I wish I'd poor Fuseli's pencil, who ne'er I bel- ieve was succeeded in painting the terrible, Or that of Sir Joshua Reynolds, who was so a- droit in depicting it--_vide_ his piece Descriptive of Cardinal Beaufort's decease, Where that prelate is lying Decidedly dying, With the King and his _suite_, Standing just at his feet, And his hands, as Dame Quickly says, fumbling the sheet; While, close at his ear, with the air of a scorner, "Busy, meddling," Old Nick's grinning up in the corner. But painting's an art I confess I am raw in, The fact is, I never took lessons in drawing: Had I done so, instead Of the lines you have read, I'd have giv'n you a sketch should have fill'd you with dread; François Xavier Auguste squatting up in his bed, His hands widely spread, His complexion like lead, Ev'ry hair that he has standing up on his head, As when, Agnes des Moulins first catching his view, Now right, and now left, rapid glances he threw, Then shriek'd with a wild and unearthly halloo, _Mon Dieu! v'la deux!!_ BY THE POPE THERE ARE TWO!!!" He fell back--one long aspiration he drew. In flew De la Roue, And Count Cordon Bleu, Pommade, Pomme-de-terre, and the rest of their crew. He stirr'd not,--he spoke not,--he none of them knew! And Achille cried "Odzooks! I fear, by his looks, Our friend, François Xavier, has popp'd off the hooks!" 'Twas too true! _Malheureux!!_ It was done!--he had ended his earthly career,-- He had gone off at once with a flea in his ear; --The Black Mousquetaire was as dead as Small-beer!! [Illustration: THE BLACK MOUSQUETAIRE.] L'Envoye. A moral more in point I scarce could hope Than this, from Mr. Alexander Pope. If ever chance should bring some Cornet gay, And pious Maid,--as, possibly, it may,-- From Knightsbridge Barracks, and the shades serene Of Clapham Rise, as far as Kensal Green; O'er some pale marble when they join their heads To kiss the falling tears each other sheds; Oh! may they pause!--and think, in silent awe, He, that he reads the words, "_Ci gît St. Foix!_"-- She, that the tombstone which her eye surveys Bears this sad line,--"_Hic jacet Sœur Therèse!_"-- Then shall they sigh, and weep, and murmuring say, "Oh! may we never play such tricks as they!"-- And if at such a time some Bard there be, Some sober Bard, addicted much to tea And sentimental song--like Ingoldsby-- If such there be--who sings and sips so well, Let him this sad, this tender story tell! Warn'd by the tale, the gentle pair shall boast, "I've 'scaped the Broken Heart!"--"and I the Ghost!!" * * * * *