--The clock strikes one--I can't delay, EPISTLE II. In this sweet place, where freedom reigns, Secured by bolts and snug in chains; Where innocence and guilt together Roost like two turtles of a feather; Where debtors safe at anchor lie, From saucy duns and bailiffs sly; Where highwaymen and robbers stout, Would, rather than break in, break out: Where all's so guarded and recluse, That none his liberty can lose; Here each may, as lus means afford, Dine like a pauper or a lord, And those who can't the cost defray, Now let us ramble o'er the green, Where hermits live like snails in shells; That black balcony is the steeple; There honest William stands in state, The porter, at the horrid gate; Yet no ill-natured soul is he, Entrance to all the world is free; One thing indeed is rather hard, Egress is frequently debarred; Of all the joys within that reign, There's none like-getting out again! Across the green, behold the court, Where jargon reigns and wigs resort; Where bloody tongues fight bloodless battles, For life and death, for straws and rattles; Where juries yawn their patience out, And judges dream in spite of gout. There, on the outside of the door, (As sang a wicked wag of yore) Stands Mother Justice, tall and thin, Who never yet hath ventured in. The cause, my friend, may soon be shown The lady was a stepping stone, Till--though the metamorphose odd is-A chissel made the block a goddess: "Odd!" did I say?--I'm wrong this time; But I was hampered for a rhyme: Justice at-1 could tell you where-Is just the same as justice there. But, lo! my frisking dog attends, The rogue is twice a squirrel's size, A cloud of brown adorns his tail, That curls and serves him for a sail; His wit, if he has any, lies Somewhere between his tail and eyes; And yet the fellow ne'er is safe They start, surprised with sudden pain, A melancholy stag appears, With rueful look and flagging ears; A feeble, lean, consumptive elf, The very picture of myself! My ghost-like form, and new-moon phiz, Are just the counter parts of his: Blasted like me by Fortune's frown; Like me TWICE hunted, TWICE run down! Like me pursued, almost to death, He's come to jail to save his breath! Still, on his painful limbs, are seen The scars where worrying dogs have been; Still, in his wo-imprinted face, I weep a broken heart to trace. Daily the mournful wretch I feed, With crumbs of comfort and of bread; But man, false man! so well he knows, He deems the spec.es all his foes: Oft as his plaintive looks I see, But yonder comes the victim's wife, Then, while her eye with brilliance burns, Pricks her bobtail, and waves her ears, And happier than a queen appears: And all the wOES of LIBERTY; No dreams of hunting rack thine head; Still all her beauty, all her art, Have failed to win her husband's heart; Her lambent eyes, and lovely chest; Her swan-white neck, and ermine breast; Her taper legs, and spotty hide, So softly, delicately pied, In vain their fond aliurements spread, But, lo! the evening shadows full A warning voice, like curfew bell, To play and chatter by the fire: Soon comes a turnkey with "good night, sir!” And sometimes wake-and sometimes sleep. That soon these pleasures will be vanished FOR THE PORT FOLIO.-WALPOLE'S RICHARD THE THIRD. THE superiority of poetry over history, in producing permanent and general impressions, is in no instance more strikingly illustrated than with regard to Richard the third.. His contemporaries, and the early historians of his reign, seem disposed to regard him as a prince of equivocal and mingled qualities, which was, probably, his true character; or to misrepresent him as the factious passions of the times dictated their applause or resentment. But when Shakspeare, in order to give a more dramatic effect to his immortal scenes, and not, perhaps, without some view of gratifying the enmity of Elizabeth towards the family of Richard, chose to portray only the darker shades of his character, all the kindly doubts and the apologies for his vices, which the spirit of his age afforded, disappeared at once; and Richard the third now recalls to popular imagination no image but of the "crooked back tyrant;" the monster, "bloody, bold, and resolute;" who waded to the throne through the blood of his nearest kinsmen. The harshness of this indiscriminate condemnation, has at last excited the zeal of a generous defender, Horace Walpole, whose "historic doubts" are intended as a vindication of Richard's character. As is usual and natural on such occasions, the love of sustaining a kind of paradox has, perhaps, ied the champion of Richard too far; but his defence is al |