THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT. ERE the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no, NATURE'S ANSWER. Is't returned, as 'twas sent ? Is't no worse for the wear? Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. TO A LADY. 'Tis not the lily brow I prize, A thousand fold more dear to me That Look which Love alone can see. SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM; A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND, FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF BUTLER'S BOOK OF THE CHURCH. POET. I NOTE the moods and feelings men betray, These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed! - made up of impudence and trick, FRIEND. Enough of! we're agreed, Who now defends would then have done the deed. But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, Who but must meet the proffer'd hand half way When courteous POET. (aside) (Rome's smooth go-between!) FRIEND. Laments the advice that sour'd a milky queen— (For "bloody" all enlighten'd men confess An antiquated error of the press :) Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, With actual cautery staunch'd the Church's wounds! Yet blames them both-and thinks the Pope might err! What think you now? shield Boots it with spear and Against such gentle foes to take the field. Whose beck'ning hands the mild Caduceus wield? POET. What think I now? Ev'n what I thought before ;— What boasts tho' may deplore, Still I repeat, words lead me not astray When the shown feeling points a different way. Smooth can say grace at slander's feast, And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest; So much for you, my Friend! who own a Church, And would not leave your mother in the lurch! But when a Liberal asks me what I thinkScared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink, And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam, In search of some safe parable I roam— An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome! Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood, I see a tiger lapping kitten's food: And who shall blame him that he purs applause, Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt, LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS, No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE. Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed, All are not strong alike through storms to steer And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start, Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife, And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own, Like the weak worm that gems the starless night, And was it strange if he withdrew the ray The ascending day-star with a bolder eye Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn! Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry The spots and struggles of the timid dawn; Lest so we tempt th' approaching noon to scorn The mists and painted vapours of our morn. |