On hearing that the Mayor of Bath had been requested to exert his authority, and prevent shaving on Sundays!
Q. IN THE CORNER. FROM THE LITERARY GAZETTE,”
THOU shalt not shave on Sundays; to be saved,
None must henceforth shave others, or be shaved;
No mortal shall be found, when shutters close,
To take his fellow mortal by the nose;
No man of suds must let a stranger in,
Or pass unholy razors o'er his chin;
Spread filthy lather on the Sabbath day,
Or scrape a week's unseemliness away.
Should swain, or barber, mar a six days' growth
Upon the seventh,-ruin seize them both :--
And doubtless, by some newly-garbled text,
Washing and combing will be sinful next.
Whilst evils so minute our minds engage,
In virtue, this must be a golden age!
Or is it flimsy leaf, which thinly spread
O'er mere externals, gilds an age of lead?
Whilst they preserve such sanctity without,
Are men more pure in deeds, and more devout?
Do they on show alone their care bestow?
Or have they "that within which passes show?"
Oh! impious question; oh! most naughty doubt!
Their sanctity can ne'er abide without;
Their love of Sunday beards, their dread of sin,
Are kindred emanations from within;
All are, in truth, as pure as they appear,
And every thing is gold that glitters here!
So much they strive to purify the heart,
They scorn to purify the carnal part;
They pray with untrimm'd sanctity of face,
And e'en their very beards must grow in grace;
Each holy hair demands a world's applause,
Hairs left to flourish in a blessed cause;
And midst those beards, when every razor rests,
Small birds of paradise shall build their nests.
If any doubt them, look around and view
Their systems, and their reformations too:
New schemes, new schools, new lights, new sects arise;
New paths of peace; new short cuts to the skies;
New doctrines to each scripture text belong,
And all we once thought right, is reckon'd wrong.
And mark the consequence :-in modern times,
How scarce are sinners! and how rare are crimes!
Our penitentiaries are void within!
Now none need penitence, since none know sin!
From Judges' lips no awful doom is heard!
And Prison, is become an empty word!
FROM THE "LITERARY SOUVENIR," 1825.
MORN on the waters! and, purple and bright,
Bursts on the billows the flushing of light;
O'er the glad waves, like a child of the sun,
See the tall vessel goes gallantly on;
Full to the breeze she unbosoms her sail,
And her pennon streams onward, like hope, in the gale;
The winds come around her, in murmur and song,
And the surges rejoice as they bear her along:
See! she looks up to the golden-edged clouds,
And the sailor sings gaily aloft in the shrouds :
Onward she glides, amid ripple and spray,
Over the waters-away, and away!
Bright as the visions of youth, ere they part,
Passing away, like a dream of the heart!
Who-as the beautiful pageant sweeps by,
Music around her, and sunshine on high-
Pauses to think, amid glitter and glow,
Oh! there be hearts that are breaking below!
Night on the waves !-and the moon is on high,
Hung, like a gem, on the brow of the sky,
Treading its depths in the power of her might,
And turning the clouds, as they pass her, to light!
Look to the waters !-asleep on their breast,
Seems not the ship like an island of rest?
Bright and alone on the shadowy main,
Like a heart cherish'd home on some desolate plain!
Who-as she smiles in the silvery light,
Spreading her wings on the bosom of night,
Alone on the deep, as the moon in the sky,
A phantom of beauty-could deem with a sigh,
That so lovely a thing is the mansion of sin,
And that souls that are smitten lie bursting within?
Who, as he watches her silently gliding,
Remembers that wave after wave is dividing
Bosoms that sorrow and guilt could not sever,
Hearts which are parted and broken for ever?
Or deems that he watches, afloat on the wave,
The deathbed of hope, or the young spirit's grave?
'Tis thus with our life, while it passes along,
Like a vessel at sea, amidst sunshine and song!
Gaily we glide, in the gaze of the world,
With streamers afloat, and with canvass unfurl'd;
All gladness and glory, to wandering eyes,
Yet charter'd by sorrow, and freighted with sighs:
Fading and false is the aspect it wears,
As the smiles we put on just to cover our tears;
And the withering thoughts which the world cannot know,
Like heart-broken exiles, lie burning below;
While the vessel drives on to that desolate shore,
Where the dreams of our childhood are vanish'd and o'er.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF HEINRICH VOSS, BY MARY HOWITT.
THE maiden with brown eyes and hair
Came o'er the dewy meadows;
The nightingales were singing clear,
Among the evening shadows.
I saw and heard her stepping free;
She pass'd like sunshine o'er the lea;
I saw she was the girl for me!
Her skirts were lifted from the dew;
Her boddice fitted tightly;
Her plaited hair, her apron blue,
The night-breeze wafted lightly;
Her stockings white, as white could be;
Said I, that maiden fair to see
Is just the very girl for me!
The brindled cow her call obey'd,
Came all the meadows thorough;
|