In every soil behold the poison spring!
Can taint the beggar, and infect the king.

The mighty Marlborough pilfered cloth and bread;
So
says that gentle satirist Squire Pope;

And Peterborough's Earl upon this head,

Affords us little room to hope,

That what the Twitnam bard avowed,
Might not be readily allowed.

THE COUNTRY LASSES.

PETER PINDAR.

Peter lasheth the Ladies.-He turneth Story-teller.-Peter grieveth.

ALTHOUGH the ladies with such beauty blaze,
They very frequently my passion raise—
Their charms compensate, scarce, their want of taste.
Passing amidst the Exhibition crowd,

I heard some damsels fashionably loud;
And thus I give the dialogue that pass'd.

"Oh! the dear man!” cried one, "look! here's a bonnet!

He shall paint me--I am determin'd on it—

Lord! cousin, see! how beautiful the gown!

What charming colors! here's fine lace, here's gauze ! What pretty sprigs the fellow draws!

Lord, cousin! he's the cleverest man in town!"

"Ay, cousin," cried a second, "very true-
And here, here's charming green, and red, and blue!
There's a complexion beats the rouge of Warren!
See those red lips; oh, la! they seem so nice!
What rosy cheeks then, cousin, to entice !—
Compar'd to this, all other heads are carrion.

Cousin, this limner quickly will be seen,
Painting the Princess Royal, and the Queen:
Pray, don't you think as I do, Coz?
But we 'll be painted first that's poz."

Such was the very pretty conversation

That pass'd between the pretty misses, While unobserv'd, the glory of our nation,

Close by them hung Sir Joshua's matchless pieces. Works! that a Titian's hand could form aloneWorks! that a Reubens had been proud to own.

Permit me, ladies, now to lay before ye
What lately happen'd-therefore a true story:-

A STORY.

Walking one afternoon along the Strand,
My wond'ring eyes did suddenly expand
Upon a pretty leash of country lasses.

"Heav'ns! my dear beauteous angels, how d'ye do? Upon my soul I'm monstrous glad to see ye." "Swinge! Peter, we are glad to meet with you; We're just to London come-well, pray how be ye;

"We're just a going, while 'tis light, To see St. Paul's before 'tis dark.

Lord! come, for once, be so polite,

And condescend to be our spark."

"With all my heart, my angels."—On we walk'd,
And much of London-much of Cornwall talk'd.
Now did I hug myself to think

How much that glorious structure would surprise,
How from its awful grandeur they would shrink
With open mouths, and marv'ling eyes!

As near to Ludgate-Hill we drew,
St. Paul's just opening on our view;
Behold, my lovely strangers, one and all,

Gave, all at once, a diabolic squawl,

As if they had been tumbled on the stones,

And some confounded cart had crush'd their bones.

After well fright'ning people with their cries,

And sticking to a ribbon-shop their eyes,

They all rush'd in, with sounds enough to stun,
And clattering all together, thus begun :-

"Swinge! here are colors then, to please!
Delightful things, I vow to heav'n!
Why not to see such things as these,
We never should have been forgiv'n.

"Here, here, are clever things-good Lord!
And, sister, here, upon my word—

Here, here!-look! here are beauties to delight:
Why! how a body's heels might dance

Along from Launceston to Penzance,

Before that one might meet with such a sight!"

Come, ladies, 't will be dark," cried I-"I fear:

Pray let us view St. Paul's, it is so near”

"Lord! Peter," cried the girls, "don't mind St. Paul!
Sure! you're a most incurious soul-

Why we can see the church another day;
Don't be afraid-St. Paul's can't run away."

Reader,

If e'er thy bosom felt a thought sublime,
Drop tears of pity with the man of rhyme!

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

PETER PINDAR.

Peter continueth to give great Advice, and to exhibit deep reflection-He telleth a miraculous Story.

THERE is a knack in doing many a thing,
Which labor can not to perfection bring:
Therefore, however great in your own eyes,
Pray do not hints from other folks despise:

A fool on something great, at times, may stumble,
And consequently be a good adviser:
On which, forever, your wise men may fumble,
And never be a whit the wiser.

Yes! I advise you, for there's wisdom in 't,

Never to be superior to a hint

The genius of each man, with keenness viewA spark from this, or t'other, caught,

May kindle, quick as thought,

A glorious bonfire up in you.

A question of you let me beg—

Of fam'd Columbus and his egg,

Pray, have you heard? "Yes."-O, then, if you please I'll give you the two Pilgrims and the Peas.

THE PILGRIMS AND THE PEAS.

A TRUE STORY.

A brace of sinners, for no good,

Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's shrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, stone, wood, And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had those sad rogues to travel, With something in their shoes much worse than gravel: In short, their toes so gentle to amuse,

The priest had order'd peas into their shoes:

A nostrum famous in old Popish times

For purifying souls that stunk of crimes:

A sort of apostolic salt,

Which Popish parsons for its powers exalt,
For keeping souls of sinners sweet,
Just as our kitchen salt keeps meat.

The knaves set off on the same day,
Peas in their shoes, to go and pray:

But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
One of the sinners gallop'd on,
Swift as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd, as if he had been shot.

One saw the Virgin soon―peccavi cried—
Had his soul white-wash'd all so clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,

Made fit, with saints above, to live forever.

In coming back, however, let me say,

He met his brother rogue about half way-

Hobbling, with out-stretch'd hands and bending knees; Damning the souls and bodies of the peas:

His eyes in tears, his cheeks and brows in sweat,

Deep sympathizing with his groaning feet.

"How now," the light-toed, white-wash'd pilgrim broke,

"You lazy lubber!"

"Ods curse it," cried the other, "'tis no joke

My feet, once hard as any rock,

Are now as soft as any blubber.

"Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear-
As for Loretto I shall not get there;
No! to the Dev'l my sinful soul must go,
For damme if I ha'nt lost ev'ry toe.

"But, brother sinner, pray explain

How 'tis that you are not in pain:

What pow'r hath work'd a wonder for your toes:
While I, just like a snail am crawling,

Now swearing, now on saints devoutly bawling,
While not a rascal comes to ease my woes?

"How is't that you can like a greyhound go,

Merry, as if that naught had happen'd, burn ye?" "Why,” cried the other, grinning, "you must know, That just before I ventur'd on my journey,

To walk a little more at ease,

I took the liberty to boil my peas.'"

ON THE DEATH OF A FAVORITE CAT,

DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES.

"T WAS on a lofty vase's side,
Where China's gayest art had dyed

The azure flowers that blow,
Demurest of the tabby kind,
The pensive Selima, reclined,
Gazed on the lake below.

THOMAS GRAY.