"I'll paste it on my wall, While the wall lasts, to show what ills befall Fond hearts, seduced from Innocency's way; How Maidens fall, and Mariners betray." [Footnote 1: Seven Dials] * * * * * II.
TO DAVID COOK, OF THE PARISH OF ST.

MARGARET'S, WESTMINSTER, WATCHMAN.
For much good-natured verse received from thee, A loving verse take in return from me.
"Good-morrow to my masters," is your cry; And to our David "twice as good," say I.
Not Peter's monitor, shrill Chanticleer, Crows the approach of dawn in notes more clear, Or tells the hours more faithfully.

While night Fills half the world with shadows of affright, You with your lantern, partner of your round, Traverse the paths of Margaret's hallow'd bound.
The tales of ghosts which old wives' ears drink up, The drunkard reeling home from tavern cup, Nor prowling robber, your firm soul appall; Arm'd with thy faithful staff, thou slight'st them all.
But if the market gard'ner chance to pass, Bringing to town his fruit, or early grass, The gentle salesman you with candor greet, And with reit'rated "good-mornings" meet.
Announcing your approach by formal bell, Of nightly weather you the changes tell; Whether the Moon shines, or her head doth steep In rain-portending clouds.

When mortals sleep In downy rest, you brave the snows and sleet Of winter; and in alley, or in street, Relieve your midnight progress with a verse.
What though fastidious Phoebus frown averse On your didactic strain--indulgent Night With caution hath seal'd up both ears of Spite, And critics sleep while you in staves do sound The praise of long-dead Saints, whose Days abound In wintry months; but Crispin chief proclaim: Who stirs not at that Prince of Cobblers' name?
Profuse in loyalty some couplets shine, And wish long days to all the Brunswick line! To youths and virgins they chaste lessons read; Teach wives and husbands how their lives to lead; Maids to be cleanly, footmen free from vice: How death at last all ranks doth equalize; And, in conclusion, pray good years befall, With store of wealth, your "worthy masters all." For this and other tokens of good will On boxing-day may store of shillings fill Your Christmas purse; no householder give less, When at each door your blameless suit you press: And what you wish to us (it is but reason) Receive in turn--the compliments o' th' season! * * * * * III.
ON A SEPULCHRAL STATUE OF AN INFANT SLEEPING.
Beautiful Infant, who dost keep Thy posture here, and sleep'st a marble sleep, May the repose unbroken be, Which the fine Artist's hand hath lent to thee, While thou enjoy'st along with it That which no art, or craft, could ever hit, Or counterfeit to mortal sense, The heaven-infused sleep of Innocence! * * * * * IV.
EPITAPH ON A DOG.
Poor Irus' faithful wolf-dog here I lie, That wont to tend my old blind master's steps, His guide and guard; nor, while my service lasted, Had he occasion for that staff, with which He now goes picking out his path in fear Over the highways and crossings, but would plant, Safe in the conduct of my friendly string, A firm foot forward still, till he had reach'd His poor seat on some stone, nigh where the tide Of passers-by in thickest confluence flow'd: To whom with loud and passionate laments From morn to eve his dark estate he wail'd.
Nor wail'd to all in vain: some here and there, The well-disposed and good, their pennies gave.
I meantime at his feet obsequious slept; Not all-asleep in sleep, but heart and ear Prick'd up at his least motion, to receive At his kind hand my customary crumbs, And common portion in his feast of scraps; Or when night warn'd us homeward, tired and spent With our long day and tedious beggary.
These were my manners, this my way of life, Till age and slow disease me overtook, And sever'd from my sightless master's side.
But lest the grace of so good deeds should die, Through tract of years in mute oblivion lost, This slender tomb of turf hath Irus rear'd, Cheap monument of no ungrudging hand, And with short verse inscribed it, to attest, In long and lasting union to attest, The virtues of the Beggar and his Dog.
* * * * * V.
THE RIVAL BELLS.
A tuneful challenge rings from either side Of Thames' fair banks.

Thy twice six Bells, St.Bride, Peal swift and shrill; to which more slow reply The deep-toned eight of Mary Overy.
Such harmony from the contention flows, That the divided ear no preference knows: Betwixt them both disparting Music's State, While one exceeds in number, one in weight.
* * * * * VI.
NEWTON'S PRINCIPIA.
Great Newton's self, to whom the world's in debt, Owed to School-Mistress sage his Alphabet; But quickly wiser than his Teacher grown, Discover'd properties to her unknown; Of A _plus_ B, or _minus_, learn'd the use, Known Quantities from unknown to educe; And made--no doubt to that old dame's surprise-- The Christ-Cross-Row his ladder to the skies.
Yet, whatsoe'er Geometricians say, Her lessons were his true PRINCIPIA! * * * * * VII.
THE HOUSEKEEPER.
The frugal snail, with fore-cast of repose, Carries his house with him, where'er he goes; Peeps out--and if there comes a shower of rain, Retreats to his small domicile amain.
Touch but a tip of him, a horn--'tis well-- He curls up in his sanctuary shell.
He's his own landlord, his own tenant; stay Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter Day.
Himself he boards and lodges; both invites, And feasts, himself; sleeps with himself o' nights.
He spares the upholsterer trouble to procure Chattels; himself is his own furniture, And his sole riches.