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corn, like

Flave revolutionary pités risen,

The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
And turn' the royal entrails to a prison ?

To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast
Have discontented movernents stirr'd the troops ? With his great self and rider in the mud;
Or hare no movements follow'd traitorous soups ? But what of that? the animal shows blood.
llave Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed

XIV.
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded

Alas! the country!-how shall tongue or pen Repletion? Ah! in thy dejecied looks

Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ? I read all 's treason in her cooks!

The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, Goud classic ! is it, canst thou say,

The first to make a malady of Desirable to be the "- .?"

peace.

For what were all these country patriois born ? Why wouldst thou leave calm

's green abode,

To hunt and vote, and raise the price of corn? Apician table and Horatian ode,

But

every mortal thing, must fall To rule a people who will not be ruled,

Kin

-5, conquerors, and markets most of all. And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ?

А . must ye fall with every ear of grain ? Ah! thine was not the temper or the taste

sny would you trouble Buonaparte's reign? For thrones—the table sees thee better placed:

He was your great 'Triptolemus; his vices A mild Epicurcan, form’d, at best,

Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain’d your prices; To be a kind host and as good a guest.

He amplified, to every lord's content, To talk of letters, and to know by heart

The grand agrarian alchymy-high rent. One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art;

Why did the Tyrant stumble on the Tartars, A scholar always, now and then a wit,

And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? And gentle when digestion may permit

Why did

you chain him on yon isle so lone ? But not to govern lands enslaved or free;

The man was worth much more upon his throne. The gout was martyrdom enough for thee!

True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt,
Xui.

But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt ;
Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase

But bread was high, the farmer paid his way,
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ?

And acres told upon the appointed day.
" Arts-arins—and George—and glory and the isles, But where is now the goodly audit ale ?
And happy Britain-wealth and freedom's smiles, The purse-proud tenant never known to fail ?
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof-

The farm which never yet was left on hand ?
Coniented subjects, all alike tax-proof

The marsh reclaimed to most improving land ? Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curld,

The impatient hope of the expiring lease? That nose, the hook where he suspends the world !! The doubling rental? What an evil's peace ! And Waterloo-and trade-and-(hush! not yet

In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, A syllable of imposts or of debt)

In vain the commons pass their patriot bill; And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,

The landed interest—(you may understand Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quill 't other day

The phrase much better leaving out the land, And “ pilots who have weather'd every storm,

The land's self-interest groans from shore lo shore (But no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform).”

For fear that plenty should altain the poor. These are the themes thus sung so oft before,

Up! up again : ye rents, exalt your notes, Methinks we need not sing them any more ;

Or else the ministry will lose their votes, Found in so many volumes far and near,

And patriotism, so delicately nice,
There's no occasion you should find them here.

Her loaves will lower to the market price;
Yet something may remain, perchance, to chime For ah! " the loaves and fishes," once so high,
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme;

Are gone—their oven closed, their ocean dry;
Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit,

And nought remains of all the millions spent,
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit,

Excepting to grow moderate and content.
And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame They who are not so had their turn-and turu
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame;

About still flows from fortune's equal urn;
Our last, our best, our only orator,

Now let their virtue be its own reward, Even I can praise thee-Tories do no more,

And share the blessings which themselves pr .ed. Nay, not so much ;-they hate thee, man, because

See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 'Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes.

Farmers of war, dictators of the farm! The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,

Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling unus, And, where he leads, the duteous pack will follow :

Their fields manured by gore of other lands; But not for love mistake their yelling cry,

Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent Their yelp for game is not an eulogy;

Their brethren out to battle-why? for rent! Less faithful far than the four-footed pack,

Year after year they voted cent. per cent. A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.

Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions-why? for rent Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,

They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they Sor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;

meant
To die for England—why then live? for rent!

The
1 “Naso suspendit adunco."--Horace.

peace has made one general malcontent The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to

of these high-market patriots; war was rent! nis acquaintance

Their love of country, millions all mispent,

How reconcile ?-by reconciling rent.

Two Jews—but not Samaritans-direct And will they not repay the treasures lent?

The world, with all the spirit of their sect. No: down with every thing, and up with rent! What is the happiness of earth to them? Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, A congress forms their “ Now Jerusalem," Being, end, aim, religion--Rent, rent, rent !

Where baronies and orders both inviteThou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess : Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight? Thou shouldst have gotten more or eaten less : Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands Who spit not “on their Jewish gaberdine," Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.

But honour them as portion of the showSuch, landlords, was your appetite for war,

(Where now, oh, Pope! is thy forsaken toe? And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar! Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? What, would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash? Or has it ceased to “kick against the pricks ?") And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall,

To cut from nations' hearts their " pound of flesh." And found on 'Change a foundling hospital!

XVI. Lo, mother church, while ail religion writhes,

Strange sight this congress! destined to unite Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, tithes;

All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. The prelates go to—where the saints have gone,

I speak not of the sovereigns—they're alike, And proud pluralities subside to one;

A common coin as ever mint could strike: Church, state, and faction, wrestle in the dark,

But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark.

Have more of motley than their heavy kings. Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends,

Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, Another Babel soars—but Britain ends.

While Europe wonders at the vast design: And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, And prop the hill of these agrarian ants.

Cajoles; there Wellingtun forgets to fight; “Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs;' Admire their patience through each sacrifice,

And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars; Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride,

There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters, The price of taxes and of homicide ;

Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, Admire their justice, which would fain deny

To furnish articles for the “Debats ;" The debt of nations: pray, who made it high?

Of war so certain—yet not quite so sure

As his dismissal in the “Moniteur.”
XV.

Alas! how could his cabinet thus err?
Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,

Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ? The new Symplegades—the crushing Stocks, He falls indeed, -perhaps to rise again, Where Midas might again his wish behold

“ Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain.” In real paper or imagined gold.

XVII. That magic palace of Alcina shows

Enough of this-a sight more mournful woos More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,

The averted eye of the reluctant muse. Were all her ators of unleavened ore,

The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore.

The imperial victim--sacrifice to pride; There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake,

The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, And the world trembles to bid brokers break.

The young Astyanax of modern Troy; How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines,

The still pale shadow of the losticst queen Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or wines;

That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen: No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey,

She flits amidst the phantonis of the hour, Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money:

The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. But let us not to own the truth refuse,

Oh, cruel mockery! could not Austria spare Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ?

A daughter? What did France's widow there? Those parted with their teeth to good King John,

Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wareAnd now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own;

Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. All states, all things, all sovereigns, they control,

But, no,-she still must hold a petty reign, And waft a loan “ from Indus to the Pole."

Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain; The banker-broker-baron-brethren, speed

The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.

Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. Nor these alone; Columbia feels no less

What though she share no more, and shared in rain, Fresh speculations follow each success;

A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain

Which swept from Moscow to the Southern seas, Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain.

Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of checse, Not without Abraham's seea can Russia march'Tis gold, not stee!, that rears the conqueror's arch.

1 Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the auto 'Two Jews, a chosen people, can command

in the minister, received a handsome compliment at Veran In every realm their scripture-promised land : from a literary sovereign; "Ah! Monsieur C-, are you Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold

related to that Chateaubriand who-who-who has written

something (ecrit quelque chose)?" It is said that the Authon The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old :

of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy.

Where Parma views the traveller resort

XVIII.
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn

But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,
Of all her beams-while nations gaze and mourn- And sketch the group—the picture's yet to come
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time

My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, To chill in their inhospitable clime,

She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! (If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold

While throng'd the Chiefs of every Highland clan But no,—their embers soon will burst the mould); To hail their brother, Vich lan Alderman ! She comes !-the Andromache (but not Racine's,

Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, Nor Homer's); lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! While all the Common Council

cry, “ Claymorc !" Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,

To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, Gird the gross sirloin of a City Celt, is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave

She burst into a laughter so extreme,
Do more? or less ?-and he in his new grave!

That I awoke—and lo! it was no dream!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
And the Ex-empress grows as Er a wife!
So much for human lies in royal breasts!

Here, reader, will we pause :-if there's no harm in Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? This first-you'll have, perhaps, a second " Carmen."

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The Vision of Judgment.

BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS.

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT TYLER.'

A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel !
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word.

1. Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,

His keys were rusty, and the lock was dull, Bo little trouble had been given of late;

Not that the place by any means was full,
But since the Gallic era “eighty-eight,"

The devils had taken a longer, stronger pull,
And " a pull altogether," as they say
Ai sea—which drew most souls another way.

IV.
His business so augmented of late years,

That he was forced, against his will, no doubt, (Just like those cherubs, earthly ministers),

For some resource to turn himself about,
And claim the help of his celestial peers,

To aid him ere he should be quite worn out
By the increased demand for his remarks :
Six angels and twelve saints were named his clerks.

II.
The angels all were singing out of tune,

And hoarse with having little else to do,
Excepting to wind up the sun and moon,

Or curb a runaway young star or two,
Or wild colt of a comel, which loo soon

Broke out of bounds o'er the ethereal blue,
Splitting some planet with its playful tail,
As boats are sometimes by a wanton whale.

V.
This was a handsome board—at least for heaven;

And yet they had even then cnough to do,
So many conquerors' cars were daily driven,

So many kingdoms fitted up anew;
Each day, too, slew its thousands six or seven,

Till at the crowning carnage, Waterloo,
They threw their pens down in divine disgust,
The page was so besmear’d with blood and dus.

VI.
This by the way; 't is not mine to record

What angels shrink from: even the very devil
On this occasion his own work abhorr'd,

So surfeited with the infernal revel:
Though he himself had sharpen'd every sword,

It almost quench'd his innate thirst of avil.
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion-
l'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion).

III.
The guardian scraphs had retired on high,

Finding their charges past all care below;
Terrestrial business fill'd nought in the sky

Save the recording angel's black bureau;
Who found, indeed, the facts to multiply

With such rapidity of vice and woe,
That he had stripp'd off both his wings in quills,
And yet was in arrear of human ills.

a

VII.

XIV. Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace, I know this is unpopular; I know

Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, ”T is blasphenous; I know one may be dann'd And heaven none-they form the tyrant's lease, For hoping no one else may e'er be so;

With nothing but new names inscribed upon 't; I know my catechism ; I know we are cramm’d 'T will one day finish : meantime they increase, With the best doctrines till we quite o'ertlow;

* With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front, I know that all save England's church have shamma Like Saint John's foretold beasts; but ours are born And that the other twice iwo hundred churches Less formidable in the head than horn.

And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase. VIII.

XV. In the first year of freedom's second dawn

God help us all! God help me, too! I am, Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one

God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn And not a whit more difficult to damn Left him nor mental nor external sun:

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish, A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,

Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb; A worse king never left a realm undone!

Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish He died—but left his subjects still behind,

As one day will be that immortal fry One half as mad—and t' other no less blind.

or almost every body born to die. IX.

XVI. He died !-his death made no great stir on earth;

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, His burial made some pomp; there was profusion

And nodded o'er his keys: when lo! there came Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth

A wondrous noise he had not heard of lateOf aught but tears-save those shed by collusion; In short, a roar of things extremely great,

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; For these things may be bought at their true worth : Of elegy there was the due infusion

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim; Bought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,

But he, with first a start and then a wink, Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,

Said, “ There's another star gone out, I think 19 X.

XVII.

But ere he could return to his repose,
Form’d a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show,

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyes

At which Saint Peter yawn'd, and rubbid his nose; Who cared about the corpse? The funeral Made the attraction, and the black the woe.

“ Saint porter," said the angel,“ prithee rise !" Sherethrobb’d not there a thought which pierced the pall; Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low

An tarthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes: It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold

To which the saint replied, “Well, what's the matter? The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?”

XVIII.
XI.

"No," quoth the cherub; “George the Third is dead." So mix his body with the dust! It might Return to what it must far sooner, were

“ And who is George the Third ?" replied the apostle:

What George? what Third ?” “ The King of Enr The natural compound left alone to fight

land," said Its way back into earth, and fire, and air ;

The angel. "Well! he won't find kings to jostle But the unnatural balsams merely blight

Him on his way; but does he wear his head? What nature made him at his birth, as bare

Because the last we saw here had a tussle, As the mere million's base unmummied clay

And ne'er would have got into Heaven's good graces, Yet all his spices but prolong decay.

Had he not flung his head in all our faces.
XII.

XIX.
He's dead and upper earth with him has done :

“ He was, if I remember, king of He's buried; save the undertaker's bill,

That head of his, which could not kecp a crown Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone

On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance For him, unless he left a German will;

A claim to those of martyrs—like my own : But where's the proctor who will ask his son ?

If I had had my sword, as I had once In whom his qualities are reigning still,

When I cut ears off, I had cut him down;
Except that household virtue, most uncommon, But having but my keys, and not my brand,
Of constancy to a bad ugly woman.

I only knock'd his head from out his hand.
XIII.

XX.
“God save the king!” It is a large economy " And then he set up such a headless howl,
In God to save the like; but if he will

That all the saints came out and took him in; Be saving, all the better; for not one am I

And there he sits by Saint Paul, check by jowl; Oi those who think damnation better still:

That fellow, Paul-the parvenu! The skin I hardly know ico if not quite alone am I

of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl In this small hope of hettering future ill

In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sit.
By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, So as to make a martyr, never sped
C'he eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.

Better than did this weak and wooden head.

a

XXI.

XXVIII. But had it come up here upon its shoulders, And from the gate thrown open issued beaming

There would have been a different lale to tell : A beautiful and mighty thing of light, The fellow-feeling in the saints beholders

Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming Seems to have acted on them like a spell,

Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight : And so this very foolish head Heaven solders My poor comparison must needs be teeming Back on its trunk: it may be very well,

With earthly likenesses, for here the night And seems the custom here to overthrow

of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving Whatever has been wisely done below."

Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.
XXII.

XXIX.
The angel answer'd, “ Peter! do not pout;

’T was the archangel Michael : all men know The king who comes has head and all entire, The make of angels and archangels, since And never knew much what it was about

There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, He did as doth the puppel-by its wire,

From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince. And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt :

There also are some altar-pieces, though My business and your own is not to inquire

I really can't say that they much evince Into such matters, but to mind our cue

One's inner notions of immortal spirits ;
Which is to act as we are bid to do."

But let the connoisseurs explain their merits.
XXIII.

XXX.
While thus they spake, the angelic caravan,

Michael flew forth in glory and in good; Arriving like a rush of mighty wind,

A goodly work of him from whom all glory Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan

And good arise ; the portal pass'd-he stood; Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde,

Before him the young cherubs and saint hoary Or Thames, or Tweed), and ’midst them an old man (I say young, begging to be understood With an old soul, and both extremely blind,

By looks, not years; and should be very sorry Halted before the gate, and in his shroud

To state, they were not older than Saint Peter, Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.

But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter).
XXIV.

XXXI.
But, bringing up the rear of this bright host, The cherubs and the saint bow'd down before
A spirit of a different aspect waved

That arch-angelic hierarch, the first
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast of essences angelical, who wore

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; The aspect of a god; but this ne'er nursed
His brow was like the deep when tempest-tost;

Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core
Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved

No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst Eternal wrath on his immortal face,

Intrude, however glorified and high ;
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.

He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.
XXV.

XXXII.
As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate,

He and the sombre silent spirit metNe'er to be enter'd more by him or sin,

They knew each other both for good and ill ; With such a glance of supernatural hate,

Such was their power, that neither could forget As made Saint Peter wish himself within ;

His former friend and future foe; but still He potter'd with his keys at a great rate,

There was a high, immortal, proud regret And sweated through his apostolic skin :

In either's eye, as if 't were less their will Of course his perspiration was but ichor,

Than destiny to make the eternal years Or some such other spiritual liquor.

Their date of war, and their “Champ Clos” the spherun. XXVI.

XXXIII. The very cherubs huddled altogether,

But here they were in neutral space: we know Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt From Job, that Sathan hath the power to pay A tingling to the tip of every feather,

A heavenly visit thrice a year or so ; And form'd a circle, like Orion's belt,

And that “the sons of God," like those of clay, Around their poor old charge, who scarce knew whither Must keep him company; and we might show,

His guards had led him, though they gently dealt From the same book, in how polite a way
With royal manes (for, by many stories,

The dialogue is held between the powers
And true, we learn the angels all are Tories). Of good and evil—but 't would take up hours.
XXVII.

XXXIV.
As things were in this posture, the gate flew And this is not a theologic traat,
Asunder, and ine flashing of its hinges

To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic Flung over space an universal hue

If Job be allegory or a fact, Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges

But a true narrative; and thus I pick
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new From out the whole but such and such an act
Aurora borealis spread its fringes

As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.
O’er the North Pole; the same seen, when ice-bound, 'T is every tittle true, beyond suspicion,
By Captain Parry's crews, in “ Melville's Sound.” And accurate as any other vision.

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