The Universal Reciter. Various

Power

      As great might have aspired, and me, though mean,

      Drawn to his part; but other Powers as great

      Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within

      Or from without, to all temptations arm'd.

      Hadst thou the same free will and power to stand?

      Thou hadst: whom hast thou then or what to accuse

      But Heaven's free love dealt equally to all?

      Be then his love accursed, since love or hate,

      To me alike, it deals eternal woe.

      Nay, cursed be thou; since against his thy will

      Chose freely what it now so justly rues.

      Me miserable! which way shall I fly

      Infinite wrath and infinite despair?

      Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;

      And, in the lowest deep, a lower deep

      Still threat'ning to devour me opens wide,

      To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.

      O then at last relent: Is there no place

      Left for repentance, none for pardon left?

      None left but by submission; and that word

      Disdain forbids me, and my dread of shame

      Among the spirits beneath, whom I seduced

      With other promises and other vaunts

      Than to submit, boasting I could subdue

      The Omnipotent. Ah me! they little know

      How dearly I abide that boast so vain,

      Under what torments inwardly I groan,

      While they adore me on the throne of hell.

      With diadem and sceptre high advanced,

      The lower still I fall, only supreme

      In misery! Such joy ambition finds.

      But say I could repent, and could obtain

      By act of grace, my former state; how soon

      Would height recall high thoughts, how soon unsay

      What faint submission swore? Ease would recant

      Vows made in pain, as violent and void.

      For never can true reconcilement grow,

      Where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:

      Which would but lead me to a worse relapse

      And heavier fall; so should I purchase dear

      Short intermission bought with double smart.

      This knows my Punisher; therefore as far

      From granting he, as I from begging, peace;

      All hope excluded thus, behold, instead

      Of us outcast, exiled, his new delight,

      Mankind created, and for him this world,

      So farewell, hope; and with hope, farewell, fear;

      Farewell, remorse! all good to me is lost;

      Evil, be thou my good; by thee at least

      Divided empire with Heaven's King I hold,

      By thee, and more than half perhaps will reign;

      As man, ere long, and this new world shall know.

PATRICK'S COLT.

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      ANONYMOUS.

      P

      ATRICK O'FLANIGAN, from Erin's isle

      Just fresh, thinking he'd walk around a while,

      With open mouth and widely staring eyes,

      Cried "Och!" and "Whist!" at every new surprise.

      He saw some labourers in a field of corn;

      The golden pumpkins lit the scene with glory;

      Of all that he had heard since being born,

      Nothing had equaled this in song or story.

      "The holy mither! and, sirs, would ye plaise

      To be a tellin' me what might be these?

      An' sure I'm thinkin' that they're not pratees,

      But mebbe it's the way you grow your chase."

      "Ah, Patrick, these are mare's eggs," said the hand,

      Giving a wink to John, and Jim, and Bill;

      "Just hatch it out, and then you have your horse;

      Take one and try it; it will pay you well."

      "Faith an' that's aisy sure; in dear ould Ireland

      I always had my Christmas pig so nate,

      Fatted on buttermilk, and hard to bate;

      But only gintlemen can own a horse.

      Ameriky's a great counthry indade,

      I thought that here I'd kape a pig, of coorse,

      Have me own land, and shanty without rent,

      An' have me vote, an' taxes not a cint;

      But sure I niver thought to own a baste.

      An' won't the wife and childer now be glad?

      A thousand blissings on your honor's head!

      But could ye tell by lookin' at the egg

      What colour it will hatch? It's to me taste

      To have a dapple gray, with a long tail,

      High in the neck, and slinder in the leg,

      To jump a twel' feet bog, and niver fail,

      Like me Lord Dumferline's at last year's races—"

      Just then the merry look on all their faces

      Checked Patrick's flow of talk, and with a blush

      That swept his face as milk goes over mush,

      He added, "Sure, I know it is no use

      To try to tell by peering at an egg

      If it will hatch a gander or a goose;"

      Then looked around to make judicious choice.

      "Pick out the largest one that you can hide

      Out of the owner's sight there by the river;

      Don't drop and break it, or the colt is gone;

      Carry it gently to your little farm,

      Put it in bed, and keep it six weeks warm."

      Quickly Pat seized a huge, ripe, yellow one,

      "Faith, sure, an' I'll do every bit of that

      The whole sax wakes I'll lie meself in bed,

      An' kape it warrum, as your honour said;

      Long life to yees, and may you niver walk,

      Not even to your grave, but ride foriver;