How faint the sparks of wit which in them shine;
Therefore I’ll leave them plodding ode, and sonnet,
And turning to my theme—begin upon it.

In verse more fluent—I’ve begun in rhyme

As mine is jocund—where no tempests rave
    To frighten priests, and damsels to devotion,
No elfs or goblins—I have thought it fitter
To tumble into verse, and write in metre.

Was rather a brunette—and yet with woman,
We call them fair, en masse, the phrase is common.

    Hair auburn, cheek of rose, and lips vermilion,
Such as some poets in their tales indite,
    When Fancy seating them in Love’s pavilion,
Upon their heroines such flatteries shower,
And metamorphose woman to a flower.

    And own, mine is no personage so grand;
No form of flowers, and fragrance decks my lay,
But such as one sees mostly, every day.

Suits man—that pendulum of vacillation.

Had set the elements in tuneful moods
    To rack their voices in rude revelry;
Thy Seasons too, when Nature can imprint her
Steps on the green—but the deuce take thy Winter.

Than gather good, for life we know, at best
Is care—and we, its riddle and its jest.

    Hath scorch’d for days, and Heav’n drops from its eyes
Rain-showers; we thank it, being wondrous dry:
    All these things, when they suddenly arise
Delight; but unexpectedly a nose
Or ear to lose, your fingers or your toes,

    To set mankind’s weak senses to the rout,
And so to cool the sad effects of season,
Sent his priest Boreas, to bring Love to Reason.

And art that prude in love, a Platonist?

Have been depriv’d of all their moments placid,
    Snar’d in the nets, thou spread’st in thy dominion,
How many lur’d with promises of frolic,
Then left to groan beneath the spleen and cholic.

Not to recount the many sins for certain
Caus’d by thy wiles, behind Love’s bed-room curtain.

    Whose love the waters quench’d, tho’ Hero’s torch
Shone bright to guide—myriads to whom a pander,
    Thy aid hath been, besides—to kill or scorch;
Not to omit poor Petrarch in his cowl,
Thou mad’st to rove like any midnight owl.

    And balmy as the breeze that breathes o’er flowers,
Fair as the lily when at morn bedew’d
And fragrant as the couch with violets strew’d,

And as the essence sweet that never dies.

But as some people like the amatory,
    And time of some few moments may be lopp’d,
I fain would tell ye this, and having done,
Plead for your grace—take breath, and so go on.

To class the terms, pass’d by the general rule,
For the best natur’d soul alive, id est, a fool.

    A Fable, which instructs, (as well as pleases,)
That ’twere in vain, to strive the motley mass
    Of minds to satisfy, which only teazes,
And leaves us, when our labour is all done,
Far from the goal, as where we first begun.

    And that, for being rather free and jolly,
Such different paths do our ideas take,
To stamp, the one a bigot, one, a rake.

Which makes us oft compare man to the devil.

In admiration of the sparkling beam
    Of a fair woman’s eye—Love’s loveliest shrine:
And tho’ a bachelor, did not disparage
The silken chain, which binds two hearts in marriage.

Rob’d in the dress of Hymen’s masquerade,
Do all but shew of what the spirit’s made.

    Tho’ morning dawns with every increase rife,
Who hath not seen its loveliest smiles ensnare,
    Caution itself, and end in tempest strife?
I wonder much if Socrates, the wise,
Thought so, when first he saw Xantippe’s eyes.

    To keep them still—still bless’d in caterwalling,
I’ve seen the man, tho’ ever so uxorious,
Find his impatience, get at this, victorious.

Begets, to add to care—incessant bore.

If such should prove the bargain he had gain’d,
    For like the rest of joys, he knew a bubble
Was that same happiness below, call’d marriage,
Which ended frequently in a miscarriage.

Had work’d its subtle poison in his frame,
Began to join the table-talk’s acclaim.

    Of having his small cloaths, more tight or wider
Than taste prescrib’d, engross’d his pride innate,
    And at a rout, whene’er he sat beside her,
The laughable queer habit he forsook
Of twitching constantly his prim perruque.

    Which never will attain a niche of fame;
What was she like, oh Muse?—Come don’t be stupid
At similes; the mother of boy-Cupid?

So sways men’s hearts, wher’er her dark eye glides.

The air, that stirs around, where thou dost move
    Is fraught with incense,—as the heav’nly zone
Which our first parents witness’d at their birth
For thou hast here, imparadis’d the Earth.—

Soar’d to the heavens,—where it alone could find
A charm of grace,—eclipsing womankind.—

    And wins the soul, to thoughts beatified;—
Vain, vain,—indeed, to muse on every scene
    And every form, which memory on her tide—
Brings to the fond remembrance of the breast,
By Beauty hallow’d, and by Love, impress’d.—

    Hath beam’d, angelically, to beguile,—
Or sailing on, hail those of Greecia’s shore
Where Sappho sung, and Helen charm’d of yore.—

There can be charms, seen in a female wit.—

But, woman, should be tenderness alone,—
    Hers, is the sweetness of the summer wave,
Which heaves its panting breast, and as it flows
Wins with the loveliness with which it glows.

Her bosom,— to the consecrated shrine
Of Love,— encircled with a charm divine;—

    And count their means with the all cautious throe
Of prudence;—In our youth we make each shift, I
    Remember caring little what might go,
In the extravagance of youth’s excesses
For funning,—feasting,—revels,—dice,—and dresses.— 

    To lead us where they will,) —we can defend
Our hearts,—when ’twixt, Reason and Love,—the schism
Grows desperate to our animal magnetism.

So Love, inflames the feelings of mankind.—

As that, which oft in spite of each endeavour
    Makes a small mad house of the human heart,—
Talk of the torments of that place below,
To love, and to despair is deeper woe.—

Of poor Baptisto,—fancy then at his age
The ludicrous expression shown, of visage.—

    The modesty of fifty, ne’er disarms
The heart from an attempt,—howe’er uncouth
    The manners are,— or destitute of charms
The person,—so the purse hangs rich and heavy
The suitor’s welcom’d at the lady’s levy.— 

    How miss receives the lover she has plann’d
Thinks, how the town will envy at her marriage
Young Mrs. Thingum, riding in her carriage.

Make,—(I’ll not tell)—so plentiful in marriage.

(Her evening dresses, by the by, were silk,
    And gingham in the morning was her gown;)
But, oh, her pastry, ’twas said to surpass
That of the queen of pie-crusts, Mrs. Glasse.

Of how to please the taste of one, who never
Knew, how to suit, the cravings of the liver.—

    With other organs;—But kind Nature, right
In all her plans, made for her own protection
    To cause pure health, or curb the sensual might
Of grosser feeders,—sets the bilious matter
To war, with all the gluttons of the platter.

    Look like Actæon, (when inflam’d to wreak
Her vengeance stern, Diana rais’d her hand
And swift, transformed him,) with her magic wand.

He hears of lawyers’ suits, and Doctors’ Commons.

Besides, who ever heard of taxing, "Lady"
    With what might be, until the thing is done.
I hate those folks, who ever are suspicious,
’Tis love of scandal, makes mankind so vicious.

Save that which all must have—born to receive
Their genealogy from mother Eve.

    Meekness in mind, and melody in tone,—
She seem’d so fram’d, to model human nature
    So thought her first spouse,— (and what’s said is known
To be quite true;) — poor man, he went beyond
His bounds,—and killed himself, from being too fond.

    And strength of voice,—and truly if reputed,
(Tho’ I don’t understand the reason why)
Improve Love’s powers, as well as voice or fry.

Brilliant, and beautiful to woo the soul.

We start and tremble, yet we pant and praise,
    Ev’n as the maiden, whose fond thoughts survey
Her lover, known to be imperfect still,
Yet loves, and looks,—despite her half-form’d will.

Nor of the sex, have something to learn still,
Why he who speaks Truth boldly, should do ill.

    The beau-ideal represented there,—
And the Apollo;—yet there seems no harm in
    Exhausting feeling in insatiate stare
By maids, and matrons;—why should we distress
Poor Truth then, with Hypocrisy’s vile dress.

    Admits a doubt,—but Truth is, that we play
All our parts badly, and when found in fault,
Exclaim, "tù quoque," likewise, and revolt.

That loves not satire’s aim in some degree?

To all, his satire,— (though not fair to tax him,)
    But Man,—his mind so seldom rightly lends
To Heav’n,—’twere hard to say and scan Earth’s throng,
If Rochefoucault and he, are much in wrong.

Too often flows from the corrupted stream
Of vanity,—its vices to redeem.

    Have seen, tho’ Sol, then with phlegmatic ray,
Gives no more warmth, (than would a dying ember
    With its last spark,) as the year flits away;
But it was frosty, and folks called it fine,
With hoary Hyems,—seated at his shrine.

    Nor do I like the feeling of nerves brac’d
When the stern rigours of the cold benumb
To the sensations of a muffled drum.

The Gods had liv’d on geese,—and tossed the feathers

From clear to clouded skies,) —sooner than any
    In all the stormy atmosphere’s wide range,—
But, what think ye,— of being found— (tho’ odd,)
As stiffly frozen as a tommy cod?—

But with the frost, the flesh looks so like marble,—
That you might say, it was,—the "véritable."—

    As deities upon the shrines of old;
And Tooke’s Pantheon, tho’ it hath display’d
    Olympus and its gods,—could not unfold—
With Jove himself,—with Hercules, or Venus
So much, pride, strength, (or chastity between us.) —

    Do not tax me, if you go lightly dress’d,—
Remember to take worsted drawers and flannel
Nor think of these, when in the Irish Channel.

As some curs’d scold,—who’s ever on the fret.

The frame,—particularly if it sums
    Your labours up with broken limb, or pate,
But such slight accidents, alone can check
Those, who are fools enough to risk their neck.—

And are an emblem in their sliding carriage,
Of the first, smoothe, swift, merriments of marriage.

    Suppose they’re found on all roads, where’s your cure?
It makes my simile,— (if you so get
    A toss, or jolt,) not at all premature,
For Hymen is the road, most of us take
And they are fortunate, who get no shake, 

    Round the Asphaltes Lake,—and under all
Their bright luxuriancy, but dust contain
As if to shew us, all below was vain.—

Joining the mirth, then scandalizing after.

And there are such temptations to ensnare
    The soul no way inclin’d in being sheepish,
That ’twould be odd, if any one escap’d
Of being damn’d, denounc’d,—abus’d, or ap’d.

The evils of to-day,—suffic’d his reason,—
To-morrow’s,—would come soon enough in season.

    Smiles, at this hour, and at th’ ensuing, tears;—
Nature presents both aspects to our view,
    But in her mirth, more often a mask wears
Than we suspect:—so little is the portion
Pleasure makes real,—who brings forth an abortion. 

    Of Pleasure’s pastimes, which at length estrange
All sober habits,—such as greatly shock
The soul who goes to bed at ten o’clock.—

I don’t think, we improve much, by the preaching.

And as the heart gets deeper into debt
    With its own feelings,— oft exhausts the treasures
Of Hope, and fancied Happiness;—so real
A connoisseur is Love of the "ideal."

Hallow’d with loveliness,—and,—and sweeter things
Which woman’s glance bears on its dove-like wings.—

    With poverty,—no straiten’d sour finances
As to have duns, each morning at his door
    To mar his breakfast-meal with stern advances:—
That partnership of Poverty, and Co —
Is one, unpleasant in th’ extreme to know.— 

    Career,—she ends the labours of our trade
Whether it be, for empire,—Love, or money
To give us gall, when we expected, honey.—

Found Hymen come to tickle with its sneeze.

To one fair object, as the feelings flow
    Warm, pure, and fervent,—when no vale of tears
Hath cross’d our youthful wand’rings,—and no care
Has fallen to our unembitter’d share.—

But above all to see one face, more dear
Than all beside,—o’erjoy’d e’en to a tear.—

    That from our sickness, we no more, may rise;—
Cares, may encompass sometimes,—we forget
    Ev’n cares, when true affections sympathize,—
Envy may reach,—and Calumny may dart,—
But we live, safe, at least, in one fond heart.— 

    Steps forth, to woo, the hopes which so invite
The dawning fancy on its youthful wing,
Smiling and sweet, as the first bloom of Spring.—

And like some stars, assuredly must fall.—

Intensely,—was his happiness at last;—
    It only wanted now, the ring, and priest,
To fix his fate,—the dame was all consent:—
I hope, like some folks, they would not repent—

But the world talk’d,—setting its tongue at work
On what,—touch’d it, no more, than the Grand Turk.—

    Than she was wont,— the stars were spread on high,
Bespangling o’er the azure arch of Heaven:
    A glorious, golden fretted canopy;—
It was th’ appointed hour,— to seal the fate
Of Annette’s, and Baptisto’s single state.— 

    (As it was said,) —Death of some later pother
In being before-hand with him,—and ending
His patient’s pains—which is one way of mending,—

For twenty years, at least,—had grac’d the town.—

Had done to others;—Nature’s is a lap
    The softest, and the sweetest in creation,
And Love, without a chain, has charms, they say,
Beyond the zest, of law’s more fetter’d sway.—

His hearers, with the wonderful relations
Of all, he’d seen, amongst the Indian Nations.

    As bark, stew’d down, ’till you believ’d the acts
And of grass soup;—next,—he would make you stare
    Of wrestling with a buffalo,—and facts
I scarcely dare, in seriousness here mention,
For fear you’d think they were my own invention.

    To make a jurisprudence of the matter
His praises grew exstatic, in their service,—
Nor wonder, when, you know, Sam, was no Dervise.—

"To keep its vigour, in due preservation."—

And yet the lawer could make trite remark
    And had prevented many a flagrant sinner,
(By quibble, quirk, and eloquential hum)
Making his "exit," like a pendulum.—

Whilst Shark talk’d on, saying "I can assure ye
"You were all wrong, de facto, et de jure."

    Enter’d, and made their oratory clue
All canvass up,—for Sam’s mind, soon to arson
    Had been enflam’d, so high his feelings grew
Whilst Shark an insult courted,—on the itch
For a law-suit,—knowing that Sam was rich.—

    Into the lists of old maids, when age quell’d her
Bright dreams of Hope, and therefore direly hated
To go, where she saw others elevated,

Arose, to jaundice o’er her looks, and smile.

Not to forget, gay Captain Casey,—strapp’d
    From head to heel in gold,—who spoke the brogue
In all its elegance,—and as to cousins
And their connexions,—they came by the dozens.

Which must be done,) and the affair was over,
And wife and husband transform’d from the lover.

    Were the convivial sports,—whilst raillery’s tongue
Jok’d the new pair,—and Casey, fond of punning
    When he could get a listener, among
Those, who surrounded,—set his wits to fret,
And said Baptisto had got in a net. 

    Words, between Sam, and Shark,—but they had had
So many onsets with such like offences,
That both knew how to parry consequences.

To woo soft sleep, and to its couch retire.

In rich luxuriance,—as if Queen Mab sent
    Her charioteer across their nose to creep;—
But in the young,—’tis difficult to say
How far her magic influence held its sway.

To charm the brain with, and o’er every range
Of years, or purport, acts with varied change.

    Saving the bridal couple,—tho’ upon
Their joyous footsteps, let the veil be clos’d,—
    Perhaps kind Morpheus had usurp’d the throne
Of Cupid by this time,—for even Love
Must have its rest, as nightingale, or dove.

    Fresh hours of rapture with the morning’s charms;
But all at once, as if the house ’twould shatter,
There rose a tintinnabulary clatter.

Of sound,—in moan and tone, both shrill and hoarse.

Hope, grief, despair, and every other antic
    Which poets can invent or fancy rout
From out the kalendar of thought and Time
To give its cast, a seasoning of sublime.

To the odd sounds, which in the street she heard
But who, at this first summons had not stirr’d.

    Still groan’d aloud,—again,—again, she shook
(For her tongue fail’d), more sharply than before,
    When with a sudden, startled bound, which took
All her remaining power away, with fright,—
Baptisto jump’d, and rais’d himself upright,

    Her lovely form,—all speechless as she lay,—
"Why, what’s the matter,"—whilst returning sense
Reliev’d him, as he heard the blows intense.

A sight, as if the city had rebell’d

With every sort of implement for noise,
    Join’d to the yell of fools, and bray of asses,—
But above all,— one group, equipp’d and dress’d
Deserves to be describ’d, beyond the rest.

But on this animal of some queer genus
There sat a youth,— though not the boy of Venus,

    Surpass’d Sir Hudibras’, or Falstaff’s too;—
And visage cas’d within a mask’s disguise,
    To which vile Caliban, in every view
(Nor yet comparison, more closely follow)
Had seem’d Antinöus, or Apollo.

    Or I may say, a sign of some odd trade,
But wherefore deem’d, when so profusely crown’d
I leave for sager reasoners to expound.

He look’d antique, and awful,—gaunt, and tall.

And some in frolic, made it a resort,
    For such a crowd in Canada’s a rarity,
Not as in England,—where your mob’s, a measure
For people to declare their "Freedom’s" pleasure.

To bar his rights,—Hunt,—Hone,— or any job,—
(No matter what,) are pretexts for a mob;—

    Of Constitution,— chos’n, to represent
A mass of others,—and this same selection
    Is term’d "the Common’s House of Parliament;"
The jurisprudence, ruling o’er the nation
The same, that caus’d King Charles’ decapitation. 

    And laid his proud schemes of dominion, flat,—
Tho’ some cry out they never knew so mean, a
Trick, as to keep him, coop’d at St. Helena.—

Old England seems to keep, her standard, still.—

Therefore, I will not utter more excuses
But stand to critics, cavils, and abuses.—

    Upon supplies, or on finances fall,—
The reason obviously clear to trace is,—
    They understand, "the Arithmetical,"—
Profit and Loss,—Tare,—Tret—Discount or Barter,—
And any "Bill,"—better than "Magna Charta."— 

    To bind their privileges to a spot,
But these, "soi-disant" patriots,—their communion
Bars any creed, whose psalmody is "Union."—

Cried out, "pray, love,—put on your pantaloons;"—

Particularly those, who must knock under
    With bleeding nose, and face, or tarnish’d laurels,
For, none, whatever be their rank, or station,
Whose Pride’s not sore, at getting molestation,—

With bachelor;— or widower with spinster
And set the wags of sporting humour, in stir.—

    And put the tribes of savages to rout
Where heretofore,—Nature was wild and antic,
    And men, and women roam’d the woods, without
More cloaths, than Adam, or than Eve, invented
With leaves, to hide the sexes, being idented;—

    In woollens,—which, (’twixt you and I, auricular
Id est, in secret,) is the nastiest fashion
Of keeping up, a violent perspiration.—

Nor even, once, had shiver’d with the cold:—

 And John, tho’ frighten’d as the maids, nought saying,
And the two Catholics,— crossing themselves, and praying.

Nought said,—but putting on his dressing gown
And inexpressibles, and cap, went boldly down.

    For poor Baptisto,—who, at length appearing
Brought forth a clap, like that when thunder palls,
    And startles every sense, and deadens hearing,—
And made the street, so echo with the strain
You would have thought; Chaos had come again.— 

    (For Time without some change, is dull society,)—
What signifies a broken head or two,
Provided it is neither I,—nor you?—

Or every mortal, his own Aristotle?—

Our soul from ill, and be our best bower anchor)
    We should oft fall in a dejected state;—
No matter,— banish Care;—Does it avail ye, a
Sorrow the less?—if not,— make Life, a Saturnalia.

The only man, who does not, this way, tire one,
Is that most fascinating fellow—Byron.—

    Has made immortal with her glorious light;
Who, in thy dawn of Fame, first hail’d the shore
    Where, all that Glory’s smile, or Beauty’s site
Can hallow into praise, the soul to haunt:
Still,—still, around that all inspiring font

    Eternaliz’d in Glory’s glittering van,—
And fraught with charms, which Nature’s bounteous hand
Hath shower’d in loveliness along the land:—

Shall memorize them, and thee, in endless Fame.—

Their jibes and ridicule in waggish mood
     And many other different modes, appealing
To the splenetic organs, which arouse
The bile, in every cause, which we espouse.—

Then follow’d murmurs, with an oath or two,
At which the laughter more excessive grew.

    "To mark in this incomprehensive tone,—
"The compliments, your voices have maintain’d
    "No doubt, most flattering adulations own,
"How’er, you’ve not been understood, in these,
"More than the cackling of so many geese."

    "Knowing particularly each protraction
"Would only bring my doors down, and my dishes—
"Pray, have the goodness to explain your wishes?"

A mob,—who are most difficult to please.—

Thought to controul,—and which, a salted potion
    Had nearly to some courtiers been, whom he
Bade not withdraw,—and striving thus to rule,
Proved himself, like some since,—a royal fool.

It is too oft, the custom to suppose
The rich, are wisest,—who wear finest cloaths.

    We could survey,—stern Reason, a despiser,
Would have enough to do with record’s task;—
    Not that from spendthrift, we should be the miser,
And live for self,—or cynically grub
Like stern Diogenes, within his tub.—

    Or any thing to part our steps asunder:—
Now, poor Baptisto’s was the situation
Just, now, to wish, all people to damnation.

Why we forget, and swear an oath again.—

(And, oh, forgive me,— dames,) a scolding wife
    Or two, or three spoilt children in a room,
A rain storm when you wish the day serene
Are all most curs’d promoters of the spleen.

Oh, think, from heat to cold, if one should force you
Like Falstaff hissing hot, as any horse-shoe.

    The more impetuous call’d with voices loud,
"Crown him with horns then, if it is denied
    "Come, come, no wavering;" others there avow’d;
Whilst some most forward in this resolution
Stepp’d forth to put the threat in execution.— 

    And dire expence to put folks to taxation,—
This difference also,—that it cost Baptiste
Full thirty gallons of old rum, at least.—

To the obsequious wishes of the crowd.—

Of one short half hour’s space,—by the creation
    Of this same frolic, not so sweet as kisses,
But as there’s Time for all things,—we may say
The future hours repaid, the past’s delay.—

To all, who may or have not been amus’d
With thoughts, in harmless humour here diffus’d.

    Is not so bad, as to get drunk with beer,
For that is fashionable, and not sinking
    To the low practice of the vulgar cheer,—
But I can’t say, that Satire, we should suffer
More than th’ abuse of sweep, or candle-snuffer. 

    Whose sects are the vile bug-bears of creation:—
He filches us of reputation,—nay, man
Is a more noxious thief, than your highway man.

And strive too oft to soar with leaden wings.

These may be weighty,—stern considerations,
    To those, whose hearts are puff’d with vanity;—
But mine is simply in my roundelay
To wile, perchance, an idle hour away.—

And not delay his happiness, so late,
But learn a lesson from Baptisto’s fate.—