Woke Hercules, who in a trice

Whipp'd up the knaves, and, with a splice
He kept on purpose-which before
Had served for giants many a score—
To end of club tied each rogue's head fast ;
Strapping feet too, to keep them steadfast;
And pickaback them carries townwards,
Behind his brawny back, head downwards;
(So foolish calf—for rhyme, I bless X.—
Comes nolens volens out of Essex ;)
Thinking to brain them with his dextra,
Or string them up upon the next tree.
That club-so equal fates condemn―
They thought to catch has now catch'd them.

Now, Hercules, we may suppose,
Was no great dandy in his clothes;
Was seldom, save on Sundays, seen
In calimanco or nankeen;

On anniversaries, would try on
A jerkin, spick-span new, from lion;
Went bare for the most part, to be cool,
And save the time of his groom of the stole.
Besides, the smoke he had been in
In Stygian Gulf had dyed his skin
To a natural sable-a right hell-fit,

That seem'd to careless eyes black velvet.

The brethren from their station scurvy,
Where they hung dangling topsy-turvy,
With horror view the black costume;
And each presumes his hour is come:
Then softly to themselves 'gan mutter
The warning words their dame did utter;
Yet not so softly, but with ease
Were overheard by Hercules.

Quoth Cacus, "This is he she spoke of,
Which we so often made a joke of."

"I see," said the other; "thank our sin for't,
'Tis Black Back, sure enough we're in for't."
His godship, who, for all his brag

Of roughness, was at heart a wag,
At his new name was tickled finely,
And fell a-laughing most divinely.
Quoth he, "I'll tell this jest in heaven;
The musty rogues shall be forgiven;"
So, in a twinkling, did uncase them,
On mother-earth once more to place them.
The varlets, glad to be unhamper'd,
Made each a leg, then fairly scamper'd.

A FRAGMENT.

66

[His Satanic Majesty seems to have been exceedingly popular with the English bards and bardlings of thirty and odd years ago. The London booksellers' counters were covered with "Devil's Walks," "True Devil's Walks," "Devil's Drives," "Devil's Progresses," 'Devil's Bargains," and I know not how many more poems on the same renowned personage. Not only Southey and Coleridge chose Beelzebub for the subject of a poem, but even Elia sang of Satan, and told in immortal verse the true and wonderful history of the Devil's courtship and marriage; which was published in a dainty little tome, with six humorous designs, price one shilling. The exact title of the work, the bibliographical reader will be pleased to learn, is "Satan in Search of a Wife; with the whole Progress of his Courtship and Marriage, and who danced at the Wedding. By an Eye-witness."

And although the market was rather overstocked with poems concerning the Evil One, Lamb's little effusion had a pretty fair sale. The copyright on a shilling volume must have been very small; yet Elia, in a letter to a friend, says, "You hinted that there might be something under ten pounds by and by accruing to me,—devil's money, (you are sanguine; say seven pounds ten shillings)."

The merits of this jeu d'esprit are very small; indeed it is about the poorest thing its author ever printed yet many would like to see it-simply because Charles Lamb

wrote it. But I have not been able to find a copy of "Satan in Search of a Wife."

The following extract from the work, which appeared in an old Number of the Athenæum, will, no doubt, be acceptable to some of Lamb's readers. If we cannot get the whole cake, let us be thankful for the smallest bit thereof.— EDITOR.]

THE Devil was sick and queasy of late,

And his sleep and his appetite fail'd him :

His ears they hung down; and his tail it was clapp'd

Between his poor hoofs, like a dog that's been rapp'd.

None knew what the devil ail'd him.

He tumbled and toss'd on his mattress o' nights,
That was fit for a fiend's disportal;

For 'twas made of the finest of thistle and thorn.
Which Alecto herself had gather'd in scorn

Of the best down-beds that are mortal.

His giantly chest in earthquakes heaved,

With groanings corresponding;

And mincing and few were the words he spoke, While a sigh, like some delicate whirlwind, broke

From a heart that seem'd desponding.

Now, the Devil an old wife had for his dam;

I think none e'er was older :

Her years-old Parr's were nothing to them;
And a chicken to her was Methusalem,

You'd say, could you behold her.

She remember'd Chaos a little child,
Strumming upon hand-organs :

At the birth of old Night a gossip she sat,
The ancientest there; and was godmother at
The christening of the Gorgons.

Her bones peep'd through a rhinoceros's skin, Like a mummy through its cerement;

But she had a mother's heart, and guess'd
What pinch'd her son, whom she thus address'd
In terms that spoke endearment :-

"What ails my Nicky, my darling imp,
My Lucifer bright, my Beelze?
My pig, my pug-with-a-curly-tail,
You are not well: can a mother fail
To see that which all hell see?'

"O mother dear! I am dying, I fear :
Prepare the yew and the willow,

And the cypress black; for I get no ease,
By day or by night, for the cursed fleas
That skip about my pillow."

"Your pillow is clean, and your pillow-beer,
For I wash'd 'em in Styx last night, son,
And your blankets both, and dried them upon
The brimstony banks of Acheron :

It is not the fleas that bite, son.

I wish my Nicky is not in love."
"O mother, you have nick'd it!

And he turn'd his head aside with a blush
Not red-hot pokers, or crimson plush,

Could half so deep have prick'd it.

FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS

FRENCH

TEACHER AT MRS GISBORN'S SCHOOL,

ENFIELD.*

IMPLORED for verse, I send you what I can;
But you are so exact a French-woman,
As I am told, Jemima, that I fear

To wound with English your Parisian ear,
And think I do your curious volume wrong,
With lines not written in the Frenchman's tongue.
Had I a knowledge equal to my will,

With airy chansons I your leaves would fill;
With fables that should emulate the vein
Of sprightly Gresset or of La Fontaine
Or scènes comiques that should approach the air
Of your favourite, renowned Molière,

But at my suit the Muse of France looks sour,
And strikes me dumb! Yet what is in my power
To testify respect for you, I pray

Take in plain English-our rough Enfield way.

TO C. ADERS, ESQ.,t

ON HIS COLLECTION OF PAINTINGS BY THE OLD GERMAN
MASTERS.

FRIENDLIEST of men, Aders, I never come
Within the precincts of this sacred room,
But I am struck with a religious fear,
Which says,

"Let no profane eye enter here."

* From Blackwood's Magazine, 1829.
+ From Hone's Year Book.