Robert Southey

Every body is a critic.

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock, “Oh Christ! It is the Inchcape Rock!”

And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

How beautiful is night! A dewy freshness fills the silent air; No mist obscures; nor cloud, nor speck, nor stain, Breaks the serene of heaven: In full-orbed glory, yonder moon divine Rolls through the dark blue depths;

"Great news! bloody news!" cried a newsman; The Devil said, "Stop, let me see!" "Great news? bloody news?" thought the Devil; "The bloodier the better for me."

At this good news, so great The Devil's pleasure grew, That, with a joyful swish, he rent The hole where his tail came through.

Thou hast confessions to listen, And bells to christen, And altars and dolls to dress; And fools to coax, And sinners to hoax, And beads and bones to bless;

He passed a cottage with a double coach-house, A cottage of gentility; And he owned with a grin That his favorite sin Is pride that apes humility.

How, then, was the Devil dressed? Oh! he was in his Sunday's best; His coat was red, and his breeches were blue, And there was a hole where his tail came through.

From his brimstone bed, at break of day, A-walking the Devil is gone, To look at his little, snug farm of the World, And see how his stock went on.

"And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."

But what they fought each other for I could not well make out.

"'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory."

He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

It was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

"In my days of youth, I remembered my God, And he hath not forgotten my age."

"You are old, Father William." the young man cried, "The few locks which are left you are grey; You are hale, Father William—a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

Cold is thy heart and as frozen as Charity!

If you would be pungent, be brief ; for it is with words as with sunbeams—the more they are condensed, the deeper they burn.