But if sleek "corporations"* you should see,
Mark well the cause of their rotundity;
It is not health, whatever it may seem;
Health seldom runs to such a great extreme:
Unwieldy, vast incumbrances like these,
Are in the abstract-in themselves-disease.
Would you the reason? none can disagree:
'Tis EPICUREAN PHILOSOPHY.
Load not that man with slander or abuse,
Who boils a sheep's-head, or who roasts a goose;
In this free land, all tenets are allow'd,
Which worship Mammon, or which worship God;
Nor dare with other creeds to undermine,
Disciples of the Athenian divine.
How the eye sparkles when the turbot smokes,
And every dainty dish the taste provokes!
When potted grouse and green-goose-pies support,
The venison-pasty, season'd well with port;
When porkers' heads, array'd in martial style,
With boil'd and broil'd, compose the rank and file,
And greens and pastry, flank'd by puffs and soups,
Compose a body of the lighter troops;
When ruby port and bright Madeira serve,
(Inspiring heroes) as a corps reserve,
And Cuba's offspring, bursting into light,
Sails thro' the air, and towers o'er the fight!
But if some turtle hapless fall asleep,
Upon the bosom of the "mighty deep,"
And our brave tars their gallant customs break,
Uncaution'd seize the foe, ere it awake,
Gods! what new joys the epicure pervade;
The gout, the megrims and the phthisic fade,
The flashing meteor clears the clouded brain,
And sets the human kitchen up again!
Hail to the banks of Schuylkill! blest retreat,
To carve and cater, or to drink and eat;
* This well known erm seems to imply a slight allusion to an assembled body of aldermen, so famous in turtle-feast memory.-Printer's Devil.
Where men for philosophic maxims search,
To fry a catfish or to broil a perch:
A whole "republic" hunts the finny prey,
And once a-week annihilates a day.
Wealth makes Old Nick a saint, and folly wise,
A magic lantern to all human eyes:
Bless'd with his wealth, the high-life sot may drink,
While heirs exult, and reverend shepherds wink,
Shame with his rows and bacchanalian feats,
The very beasts that stagger thro' the streets.
What tho' intemperance a title brags;
Sin dwells as oft in broadcloth as in rags!
Drunk with Madeira-drunk with humble gin,
The fact alone originates the sin:
He knows not virtue, or the end of man,
Who lingers thus his melancholy span;
Lives but to drink, and bend at Bacchus' shrine,
Or die, like Clarence, in a butt of wine.*
Now the divine, whose future fate depends
On kind churchwardens and supporting friends,
Attunes his throat to soft, religious song,
And hails with joy the influx of the throng,
Till from the pulpit meet his dazzled view,
The well fill'd aisle and overcrowded pew;
Sound upon sound the echoing strains increase,
Or breathe the softest, sweetest notes of peace,
While beardless youth appals poor aged sinners,
And half the congregation lose their dinners.
The aged devotee exhorts her son,
To take example ere his course be run;
The pious father bids the stubborn fair
Go seek for everlasting pleasure there.
"The only favour which the king granted his brother, after his condemnation, was to leave him the choice of his death; and he was privately drowned in a butt of Malmsey, in the tower; a whimsical choice, which implies that he had an extraordinary passion for that liquor."-Hume, Edward IV.
Devout conceptions with the flesh accord,
He serves the ladies while he serves the Lord,
Till some kind dame rewards th' instructive youth,
And weds this staff of piety and truth.
The happy jewellers all their wealth unfold,
While miss reviews the majesty of gold;
Gems, pure and feign'd, along the counter lie,
While each gem glistens in her sparkling eye;
Unnumber'd jewels-bracelets beaming bright,
Enticing strew'd before her ravish'd sight:
"My dear mamma, how sweet these diamonds shine,
And this pearl necklace"-" Really, very fine."
"Now do, mamma, indulge me:—this gold chain-
"Miss," cried the jeweller, "it is too plain:
Examine this pearl cross-the diamond too,
Would look enchanting, certainly, on you."
"Pray, what's the cost?" "But ninety dollars, ma'am: The pearls are real, madam-not a sham: Rich Mrs. Flam bespoke and bade me nake 'em; But, as a favour, madam, you may take 'em." "So-she bespoke them-Anna Laura, dearLet me first try, sir, how the baubles wear. Why they become you, child, so vastly wellWhat is the cheapest, sir, that you can sell?" "Why, ma'am, the cheapest I can sell for cash, Is sixty dollars, madam-cheap as trash." "You are the dearest tradesman, sir, in townRemember, sir, I pay the money down. Sixty for these, sir?-why as I'm alive--" “Well, ma'am, I'll let them go at forty-five."
The only cross that Laura ever bore,
Was that which now the grateful maiden wore.
The soldier struts-a brother of the band,
Who fight and conquer for their native land,
Hurl back the foe whose footsteps dare to blot
Freedom's last refuge-liberty's blest spot;
Force proud "invincibles," o'erwhelm'd with shame,
To yield the blighted honours of their name,
Exalt Columbia 'mid the battle's heat,
And place their trophies at her daughter's feet:
The gallant tar forsakes his "floating jail,"
To flirt with belles, or breathe the lover's tale,
Doom'd by a pair of heavenly eyes to fall,
Who never trembled at the whistling ball,
Whose hand had nail'd his banner to the mast,
Ordain'd by fate to be a slave at last!
"Star-spangled banner of Columbia," hail! Fed by each breeze, and fann'd by every gale; * Pride of the brave, and guardian of the main,
Freedom's support, and stern ambition's bane,
Long may thy folds the storms of ocean brave,
Waft in each clime, and float o'er every wave,
Add newer beauties to the scroll of fame,
And guard the honours of thy deathless name!
SCOTTI'S VAUXHALL.
THE circling sun has sunk to rest,
On couch beneath the drooping west,
And leaves the night's chaste warden,
To light smart beaux and smiling maids,
In safety to embowering shades
Of famous Vauxhall garden.
The portal gain'd, the aching sight,
Bewilder'd by the dazzling light
Of bright illumination,
Floats o'er this vision of romance,
In airy dreams, and leaves no chance
For wholesome rumination.
Here varied lamps, in bright festoon,
Like rainbows, light the gay saloon,
Or round the pillars twining;
While from the temple's apex gleams,
The Turkish crescent's golden beams,
Our christian moon outshining.
So Turkish all, that pious Turk
Might deem it saint Mahommed's work,
Foretold in moslem stories,
And joy that paradise he'd gain'd,
And as his raptur'd sight he strain'd,
Take christian maids for houries.
On grassy mounds, through alleys green,
Like fays the blithsome nymphs are seen,
In airy groups disporting,
Or crowd, the temple's verge to gain,
To catch the varied melting strain,
Of melody transporting.
Now laud, my muse, that great friseur,
And as his fame may thine endure;
What erst was "Dunlap's lot" he
Transforms to magic scenes, that vie
With those that round the harem lie-
All hail to SIGNOR SCOTTI!!
How blest, while the pleasing delusion of youth
O'er the magic of love sheds the semblance of truth-
While the mind softly sleeps in a cradle of smiles,
Nor awakes to the pains which its slumber beguiles!
How bright are its rays while its sunshine illumes!
How sweet every flow'r while its mild summer blooms!
Hope brightens the prospect with charms ever new,
And the heart glows with rapture to fancy them true.
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