O, come abroad into the wholesome air, And take your moral place, before Sin seats Her wicked self in the Professor's chair.

Suppose some morals raw! the true receipt's To dress them in the pan, but do not try To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry!

XV.

Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!

Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools In jail--but at the _Porch_! hinting, no doubt, That Vice should have a lesson in the rules Before 'twas whipt by law.--O come about, Good Mrs. Fry! and set up forms and stools All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate Street, But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat!

XVI.

Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolor; Teach her it is not virtue to pursue Ruin of blue, or any other color; Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue, Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar; Teach her that "flooring Charleys" is a game Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.

XVII.

O come and teach our children--that ar'n't _ours_-- That heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way, Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours Children, like Time--or rather they both prey On youth together--meanwhile Newgate low'rs Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day, To shut them out from any more blue sky: Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry!

XVIII.

You are not nice--go into their retreats, And make them Quakers, if you will.--'Twere best They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans _pleats_; That they had hats _with_ brims,--that they were drest In garbs without _lappels_--than shame the streets With so much raggedness.--You may invest Much cash this way--but it will cost its price, To give a good, round, real _cheque_ to Vice!

XIX.

In brief,--Oh teach the child its moral rote, Not _in_ the way from which 'twill not depart,-- But _out_--out--out! Oh, bid it walk remote!

And if the skies are clos'd against the smart, Ev'n let him wear the single-breasted coat, For that ensureth singleness of heart.-- Do what you will, his every want supply, _Keep_ him--but _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!

ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ.,[22]

M.P. FOR GALWAY.

"_Martin_ in this has proved himself a very good man!"

--_Boxiana_.

[Footnote 22: The well-known Humanitarian, M. P. for Galway, the author of "Martin's Act" for the protection of animals from ill-treatment, and one of the founders of the noble society having the same object. He died in 1834.]

I.

How many sing of wars, Of Greek and Trojan jars-- The butcheries of men!

The Muse hath a "Perpetual Ruby Pen!"

Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill; But no one sings the man That, like a pelican, Nourishes Pity with his tender _Bill_!

II.

Thou Wilberforce of hacks!

Of whites as well as blacks, Pyebald and dapple gray, Chestnut and bay-- No poet's eulogy thy name adorns!

But oxen, from the fens, Sheep--in their pens, Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns!

Thou art sung on brutal pipes!

Drovers may curse thee, Knackers asperse thee, And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes; But the old horse neighs thee, And zebras praise thee,-- Asses, I mean--that have as many stripes!

III.

Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,-- Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air!

Bullocks don't wear _Oxide_ of iron!

The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft, Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo, That thought his horse the _courser_ of the two-- Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!-- O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds--(if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather)--when the clown uplifts His hands against the sparrow's nest, to _grab_ it,-- He shall not harm the MARTINS and the _Swifts_!

IV.

Ah! when Dean Swift was _quick_, how he enhanc'd The horse!--and humbled biped man like Plato!

But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd-- Gone backward in the world--and not advanc'd,-- Remember Cato!

Swift was the horse's champion--not the King's, Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus--would he were thrown!

He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things!

Ah well-a-day! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly!--let it debar men From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse-- Look at the ancients' _Muse_!

Look at their _Carmen_!

V.

O, Martin I how thine eyes-- That one would think had put aside its lashes,-- That can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane,-- For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein-- Gods! is there no _Horse-spital_!

That such raw shows must sicken the humane!

Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his _pane_!

VI.

O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses!

O wipe away the national reproach-- And find a decent Vulture for their corses!

And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach!

Steeds that confess "the luxury of _wo_!"

True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack Shall sorrow for thee,--sore with kick and blow And bloody gash--it is the Indian knack-- (Save that the savage is his own tormentor)-- Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf-- The biped woe the quadruped shall enter, And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their griefs met in a common _Centaur_!

ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.[23]

"O breathe not his name!"--_Moore_.

[Footnote 23: After nearly eighty years it is almost pardonable to remind the reader that in the earlier days of the Waverley Novels their author was much talked of by the above title. The variety of Hood's reading, and his resource in simile, are very noticeable in this Ode. The likening of Dominie Sampson to Lamb's friend, George Dyer and the comparison of Mause Headrigg to Rae Wilson on his travels, are admirable examples.]