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But beforehand, with wax or the shoemaker's

pitch, You must build a neat dyke round the margin, in . which

You may pour the dilute aquafortis.. For if raw, like a dram, it will shock you to trace, Your design with a horrible froth on its face,

Like a wretch in articulo mortis.

Like a wretch in the pangs that too many endure, From the use of strong waters, without any pure,

A vile practice, most sad and improper! For, from painful examples, this warning is found, That the raw burning spirit will take up the ground,

In the churchyard, as well as on copper!

But the Acid has duly been lower'd, and bites
Only just where the visible metal invites,

Like a nature inclined to meet troubles ;
And behold! as each slender and glittering line
Effervesces, you trace the completed design

In an elegant bead-work of bubbles !

And yet, constantly, secretly, eating its way,
The shrewd acid is making the substance its prey,

Like some sorrow beyond inquisition,
Which is gnawing the heart and the brain all the

while That the face is illumined by its cheerfullest smile, And the wit is in bright ebullition. VOL. II.

15

But still stealthily feeding, the treacherous stuff Has corroded and deepened some portions enough

The pure sky, and the water so placidAnd these tenderer tints to defend from attack, With some turpentine, varnish, and sooty lamp

You must stop out the ferreting acid. [black

But before with the varnishing brush you proceed, Let the plate with cold water be thoroughly freed

From the other less innocent liquorAfter which, on whatever you want to protect, Put a coat that will act to that very effect,

Like the black one that hangs on the Vicar.

• Then the varnish well dried—urge the biting again, But how long at its meal the eau forte may remain,

Time and practice alone can determine: But of course not so long that the Mountain, and

Mill,
The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you

will,
Are as black as the spots on your ermine.

It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap, With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest,

mayhap, Is considered as rather Rembrandty; And that very black cattle, and very black sheep, A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep

Are the pets of some great Dilettante.

So with certain designers, one needs not to name,
All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame,
· From our birth to our final adjourning-
Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack !
What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as

black
As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!

But before your own picture arrives at that

pitch,

While the lights are still light, and the shadows,

though rich, More transparent than ebony shutters, Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say, Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away,

As you please, into bottles or gutters.

Then removing the ground and the wax at a heat, Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti, or sweet

For your hand a performance scarce properSo some careful professional person secureFor the Laundress will not be a safe amateur

To assist you in cleaning the copper. ,

And, in truth, 'tis a rather unpleasantish job,
To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob-

Though as sure of an instant forgetting
When--as after the dark clearing off of a storm-
The fair landscape shines out in a lustre as warm

As the glow of the sun in its setting !

Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint,
That with certain assistance from paper and print,
· Which the proper Mechanic will settle,
You may charm all your Friends — without any

sad tale
Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale-

With a fine India Proof of your Metal.

DEATH'S RAMBLE."

One day the dreary old King of Death ·

Inclined for some sport with the carnal, So he tied a pack of darts on his back,

And quietly stole from his charnel.

His head was bald of flesh and of hair

His body was lean and lank, His joints at each stir made a crack, and the cur

Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.

And what did he do with his deadly darts,

This goblin of grisly bone? He dabbled and spilld man's blood, and he kill'd

Like a butcher that kills his own.

The first he slaughter'd it made him laugh,

(For the man was a coffin-maker,) To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,

Would mourn for an undertaker.

Death saw two Quakers sitting at church,

Quoth he, “ We shall not differ.”
And he let them alone, like figures of stone,

For he could not make them stiffer.

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