BY LAMAN BLANCHARD.
"I am not what I am."—Iago.
I. The Passions, in festival meeting, I saw seated round, in a dream; And vow, by my hatred of cheating, The Passions are not what they seem. There's mirth under faces the gravest, There's woe under visages droll; There's fear in the breast of the bravest, And light in the desolate soul. II. Thus Joy, in my singular vision, Sat sobbing and gnashing his teeth; While Gentleness scoff'd in derision, And Hope pick'd the buds from his wreath. Despair, her tight bodice unlacing, With laughter seem'd ready to die; And Hate, her companions embracing, Won each with a smile or a sigh. III. There Peace bellow'd louder and louder, For Freedom, sent off to the hulks; Fear sat on a barrel of powder, And Pleasure stood by in the sulks. Here Dignity shoots like a rocket Past Grace, who is rolling in fat; There Probity's picking a pocket, Here Pity sits skinning a cat. IV. Then Temperance reeling off, quite full, Charged Friendship with drugging her draught; She vowed it was Love that was spiteful, While Charity, blaming all, laugh'd; When Rage, with the blandest expression, And Vengeance, low-voiced like a child, Cried, "Mercy, forgive the transgression!" But Mercy look'd horribly wild. V. Old Wisdom was worshipping Fashion, And Jollity dozing in gloom; While Meekness was foaming with passion, And Misery danced round the room. Sweet Envy tripp'd off to her garret, Bright Malice smiled worthy of trust, Gay Want was enjoying his claret, And Luxury gnaw'd a dry crust. VI. At Pride, as she served up the dinner, Humility turn'd up her nose; Suspicion shook hands with each sinner, While Candour shunn'd all, as her foes. There's mirth under faces the gravest, There's woe under visages droll, There's fear in the breast of the bravest, And light in the desolate soul![144]