This was a handsome board-at least for heaven;

And yet they had even then enough 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 dust.


This by the way; 'tis 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 evil.
(Here Satan's sole good work deserves insertion-
'Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.)


Let's skip a few short years of hollow peace,

Which peopled earth no better, hell as wont, And heaven none—they form the tyrant's lease

With nothing but new names subscribed upon 't; 'Twill one day finish : meantime they increase,

“With seven heads and ten horns," and all in front, Like Saint John's foretold beast; but ours are born Less formidable in the head than horn.



In the first year of freedom's second dawn

Died George the Third; although no tyrant, one
Who shielded tyrants, till each sense withdrawn

Left him nor mental nor external sun :
A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,

A worse king never left a realm undone!
He died—but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad-and t'other no less blind.


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

His burial made some pomp; there was profusion Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth

Of aught but tears--save those shed by collusion;
For these things may be bought at their true worth:

Of elegy there was the due infusion-
Bought also ; and the torches, cloaks, and banners,
Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners,


Form’d a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all

The fools who flock'd to swell or see the show, Who cared about the corpse? The funeral

Made the attraction, and the black the woe.
There throbb’d not there a thought which pierced the pall;

And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,
It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold
The rottenness of eighty years in gold.


So mix his body with the dust! It might

Return to what it must far sooner, were The natural compound left alone to fight

Its way back into earth, and fire, and air; But the unnatural balsams merely blight

What nature made him at his birth, as bare As the mere million's base unmummied clayYet all his spices but prolong decay.


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

He 's buried; save the undertaker's bill, Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone

For him, unless he left a German will; But where 's the proctor who will ask his son ?

In whom his qualities are reigning still, Except that household virtue, most uncommon, Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.


“God save the king !" It is a large economy

In God to save the like; but if he will
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I

Of those who think damnation better still:
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I

In this small hope of bettering future ill By circumscribing, with some slight restriction, The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.


I know this is unpopular; I know

'Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd For hoping no one else may e'er be so;

I know my catechism; I know we are cramm'd With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;

I know that all save England's church have shamm'd, And that the other twice two hundred churches And synagogues have made a damn'd bad purchase.


God help us all! God help me too! I am,

God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish, And not a whit more difficult to damn

Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish,
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;

Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish
As one day will be that immortal fry
Of almost every body born to die.


Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,

And nodded o'er bis keys; when lo! there came A wond'rous noise he had not heard of late

A rushing sound of wind, and stream, and flame; In short, a roar of things extremely great,

Which would have made aught save a saint exclaim; But he, with first a start and then a wink, Said, “ There's another star gone out, I think!"


But ere he could return to his repose,

A cherub flapp'd his right wing o'er his eyesAt which Saint Peter yawn’d, and rubb’d his nose:

“ Saint porter,” said the Angel,“ prithee rise!” Waving a goodly wing, which glow'd, as glows

An earthly peacock's tail, with heavenly dyes; To which the Saint replied, “ Well, what's the matter ? “ Is Lucifer come back with all this clatter ?”


“ No," quoth the Cherub; “ George the Third is dead.”

“ And who is George the Third ?” replied the Apostle; What George? what Third ?“The King of England,” said

The Angel. “ Well! he wont find kings to jostle “ Him on his

way; but does he wear his head ? 6 Because the last we saw here had a tussle, “ And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, “ Had he not flung his head in all our faces.


“ He was, if I remember, king of France;

" That bead of his, which could not keep a crown “ On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance

A claim to those of martyrs-like my own: “ If I had had my sword, as I had once

“ When I cut ears off, I had cut him down; “ But having but my keys, and not my brand, “I only knock'd his head from out his hand.

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