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Were perfect in our kind! And why despise
Is he obstinate?
brawn'd And baconised; that he must please to give Just what his gracious masters please to take ; Perhaps his tusks, the weapons Nature gave For self-defence, the general privilege ; Perhaps, ... hark, Jacob, dost thou hear that
horn ? Woe to the young posterity of Pork ! Their enemy's at hand.
Again. Thou say'st The pig is ugly. Jacob, look at him! Those eyes have taught the lover flattery. His face,-nay, Jacob, Jacob, were it fair To judge a lady in her dishabille ? Fancy it drest, and with saltpetre rouged. Behold his tail, my friend ; with curls like that The wanton hop marries her stately spouse : So crisp in beauty Amoretta's hair Rings round her lover's soul the chains of love. And what is beauty, but the aptitude
THE PIG. Of parts harmonious ? give thy fancy scope, And thou wilt find that no imagined change Can beautify this beast. Place at his end The starry glory of the peacock's pride ; Give him the swan's white breast; for his horn
hoofs Shape such a foot and ancle as the waves Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss, When Venus from the enamoured sea arose. . . Jacob, thou canst but make a monster of him ! All alteration man could think would mar His pig-perfection.
The last charge :-he lives A dirty life. Here I could shelter him With noble and right-reverend precedents, And shew by sanction of authority That 'tis a very honourable thing To thrive by dirty ways. But let me rest On better ground the unanswerable defence. The pig is a philosopher, who knows No prejudice. Dirt ? Jacob,—what is dirt ? If matter, ... why the delicate dish that tempts An o'ergorged epicure to the last morsel That stuffs him to the throat-gates, is no more. If matter be not, but, as sages say, Spirit is all, and all things visible Are one, the infinitely modified ; Think, Jacob, what that pig is, and the mire Wherein he stands knee-deep.
And there! that breeze Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
37 That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom’d field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.
Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the Admiral of the
Orient, remained at his post, in the battle of the Nile, after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned. He perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but he had fled ;
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm ;
A proud though childlike form.
The flames rolled on-he would not go,
Without his father's word;
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud, “Say, father, say,
If yet my task is done !"
Unconscious of his son.
“Speak, father!" once again he cried,
“If I may yet be gone!
And fast the flames rollid on.
And in his waving hair,
In still yet brave despair.
“My father, must I stay ?”
The wreathing fires made way.
They caught the flag on high,
Like banners in the sky.
The boy,-oh, where was he?
With fragments strew'd the sea !
That well had borne their part;
Perceive its gentle rise.
With many a stroke and strong The labouring boatmen upward plied their oars, Yet little way they made, though labouring long,
Between thy winding shores.
Now down thine ebbing tide
And sings an idle song.
Now o'er the rocks that lay
Through wider-spreading shores.
Avon ! I gaze and know
So rapidly decay.
Kingdoms which long have stood, And slow to strength and power attained at last, Thus from the summit of high fortune's flood
They ebb to ruin fast.