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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 is 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 salt-petre 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
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 glories of the Peacock's pride,
Give him the Swan's white breast, for his horn-hoofs
Shape such a foot and ankle as the waves
Crowded in eager rivalry to kiss,
When Venus from the enamour'd sea arose ;

Jacob, thou can’st 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 show 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
In which he stands knee-deep?

And there ! that breeze
Pleads with me, and has won thee to the smile
That speaks conviction. O'er yon blossom'd field
Of beans it came, and thoughts of bacon rise.

THEODERIT.

The PIOUS PAINTER.

The story of the Pious Painter is related in the Pia Hilaria of Gazæus, but the Catholic Poet has omitted the conclusion. This is to be found in the Fabliaux of Le Grand.

THE FIRST PART.

There once was a Painter in Catholic days,

Like Job who eschewed all evil. Still on his Madonnas the curious may gaze With applause and with pleasure, but chiefly his praise

And delight was in painting the Devil.

They were Angels, compared to the Devils he drew,

Who besieged poor St. Anthony's cell; Such burning hot eyes, such a damnable hue ! You could even smell brimstone their breath was so blue,

He painted the Devil so well.

And now had the Artist a picture begun,

'Twas over the Virgin's church door ; She stood on the Dragon embracing her Son, Many Devils already the Artist had done;

But this must out-do all before.

The Old Dragon's imps as they fled thro' the air

At seeing it paus'd on the wing, For he had the likeness so just to a hair, That they came as Apollyon himself had been there,

To pay their respects to their King.

Every child at beholding it shivered with dread

And scream'd as he turn'd away quick. Not an old Woman saw it, but raising her head, Dropt a bead, made a cross on her wrinkles, and said,

God keep me from ugly Old Nick !

What the Painter so earnestly thought on by day,

He sometimes would dream of by night;' But once he was startled as sleeping he lay, 'Twas no fancy, no dream, he could plainly survey

That the Devil himself was in sight.

You rascally dauber! old Beelzebub cries,

Take heed how you wrong me again !
Tho' your caricatures for myself I despise,
Make me handsomer now in the multitudes eyes,

Or see if I threaten in vain !

Now the Painter was bold and religious beside,

And on faith he had certain reliance.
So earnestly he all his countenance eyed,
And thank'd him for sitting, with Catholic pride,

And sturdily bade him defiance.

Betimes in the morning the Painter arose,

He is ready as soon as 'tis light. Every look, every line, every feature be knows, 'Tis fresh in his eye, to his labour he goes,

And he has the old Wicked One quite.

Happy man ! he is sure the resemblance can't fail,

The tip of the nose is red hot, There's his grin and his fangs, his skin cover'd with scale, And that the identical curl of his tail

Not a mark, not a claw is forgot.

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