University of Virginia Library

I had a vision that was not a dream,
Of men turned to machines, and worked by steam,
In a strange country governed but by fools,
Where each one follows his own nose and rules
And leads the others, and is led in turn
(While all instruct, and nobody will learn)
Just by the nose; and, in a House of Glass,
Incense is offered to a Crownèd Ass,
Whose name is Humbug, and whose shoulders thin
Are covered with a mangey lion skin.
And praise ascends for ever, night and day,
From worshippers who only love to bray,
In old Egyptian style, when shrines were stables,
And men adored their beasts and vegetables.

Here men had grown to women and their ways,
And strutted out a little life in stays
Or petticoats, and with loose scented hair
Piped of the secret Pleasures of Despair
That spring from Culture and Refinement's march,
Made up of paint and agonies and starch,
With other raptures, and delicious woes
Nursed by high doctrines and—dyspeptic throes.
Here women, turned to men, affect their hats
And coats, and play with vices just like cats;
And breaking free from the frail schoolroom bars,
Drink the best wine, and smoke the best cigars,
Tell the best stories in the best-cut clothes,
And drop from rosebud lips the roundest oaths,
Like honeydew; and please to gamble high,
And carry all before them with a sigh
Or sugared side-glance, when they choose to cheat
Some rustic lamb that love has taught to bleat.
Here all are writers—though results are nought,
And make by stealing what they lack in thought;
While fancies their duty do for absent facts,
And words more honour win than noble acts.
From prince to peasant, and from throne to gutter,
Pens worry paper, with a general sputter.

Nature will sometimes nod, and when she makes
Poor mortals, falls into absurd mistakes.
She gives a title old to rakes and sots,
And crowns the heads of peers with pewter pots,
Coins gentlemen of sharpers every hour,
And deals to billiard-markers place and power.
So noble patriots choose the jockey's bays,
To win a Derby—not a people's praise;
Lords are less jealous for their house than horse,
To clear their honour than to clear the course.
But still whate'er they do, they do on springs,
Like puppets moved by hidden wires and strings,
Wound up to work, regardless of the sense,
Results the greatest at the least expense.
But all is wrought by form and measure still,
Whether the matter be a prayer or pill,
A patent for new blacking or a peer,
An act of Parliament or pint of beer.
Some square their conduct by the tradesman's tape,
And shut emotions in a kitchen shape,
Pocket their feelings, hedge their fancies in,
And mete each day so many yards of sin.
They wear by regulation joys and loves,
And make them fit as neatly as their gloves,
And if in aught they differ, they agree
To settle all things by the Rule-of-Three.
They eat and drink, are daily bought and sold
In marriage, as from Noah's days of old;
And some of them seem wise, and some seem stupid,
But still in various masks all bow to Cupid.

Some pull the churches down, to make quite sure
The old foundations really are secure;
As children pull up flowers, that make no show,
To see if they are rooted and will grow;
Though, in the process, while they pry and gape,
The suffering life may happen to escape.
While others cook, and warm their hands or bed,
By burning their own houses overhead,
Just for the humour of the passing hour,
To roast a pig or gain a moment's power,
And are indignant when they cool, and find
They have but aches and ashes left behind.
And every day the Master-Fool is seen,
Hacking some oak or institution green,
Which he deems rotten, or bestriding high
Some goodly branch he does not love too nigh,
And sawing hard between the tree and him,
While both his blinded eyes with sawdust swim;
Till down he rudely topples, branch and all,
And rubs his eyes and wonders at his fall.
Civilians play at sailors in their seats,
And give mere figures when they're asked for fleets.
The soldiers change their uniform and face,
And “military units” take their place.
The Commissariat is a farce, that acts
Only on paper, with rosewater facts,
And still collapses at the first small strain,
When warriors for Tobacco ask in vain
And get Red Tape; and horses have their hay,
Compressed indeed with refuse and decay.
But if high powers to jobbing are propitious,
What Expedition can be expeditious?

And hospitals, when comes the pinch of need,
Receive the patients whom they cannot feed,
Abound in every kind of forms and rules,
Prescriptions, precedents, and food for fools,
And rubbish dear to the official mind,
Though instruments and drugs are left behind.
While on his couch the gorged Inspector snores,
And dons lead armies and are led by whores,
The heroes are condemned to starve and die,
Ere cursèd customs loose their iron tie,
Or false contractors, thriving on the pain,
Forfeit one farthing of their ill-got gain.
The Transport, when it's tried, can nothing do,
A perfect form and perfect failure too,
That would work wonders—if it had but legs,
But breaking with a stench like rotten eggs.
And though the Senate (or the Asses' Pen)
Is filled with prigs, whose ancestors were men,
And did men's deeds—and though the leaders draw,
In long descent, a legendary awe;
Yet the bright honour they have never known,
If all the empty honours are their own,
And of that glory they are not the heirs,
Nor is that grand ancestral merit theirs,
And ne'er will be; while, though the country grieves,
Their Cabinet is but a den of thieves.
But ancient names do not avail to make,
A politician from a spoon or rake,
And statesmen should give laws of better stuff,
Than will suffice to line a lady's muff,
And be an evening's gossip at the clubs,
Or point the drunkard's jest in village pubs.
What can to curs, or sots or fools give graces?
Not coats of arms, nor pedigrees, nor paces.

There was an Island, set in silver seas,
Whose every feature had some charm to please,
Where carth puts on her saddest sweetest smile—
Now, so diseased, it is the Emerod Isle!
Her patriots would their all (that's blarney) give,
And for their country die—not in it live.
Oh, here, too proud or indolent to dig,
The noble savage breeds the nobler pig;
The pampered paupers, and the rebel brood,
Whose breath is treason, who make crime their food,
Here hug their cruel murders, dastard deeds,
Done in the darkness of their coward creeds,
And under cover of protecting priests,
Prove Darwin's dream that men have sprung from beasts.
They pray and slay, and from absolving hands,
Let loose like hounds of hell their damnèd bands.
They praise their God, and practise every lust,
Adore the light and wallow in the dust,
Rise from their knees at human laws to mock,
And change the pulpit to the felon's dock.
The jaded libeller drops his poisoned pen,
And turns from killing time to killing men,
And finds, when lifted high on fortune's flood,
Less joy in spilling ink than spilling blood.
With the assassin's dagger grimly girt,
They cover blood with lies and lies with dirt,
Join force to craft, and stab in reverend stoles,
To save their pigstyes and to lose their souls.
And discontented still, whate'er they pluck
From folly's fears, these leeches ever suck
Their country's life away, and clamour yet
For every morsel that their greed can get.
Nor sated with the life, their hungry hands
Stretch farther even, and grasp the very lands;
And like the billows on a blasted shore,
Goes up the cry that murmurs still for more.
But while they drain the country with their bleeding,
No greater curse could seize them than—succeeding.

For lo! in this strange Paradise of Fools,
The workmen are the victims of their tools,
Do what they scouted, mean not what they say,
And with the nation's fame and fortunes play,
Swear war is perfect peace, and black is white,
And ill is really good, and wrong is right,
An agent is no agent—should he fail,
And compacts are no compacts—made in jail.
And should their blood-built grandeur scale the sky,
Thanks to the helpful earth they then deny,
Who nectar quaff from the imperial fount,
And kick the ladder down whereby they mount.
Their glib opinions have a changeful hue,
And daily turn, at need, from buff to blue,
And back again—to please the fickle mob,
Or hide the shame of some more perjured job.
And what their doctrines are, no mortals know,
(Not they themselves) that like the breezes blow,
And shift with every shadow of the hour,
Or shine like blacking on the boots of Power.
But then this is the very kind of mystery,
To suit the mother of all lies—called History.

The women here have turned to third-rate males,
And among minnows play the part of whales,
And blow and spout and splash at every board,
That lets them air their little pocket hoard
Of virile wisdom, and some rapturous plan
For showing females are as mad as man;
While they would take their lords' superior place,
But only copy him in his disgrace,
And ape man's vices which they fondly preach,
Who find his virtues are beyond their reach.
Love now is often least of woman's charms,
She sets her husband's legs, and wields his arms;
The dark-eyed darling by her lover lies,
Prattles of bones or gaseous mysteries,
Or sighs of pretty “subjects” to her groom,
And treasures dear to the dissecting-room,
And flirts with scalpel as she did with fan,
And grows tenfold more masculine than man.
Ah! make them mothers true and virtuous wives,
Before you arm them with the surgeons' knives,
Before you soil the sweetness of their fame,
And soak their minds in Science and in shame.
Yea, leave them to their baubles and their brats,
Pet lions, lapdogs, clergymen and cats,
And if they cannot wed, and must be doing
Then let them turn the tables and go wooing.

Here man, like autumn flowers that run to seeds,
Strives to become like woman, and succeeds.
He lisps like school girls, mews in mincing tones,
And round the waspish waist draws virgin zones,
Pads the small bosom, frills the fancy shirts,
And trails what is most feminine in skirts,
Parts in the middle hair, that has all night
Lain in curl papers to rejoice the light,
Painted and perfumed with art's every aid,
The lady's man that is a lady's maid!
With whiskered grace the dapper coxcomb fares,
Big with his little stock of shrugs and stares,
Poises an eyeglass in his errant eye,
And puffs his breast and well-adjusted tie,
And as the choir of nymphs around him flocks,
Gives the last finish to his scented locks.
The buxom nursemaid trembles at his tread,
And streamers flutter from her windy head,
With joys unknown her rustic bosom glows,
Before such polished words and ways and toes.
Trim and triumphant in his dandy drill,
He weighs the claims of rival flounce and frill—
To this a smile, to that a courtly bow,
And to Parisian modes a passing vow,
One ribbon more or less, one style of hair,
Call from his ready store the appropriate air.
If fortune aids, he breathes an amorous gush,
And with demureness meets the maiden blush.
He sues his victims, each by rule and reason,
And modulates his sighs to place and season.

Lo! Medicine, now, has made a mighty stride,
And kills its thousands where but hundreds died,
In murderous drugs and drenches Progress rules,
And makes our bellies battle-grounds of schools.
Death is the fruit, and doctors are the stem—
Diseases somehow multiply with them.
'Tis “kill or cure,” the patient or the pain;
But if you die, by Science you are slain.
And people poisoned, or cut up with knives,
Find this the only solace that survives—
To be made out some startling theory's base,
And called no more a person but a “case.”
How differ quacks, from true physicians' skill?
These have credentials, those have not—to kill.
Diplomas are a licence, to insure
The art of murder being quite secure;
That fools may sufferers make the sport of chance,
And death beds cheer with chartered ignorance.
Of vital force they starve the struggling breast,
And breed a stupor which they christen rest;
Then bid the death-knell sound and joy-bells cease,
And in the churchyard spread the reign of peace.
The march of Reason were a charming sight,
If only Reason did not march by night!
Now each prescription has its proper tang,
That veils its folly in a learned slang.
While ready terms for every cracked conceit,
For making torture more and more complete,
With easy methods and compendious rules,
To render faith the victim of the schools,
Come cropping up as quick as early clover—
Mere recipes for turning money over!

Though doctors' views may differ, like their fees,
And each the rest to contradict agrees,
Yet, Abernethy, Baillie, Marshall Hall,
Clark, Astley Cooper, Majendie, and all—
All who knew best the trade with every trick,
Have damned its impositions on the sick,
Have heaped on Medicine doubt, contempt, and shame,
And coupled death and dosing as the same.
The pet of ladies, the successful man,
Is an empiric or a charlatan,
And sometimes both, and always humbug still,
Whose remedies are worse than any ill.
The pestle and the mortar, scoop and scale,
Have slaughtered more than fire and sword and gale.
'Tis in the face of nostrums and of knives,
In spite of doctoring, that the wretch survives.
And why, beneath a cloud of curst prescriptions,
Revive the horrors of the plagued Egyptians?

But Doubt unhallowed, ever waxing more,
Goes death-like forth and creeps from door to door,
Steals through the tossing market-place, and still
Pursues its prey with blind unbending will,
Tracking its victim to the vilest lair,
And touching passers on the street or stair.
Hark! in the festive stir its step is heard,
Just in the breathing of some wanton word,
And in the silence of the solemn tomb,
Its presence has a tacit rank and room.
Its hand is heavy on the house of pride,
Knocks at the door, and will not be denied.
And when the weary watcher of the hour,
Calls through the shadow of the thunder shower,
It whispers to the pleading wail for light,
“We came from darkness and we go to night.”
While State Religion, in its lofty attic,
Looks down in wonder on a world erratic.

Alas! for laws that iron fetters wear,
And but incarnate a sublime despair,
Whose light is darkness, throwing over all
The bloom of glory, one great funeral pall.
Better the lie that earth with beauty fills,
Than the cold comfort of a truth that kills!
The captive soul must either die or dance;
Is life worth living without one romance?
And where is Faith, to lay the grisly ghost?
—Brawling in print, or sleeping at its post,
Or run to farce with masquerading saints—
Wet piety that daily drips or faints,
That oozes into ears like leaking tubs,
Or crawls and casts the dirt about like grubs—
And brawny preaching, with a fistic leaven,
That knocks its hearers headlong into Heaven.

Think of the glorious age that Venice saw,
Whose blood was commerce and whose breath was law,
With veins distended by the pulse of Power,
And hands that plucked the passion of the hour!
But now the blessing, Trade, has grown a curse,
And merit takes its measure by the Purse;
The servants are the masters, means the end,
And misers hoard what charity should spend;
While bag-men get all that by greed is got,
And heaping riches heap up moral rot.
And noble lords their empty coffers fill,
By making shameless love unto the till,
And wed the counter, which has wondrous charms
For those who hide a faded coat of arms.
Or else they kick at each obstructing fence:
As Randolph storms and strives with Providence—
And Queensberry, given to suppers with the Stoics,
Damns us all round, and goes into heroics.

Where is the Poet, for a world so poor? . . .
Even now his awful feet are at the door
Of judgment, and the Dawn is round him spread,
And virgin lilies bloom beneath his tread,
As at St. Leonard's. Yes, he comes, he comes,
Not with a martial tramp and beat of drums,
But bearing Peace, and with a voice that sings,
As with the rushing of an eagle's wings.
He comes, whom, now the world is out of joint,
The dread extreme of troubled times anoint,
To be the saviour in an age of dearth,
And bring back beauty to a sunless earth.
He gathers volumes from a touch or tone,
And bids the statue start from prisoning stone;
He sees the Ocean in the tiny shell,
And shapes a palace of the dungeon cell.
He sweetens life with dreams no surfeits cloy,
In plenilunes of wonder and of joy.
Like Time, his mellow touch can turn to gold
The thing most ugly and the thought most old.
The vermin blight, that gathers round the great,
Can leave no shadow on his high estate,
Which stands apart and shall for ever stand,
As some white peak that guards a holy strand.
He battles on through adverse flint and flood,
And wrings from tears and many a stain of blood,
The truth so darkly born of pain and strife,
The joy that trembles into troubled life.
The things that clamour, and the things that goad,
He kneads beneath him on his royal road;
Faint, yet pursuing his unfaltering way,
Towards the fair founts of Everlasting Day;
Though on his bosom, from the blush of morn,
The burden of an erring world is borne,
And the chill shadows of departing night,
Still wrestle in him with the powers of light.
But round him ripple breezes, soft and vernal,
And in his song the summer reigns eternal.

He sings, because he must and lays on all
The law of love, while errors round him fall
Discrowned and dying. Fairer earth and skies,
Fresh forms of grace at his enchantments rise;
And life grows riper, from the frost that prest
Its heart so long, and richer after rest;
Till faces, white with watching, catch from far
The mystic radiance of the Morning Star,
And unfolds Time, like Vestal rosy lipt,
The hidden meaning of its manuscript,
Which never ends its roll of wondrous acts,
Translating fancies into sacred facts,
And ceases but as carving round a column,
That crowds the unseen side with pictures solemn.