The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay, And chafed his shivering skin; And the Angel returned that was flying away With the spirit of Peter Fin! A FAIRY TALE. On Hounslow Heath--and close beside the road, As western travellers may oft have seen,-- A little house some years ago there stood, A minikin abode; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's, all of wood: The walls of white, the window-shutters green,-- Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West (Though now at rest), On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintained a rider, Like those who trade in Paternoster Row; But made his business travel for itself, Till he had made his pelf, And then retired--if one may call it so, Of a roadsider. Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, Made him more relish the repose and quiet Of his now sedentary caravan; Perchance, he loved the ground because 'twas common, And so he might impale a strip of soil That furnished, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman;-- And five tall hollyhocks, in dingy flower: Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil His peace,--unless, in some unlucky hour, A stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r! But, tired of always looking at the coaches, The same to come,--when they had seen them one day! And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday,-- So, having had some quarters of school breeding, They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripened in the seventh stage, The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have begun,-- Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope, Or Bard of Hope, Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson,-- But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, And then relax'd themselves with Whittington, Or Valentine and Orson-- But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, And being easily melted in their dotage, Slobber'd,--and kept Reading,--and wept Over the White Cat, in their wooden cottage. Thus reading on--the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim,-- If talking Trees and Birds revealed to him, She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-wagons, And magic fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons,-- Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons; When as it fell upon a summer's day, As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading, Beside his open street-and parlor door, A hideous roar