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Were perfect in our kind! And why despise
The sow-born grunter ? ... He is obstinate,
Thou answerest; ugly, and the filthiest beast
That banquets upon offal. Now, I pray you,
Hear the pig's counsel.

Is he obstinate?
We must not, Jacob, be deceived by words,
By sophist sounds. A democratic beast,
He knows that his unmerciful drivers seek
Their profit, and not his. He hath not learnt
That pigs were made for man, — born to be

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

36

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

CASABIANCA.

37 That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

SOUTHEY.

CASABIANCA.

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;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,

As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,

A proud though childlike form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go,

Without his father's word ;
That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud, “Say, father, say,

If yet my task is done!”
He knew not that the chieftain lay

Unconscious of his son.

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“Speak, father!” once again he cried,

« If I may yet be gone!
And,”—but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rollid on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair,
And look'd from that lone post of death

In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,

“My father, must I stay ?
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,

The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapp'd the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,
And stream’d above the gallant child

Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder-sound

The boy,-oh, where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strew'd the sea !
With mast and helm and pennon fair,

That well had borne their part;
But the noblest thing which perished there

Was that young and faithful heart !

MRS. HEMANS,

THE EBB-TIDE.
Slowly thy flowing tide
Came in, old Avon! scarcely did mine eyes,
As watchfully I roam’d thy greenwood side,

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
The unlabour'd boat glides rapidly along;
The solitary helmsman sits to guide,

And sings an idle song.

Now o'er the rocks that lay
So silent late, the shallow current roars;
Fast flow thy waters on their seaward way,

Through wider-spreading shores.

Avon ! I gaze and know
The lesson emblem’d in thy varying way;
It speaks of human joys that rise so slow,

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.

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