O Boy! and wert thou once a child,
A cherub small and soft,

On whom two human beings smiled,
And prayed for, oft and oft?

A creature rosy, plump, and fair,
Half meekness and half joy;
A wingless angel with light hair!
Oh wert thou, Butcher-boy?

A thing more gentle, laughing, light,
More blithe, more full of play,
Than e'er he was—that luckless wight!
The lamb you stuck to-day?

And thou, O Dog, with deep-set eyes, Wert thou, like Love, once blind : With helpless limbs of pigmy size,

And voice that scarcely whined?

How grew your legs so like to his,
Your growl so like his tone?
And when did he first see your phiz

Reflected in his own?

Bravely have both your

likeness worn ;

Alike, without, within;

Brethren ye are, and each was born,

Like Happiness, ‘a twin !'

Yet can it be, oh, Butcher-boy,

Thou com'st of Adam's race? Then Adam's gold has much alloy, Was this his form and face?

Art thou descended from the pair
From whom the Cæsars came?

Wore Alexander such an air?

Look'd Cheops much the same ?

And thou, oh, Butcher's cur, is't true
That thy first parents e'er

From Eden's garden lapped the dew,
And breathed in rapture there?

Yes! those from whom you spring, no doubt, Who lived like dogs and died,

Must once have followed Eve about,

1842.

And walked by Adam's side.

SUCH A DUCK.

ONCE Venus, deeming Love too fat,
Stopped all his rich ambrosial dishes,
Dooming the boy to live on chat,

To sup on songs, and dine on wishes.
Love, lean and lank, flew off to prowl—
The starvelling now no beauty boasted—
He could have munched Minerva's owl,
Or Juno's peacock, boiled or roasted.

At last, half famished, almost dead,

He shot his Mother's Doves for dinner;

Young Lilla, passing, shook her head—

Cried Love, 'A shot at you, young sinner!' 'Oh, not at me!'-she urged her flight

'I'm neither dove, nor lark, nor starling!' 'No,'-fainting Cupid cried-' not quite; But then-you're such a-duck-my darling !'

A SONG OF CONTRADICTIONS.

"I am not what I am.'-Iago.

THE Passions, in festival meeting,
I saw seated round, in a dream;
And vow, by my hatred of cheating,

The Passions are not what they seem.
There's mirth under faces the gravest,
There's woe under visages droll;
There's fear in the breast of the bravest,
And light in the desolate soul.

Thus Joy, in my singular vision,

Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth;

While Gentleness scoffed in derision,

And Hope picked the buds from his wreath.

Despair, her tight bodice unlacing,

With Laughter seemed ready to die; And Hate, her companions embracing, Won each with a smile or a sigh.

There Peace bellowed louder and louder,
For Freedom, sent off to the hulks ;

Fear sat on a barrel of powder,

And Pleasure stood by in the sulks.

Y

Here Dignity shoots like a rocket
Past Grace, who is rolling in fat ;
There Probity's picking a pocket,
Here Pity sits skinning a cat.

Then Temperance reeling off, quite full,
Charged Friendship with drugging her draught
She vowed it was Love that was spiteful,
While Charity, blaming all, laughed;
When Rage, with the blandest expression,
And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child,
Cried, ‘Mercy, forgive the transgression!'
But Mercy look'd horribly wild.

Old Wisdom was worshipping Fashion,
And Jollity dozing in gloom;
While Meekness was foaming with passion,
And Misery danced round the room.
Sweet Envy tripped off to her garret,
Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust,
Gay Want was enjoying his claret,
And Luxury gnawed a dry crust.

At Pride, as she served up the dinner,
Humility turned up her nose;
Suspicion shook hands with each sinner,

While Candour shunned all as her foes.
There's mirth under faces the gravest,
There's woe under visages droll,
There's fear in the breast of the bravest,
And light in the desolate soul!