University of Virginia Library

CHARTIST ECLOGUE.

TIME—MIDNIGHT.

Propria Personæ—

• Jack Cade,
• Wat Tyler.

Cade,
musing.
The fire burns low, the taper's nearly out;
Ah me! what are these Chartists all about?
Am I that Cade, who, scarce twelve months ago,
Swore that our cause must win without a blow—
Declared that Freedom's sons must nobly stand
And rear the flag of triumph through the land?
Alas! poor Chartism, like the lights, looks blue,
And still no brighter prospect meets my view.
Where are the dreams of triumph, wealth, and power,
That came, like Danaæ, in a golden shower?
Where are the fields and acres that we sought?
Like Rachel, still I call, and they are not.
Where are the rich men's goods, the equal rights,
For which we bawl'd the weary winter nights?
Where the paid members, annual parliaments,
For which we pour'd such loud and long laments?
Where, where the ballot, suffrage—say, oh where?
Alas! they're visions of the baseless air:
All, all our meetings, speeches, threats, are vain,
Our daggers, pistols, pikes, and fields of slain;
Still I am only Cade, and Tyler rues
That ere we ventured on the sale of news;
For Liberators, Northern Stars, are sour,
And those who bought them once will buy no more. (Suddenly leaps up as if alarmed.)

'Tis but the wind that howls against the door—
I thought 'twas Satan that had cross'd the moor;
For Belzebub and I myself are even—
I am against the Queen, he arm'd 'gainst heaven.
Arms!—there's the rub!—arm, brother Chartists, arm!
Pikes, blunderbusses—raise the loud alarm;
Strike down these ermined ruffians, lords and all;
Clergy, and squires, and Commons—they must fall.
Down with the middle classes, merchants too,
Strike them to earth, the scoundrels yet shall rue;
Their castles, churches, palaces, shall blaze,
And all the world on this bold action gaze:
Then, gallant brethren, when the battle's o'er,
And all the rich are butcher'd in their gore,
We'll seize their treasures, and need work no more.

[Falls asleep.

THE DREAM.

Scene—Mount Vesuvius in a state of eruption. Pluto is discovered at the edge of the crater engaged in culinary operations, assisted by his Imps. He is stirring with much eagerness an enormous cauldron.
PLUTO
sings.

Enter
SPIRIT OF FIRE.
What, ho! good Pluto? What's the matter?
Why, I declare, I think you're fatter.

PLUTO.
No thanks to you, nor yours, good master!
But why so long—why wern't you faster?
What business has detained you thus?
What puts you, sir, in such a fuss?

SPIRIT OF FIRE.
Fuss! devil take it, why, these Chartists
Are worse than all the Buonapartists!
I thought that Moscow business o'er,
My toil all done, I'd work no more.
But, curse them, I've been all the way
To Brummagem, this very day.

PLUTO.
To Brummagem!—What business brought you?
I'm sure there's blaze enough without you!

SPIRIT OF FIRE.
It was a glorious sight, as ever
Flamed from Avernus' fiery river.
Oh, how the reeking rafters sent
Their glow into the firmament.
The lurid pillars stream'd on high,
Till even the moon was hid; the sky
Seem'd nought but blackness to the eye.

PLUTO.
How happen'd this? Was't accident?
Or was the conflagration meant?

SPIRIT OF FIRE.
Oh, had you seen the embers dart,
I'm sure it would have joyed your heart!
The Chartists, too, carousing, quaffing—
You would have split your sides with laughing.
They jump'd and danced with such mad play,
Like Cannibals around their prey—
What pity they were driven away!

PLUTO.
Methinks they'll have a glorious blow
Whene'er they visit us below.
But brother Slaughter comes—what, ho!

SPIRIT OF MASSACRE.
What, ho, good friends! how goes the feast?
I'm hungry—I've been travelling east;
The wind blows cold, the tempest's high,
And all the way from Wales am I.

PLUTO.
Right welcome, best and trustiest friend,
Without whose aid my reign must end.
Apicius would have rode from Rome
To such a feast; but, Newport, come!

SPIRIT OF MASSACRE.
Last evening as I sharp'd my knife
To stab a jealous Spaniard's wife,
I heard a noise across the sea,
Which seem'd as from the Tuilleries;
I listen'd on the western gales,
And, lo! the clamour rose from Wales!
Oh, 'twas a glad and glorious sight
To see that brief, but bloody fight!
(Though Frost, the leader, “ran away,
And lives to fight another day.”)
There, lying on the gory ground,
Lay numbers rent with mortal wound:
I saw their gashing limbs—I saw
The mark of many a deadly blow,
The forehead's damp, the fever'd eye,
The last proud look when heroes die;
I heard the shout of battle swell,
The rush of horsemen down the dell,
The clash of swords, the clang of spears,
The noise then faded on mine ears:
The last dull sounds that struck me then,
Were as the moans of dying men;
But one poor sufferer, struggling near,
Call'd faintly on his children dear,
Then sought his soul another sphere!

PLUTO.
Who brought them there: what wretch imbrued
His fingers in his country's blood?

SPIRIT OF MASSACRE.
Frost—that's the name! a rebel he,
Whose doom should be the gallows tree.

PLUTO.
Still, brother Slaughter, we should starve,
If traitors did not help to carve.
When Freedom's carnival of gore
Begins, the richer is our store;
When rebels stalk across the land,
More strongly, proudly, we command:
When fools and knaves the chorus swell,
There's gladness through the vaults of hell. (Puts his ear to the crater.)

Hark! I hear a mighty roar,
Like billows 'gainst a rocky shore;
Like a thousand eagles rushing;
Like a thousand torrents rushing;
Like a loosen'd avalanche
Sweeping forest, root and branch;
Like the earthquake, like the thunder:
What the devil is't, I wonder?

Enter
SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
Hail, hail! great Pluto! king of gods and men,
Lord of hell's gulphs, and all that they contain!
How is your wife?—how is fair Proserpine?
What have you got for dinner?—How's your wine?

PLUTO.
Right glad am I to see thee once again!
Whence hast thou come?—From what red fields of slain?
What king is dead?—What nation most in tears?
I have not seen thy face for fifty years!

SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
Great king! majestic monarch! conqueror
Of earth and hell—from Styx to Afric's shore,
Listen, whilst I my ghastly tale unfold,
Of sovereigns murder'd, and of empires sold.
Since last we dined on Etna's fiery plain,
When war's red blood-hounds thunder'd through the Seine,
Hearing the shrieks of murder sounding past,
Thither I journeyed on the swiftest blast,
And reach'd my dearest Paris just in time
To see some fighting on a scale sublime.
Bravely and gallantly the soldiers fought,
Till beat by hosts, they perish'd on the spot;
And the brave Swiss still struggled unsubdued,
Till raging thousands spilt their warrior blood:
Men fought like demons, and my heart-strings beat
To see such heaps of carnage at my feet.
I strayed till gentle Marie Antoinette
Bequeathed to France her life and coronet.
I strayed till Robespierre had cut his throat,
And lives of Frenchmen were not worth a groat;
And then, when massacre had done its part,
I left the scoundrels to friend Buonaparte.

PLUTO.
Where went you then, good crony, Revolution?
What empire, people, king, were next undone?

SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
From Versailles, where I called on Louis Philippe,
I journeyed southward to give Spain a fillip.
Then left my card on Portugal's young Queen,
And sent Don Miguel to the bloody scene.
But ne'er, good Pluto, have I seen such tricks,
Since thou baptized me in the lethal Styx,
As Russia play'd my friend and thine, old Nicks.

PLUTO.
Be civil, sir, my name is Pluto—Nick's
A modern name: mine beats it all to sticks.

SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
I gazed on Warsaw's shrieking walls,
And heard the rattling thunder-balls,
And saw the warrior-tide:
Carnage then madly clapp'd his hands,
And grinn'd to see those hero bands
All butcher'd in their pride.
Joy, joy! the massive temple fell;
The ruin'd homes of princes tell
The force of Cossack steel:
Thousands of deathless patriots stood
In hostile strength: alas! their blood
Was but the vulture's meal.

PLUTO.
And whither then?

SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
England, the land of all, I hate,
The proud, the fearless, and the great,
Land of pure laws and liberties,
Where revolution pines and dies;
There I had heard some rumours rife
Of fire, and blood, and battle's strife!
So, having had no work to do
Since Hunt's affair at Peterloo,
By way of penance on my trade,
I call'd on Tyler and on Cade.

PLUTO.
Well, think you, friend, there's any chance
That England will resemble France?

SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.

PLUTO.
That fine fish I caught near Mona,
It's the whale that swallow'd Jonah!
The soup, I warrant, it is made
From the first King Charles's head,
With a slice of Afric mutton
From the rump of Sambo Sutton:
Three spare ribs from Thurtell's chest,
Cuts from Burke's and Bishop's breast,
And Greenacre forms the rest.

SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
And these joints?

PLUTO.
These my imps brought, every one—
And they're rich as venison.
That's a wing of Cleopatra,
That's the famous king of Hayti.
Lo! the fiery dragon's haunch,
Fit for aldermanic paunch,
Which St George of England slew—
England's champion, brave and true.
Tongue of lizard, tail of snake,
Liver of a murder'd rake;
Miser's jaundiced hands are these,
With some pirates from the seas.
Alexander's carving knife,
That which took his Clitu's life,
Is for you: whilst Fire and Slaughter
Take what slew Virginius' daughter,
And spilt Cæsar's blood like water.

SPIRIT OF REVOLUTION.
And that chair, what other wight
Expect you at our feast to-night?

PLUTO.
A friend of yours, the Chartist, Cade. (Shouts loudly.)

Cade, awake, awake, arise!
Hasten to our sacrifice.
Revolution, Slaughter, Fire,
Wait you at our orgies dire.
Up! awake! the blood is streaming,
Wild Vesuvius' flames are streaming.
Up! we greet thee: brother, come
Hither, unto Pluto's home!

Cade
starting up wildly.
What dream is this? What horrid, hideous dream?
My blood boils, and a dizzy madness creeps
All through my brain and heart! Hence, hence,
Ye grisly phantoms! Hence, foul demons, hence!
Me miserable! what penalty is mine?
And yet, forgive me heaven, if punishment
Is due, that I have wronged thy high commands;
I will repent me! Never, never more,
Will I incite rebellion in the land,
Nor spout seditious speeches to the mob.
O! I feel faint; these shadows have unmann'd me!
It is the Northern Times has brought this dream
Thus palpably before me! Spare, oh spare!
Good editor: though strong, be merciful,
And I will ne'er provoke your vengeance more.
Alas, alas!

[Exit to bed.