on the breast he hit his deadly foe;
Who fell, like Pedants' periods, to the ground,--
Very inanimate, and very round.

Here is another Picture, reader mine!
I gave you one in the first Canto;[13]--
This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,--
Like something in the Castle of Otranto.

[13] _Vide_ Part 1st, page 61, lines 4-7.

Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work,
Who on the subject will, with furor, rush!
Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork,
To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!

Come, Limners, come! who choke your house's entry
With dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;
Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;
Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!

Come, Limners, hither come! and draw
A finer incident than e'er ye saw!

Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)
Lying stone _dead_; and, here, a Roger, _quick_!
And over John stands Roger, in a funk,
Supposing he has kill'd him with a brick!

There, Painters! there!
Now, by Apelles's gamboge, I swear!

Such a dead subject never comes,
Among those _lifeless living_ ye display;
Then, thro' your palettes thrust your graphick thumbs,--
And work away!

Seeing John dead as a door nail,
Roger began to wring his hands, and wail;
Calling himself, Beast, Butcher, cruel Turk!
Thrice "_Benedicite!_" he mutter'd;
Thrice, in the eloquence of grief he utter'd;
"I've done a pretty job of journey-work!"

Some people will shew symptoms of repentance
When Conscience, like a chastening Angel, smites 'em;
Some from mere dread of the Law's sentence,
When Newgate, like the very Devil, frights 'em;--

_That_ Virtue's struggles, in the heart, denotes,
_This_ Vice's hints, to men's left ears, and throats.

Now Roger's conscience, it appears,
Was not, by half, so lively as his fears.

His breast, soon after he was born,
Grew like an Hostler's lantern, at an Inn;
All the circumference was dirty horn,
And feebly blink'd the ray of warmth within.

In short, for one of his religious function,
His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;
No melting Cherub whisper'd to't "Compunction!"
But grim Jack Ketch disturb'd it, crying "Gallows!"

And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr'd,
Was nothing but antipathy to _cord_.

A padlock'd door stood in the garden wall,
Where John,