholders Seems to have acted on them like a spell, And so this very foolish head heaven solders Back on its trunk: it may be very well, And seems the custom here to overthrow Whatever has been wisely done below.”

The Angel answer'd, "Peter! do not pout; The king who comes has head and all entire,

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As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate, Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sin, With such a glance of supernatural hate, As made Saint Peter wish himself within; He potter'd with his keys at a great rate, And sweated through his apostolic skin : Of course his perspiration was but ichor, Or some such other spiritual liquor.

The very cherubs huddled altogether,
Like birds when soars the falcon;and they felt
A tingling to the tip of every feather,
And form'd a circle, like Orion's belt,
Around their poor old charge, who scarce
knew whither

His guards had let him, though they
gently dealt
With royal manes (for, by many stories,
And true, we learn the angels all are Tories).

As things were in this posture, the gate flew
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges
Flung over space an universal hue
Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made

a new

Aurora borealis spread its fringes O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound,

By Captain Parry's crews, in "Melville's Sound."

And from the gate thrown open issued From the same book, in how polite a way beaming The dialogue is held between the Powers A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, |Of Good and Evil — but 'twould take up Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming hours; Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing

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