Sticks, staves, and swords, and guns, the tools of treason?
To show, illustrating the better course,
The very Brutes abandoning Brute Force,
The worry and the fight,
In which, says Doctor Watts, the dogs delight,
And lending shaggy ears to Law and Reason,
As uttered in that Court of high antiquity
Where sits the Chancellor, supreme as Pope,
But works so let us hope
In equity, not iniquity?
Or was it but a speculation,
Or transmigration,
How certain of our most distinguished Daniels,
Interpreters of Law's bewildering book,
Would look
Transformed to mastiffs, setters, hounds, and spaniels
(As Bramins in their Hindoo code advance),
With that great lawyer of the Upper House
Who rules all suits by equitable nous,
Become like vile Amina's spouse·
A Dog, called Chance? *
Methinks, indeed, I recognize
In those deep-set and meditative eyes
Engaged in mental puzzle,
And that portentous muzzle,
A celebrated judge, toc prone to tarry
To hesitate on devious inns and outs,
And, on preceding doubts, to build redoubts
That regiments could not carry-
Prolonging even Law's delays, and still
Putting a skid upon the wheel up-hill,
* See the story of Sidi Nonman, in the Arabian Nights
Meanwhile the weary and desponding client
Seemed in the agonies of indecision-
In Doubting Castle, with that dreadful Giant
Described in Bunyan's Vision!
So slow, indeed, was justice in its ways,
Beset by more than customary clogs,
Going to law in those expensive days
Was much the same as going to the Dogs!
But possibly I err,
And that sagacious and judicial Creature,
So Chancellor-like in feature,
With ears so wig-like, and a cape of fur,
Looking as grave, responsible, and sage,
As if he had the guardianship, in fact,
Of all poor dogs, or crackt,
And puppies under age
It may be that the Creature was not meant
Any especial Lord to represent,
Eldon or Erskine, Cottenham or Thurlow,
Or Brougham (more like him whose potent jaw
Is holding forth the letter of the law),
Or Lyndhurst, after the vacation's furlough,
Presently sitting in the House of Peers,
On wool he sometimes wishes in his ears,
When touching Corn Laws, Taxes, or Tithe-piggery, He hears a fierce attack,
And, sitting on his sack,
Listens in his great wig to greater Whiggery!
So, possibly, those others,
In coats so various, or sleek, or rough,
Aim not at any of the legal brothers, Who wear the silken robe, or gown of stuff. Yet who that ever heard or saw
The Counsel sitting in that solemn Court,
Who, having passed the Bar, are safe in port,
Or those great Sergeants, learned in the Law,
Who but must trace a feature now and then
Of those forensic men,
As good at finding heirs as any harriers,
Renowned like greyhounds for long tales — indef,
At worrying the ear as apt as terriers, —
Good at conveyance as the hairy carriers
That bear our gloves, umbrellas, hats, and stickr,
Books, baskets, bones, or bricks,
In Deeds of Trust as sure as Tray the trusty,
Acute at sniffing flaws on legal grounds,
And lastly—well the catalogue it closes!
Still following their predecessors' noses,
Through ways however dull or dusty,
As fond of hunting precedents, as hounds
Of running after foxes more than musty.
However slow or fast,
Full of urbanity, or supercilious,
In temper wild, serene, or atrabilious,
Fluent of tongue, or prone to legal saw,
The Dogs have got a Chancellor, at last,
For Laying down the Law!
And never may the canine race regret it,
With whinings and repinings loud or deep,-
Ragged in coat, and shortened in their keep,
Worried by day, and troubled in their sleep,
With cares that prey upon the heart and fret it
As human suitors have had cause to weep
For what is Law, unless poor Dogs can get it
Dog-cheap?
O, WITHER'D Winter Blossoms,
Dowager-flowers-the December vanity.
In antiquated visages and bosoms-
What are ye plann'd for,
Emblems, and peevish morals of humanity?
There is my Quaker Aunt,
A Paper-Flower-with a formal border
No breeze could e'er disorder,
Pouting at that old beau-the Winter Cherry,
A pucker'd berry;
And Box, like tough-liv'd annuitant-
Verdant alway-
From quarter-day even to quarter-day;
And poor old Honesty, as thin as want,
Well named—God-wot ;
Under the baptism of the water-pot,
The very apparition of a plant;
Dost hold thy head so high,
Old Winter-Daisy ;
Because thy virtue never was infirm,
Howe'er thy stalk be crazy?
That never wanton fly, or blighted worm,
Made holes in thy most perfect indentation?
'Tis likely that sour leaf,
Forcepp'd or wing'd, was never a temptation ;Well-still uphold thy wintry reputation;
Still shalt thou frown upon all lovers' trial:
And when, like Grecian maids, young maids of ours Converse with flow'rs,
Then thou shalt be the token of denial.
Born without beneficial use or needs!
Fit only to deck out cold winding-sheets ;
And then not for the milkmaid's funeral-bloom,
Or fair Fidele's tomb-
To tantalize-vile cheats!
Some prodigal bee, with hope of after-sweets,
Frigid and rigid,
As if ye never knew
One drop of dew,
Or the warm sun resplendent;
Indifferent of culture and of care,
Giving no sweets back to the fostering air,
Churlishly independent—
I hate ye, of all breeds!
Yea, all that live so selfishly-to self,
And now by interchange of kindly deeds-
Hence from my shelf!
ON MRS. PARKES'S PAMPHLET.
SUCH strictures as these
Could a learned Chinese
Only read on some fine afternoon,
He would cry with pale lips,
"We shall have an Eclipse,
For a Dragon has seized on the Moon !"
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