THE BRYANITE.

(Made by request, at the time some Bryanites pretended to cast a devil out of a poor lunatic, and in answer to the

lines composed on that occasion.)

RELIGION'S now become a jest,

And nought but bawling east and west,

A few for love, but more for spite,

About the noisy Bryanite

I can't believe such rabble-rout,

Can ever drive the devil out;

Therefore I do not think it right
To recommend the Bryanite.

Whatever can their meaning be?
T'impose on weak credulity?
Or is it the ignorant t'affright?

Oh! blind, mistaken Bryanite!

Let's ask for once-Shall reason rule?

Or every one become a fool?

Convince me first that black is white,

And I'll believe the Bryanite.

First try your faith on him, alone,

Who bawls your carols up and down;

And if you can restore his sight,

Then I'll become a Bryanite.

I wonder your poetic tool

Did not return again to school,

Or further learn to read and write,

Before describe his Bryanite.

But any clumsy, paltry job
Will do to please the gaping mob,

And, in like manner, give delight
To the conceited Bryanite.

Now either Christian, Turk, or Jew,
That man will do the same for you,

And will to any sect invite,
The same as for the Bryanite.

I speak my mind without disguise,
And must confess, I would advise,
That boys do mob, and dogs do bite
Each enthusiastic Bryanite.

DREAMING.

SECURELY sleeping in my bed,

What strange imagination led

To make me fancy I was dead?

A DREAM!

What furnish'd me with heaps of gold, In numbers more than could be told,

Beyond what all my bags could hold? A DREAM!

What robb'd me of my precious store

Till I became so very poor,

As those who beg from door to door?

A DREAM!

What secret impulse made me try T'explore the heights beyond the sky,

And gave me ample wings to fly?

A DREAM!

What made me on the world look down,

Despise the glories of a crown,

Nor fear Ambition's angry frown?

A DREAM!

What hurl'd me down to earth again,
With tim'rous mortals to remain,

And spend my days in grief and pain?

NO DREAM!

TRANSLATED

FROM THE FRENCH OF BOILEAU.

THE surly, peevish, discontented man,
One moment's peace nor pleasure can enjoy.
Cure his disease! nor town nor country can;
His very wishes all his hopes destroy.-
He takes his lofty steed to cheer his mind;
Posts on, but vainly struggles day by day:
Still Chagrin, his companion, mounts behind,
Nor quits his hold, but hugs him all the way.

THE silly, rash, and unadvised man

Still flies to Fortune--and upon her shoulders Loads all the folly, misery, and guilt

Of his own heedless and misguided actions.

As we mix altogether, or better or worse,

While two men are riding upon the same horse,
'Tis a true observation, and always you'll find
That one of the two must be riding behind;
And 'tis fully as true, if we add a line more,
That the hind one would rather be riding before.

THOUGH Some are puff'd with self conceit

And proud as pride can make 'em,

Their purposes I may defeat,

And make my friends forsake 'em,

WHAT I honestly earn, with content I enjoy ;

I have nothing to save, nor have ought to destroy;
Not courted for favors; by bailiffs not watch'd;
When my hat is put on my old cottage is thatch'd.
If I always take reason to be my adviser,

And as I grow older, grow wiser and wiser,

With truth for my guide, and with Heav'n for my friend,

And thus lead a good life, I shall make a good end.