If he wait, all is spoiled; he may stir it and shake it,

But, the fixed air once gone, he can never re-make it.

He might be a marvel of easy delightfulness,

If he would not sometimes leave the r out of sprightfulness;

And he ought to let Scripture alone-'tis selfslaughter,

For nobody likes inspiration-and-water.

He'd have been just the fellow to sup at the Mer

maid,

Cracking jokes at rare Ben, with an eye to the barmaid,

His wit running up as Canary ran down,—

The topmost bright bubble on the wave of The Town.

"Here comes Parker, the Orson of parsons, a

man

Whom the Church undertook to put under her ban,

(The Church of Socinus, I mean)—his opinions Being So- (ultra) -cinian, they shocked the Socinians;

They believed-faith I'm puzzled-I think I may call

Their belief a believing in nothing at all,

Or something of that sort; I know they all went
For a general union of total dissent :

He went a step farther; without cough or hem,
He frankly avowed he believed not in them;
And, before he could be jumbled up or prevented,
From their orthodox kind of dissent he dissented.
There was heresy here, you perceive, for the right
Of privately judging means simply that light
Has been granted to me, for deciding on you,

And in happier times, before Atheism grew,

The deed contained clauses for cooking you, too. Now at Xerxes and Knut we all laugh, yet our foot

With the same wave is wet that mocked Xerxes and Knut;

And we all entertain a sincere private notion,
That our Thus far! will have a great weight with

the ocean.

'Twas so with our liberal Christians: they bore With sincerest conviction their chairs to the shore ; They brandished their worn theological birches, Bade natural progress keep out of the Churches, And expected the lines they had drawn to prevail With the fast-rising tide to keep out of their pale; They had formerly dammed the Pontifical See, And the same thing, they thought, would do nicely for P.;

But he turned up his nose at their murmuring and shamming,

And cared (shall I say ?) not a d― for their damming;

So they first read him out of their church, and next minute

Turned round and declared he had never been in it.

But the ban was too small or the man was too big, For he recks not their bells, books, and candles a

fig;

(He don't look like a man who would stay treated shabbily,

Sophroniscus' son's head o'er the features of Rabelais;)

He bangs and bethwacks them,—their backs he salutes

With the whole tree of knowledge torn up by the

roots;

His sermons with satire are plenteously verjuiced, And he talks in one breath of Confutzee, Cass, Zerduscht,

Jack Robinson, Peter the Hermit, Strap, Dathan, Cush, Pitt (not the bottomless, that he's no faith in,)

Pan, Pillicock, Shakspeare, Paul, Toots, Monsieur Tonson,

Aldebaran, Alcander, Ben Khorat, Ben Jonson, Thoth, Richter, Joe Smith, Father Paul, Judah Monis,

Musæus, Muretus, hem,―μ Scorpionis,

Maccabee, Maccaboy, Mac-Mac-ah! Machiavelli,

Condorcet, Count d'Orsay, Conder, Say, Ganganelli,

Orion, O'Connell, the Chevalier D'O,

(See the Memoirs of Sully) TO Tаν, the great toe Of the statue of Jupiter, now made to pass For that of Jew Peter by good Romish brass,(You may add for yourselves, for I find it a bore, All the names you have ever, or not, heard before, And when you've done that-why, invent a few more.)

His hearers can't tell you on Sunday beforehand, If in that day's discourse they'll be Bibled or Koraned,

For he's seized the idea (by his martyrdom fired,)
That all men (not orthodox) may be inspired;
Yet though wisdom profane with his creed he may
weave in,

He makes it quiet clear what he doesn't believe in,
While some, who decry him, think all Kingdom
Come

Is a sort of a, kind of a, species of Hum,

Of which, as it were, so to speak, not a crumb
Would be left, if we didn't keep carefully mum,

And, to make a clean breast, that 'tis perfectly plain

That all kinds of wisdom are somewhat profane; Now P.'s creed than this may be lighter or darker, But in one thing, 'tis clear, he has faith, namely— Parker;

And this is what makes him the crowd-drawing preacher,

There's a background of god to each hard-working feature,

Every word that he speaks has been fierily furnaced

In the blast of a life that has struggled in earnest : There he stands, looking more like a ploughman than priest,

If not dreadfully awkward, not graceful at least,
His gestures all downright and same, if you will,
As of brown-fisted Hobnail in hoeing a drill,
But his periods fall on you, stroke after stroke,
Like the blows of a lumberer felling an oak,
You forget the man wholly, you're thankful to

meet

With a preacher who smacks of the field and the street,

And to hear, you're not over-particular whence, Almost Taylor's profusion, quite Latimer's sense.

"There is Bryant, as quiet, as cool, and as dignified,

As a smooth, silent iceberg, that never is ignified,
Save when by reflection 'tis kindled o' nights
With a semblance of flame by the chill Northern
Lights.

He may rank (Griswold says so) first bard of your nation,

(There's no doubt that he stands in supreme iceolation,)

Your topmost Parnassus he may set his heel on, But no warm applauses come, peal following peal

on,

He's too smooth and too polished to hang any zeal

on:

Unqualified merits, I'll grant, if you choose, he has 'em,

But he lacks the one merit of kindling enthusiasm ; If he stir you at all, it is just, on my soul,

Like being stirred up with the very North Pole.

"He is very nice reading in summer, but inter Nos, we don't want extra freezing in winter; Take him up in the depth of July, my advice is, When you feel an Egyptian devotion to ices. But, deduct all you can, there's enough that's right good in him,

He has a true soul for field, river, and wood in him;

And his heart, in the midst of brick walls, or where'er it is,

Glows, softens, and thrills with the tenderest charities,

To you mortals that delve in this trade-ridden planet?

No, to old Berkshire's hills, with their limestone and

granite.

If you're one who in loco (add foco here) desipis, You will get of his outermost heart (as I guess) a piece;

But you'd get deeper down if you came as a precipice,

And would break the last seal of its inwardest fountain,

If you only could palm yourself off for a moun

tain.

Mr. Quivis, or somebody quite as discerning,