XLVI.

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!
Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire
Raphael,4 who died in thy embrace, and vies
With all we know of Heaven, or can desire,
In what he hath bequeath'd us?—in what guise,
Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre,
Would words describe thy past and present glow,
While yet Canova can create below?*

*Note.

(In talking thus, the writer, more especially
Of women, would be understood to say,
He speaks as a spectator, not officially,
And always, reader, in a modest way;
Perhaps, too, in no very great degree shall he

Appear to have offended in this lay,

Since, as all know, without the sex, our sonnets Would seem unfinish'd like their untrimm'd bonnets.)

(Signed) PRINTER'S DEVIL,

XLVII.

,,England! with all thy faults I love thee still,"

I said at Calais, and have not forgot it; I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); I like a parliamentary debate, Particularly when 'tis not too late;

XLVIII.

I like the taxes, when they're not too many;
I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beaf-steak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;

I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

That is, I like two months of every year. And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! Which means that I like all and every thing.

XLIX.

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we are free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly vencrate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

L.

But to my tale of Laura,—for I find

Digression is a sin, that by degrees

Becomes exceeding tedious to my mind,

And, therefore, may the reader too displeaseThe gentle reader, who may wax unkind,

And caring little for the author's ease, Insist on knowing what he means, a hard And hapless situation for a bard,

LI.

Oh that I had the art of easy writing

What should be easy reading! could I scale Parnassus, where the Muses sit inditing

Those pretty poems never known to fail, How quickly would I print (the world delighting) A Grecian, Syrian, or Assyrian tale;

And sell you, mix'd with western sentimentalism, Some samples of the finest Orientalism.

LII.

But I am but a nameless sort of person, (A broken Dandy lately on my travels) And take for rhyme, to hook my rambling verse

on,

The first that Walker's Lexicon unravels,

And when I can't find that, I put a worse on,

Not caring as I ought for critics' cavils; I've half a mind to tumble down to prose, But verse is more in fashion-so here goes.

LIII.

The Count and Laura made their new arrangement,
Which lasted, as arrangements sometimes do,
For half a dozen years without estrangement;
They had their little differences, too;
Those jealous whiffs, which never any change

meant:

In such affairs there probably are few

Who have not had this pouting sort of squabble, From sinners of high station to the rabble.

LIV.

But on the whole, they were a happy pair, As happy as unlawful love could make them; The gentleman was fond, the lady fair,

Their chains so slight, 'twas not worth while to break them:

The world beheld them with indulgent air;

The pious only wish'd,, the devil take them!" He took them not; he very often waits,

And leaves old sinners to be young ones' baits.