A boar who had enjoy'd a happy reign
For many a year, and fed on many a man,
Call'd to account, soft'ning his savage eyes,
Thus, suppliant, pleads his cause before he dies.
" For what am I condemn'd? My crime's no more
" To eat a man than yours to eat a Boar.
" We seek not you, but take what chance provides,
" Nature and mere necessity our guides.
" You murder us in sport, the dish us up
" For drunken seasts, a relish for the cup.
" We lengthen not our meals; but you must feast,
" Gorge till your bellies burst — Pray, who's the beast?

What was his name? I do not know his name.
I only know he heard God's voice and came;
Brought all he loved across the sea,
To live and work for God — and me;
Felled the ungracious oak,
With horrid toil
Dragged from the soil
The thrice-gnarled roots and stubborn rock;
With plenty piled the haggard mountain-side,
And when his work was done, without memorial died.
No blaring trumpet sounded out his fame;
He lived, he died. I do not know his name.

No form of bronze and no memorial stones

My Lord, and please you, he and I,
Morn, noon, and night, in every weather,
From little children, not this high,
In the same cottage liv'd together:

Our parents left me to his care,
Saying, let no one put upon her:
" No, that I won't," says he, " I swear;"
And he ne'er lies, and like your honour.

II.

As I was saying, we grew up,

I thought I could not go astray,
So perfectly I knew the way;
Yet in a mist I miss'd it, and
Err'd now on this, now on that hand,
And till the fog was by the sun
Dispell'd, I in a maze did run
And ride as if 'twere fairie ground,
Or that the Puck had led me round;
So whiles I want a heavenly light
The day's to me as dark as night,
Which way I go I cannot tell,
Whether it be towards heaven or hell;
But this I know that there is odds,
I tread the divel's track, not God's;
For God's way strait and narrow is,

A PARISIAN REMINISCENCE .

From the doors of the Trois Freres Provençaux ,
Rich realm, where the code is the Carte ,
And the cooks are the monarchs supreme,
And the dishes the triumphs of art,
I sauntered, digestively slow,
Through the lines of the dazzling Arcade,
And forth to the Rue de Valois ,
And the gloom of its parvenu shade;
Thence on, in the dusk of the night,

TO THE PRINCESS D'AUVERGNE .

Cupid, delighting to be near her,
Charm'd to behold her, charm'd to hear her,
As he stood gazing on her face,
Enchanted with each matchless grace,
Lost in the trance, he drops the dart,
Which never fails to reach the heart:
She seizes it, and arms her hand,
“'Tis thus I Love himself command:
“Now tremble, cruel Boy!” she said,
“For all the mischief you have made.”
 The god, recov'ring his surprise,
Trusts to his wings, away he flies;
Swift as an arrow cuts the wind,

Health, honour, vertue once combin'd
To make one perfect of the female kind,
At length they met with you, and did protest
To go no further, but set up their rest
Within your armes: those now that mean to share
In them must borrow what you please to spare:
You superrogate, and there doth lye
Such store of them in your rich treasurie,
That you may well afford so much as will
Some meaner persons in good measure fill.
The after-droppings of a catarackt
Will raise the lesser brooks that water lack't,
The gleanings of your vintage will go neer

Less because Petrarch and his Muse have made
These hills and streams immortal as his fame,
Linked in melodious verse with Laura's name,
Than for thy sake, O Nature! have I strayed
To this wild region. In the rocky glade.
Deep at the mountain's base, the fountains keep
Their ceaseless gushing, till the waters leap
A mighty torrent from the endless shade;
A moment linger there in glassy rest,
Break on the craggy steep with foaming crest,
Then thunder through the chasm, swift and strong!
So burst the Poet's passion from his breast,

I.

 Soon I must hear the solemn call
(Prepar'd or not) to yield my breath;
And this poor mortal frame must fall
 A helpless prey to cruel death.

II.

Then look; my soul, look forward now,
 And anchor safe beyond the flood;
Now to the Saviour's footstool, bow,
  And get a life secure in GOD .

III.

Before these fleeting hours are gone,
 I'll bid this mortal world adieu;
 And to the Lord I'll now resign
My life, my breath, and spirit too.

IV.

Then welcome death with all its force;

'Twas finely tim'd! third Edward 's brightest days
Had, from such captains, claim'd increase of praise:
But, now, 'tis tenfold greatness, thus, to rise,
Where sense of vict'ry , lost in purse-craft , lies!
Where war but pilfers, and but bags contest;
And public honour is the public jest .
At such a time, to dare the sneerer's joke;
To rush on danger, when but foes provoke;
Un-brib'd, by profit's impulse, fight for bays,
And court no praemium , but his country's praise.
'Tis prodigy ! 'tis out of nature's road;