Night, too, entrances--slumber brings the dream-- Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss; Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream, And deluge every nerve with bliss: But if his nymph unfortunately frowns, Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns! Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile: Strive not to make your sovereign frown--but smile: Sublime are royal nods--most precious things!-- Then, to be whistled to by kings! To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder, Becoming thus the royal arm upholder, A heart of very stone must grow quite glad. Oh! would some king so far himself demean, As on my shoulder but for once to lean, The excess of joy would nearly make me mad! How on the honored garment I should dote, And think a glory blazed around the coat! Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms, In fancy glittering with a thousand charms; And show my children's children o'er and o'er; "Here, babies," I should say, "with awe behold This coat--worth fifty times its weight in gold: This very, very coat your grandsire wore! "Here"--pointing to the shoulder--I should say, "Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay"-- Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter; As--"Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what? What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat? Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter?" Then should I, strutting, give myself an air, And deem myself adorned with immortality: Then should I make the children, calf-like stare, And fancy grandfather a man of quality: And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note, The muse should sing an ode upon the coat. Poor lost America, high honors missing, Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing, Knows naught of golden promises of kings; Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings; In solitude the lovely rebel sighs! But vainly drops the penitential tear-- Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries, We suffer not her wail to wound our ear: For food we bid her hopeless children prowl, And with the savage of the desert howl. PRAYING FOR RAIN. PETER PINDAR How difficult, alas! to please mankind! One or the other every moment MUTTERS: This wants an eastern, that a western, wind: A third, petition for a southern, utters. Some pray for rain, and some for frost and snow: How can Heaven suit ALL palates?--I don't know. Good Lamb, the curate, much approved, Indeed by all his flock BELOVED, Was one dry summer begged to pray for rain. The parson most devoutly prayed-- The powers of prayer were soon displayed; Immediately a TORRENT drenched the plain. It chanced that the church warden, Robin Jay, Had of his meadow not yet SAVED the hay: Thus was his hay to HEALTH quite past restoring. It happened too that Robin was from home; But when he heard the story, in a foam He sought the parson, like a lion roaring.