Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again towards childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange, eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion:
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
The following poem appeared in The London Morning Chronicle, about nifty years since-anonymous. A reward of fifty guineas failed to disover the author, and its authorship has never been ascertained. We ilieve the whole of it is comprised in the five stanzas.
BEHOLD this ruin! 'Twas a skull
Once of ethereal spirit full;
This narrow cell was life's retreat;
This space was thought's mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot;
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor hope, nor love, nor joy, nor fear,
Has left one trace of record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye.
But start not at the dismal void,
Nor sigh for greatness thus destroyed.
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,
But through the dews of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be for ever bright,
When stars and suns are sunk in night.
Within this hollow cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue.
If falsehood's honey it disdained,
And where it could not praise was chained;
If bold in virtue's cause it spoke,
Yet gentle concord never broke;
This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When time unveils eternity.
Say, did these fingers delve the mine,
Or with its envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear the gem,
Can little now avail to them;
But if the page of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that wait on wealth or fame.
Avails it whether bare or shod
These feet the paths of duty trod?
If from the bowers of ease they fled,
To seek affliction's humble shed;
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to virtue's cot returned;
These feet with angels' wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.
NO SECTS IN HEAVEN.-CLEVELAND.
TALKING of sects till late one eve,
Of the various doctrines the saints believe,
That night I stood, in a troubled dream,
By the side of a darkly flowing stream.
And a "Churchman" down to the river came;
When I heard a strange voice call his name,
"Good father, stop; when you cross this tide,
You must leave your robes on the other side."
But the aged father did not mind;
And his long gown floated out behind,
As down to the stream his way he took,
His pale hands clasping a gilt-edged book.
"I'm bound for Heaven; and when I'm there,
Shall want my Book of Common Prayer;
And, though I put on a starry crown,
I should feel quite lost without my gown."
Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track,
But his gown was heavy and held him back,
And the poor old father tried in vain,
A single step in the flood to gain.
I saw him again on the other side,
But his silk gown floated on the tide;
And no one asked, in that blissful spot,
Whether he belonged to the "Church" or not.
Then down to the river a Quaker strayed;
His dress of a sober hue was made: "My coat and hat must all be gray—
I cannot go any other way."
Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, And staidly, solemnly, waded in,
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, Over his forehead so cold and white.
But a strong wind carried away his hat;
A moment he silently sighed over that;
And then, as he gazed to the further shore,
The coat slipped off, and was seen no more.
As he entered Heaven his suit of gray
Went quietly sailing, away, away;
And none of the angels questioned him
About the width of his beaver's brim.
Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms
Tied nicely up in his aged arms,
And hymns as many, a very wise thing,
That the people in Heaven, "all round," might sing.
But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh,
And he saw that the river ran broad and high,
And looked rather surprised, as one by one
His psalms and hymns in the wave went down.
And after him, with his MSS.,
Came Wesley, the pattern of godliness;
But he cried, "Dear me! what shall I do?
The water has soaked them through and through."
And there on the river far and wide,
Away they went down the swollen tide;
And the saint, astonished, passed through alone,
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne.
Then, gravely walking, two saints by name
Down to the stream together came;
But, as they stopped at the river's brink,
saw one saint from the other shrink.
"Sprinkled or plunged? may I ask you, friend,
How you attained to life's great end?"
"Thus, with a few drops on my brow."
"But I have been dipped, as you'll see me now,
"And I really think it will hardly do,
As I'm close communion,' to cross with you;
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss,
But you must go that way, and I'll go this."
Then straightway plunging with all his might,
Away to the left-his friend to the right,
Apart they went from this world of sin,
But at last together they entered in.
And now, when the river was rolling on,
A Presbyterian Church went down;
Of women there seemed an innumerable throng,
But the men I could count as they passed along.
And concerning the road, they could never agree
The old or the new way, which it could be,
Nor ever a moment paused to think
That both would lead to the river's brink.
And a sound of murmuring, long and loud,
Came ever up from the moving crowd;
"You're in the old way, and I'm in the new;
That is the false, and this is the true”-
Or, "I'm in the old way, and you're in the new;
That is the false, and this is the true."
But the brethren only seemed to speak:
Modest the sisters walked and meek,
And if ever one of them chanced to say
What troubles she met with on the way,
How she longed to pass to the other side,
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide,
A voice arose from the brethren then,
"Let no one speak but the 'holy men ;'
For have ye not heard the words of Paul,
'Oh, let the women keep silence all?""
I watched them long in my curious dream,
Till they stood by the borders of the stream;
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met;
But all the brethren were talking yet,
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