THE FATE OF A BROOM: AN ANTICIPATION.

Lo! in Corruption's lumber-room,

The remnants of a wondrous broom;

That walking, talking, oft was seen,

Making stout promise to sweep clean;

But evermore, at every push,

Proved but a stump without a brush.

Upon its handle-top, a sconce,

Like Brahma’s, looked four ways at once,

Pouring on king, lords, church, and rabble,

Long floods of favour-currying gabble;

From four-fold mouth-piece always spinning

Projects of plausible beginning,

Whereof said sconce did ne’er intend

That any one should have an end;

Yet still, by shifts and quaint inventions,

Got credit for its good intentions,

Adding no trifle to the store,

Wherewith the devil paves his floor.

Worn out at last, found bare and scrubbish,

And thrown aside with other rubbish,

We’ll e’en hand o’er the enchanted stick,

As a choice present for Old Nick,

To sweep, beyond the Stygian lake,

The pavement it has helped to make.