University of Virginia Library

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159

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.

TO---.

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160

SORROW IS MY PERPETUAL GUEST.

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161

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162

CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE.

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163

THE FATAL RESOLVE.

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164

TO M. S. W., ON HER BIRTHDAY, 1833.

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165

MY TEARS ARE PRISONERS.

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166

THE MAIDEN'S LAMENTATION.

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167

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168

REFORM—LIBERTY—MARCH OF INTELLECT— EQUALITY.

When men have set their groaning brethren free,
And firm established pure Equality;
And in the glorious cause still keen and warm,
Have proudly reared the Standard of Reform,
Perhaps they may have leisure then to turn,
While with the same immortal zeal they burn,
And look through all great Nature's mighty range,
Intent to effect a salutary change;
And in the end, through their unwearied pains,
Redress all grievances and rend all chains.
Repress all murmurings, and revise all laws,
Retrieve all errors, and repair all flaws;
And to the Mighty Mother say, “Be free!
Thou gav'st us Life—we bring thee Liberty!”
Not resting till the boundless Whole's improved,
And every shade of every stain removed;

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169

And every speck, and slur, and spot's effaced,
And all in fair Perfection smiles embraced;
And, fixed on broadest basis, strong and sure,
For ever framed to triumph and endure,
Their lofty Edifice shall nobly stand—
Who dares to hint that it is built on sand?
Who, sneering, dares incredulous to say
“Rome was not built and finished in a day?
How dare ye hope that pile, through Time shall tower,
Run up with lath and plaster in an hour?”
(These ignoramuses have yet to learn
The present age doth such trite maxims spurn,
And reasoneth in the gross and in the lump,
And to conclusions doth sublimely jump;
And works with patent tools, in special mode,
And finds to every point—a royal road—
Smooth, well Macadamized—nay, better far,
A rail-road worthy great Minerva's car!)
Then let them through Creation play the spy,
(Like a philosopher—or like Paul Pry)
Through all the Earth and Air, and Sea and Sky;

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170

For Oh! be sure there's no time to be lost,
Whate'er the great experiment may cost,
For all must be re-modelled and re-planned,
All doth a strict and prompt research demand;
A most inquisitorial keen survey,
And let there be no doubting nor delay.
It were perhaps indeed the better plan
To appoint Commissioners, to sift and scan,
To ferret here and flutter there—in short,
And then to make their full, fair, free Report;
Unbiassed and unbribed—unsued, unswayed—
But duly prompted, and discreetly paid!
Equality!—that cry's far echoed round,
Equality!—let Seas and Skies resound,
Mountains and vallies, rocks, shores, isles, and woods,
Swamps, mines, and caverns, wastes, abysses, floods.
But do they echo back with loud acclaim
That magic word, that all-inspiring name?
Our shout exultant do they thunder back?
Alas! methinks they're dull, or deaf, or slack.

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171

The true Republican must groaning see
How Nature seems to spurn Equality!
And his high soul at once must rage and mourn
With deep compassion and indignant scorn,
To view through all her proud and ample field,
Through all her regions to his gaze revealed,
How still she patronizes Aristocracy,
And turns her back on lofty-soul'd Democracy;
And shows this bad example to us all,—
Keeps this in servitude—holds that in thrall—
Fastidious and exclusive plays her part,
In short, shows she's a Tory at her heart!
Behold the unworthy System carried on
By the abject Planets and the imperious Sun—
Their haughty Governor and Ruler—Ah!
Their Grand Seignor—their fiery Padishah!
Behold him throned in pride and state monarchical,
Egregious 'tis—preposterous quite and farcical;
And still a dangerous precedent presents
To all who've tyrannous views and proud intents.

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172

This should be altered and subverted quite,
There now must be Equality of Light—
The Planets must their Magna Charta have,
How can a Star remain a tramelled slave?
Now let the spell that bursts their thrall be spoken,
Their wrongs abolished, and their fetters broken;
And let the Sun, whose reign must now be short,
Yield with good grace his courtiers and his court;
With decent dignity consent to fall,
And grow a private individual!
Let his freed Subjects claim their long-reft rights—
Away with sycophants and satellites,
Slaves, followers, flatterers, minions, parasites.
(In these great days, so glorious to all nations,
Subordination's worst of ordinations
Must be dispensed with, and quite put aside;
(Too long hath it been borne, too often tried,)
Now that Reform's sublime illuminati
Light up the World—from Greenland unto Hayti,
And from Spitzbergen, where cold ice-rocks lie,
Even to thy classic bay—Oh, Botany!

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173

That old and outworn rule shall be forgot,
Or banished wholly to the latter spot!)
Ah! if the truth be told, these Planets too,
For learned Astronomers have vouched it true,
These Planets now themselves even boast beside
Their own fixed trains to swell their pettier pride!
Their second-hand pretensions to exalt,
And track their footsteps through the Eternal Vault;
Those vassals subject to a vassal's sway,
The understrappers' understrappers they!
The followers' followers—and the fooled ones' fools,
Oh, Nature! and are these thy Courts and Schools?
Let each one now with prompt decision sever
From his own proper tyrant—and for ever!
Oh! Mars and Venus! and thou, Georgium Sidus!
That Freedom share in which we men so pride us.
Oh! four-mooned Jupiter!—Oh! belted Saturn,
From human beings deign to take a pattern—
Oh! moons of Jupiter—Oh! Saturn's belt—
Now may the chain of your subjection melt!

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174

'Tis mighty strange, methinks, that Mother Earth,
Who gave and gives the Sons of Freedom birth,
Herself the mate of Freedom—should delay
To point the path, and marshall forth the way,
To show the example, and to take the lead,
And foremost in the lofty track to tread,
Her Sister-stars with generous zeal to guide,
And prompt that act which must their fates decide.
Those Planets—worlds themselves—should they still wear
Dull Slavery's brand, and her vile penance share?
What! should they watch the Sun with servile glance,
And bless the light of his proud countenance,
Performing strict their stated courses still,
Like blindfold Dobbins drudging in a mill—
(That high-bred team, that should scorn every trace
Of servitude, installed in their proud place!)
Still round and round their haughty centre driven,
Oh! let their yoke be snapped, their fetters riven,
Let each one to Perfection's State approach,
And boldly run an opposition coach!

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175

As for the light he lends them—let that pass,
Surely that well might be supplied with gas;
And if some difficulties should arise,
To our busy Planet let them turn their eyes;
If they will only send us to direct us,
A Plenipotentiary, with a Prospectus,
With Protocols and Ultimatums too,
And all the appointed ceremonials due,
Even a Clerk, with signed and sealed credentials,
We will supply them straight with all the essentials—
That contract willingly the Earth will make,
And all the complex business undertake.
The Earth?—I beg to state, I mean by this
Our own enlightened Great Metropolis,
Where they still moil, and toil, with countless aims,
The indefatigable Sons of Thames!
Whose projects, plans, discoveries, and conceits—
Pretensions and inventions—schemes and feats—
Theories—arts—systems—Speculations chief,
Are past all summing up, and all belief!

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176

And if, perhaps, some may be found to say,
“How can they find to yon far realms a way?”
The answer's obvious—simple as 'tis wise,
And satisfactory as most replies,
“Improvement stands not still, but aye doth steer,
Free its proud course, its swift and far career;
Is there a day, an hour, but doth produce
Some great discovery for the general use?
Communication, doubtless, will be soon
So perfect, mails will travel to the moon!”
Communication, doubtless, will improve
'Twixt us and all beneath, around, above.
The first Geology's deep science assists!
Particularly those styled Platonists,
Who 'mongst her zealous votaries may be found,
And seem to plunge the deepest under ground;
Who pierce into the low, dark, shadowy realms,
Where the Ancients placed their Heroes, without helms
On their bare skulls, or swords in their bleached hands,
Condemned to wander, in dejected bands,

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177

By sullen Acheron's harsh, sterile coasts,
A herd of drear, uncomfortable Ghosts.
But I have wandered from my subject now,
And fallen into digressions rather low.
The aerial ship, which, doubtless, all have seen,
Would form an admirable go-between,
Made through all currents free to cut its way—
'Twas just exhibited but the other day—
To brave those currents all 'twas ripe and ready,
But fell in with a current rather heady,
Which o'er it exercised undue dominion—
The current 'twas of popular opinion.
Also another current's want might join
To fix its fate and hasten its decline,
The absence of a little current—coin!
They said—although I cannot say who said it—
It first fell into debt, then in discredit,
And thus the poor balloon fell, after all,
Without a parachute to arrest its fall;
Yet 'twas arrested—but, alas! who'd think it?
Only the more to abase it and to sink it.

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178

And with regret the sequel I repeat,
The unlucky ship was borne off to the Fleet!
I vouch not for the fact, and but relate
These rumours light, then current of its fate.
This castle in the air—so saith report,
Was made to fleet—to stand was not its forte.
But, after all, it may be this narration
Had no more than itself of a foundation!
But to return to our past theme, I trust
The planets soon will their affairs adjust,
A nobler system for themselves create,
And leave proud Sol in Sol-itary State.
The comets—they, perhaps, long since broke through
The bonds that held them, and the chains that drew
The noble rebels of the realms above,
See how in loosest dignity they move;
Yet dragging after them their lengthened train,
As captives just escaped, their shattered chain—
(Long in the noisome dungeon closely pent,
'Mid all the horrors of imprisonment)—

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179

That chain which in the hurry of their flight
They lingered not to disentangle quite.
But trailing loose, behind their footsteps freed,
It acts but as the spur acts on the steed,
And urges more their full and fiery speed;
Reminds them still of dangers late o'ercome,
And all the sufferings of their former doom!
These seem the glorious liberals of the air,
(And, truly, the best place for them is there,
Since there is room for them to twist and turn,
To sweep, and heave, and swell, and blaze, and burn,
In those wide, boundless fields outspread above,
Where, independant of the rest, they move,
And thus less mischief's likely to befall,
Than in our busy, crowded, close-packed ball!)
And of the solar system they appear
The incendiaries, that, nobly, far and near,
Would all in one huge conflagration wrap,
And then the extinguisher on all things clap;

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180

And raise from the ashes of the world undone,
A new, enlightened, and all perfect one;
That shall, indeed, have no need of a sun,—
(So very much illumined from within,
To light it from without, were waste and sin!)
The mutineers of those blue regions high,—
'Tis well for us they don't come very nigh.
The Radical Reformers, staunch and strong,
Protesting boldly 'gainst each shameful wrong,
The Washingtons and noble Bolivars,
Amongst the restless clouds and rolling stars;
The Cromwells and the Catilines sublime,
Of the etherial and cerulean clime;
The Andreas Hofers, Guy Fawkes, William Tells,
Who fain would sound corruption's last of knells;—
Wat Tylers, Perkin Warbecks, and Jack Cades,
Of those far realms whence they would sweep all shades.
What do I say?—my Muse in climax rise,
The mighty Agitators of the skies,

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181

Clad in a brazen and a blazing mail,
And furnished with a most surprising tail,
They seem, the while they plough the firmament,
(As though they sought some outlet still or vent)
To scrape around them an enormous rent.
To make a void and vacuum as they go,
While round themselves the golden halo's glow
And silver atmosphere's soft, fainter light
Shines with a pure and sterling lustre bright.
Lo! 'tis a noble sight to upwards gaze
On the far thing in all its glittering blaze;
High freedom's gifts, and doctrines pure, intense,
That far thing seems to ex-pound them and dis-pense;
To note them down, and scorn all petty change,
Still circulating free on its wide range.

When peal of thunders burst in bellowing war,
When bickering lightnings flash out from afar,
Whose hissing tongues mix with the echoing clap,
And zig-zag run—like rivers on a map.

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182

That awful—mighty—and terrific—form,
Seems like the embodied genius of the Storm;
And borne on car with swift, loud, rushing wheel,
To encourage bickering—and to urge repeal;
(Yet—by such contradictions things are swayed,
Also a little of the Peal afraid!)
The clap—the hiss—the mutter—and the groan;
The growl—the scowl—the flash—the clash his own.
See that great comet as it proudly strays,
Avoiding still the beaten turnpike ways,
Through which the slavish, stupid planets toil
For many a weary league and dreary mile;
How finely doth he run his restive race,
And seems to seek some snug abiding place;
Yet while he shapes his wide, extensive course,
With matchless front, and with imposing force,
His red-hot car—with its wild, plunging teams,
A little dangerous to his neighbours seems;
But then can great Reformers such as he
Checked by such slight considerations be?

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183

These must be crushed if that their hour is come;
What are small units in so great a sum?
What! shall they on their glorious march delay
For a few individual interests? nay!
Nor for doomed thousands that oppose their way?
What for the public do they ever care?
'Tis the Re-public claims their thought and prayer;
But still the comet wins our warm concern,
Beheld it soar—sink—sweep—retire—return,
As though some egress it impatient sought,
Rapid as light, prompt even as prompter's thought;
Anxious—obedient still to Freedom's call,
To leap the Universe's chrystal wall,
And yet a little fearful of a fall,
And therefore going round to seek the true gate,
Perhaps it may at last come to a New-gate.
And here I fain would humbly offer now,
If Freedom's child such freedoms will allow,
A little wholesome counsel, which, no doubt,
He'll do—as most do with advice—without;

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184

Great Nature's rather a determined dame,
And something in her features and her frame
Like our Old British Constitution too;
Thus, though she deigns indulgently to view
Those who persist their own paths to pursue,
Yet Order she with Liberty requires,—
Apt to repress unlawful, wild desires,
And visit with stern indignation those
Who break the harmony of her repose;
Her fair and lofty fabric strive to shake,
And on her weal and peace fierce inroads make;
Whose innovations wrong her equipoise,
Whose zeal her pure economy destroys;
(That rash, uncalculating headstrong zeal,
That heeds not proof, remonstrance, or appeal;)
Therefore the erratic wanderer should forbear
To tempt too much her patience—it is clear;
Since it may chance, if he too far presume,
That he may meet a most unpleasant doom;

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185

She may affix her strict yoke to his neck,
And too abruptly his career may check;
His tail—a rat-tail make without remorse,
And suddenly arrest him in his course;
Therefore 'twere better, sure, at all events,
To avoid such sad and untoward accidents,
Such undesirable results to shun,
And rather cautiously his race to run;
Lest he should sink beneath each twinkling star low,
While her strong hand drags down his destined car low.

Old Ocean, he whose streams are scarce of nectar,
A blustering, boisterous, haughty, headstrong Hector,
Who seizeth upon most things as his prey,
That haply fall in his unpitying way;
What boundless treasures doth not he amass!
Yet pays no tithe, no income-tax, alas!
Doth he not pile his riches heap on heap,
Until they almost overflow the deep;

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186

And hoards his wealth, too, like a sullen miser,
So that the World's no better and no wiser.
Say, hath he not—outrageous shame of shames,
On every side his tributary streams?
'Twould baffle even a Newton or a Necker,
To calculate what flows to his Exchequer;
To him each river duly pays his fee
In clearly-chiming, silver currency;
Still, still his vast possessions to enlarge,
Those streams to him their weighty debts discharge;
But though they're liquidated day by day,
Still they're unliquidated, strange to say,
They're still in debt, and still they're forced to pay;
While the deep ties that bound to him before
Are but consolidated evermore!
And if their haughty master ever deign
To fee them for their service—slight's their gain;
Even those remunerative wages small,
Are paid in draughts saline—if paid at all;

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187

Or in a molten coin of base alloy,
Which doth corrupt their pure state, and destroy.
In plague and famine, and in war or peace,
Still must his floating capital increase;
Since, though he is a miser, it is true,
He is a stirring speculator too;
Yet doth not in low earth-born schemes embark,
Nor ever doth he go beyond his mark;
He's ever found on change, whate'er betide,
A mighty dabbler in the funds beside;
(But then 'tis in the sinking fund the most,
As many a wreck can vouch on many a coast.)
Still fluctuating—for his great settling day
Hath not yet come, although in time it may.
What ministers can sum (the while they grudge it)
The whole contents of his huge boundless Budget?
What, though no landed property be his,
Except in insulated patches 'tis,—
He sometimes wondrous inroads makes in land,
And seems to claim the shores on either hand;

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188

And when or swoln by floods, or stirred by breeze,
Seems on the brink of turning these to seize,
(Ne'er scruples the proud main, if none restrain,
To encroach on many another's fair domain,
And by main force his conquests to maintain!)
'Tis when he wills to arm and take the field—
His surface glittering like a mirrored shield!—
Yet strange it is, he oft doth then appear
A calmer, gentler, milder guise to wear;
And smoothing down his rugged mien that awes,
Turns his attention more to Agrarian laws.
While when reduced to straits, with judgment sound,
He cultivates a little more the ground,—
I fear in farming he but ill succeeds,
And finds his only crop, a crop of weeds!

Those streams that to his briny bosom glide,
And ever add unto his copious tide,
Those streams may break their banks—but his secure,
Fixed, beyond Europe's firmest banks—endure!

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189

The Bank of England not so sure and safe—
Though tempests try them and the waters chafe.
But to the grievous subject to return:
Of all the wealth he gains—but doth not earn,
Fed by the labour of the industrious poor,
And fattening on his lazy Sinecure;
(In politics and business it is said,
He's but a waverer, and a lie-a-bed);
Enriched by other's toil, and what is worse,
All that he gets goes to his privy purse.
You'll talk perhaps with scientific skill,
Of the aqueous vapours rising from him still,
Evaporation's laws, clouds, dews, and rain,
And how the Rivers but pay back again
What they received from his exhaustless store,
By some such curious processes before,
And say “of Earth he's the Great Reservoir.”
This may be true, but I should like to see
How he discharges his moist ministry.
This may be true, but still this thought pursues,
He doubtless gaineth far more than his dues.

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190

This may be very fine, and very wise,
But sure a shorter process might suffice;
And if we must have mists, and dews, and rain,
Pray, why must these be filtered through the main?
On this, I feel quite sure, you may depend,
Not half he gets doth he restore or spend;
For as we all must know, he's very deep,
And the whole thing might sure be done more cheap.
(I'm told his Secretaries and chief Clerks,
Are little better than notorious sharks.)
His case Investigation doth demand,
His tides, his ebbs, his flows, must be replanned,
Till Nature takes the hint, too careless slattern,
And all is modelled on Reform Bill pattern;
On strict economy and justice based,
Then shall be no corruption and no waste.
Oh! the Elements' Administration soon
Must be improved—this tyrant in the Moon,
His tyrant finds, he still endures her sway,
And in his turn is taught too to obey!

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191

Thus by the plan in operation now
Tyrants to greater tyrants only bow;
The Oppressor to the Oppressor's made to yield,
And the worst Despot ever wins the field.
He his imperious proud command delivers
Unto the obedient and obsequious rivers,
That still subservient to his mandate toil,
And bear their sparkling tribute many a mile;
And leave their own fair vales and banks of flowers,
And smiling landscapes and gay laughing bowers,
To plunge in his vast boiling cauldron wide,
Swallowed for ever in the oblivious tide.
The while he's led himself like a tame lion,
By the inflexible imperious Dian;
Or—shame upon the gudgeon and the gaby—
Like a huge, rolling Brobdignadian Baby!
In leading strings conducted by her hand,
Quite subject to her influence and command;
Still hither, thither, wandering at her beck,
Just as she wills to urge him, or to check.

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192

The mountains, too—can any one deny
That these hold up their heads much, much too high,
And give themselves by far too many airs,
(While each winged breeze their lofty summit shares,
Which to the sky its peak aspiring bares,)
They look down with contempt on fields and vales—
Let them be balanced strictly in the scales:
We will examine them a little nigher,
And rigidly into their claims enquire;
Look to their title deeds, and try their right,
And see why they're exalted to this height.
Although their crests are lofty, we must own,
Yet oft their colours are obscurely shown:
What their supporters are we do not know,
But shrewdly we suspect they're base and low;
Upon these matters we can throw no light,
But then they are beneath our notice quite!
As for their motto it might well be this,
And peradventure, too, in sooth it is—

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193

“Quo sursum volo videre—to boot—
“Dum spiro spero” would their bearings suit—
While many a pinnacle and many a spire
Shoots from their sides, and doth from sight retire.
Perchance if pertinaciously they'd track
Their lineage now—and to their source look back,
They'd find no such great cause for swelling pride;
That is, at least, on the Maternal Side;
As for the farther side that may perchance
There claims to proud precedence more advance;
But then those claims are, it is certain, still
Quite in the clouds—beyond the Herald's skill;
'Twere up-hill work to mount to them, and vain—
And quite impossible to make them plain!
And though we care not for such things a pin,
Nay! think superiority a sin—
We've heard strange things said of their origin,
Hints given of their low station in the past,
Doubts cast on their creation and their caste,

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194

Whether they were of the Ancient Earth com-peers,
Or of a later date—of modern years.
We've found our skill to track their rising slight,
And their Descent a slippery subject quite.
We've heard of fierce convulsions in our planet:
We've heard of heaving strata—Melting Granite—
Of grey Mont Blanc's sublime and reverend head
Being raised alone to its dominion dread
By some deep under plot—some low cabal
Which History takes no notice of at all;
We've heard of wond'rous changes in brief space,
Of lowliest things raised to the loftiest place,
In short, we've heard a tale so dark and strange,
And so replete with unexampled change,
As to a level these proud Mountains brings,
Straightways, with base, flat, plain, low under things—
Enough to strip them of their claims, and thrust
These high Pretenders back to native dust—
Enough of their vain triumphs to despoil,
And show they bear the marks of many a soil.

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195

Like mighty Mushrooms they have seemed to grow,
No one can tell exactly when or how—
How they were raised, in what peculiar mode,
Nor to what they their swift advancement owed.
(But though the reasons we may never sound,
Which caused them to be raised o'er all around,
We'll hope, in charity, they were profound!)
'Tis with repugnance terms so harsh we use—
But then it is not ours to pick and choose.
(The truth, at every risk—at any rate,
Shall be our guide, though rather out of date,
A little obsolete in this bright age,
So quick, inventive, subtle, shrewd, and sage.
(It is, perhaps, too much, indeed, to expect,
That aught so clever should be quite correct—
Its comments are upon too vast a scale
To admit of all the closeness of detail—
'Tis too original those laws to obey,
Which bid us keep veracity's straight way;
Too fanciful Fact's dull rules to recall—
Too lively to be strictly literal!)

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196

'Tis with repugnance we so harshly speak,
But 'tis in vain a milder phrase we seek;
They seem but Upstarts lifted from the mire,
However now they may in pride aspire,
As if they sought and struggled to soar higher.
(They're but another proof, and one most clear,
Of the Inequalities of Fortune here;
Her ups and downs—her rises and her falls;
While one unto a lofty post she calls,
And doth rejoice another to debase,
And keep for ever in inferior place,
While far above the clouds she raiseth this,
And that she hurls deep, deep into the abyss;
While this she swells into a soaring Alp,
And crowns with glittering snows its high-reared scalp,
And that condemns to Life's low humble vale,
At least thus sheltered from the inclement gale.
But now the Leveller is Abroad, and now
'Tis time to abase the proud and lifted brow,
To exalt the humble and to crush the high;
But let us kèep in mind—Equality!

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197

If these but change their places we shall be
Exactly where we were—for aught I see.
But shall this be so poorly managed?—No!
All we must now make lofty, or all low,
But how on Earth can we contrive it so?)
The Hills a strict examination ask,
(Although, in truth, 't were a gigantic task),
They need the impartial scrutiny of those
Who are ever glad and prompt to interpose;
And these shall ne'er from their stern duty swerve,
But deal such doom to them as they deserve;
And though in some positions they are found
Useful, perchance, to mark a country's bound,
And to divide the tribes of neighbouring states,
And check vain jealousies and fond debates,
And form a giant Fortress for the Free—
(But no!—forgive—triumphant Liberty!
Thou, all sufficient to thyself, canst well
Dispense with Fortress and with Citadel.
Oh! thou canst well and joyfully dispense
With all extraneous bulwarks or defence;

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198

Thy only bulwark thine own red right arm,
Enough to guard 'gainst every dire alarm;
Thy ramparts but the bodies of thy sons,
Though these are rather inconvenient ones!)
And though a home and herbage somewhat thin,
They may afford the bounding bouquetin,
And to the hunters of the Hills may yield,
For hardy sports, a wide and noble field,
And well supply the River's chrystal course,
Which, in their heights untrodden, take their source,
And thence descend, in glad and gushing force,
To make the valleys laugh, the fields rejoice,
And lend fair Nature both a smile and voice;
And Summer's parching heats and scorching glows
May moderate with their everlasting snows,
And sometimes, too, may temper wintry weather—
We well can do without them altogether.
Surely a substitute might now be found,
If we with strict attention search around,
(In these ingenious and productive days,
So fertile in fresh methods and new ways—

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199

So full of fine expedients as they are,
That we may well and fearlessly declare,
Nor yet be charged with daring Heterodoxy,
That most things may be done as well by proxy),
A substitute, in short, that will fulfil
These various duties with consummate skill—
(Sure in the lofty labour to succeed—
Not bent on base remuneration's meed;
But who would solely for Reform's great sake,
The overwhelming business undertake),
That would as useful and efficient prove
As those huge idlers proudly throned above,
(And easier to dismiss and to remove),
These ostentatious, ponderous, swoln Grandees,
That lead a life of sedentary ease,
Puffed up and solemn—as they thought alone,
With pompous notions, lofty and high flown,
Of their own greatness and renown sublime,
To which no rivals might aspire to climb;
These lazy Overseers of Nature's parish,
That look o'er field, and stream, and waste, and marish;

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O'er grove and heath, and bank, and lake, and wood—
But with their supervision do small good—
Aye—let us now their services refuse,
And find some better suited to our views—
Confined, too, within fairer, juster bounds,
And 'stablished also on more equal grounds.
Yet let their claims with us have their due weight,
We must not rashly fix upon their fate;
Something seems whispering midst this general cry,
For Rights and Justice, and for Liberty—
Equality—and Independence proud.
This general cry of the Universal crowd
For Toleration, too, in every sense
Unbounded, and enlightened, and immense.
Something seems whispering, “yet withdraw the ban,
The Rights of Mountains are the Rights of Man,
When first established on the rolling Earth,
From the first moment of their Titan birth,
They had their own free charter and fixed law,
And, doubtless, one without the slightest flaw;

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And, certainly, we must concede 'tis true,
Equality hath nought with them to do;
They never could be meant half way to meet
Those that but kiss the dust now of their feet;
Their right is to be left—and not oppressed,
And not of their proud station dispossessed;
Their right is to be left—a curious right,
Which yet to oppose we are not enabled quite.
They have grounded claims and rooted principles,
And in exalted views sure each excels.
They have solid reasonings, too, upon their side,
Which, while in stable firmness they abide,
'Twere vain to shake—'twere difficult to o'ercome—
Some blunt and broad, and keenly pointed some!
And while they tower above, unbowed, unbent,
We must allow them to be Eminent,
And fitted admirably to their place,
Which even their foes must own they greatly grace,
And though formed of impenetrable stuff,
And generally hard, and rude, and rough,

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Nor given much to the soft and melting mood,
Since Nature's sighs and tears they've long withstood,
And though abrupt, cold, distant, high, and dry,
Their strict uprightness no one can deny.
Straight-forward still in all transactions found,
And fixed in steadfastness, and sure, and sound;
No restlessness, no variation there,
Speaks of Ambition's sad and sleepless care:
Their ends accomplished are—their points are gained—
And their Ambition's summit is attained.
No hollow schemes their ample breasts employ,
To undermine their quiet and destroy.
They are above all littlenesses quite,
And brave the eyes of all—and court the light;
And still exposed to observation stand,
Full in the sight of all the gazing land,
Nor ever are their dealings underhand.
Then if we may not grant them a reprieve,
Let them from our hands at the least receive
The rigorous justice that is but their due,
While carefully we look their conduct through,

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The generous courtesy—the just regard—
(Yet to look through them will be somewhat hard.)
But hence! away! if we're to reason so,
If we're so generous and so just to grow,
Our Party soon will suffer its death blow.
What will become of our transcendant cause
If such reflections are to give us pause?
What will become of true Reform—if thus
We grow so weakly, vainly scrupulous,
What will be hers, and her great Champions' fate,
If we're to be thus too considerate?
Thus conscientious, delicate, and nice,
Alas! 'twill be decided in a trice.
The glorious hopes we have so fondly formed,
Those hopes which every liberal bosom warmed,
Soon will they be o'erborne and set aside,
If by such rigid principles we guide
Reform's auspicious and inspiring march,
(Which yet hath reached not its triumphal arch)—
Its noble progress—its imposing course—
But shall we seal its doom without remorse?

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No!—those quixotic, high-flown notions vain,
Should be dismissed from every rational brain.
The mountains seem to oppose our darling scheme,
Then let them vanish like an o'ergrown dream!
Their shivered fragments the pressed Earth shall strew,
Though they may look at first a little blue,
They shall assume then each their proper place,
That is—they shall be cut down to their base.

'Mongst trees too in their native forests proud,
A verdant, shadowy, whispering, waving crowd,
Much is there that requires revision there,
And close attention and unwearied care,
For harsh Oppression and imperious Pride
Shade all the earth, and stalk still side by side;
But they must quickly turn o'er a new leaf,
Or drink of the same bowl of shame and grief
With the poor victims of their hateful sway,
Condemned to vegetate—the tyrant's prey.
(Nipped in the bud should they long since have been,
Ere they had thus o'ershadowed Earth's wide scene),

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They must prepare to bow—or withered—sapped—
The staff of their support full rudely snapped;
They shall lie prostrate—torn up by the roots,
With all their prickly thorns and poisonous fruits,
For we will stem them in their progress now,
Lop off their living shoots—and lay them low.
So let Oppression and his helpmeet Pride
Perish and wither, darkly side by side.
But to return unto our trees again—
Our muse had branched off to a different strain,
And yet seemed haunted by the self-same theme,
And wrapped as in a sort of dryad dream—
Transplanted, wandering in a sylvan mood—
Lost—as the tender babes were—in a wood.
Shameful it is and scandalous to see
The proud Oak towering o'er each kindred tree;
Is't from its merit raised to that high place?
No! 'tis the trick of all the Oaken Race.
Their stripling-saplings are as sure to upraise
Their heads o'er birch, and beech, and box, and bays,

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(As though even in the acorns were instilled
That pride with which the after-tree is filled),
As we enlightened Liberals to forbear
To take of lofty honours our just share,
(Or if indeed we condescend to take,
To accept them solely for our Country's sake,
And for the People's good, since while we live
For that and them alone we wish to thrive,
For that and them assuredly alone
We wish to pick preferment's savoury bone,
To robe in luxury's purple, or to dwell
In palace hall instead of humble cell).
A vile hereditary privilege 'tis—
And here there's surely much that is amiss—
Perhaps you'll say, “yet recollect how good—
How fine—how firm—how valuable's the wood;
Permit them to tower proudly o'er the plain,
They form the noblest bulwark of the Main!
‘Old England's wooden walls,’ and ‘hearts of oak,’
Are sounds whose spell was made not to be broke;

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Shall not these proud trees then of rugged frame
Our favour and indulgence deeply claim—
More than indulgence—gratitude and love—
And reign the sacred monarchs of the grove!
The whisper of their leaves says ‘Trafalgar,’
They seem to breathe a thousand tales of war,
And talk of stormy fights and stormy gales,
Where no rough gust, nor sulphurous blast prevails;
Our pride, our strength, our stay, our wealth, our boast,
Let them enjoy, for they have earned their post.”
Now, I must tell my honourable friend
(If that his fine oration's at an end),
My honourable friend, who thus essays,
By launching forth so boldly in their praise,
To win me round their merits to remark,
(I own I do admire their gallant bark!)—
In short, yourself, dear Reader, if 'tis you,
Who thus breaks forth in strains—not very new,
Who thus defends and vindicates the Oak,
And deals around a sharp and vigorous stroke,

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That, after all, this is but idle rant,
Dull, threadbare, obsolete, exploded cant,
That will not do in these enlightened times,
Howe'er with ancient prejudice it chimes—
Reform—Reform we need in prose and rhymes.
As for your “hearts of oak,” and “wooden walls,”
And all the glory which such sound recalls,
Methinks, while wooden heads so much abound,
(Enough might doubtless with great ease be found
To build a very Wall of China round
These happy shores, whose sway half Earth obeys—
Excuse the bull that 'mongst this china strays),
We can full well with wooden walls dispense,
Nor need to draw security from thence;
And hearts of stone besides abound enough—
Formed truly of impenetrable stuff—
Hard as the hardest adamantine rock,
To bind us round—and barricade and block.

Besides, were we their merits to allow,
And their assumed importance all to avow,

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And to their strained pretensions to defer,
Nor deem their faithful fond admirers err;
Even granting all, and more than all you say,
Still wherefore this vain show—this proud display,
Why can't they do this in a modest way?
But the truth is—the heroic mania's past,
The Sun of Glory is indeed o'ercast!
The laurel—guerdon of the Victor's field—
Its place of pride must now consent to yield;
And it hath had its high and haughty day,
And long enjoyed pre-eminence of sway—
The Olive now shall smiling reign supreme,
And be the bard's beloved and brightest theme;
Let it wave wide and free from shore to shore,
Not like its rival, fed with tears of gore,
But with the daintiest dews—the softest showers—
With sunshine fostered, and entwined with flowers—
Yet—hold, my muse, as plentifully now
The tide of blood doth unreceding flow—
Its lava wave streams on as fast and deep
As when the swords of banded nations leap

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Forth from their scabbards in their flashing light,
Full in the gazing World's attentive sight,
And dyes the Olive of as red a hue
As ever yet the Conqueror's laurel knew—
But then it flows not from the open wound
Given upon Battle's marked and sanctioned ground,
But chiefly from the thrust of ambushed foe,
The secret graze and gash—the stealthy blow.
Look on the ceaseless, sanguinary rain
That drops upon the glowing fields of Spain,
As 'twere the natural dew-fall of the plain!
But then, again, undoubtedly 'tis true
The laurel can have nought with this to do.

The Olive shadows o'er that sea of blood
As erst it smiled above the o'erwhelming flood,
Beneath the Olive's smile—the Olive's shade,
The murtherous bands through crimson torrents wade,
Till we might almost think the treacherous plant,
Whose sacred charm our peace-preservers vaunt,

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The treacherous Olive poured forth all its oil
To feed the flame, and speed and spread the broil;
Since we are assured—and to believe are bound,
That Europe's in a state of Peace profound;
The deadly feuds that scar one nation's breast,
Are, it should seem, as nothing to the rest—
Who look with most polite indifference on
To see their neighbours ruined and undone.
A strict neutrality preserving thus,
Save and except should Briton, Gaul, or Russ,
See any lucky opening for himself
To seize a share of profit, power, and pelf,
Then farewell to indifference—on—on—on—
Something there is to be acquired and won,
These high disinterested feelings roused,
Lo! either side is zealously espoused.
Then the neutrality is neutralized,
Then the Arbiter—who comes as such disguised—
Plays his insidious and his specious part,
And the poor country's doubly doomed to smart.

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It must be owned the Assassinations there,
The butcherings—slaughterings—executions, bear
No sort of likeness to the wars of old—
The proud encounters—and the conflicts bold,
When Honour's self presided o'er the fray—
When Valour's soul burnt brightly through the day,
And Mercy smiled o'er Battle's stern array!
When all was free, and true, and just, and fair,
And high heroic feeling triumphed there.

No, no!—these brawls are scarce upon a par
With what was anciently considered war,
The old, honourable, high, chivalric strife,—
(Which, though but too profuse of human life,
Stooped not to mangle with the murderer's knife.)
This storm of strife—this hideous work of wrath—
This march of Anarchy—this masque of Death—
This hell of passions in their deadliest mood—
This ghastly orgy—and this feast of blood—
These barbarous Saturnalia of the tomb—
This desperate drama of portentous gloom—

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This hideous service—nay! this hardened trade—
This ruffian game—by ruthless bravoes played—
Is as unlike as black can be to white
From the ancient rules and 'stablished modes of fight
In the old barbaric times—the illiberal days—
Dull—unenlightened by Reform's bright rays,
Those gothic ages, so obtuse and blind,
Uncivilized—untaught—and unrefined!
This modern mode of warfare—if, indeed,
'Tis war to bid your hundred thousands bleed—
But I beg pardon—what I mean to say
Is—this improved, enlightened, peaceful way
Of settling differences and clearing doubts,
'Midst whoops and yells, indeed, and groans and shouts,
And clouds sulphureous, dense, and close, and dun,
That load the darkened air, and veil the sun,
And all the fearful sounds and sights that wait
On the red hour of conflict—big with fate—
Is wholly different from the proud fields fought
Of old by generous champions—free, unbought.

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What, though these horrors are spread wide around,
And Rapine's wrongs, and Discord's plagues abound—
What, though aboundeth blood, and steel, and flame,
This struggle hath a high and honoured claim—
'Tis consecrated by a cherished name!
(Which we must hope is taken not in vain—
Which should be spared the least and lightest stain—)
Even thine—transcendent Liberty—for whom
So many thousands meet a fearful doom.
Though, if we did not know how pure and fair
The ends that sanctify these foul means were,
We almost might be tempted to exclaim,
Shame on the monsters—on the murderers shame—
Just Heaven discards them, let Mankind disown—
Down with the demons, with the dastards down.
And though we know in what all-righteous cause
These deeds are done—we are constrained to pause
And marvel that thine Altar should be fed
With offerings so obscene, so dark and dread.
A moment still we pause in doubtful mood,
Whether such evil ere can lead to good,

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For truly these terrific deeds appear,
If all be true that meets the startled ear,
However sanctioned by thy name divine,
Far worthier of the shambles than the shrine.
Fain, fain would I demand of those that know,
(Or best should know, whence spring these founts of woe),
If nothing can be done at least to allay
Those frightful horrors—fraught with black dismay,
To check those monstrous deeds—and change the scene
To one more hallowed—happy and serene?
Fain would I ask—yet while I ask I feel
The question can but pitiably reveal
My blindness—ignorance and dulness too,
(That cannot mark in colours clear and true—
The objects thus presented to my view;
That cannot pierce the dense clouds hovering round
The Sun, obscured by their deep gloom profound),
Whether such Peace—so reeking and so red—
So fell—so fierce—so deadly and so dread;
So much with Anarchy's distractions cursed,
So stained with Massacre's and Discord's worst;

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So black with murder—and so foul with crime,
So dyed with unstaunched gore's empurpling slime;
So split with schism too, and so scarred with shame,
So hurled from honour—and so fallen from fame,
Is truly better, wiser—happier far,
(While feud succeeds to feud—and jar to jar—)
Than what our fathers wont to christen War.
But these are childish doubts—unworthy quite
Of one who lives in this blest age of light!
Lo! let us lift the loudly echoing strain
In honour of the Olive's oily reign,
And lay the flattering unction to our souls,
That concord soon shall quench strife's scattered coals,
The exulting Pæan undiscouraged raise,
While Peace and Plenty claim our tuneful praise.
In Peace and Plenty let us all rejoice;
Hail Plenty! and hail Peace!—hush! boding voice—
Who speaks with Repetition's wearying tone,
That dull monotony may call her own;
Who speaks with shrill, and harsh, and painful note;
Whose echoes with a gloomy sadness float

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Upon the troubled and disordered air—
And wake a thousand sighs and murmurs there,
That voice as it with mournful pathos swells
Upon Hispania's thrice-told sufferings dwells—
Gaul's festering plague—and Erin's famished plight.
Here, Mutiny's pent blast—there Misery's blight)—
The restless Lusian's false, uncertain state—
Pretended loyalty and hidden hate—
The slave in soul full often would be free,
To do the desperate deeds that darkest be.
The impatient fiend is raging in his soul—
And pants to escape from thraldom and controul;
All Law seems despotism, all Rule a curse,
All Order—but oppression's yoke or worse!
The dastard knave at heart, full oft would gain
Power to inflict, unpunished, death and pain
To take securely his own impious way,
And with impunity to stab and slay,
And deal his midnight murders unrestrained,
His actions like his passions—free, unchained;

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The inborn despot oft with clamorous cry
Shouts loud and long for boundless liberty,
That he may then all rights and charters spurn,
And tyrannize and trample in his turn!

Here the Son turned against his Sire, smites down
That sacred arm, and spills that blood—his own;
While friend with friend is wreathed in war-embrace,
Nor either heart owns feeling's faintest trace,
The helpless Orphan's wan and wasted cheek
Behold carnationed by the fatal streak;
The Octogenarian's scattered hairs and hoar,
Bedabbled with his slowly oozing gore!
The brother stricken by the brother's brand,
And babes and women seized by murderous hand,
And hurled into their dark and sudden tomb,
And given by hardened monsters to their doom;
Infirmity and infancy consigned
To one foul pit with countless victims lined;
The hamlet fired—the altar overthrown—
The cries for mercy to the wild winds blown—

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There the dire treasons evermore renewed,
The dark plots bred—the desperate projects brewed;
The vile conspiracies in secret hatched,
The murderous opportunities still watched;
The strict precautions and the sleepless care
To avoid the danger and to escape the snare;
The unbending attitude of close defence—
The sharp suspicion—sharpened by suspense;
The never-ceasing cloak, and fence, and guard,
The still-increasing restless watch and ward;
The system of dissembling and distrust—
The ever-growing doubts—too oft proved just—
The countless measures ta'en, and schemes pursued,
The anxious vigils—ceaselessly renewed—
And why?—to shield the Elected and the Approved—
The Adored—Desired—the Appointed—Praised—Beloved—
To shield the Chosen One from steel and flame,
From black Assassination's treacherous aim—
The Master from his faithful Servants, bound
By ties so tender—paction so profound—

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The Chief from his devoted followers too,
His voluntary vassals fond and true—
The Freeman Citizen in Freedom's land,
From every Citizen's uplifted hand!
The while the indulgent Ruler is compelled
At length, a sharper sword than ever held
His Predecessors o'er their People's necks,
(Who ne'er required more salutary checks)—
To wield with purpose fixed and stern resolve,
While plot by plot doth threateningly evolve—
Above his loving, much loved subjects' heads,
While terror reigns, and discontent still spreads—
The liberal Monarch's goaded to become
The tyrant buried in self-centred gloom!
The outbreak then of schemes with crimes replete,
Their full discovery—failure—and defeat;
And then the fearful consummation—then
The dread scene viewed again, and oft again—
The dark catastrophe—the frightful end—
The lesson read to those it may not mend!—

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The Culprit stopped in his insane career,
Doomed on the Stage of fate and blood to appear—
A Public Spectacle of awe and fear;
The Offender taken in his own dire toils—
Power's outstretched Arm, and Justice' deadly Spoils;
And first her Preparation's solemn gloom,
Ere yet the Wretch is dragged unto his doom;
First the awful ceremonial and array,
And then the sanguinary stern display—
The scaffold reeking with the Patriot's gore—
But shed to cause the flow of torrents more!
(Alas! while such dark needful horrors stain—
In France—her liberal Monarch's prosperous reign;
It can be doubted and denied by none,
The Executive department is well done!)
While still the hideous tale excites—inflames—
Disordered fancies and distempered frames,
The Example proves a dire and deadly spell—
Felt but too widely—followed but too well—
While gain at once dark thoughts that lacked an aim—
A nucleus—and a nature—and a name!

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The infection spreads—the abhorred illusion grows,
And works a thousand and a thousand woes.
The Monster proves a hallowed Martyr then,
Poor Wretch! yet worthier of the Maniac's den,
Than of the Martyr's shrine—or Murderer's shroud,
The moon-struck Idol of the mistaught crowd;
And while spreads far and wide the Felon's fame,
Until half Europe rings with the unknown name,
New Candidates unfailingly arise
For equal honours—and an equal prize,
Till black cabals, conspiracies, and crimes,
Thought of with shudderings in less sapient times—
The attempts of Traitors, and the fall of Kings,
Are common as familiar household things,
Where'er you turn, in all men's mouths and minds,
While awe nor checks—nor lost decorum binds.
But hold!—enough!—Oh! fearful voice!—away!
Thou surely speakest to mock and to betray.
It cannot be!—the horrid hateful tale
That loads the air with sighs, and taints the gale;

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That darkens o'er the sunniest smile of day,
And gloomier shades would cast o'er night's dim way.
It must be forged—be fabricated—sure—
For Men nor Angels could such things endure!
We will not mark it, and we will not hear,
But turn a deaf and a determined ear,
And drown its echoes with the chorussed song,
That hails the joys that unto Peace belong;
With our glad chaunt's inspired and proud acclaim,
O'erpower those sounds of Sorrow and of Shame!

But now must I my former paths re-tread,
Resume of my discourse the broken thread—
Return, in short, to where I was before
(Too wont to wander to an alien shore,)
And trespass thus on foreign grounds no more.
Else may the Reader yawn—the Critic frown—
With just disapprobation, I must own;
For 'tis unwise, and wearisome, and wrong,
To rove through such eccentric paths along;

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224

Then let me wake from my digressive dream,
And hasten back to the neglected theme
From which I thus was strangely drawn away,
And tempted, half unconsciously, to stray.
Dear Reader!—surely I have said enough
To stamp your speech as weak bombastic stuff,
To clear the mist from your deluded eyes,
And show you where the egregious error lies,
And strip the illusion of its fair disguise.
The truth in all its fulness to disclose,
And all the vain deception to expose—
To prove how Time strange alteration brings,
And how much changed the present state of things;
To expound the whole strange mystery, and explain,
And chase these fond phantasmas of the brain;
These dim hallucinations all to chase,
And fix ideas more useful in their place.
Methinks you now must be convinced indeed,
And ready to renounce the Heroic creed,
And own that naval—military fame,
Are grown the very echoes of a name;

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That midst the progress which this age hath made,
These are completely thrown into the shade;
That nought of similarity subsists,
That nothing of analogy exists
Between the glorious struggles of the Past,
And feuds by which our Firmament's o'ercast;
Between those high, ambitious dreams of old,
And the dark truths of this our Age of Gold;
Between the emprising Leaders of these days—
And Leaders now, but of the Emprize that pays—
'Tis different all—and let crest-fallen Mars,
Who scarce will patronize our present wars,
(Whose emblems and whose symbols seem to have grown
Far meeter than plumed helm or laurel crown—
The marrowbones and cleavers, which at times
Disturb our streets with their discordant chimes)
To his own planet now for refuge fly,
And turn the indignant terrors of his eye
From those whose sires erst served him and adored,
And wielded fearlessly their stainless sword—

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Sans peur et sans reproche, right gallant knights!
But then they knew not of mankind's proud rights.

For lion spirits and for hearts of oak,
And stalwart arms to deal the swerveless stroke;
For noble natures, gentle as they are brave,
Though prompt to strike—yet ever prone to save;
For souls with lofty, generous zeal inspired,
For minds with lasting, genuiné ardour fired,
For deeds of glorious and of proud emprize,
For high Ambition, which with lifted eyes
Sees Fame and Glory beckoning from afar,
And rushes panting to the stormy war,
(Alone for Honour's hire—Renown's bright ray,
Unmindful of the plunder and the pay;
Fond fool!—for so we sager mortals deem—
To yield all solid profits for a dream!)
We now forbear (and wisely too) to look,
Where should we find them—in what niche or nook,
If we the vain and wearying survey took?

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227

We find we do as well without them quite,
Since we are so sagacious and so bright;
(What need of hands of prowess, hearts of proof,
If Craft and Cunning lend their cloven hoof?)
And for that Glory and that Fame now bowed
Beneath Oblivion's cold and crushing cloud,
We feel 'twas a delusion and a dream,
A very bubble on Time's rapid stream—
Feel 'twas a vulgar error and mistake,
Such as these sapient times will never make—
And all the memories that we erst revered,
To every child of England's soil endeared,
And all the sympathies stamped deep before
In every bosom's thrilled and trembling core—
And all the associations that seemed once
Sacred in British eyes—no faint response
Claim now in British hearts—'tis past, 'tis o'er,
To be repeated and revived no more,
The heroic feeling for heroic deeds,—
We now rejoice but when sedition speeds,
Nor mourn but when some malefactor bleeds;

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228

And while our Albion is content to take
Her rival's hints, and follow in their wake,
Content to play a low inferior part,
She that was once the world's great mighty heart,
Quite satisfied to fill a second place,
Nor seek her ancient glories to retrace—
Such memories are indeed but our disgrace!
The Age of Chivalry—said Burke—is past,
The Age of Fame and Honour followeth fast!
As for this Age—when all men, all things know,
What skill can its distinctive features show?
Kaleidoscopal and phantasmagorial,
Its hues chameleon-like, its lights quite boreal;
A Proteus-period, changed from day to day,
Which endless aspects doth by turns display.
Ten thousand characters it still assumes,
Ten thousand forms—that pass like fleeting fumes—
So, wreathed in myriad shapes the smoke ascends,
It curls—it floats—it points—it swells—it bends—
'Tis this—'tis that—'tis here—'tis there—'tis nought—
Gone like a sigh—and vanished like a thought;

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229

No shape was there it did not seem to try,
Now 'twas a column—now a canopy;
Now 'twas a floating scarf—and now a shield—
(That dim and massy, darkeneth all the field).
So doth the smoke ascend, and so the show
Of this strange age doth vary still below.
I've seen bright butterflies superbly mailed
In rainbow panoply—transfixed—impaled—
(By gentle lovers of great nature's charms,
Who injure and destroy her works by swarms)
Outstretched on paper—where I think they please
Far less than floating on the beam and breeze.
But how can I e'er pin upon this page
The still more restless Spirit of this Age?
The Spirit of the Age?—I do it wrong,
Ten thousand Spirits sure to it belong,
Countless and crowded as the elves and fays,
That fable lent to earth in elder days,
Whose memory still upon our fancy plays,
Or motes that in the shining sunbeams float,
Which none can number, and which none can note;

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Black spirits and white are found—red spirits and gray,
That mingle, mingle—as they mingle may!
Count on the opal's face the various hues,
The tints that do the flowery beds suffuse—
The forest's leaves—the desert's sandy grains—
The ears of corn upon the harvest plains—
The ocean's waves—the sun's gay glittering rays—
The lights and shades of wild autumnal days,
But never hope to count by care or skill
The Time's strange humours—varying, varying still;
The multitudinous mockeries that engage
The attention of this cultivated age;
Oh! Age of harlequin transitions strange,
Endless caprice, and everlasting change;
Most glorious age of quicksilver and quacks,
Of built up systems, and of burnt down stacks.—
Machines for Calculation, quite complete,
To save your brains and head—art's noblest feat!
Machines infernal too—designed no doubt
To lop the head you do so well without!

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To blow away those useless brains inside,
Whose place is now so perfectly supplied.
Oh! age of patent blacking, and plate glass,
Of vapour—paper—steam—dream—gas—and brass—
(The latter article abounds indeed,
So much that it might almost take the lead,
And give the name of brazen to the age
While all the war of impudence can wage!)

Blest Age! with rarest mysticism deep dyed,
And every other sort of schism beside;
Sweet age of craniology and cant,
I do not mean to infer by hint askant
Or surmise, that the first hath with the last
Undue connexion—though together classed.
The former's doubtless in its infancy,
The latter—none can question sure—must be
Arrived at ripe, full-grown maturity.
Oh! age of all-surpassing show, and sound
Of pompous novelties—and names profound—

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Of mineralogy—and gene-alogy—
And every alogy, except an-alogy—
Of fair lithography, and other lies,
And meteorology, that foils the wise.
In short—for vain 'twere here the list to unfold,—
Of ographies and ologies untold!
Of magnetism, mobs, and masquerade,
(Few seem what they by Nature's hand were made)—
Of lath and plaster—leather and prunella—
All things that need a far more able teller—
Of Aërostation, too—which by the way
Seems rather stationary—so to say
(And if it is, then 'tis the only thing
That is so—for the World's upon the wing);
'Tis endless movement—movement—evermore,—
Movement by day and night—on sea and shore;
Earth's face is battered, and her sides are shaken,
'Tis such a din the Dead will sure awaken.—
Poor mother Earth—she is ill used indeed;
Upon this point we all must be agreed;—

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She's gashed and gored—and then in irons thrown,
Harsh fetters, fixed, and fastened tightly down;
While rail-road after rail-road is contrived,
As Vulcan's self had on the earth arrived,
With all his myrmidons to set up shop,
Each brawny minister, each huge Cyclop;
There's such a hammering, dinning, deafening, clattering,
Thundering, and crashing, driving, riving, battering;
And then the hurrying, hastening, crowding, chasing,—
The scrambling, scurrying, rushing, running, racing,
In all directions how they flock and fly,
As Man's first Virtue were Velocity!
It seems—to look upon the stirring scene—
As though our Planet's habitants had been
Engaged in some dire breach o' the peace of late—
(And 'tis the fashion now to agitate)—
And as the Riot Act had just been read,
And each one flew to save his own wise head.
While, sternly stunned the factious and perverse,
That signal word by all obeyed—“Disperse!”—

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234

So speed the scattered and the shouldering throng,
Like breathless hunted fugitives along.

What means the unpausing flight—the unceasing race?
Can no one stay one minute in one place?
Is 't a concerted scheme—or is 't by chance
That all are dancing such a dizzy dance?
What fit hath seized upon the young and old,
The soft, the stern,—the bashful and the bold—
The gay and serious, and the great and small—
What dire tarantula hath stung us all?
Yet better the torpedo's touch would be,
Than such extravagant activity.
Perpetual motion was not made for man,
In this his nether sphere—his narrow span,
While all around us raise so great a dust,
And pant and push along, and shove and thrust,
While each doth rove and range, return, retreat,—
Lo! to stand still would seem a wondrous feat!—
And to be stationary for a time,
An action almost to be called sublime.

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235

'Tis Stationary's self that fastest flies,
Pen, ink, and paper, fleet before our eyes,
While Poet, Playwright, Punster, Pamphleteer,
The captious Critic with his freezing sneer,—
Compiler—Commentator—Casuist, too—
Philologist, and Plagiarist, and Blue,
The Historian with his high and towering themes,
And the Antiquarian with his dubious dreams—
And Traveller, Theorist, and Translator strive,
Which can the fastest and the farthest drive
In Learning's and in Fiction's paths of fame,
To gain the sounding nothing of a name;
Romancers, too—(and thousands are compressed
In that one name, the briefest and the best).—
All help to hurry on the thriving trade—
All lend their little help, their petty aid—
While labouring, indefatigable still,
Works day and night the o'er-wearied paper-mill—
While flocks of wild geese in their flight are stopped,
And of their dedicated plumage cropped.

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Then faster than they ever flew above,
Those nibbed, flayed, sharpened plumes like lightning move;
While speeds the manufacture of the streams,
Designed to o'erflow and drown whole Realms—no! Reams!
Those maelstroom streams of all-absorbing ink,
Which well—if once drawn to their dangerous brink—
Might sailing navies suck—and standing armies sink!
Even scribblers—careless scribblers such as I,
Can bid apace the feathered pens to fly
Like those swift wings that fledged fleet Mercury's heel—
(This trope is wrong when pens are made of steel)—
The seas of ink in blackening tides to roll,
Those seas that soon will spread from pole to pole!—
Dark Deluge—whose deep waves in sablest flow,
Are spanned but by Invention's famed long bow!
But that shall ne'er its dangerous influence pour
O'er my plain page—that knows but Truth's blunt lore).
E'en I can countless quires of paper blot,
And deeply darken o'er their once fair lot,

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And give them to a dim and shadowy doom,
And turn their whiteness to a sable gloom,
And torture and torment them, “while the sweat
Of their great agony” exudes in jet.
But ah!—again must I my fault confess,
Again attempt these wild flights to repress.—
I fell abruptly from the fields of Air—
For lately I careered triumphant there—
Fell on the sullen, solid Earth at once,
Giddy and blind, like many another dunce—
Fell like a stricken sparrow from a perch,
And left my airy subject in the lurch—
Methinks I must have fallen a thousand feet,
Were I to scan my verses in this sheet
With nice attention and with narrow care—
(Which censors say I am apt to stint and spare)—
Though not in one straight line, but many lines,
Yet trust to pardon your kind heart inclines,
All, gentle Reader!—while with rapid pace
My wandering steps I now once more retrace—

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Have I one-half of all the wonders named
For which our very famous Age is famed?
The inventions and improvements that abound—
The marvels and the mysteries that are found—
Where'er we cast our wondering wandering eyes,
While in succession endless they arise;
No! and almost impossible it were
To sum up these—to speak them and declare,
Ere I have number'd but a portion o'er,
I feel bewildered by fresh myriads more;
Swarm springs from swarm, and score succeeds to score,
A heterogeneous, multifarious mass,
That doth with dazzling, puzzling fleetness pass—
A strange confusion—a chaotic show,
That ever seems to spread, and wax, and grow.

Oh! Age of slackened yokes—but shortened reigns!
Of Punic faiths—and of Bœotian brains;
Corinthian foreheads—Sybaritish creeds—
Long-winded words, and Liliputian deeds—

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All mixtures and all medleys meet in thee,
Legion thy name—thy dress must motley be.

Proud Age of Propagandism—and Patties!—
What science, say!—is more improved than that is?
Great Cookery's Science! that must interest all,
Since Man is marked—a Cooking Animal!—
Consistent, liberal, and enlightened France!
(That show'st all Nations how to dress and dance;
Exportest revolutions, pirouettes, modes,
Or picked echantillons of these choice goods—
Teachest the best constructions of sage codes,
As well as the sublimest cut of coats,
Also sometimes, too, the neatest cut of throats;
And most refined and fashionable way,
Our fellow-creatures or to maim or slay;)
'Tis Thou who sendest those legioned armies forth
Of skilful artists, East, West, South, and North;
Armies that 'stead of causing waste and want,
Make the supply of victual their chief vaunt;

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That spread thy great and glorious fame afar
Armies that yet have nought to do with War!
Nay! that no doubt conduce to full-fed Peace,
Though rivals to the far famed Hosts of Greece!
Soft savoury fumes—not sulphurous blasts attend
Their prosperous march, as forth their steps they bend—
Their quiet progress as they onwards wend!
No desperate deeds their fair renown can soil,
Though prone to seize the spoil and breed the broil;
For ever constitutionally bent,
With zealous care, and with sublime intent,
All Europe's Constitutions to improve,
And all corrupt abuses to remove;
To give to thousands blessings erst unknown,
(Which fair Gastronomy proclaims her own)
The enlightened entremet, the sauce refined,
To exalt the frame as knowledge doth the mind;
Their apparatus emulates the fame
Medea's kettle once was wont to claim.
(What though you bathe not 'mid the savoury steam,
Ask yon rapt Epicure what transports teem

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Through all his renovated frame inspired,—
And with fresh thrilling ardours fraught and fired;
When first auspicious gales around him waft,
From the Enchanter's cave rich odours soft;
And call forth feelings fond as those of youth,
And haply more ingenuous in their truth;)
And thus they visit distant nations still,
To lend them all the advantage of their skill;
To amend their courses, and to improve their tastes,
And work a bright Reform—in their repasts.

This is the Age of ceaseless stir and toil,
(There is no pause unto the cark and coil)
Of countless projects—propositions—plans,
Of loaded waggons, barges, coaches, vans,
And cargoed ships thronged close, like clustered swans;
Of clacking mills for ever going round,
Of cumbrous engines plied with thundering sound,
Of curious tunnels of construction rare,
Of huge suspension-bridges hung in air,

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Of spinning Jennies and of squeaking Jacks,
Of burthened asses and belaboured hacks,
Of slackened bridles and of sharpened goads,
Of beaten pavements and of battered roads,
Of wheels, and weights, and wires, and springs, and screws,
Of pulleys, paddles, presses, valves, and flues,
Of bellows, and of boilers, and balloons,
And barrel organs with their bothering tunes,
Of hammers, clappers, rammers, flappers, flails,
And clattering omnibuses, cabs, and mails;
Also of every manner of machine
That can be brought upon the stirring scene,
Of all things busy, wondrous, restless, loud,
Till not a moment's respite is allowed,
And while we sow and spin, grind, build, and plough—
Poor Time is really to be pitied now,
He is so much employed!—I doubt 'tis true,
He hath more to manage than he well can do.
His forelock—Opportunity, indeed—
By which we are taught to take him at full speed—

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That forelock all contrive to claw and pull,
Until it scarce adheres to his poor skull.
Always near bald, he is now half scalped beside,
And needs a perriwig his plight to hide;—
Also he'll grow asthmatic, broken-winded,
And by the dust he raises be half blinded,
Wing-sore and dizzy with his headlong race,
And quite unequal to preserve his pace—
If flogged thus most unmercifully on,
Till all his strength is spent—his breath is gone.
The rosy-bosomed, rosy-fingered Hours,
No more may lightly tread on scattered flowers;
Those rosy-fingered Hours grow grey and lean,
They're so hard worked, with scarce a rest between,
They are withered, wrinkled, worn, and bent, and bowed,
For scarce one needful holiday's allowed.
Or if, indeed, they have one now and then,
Full soon they're called to go to work again,
Ere they have time to turn themselves quite round,
Again unto the wearying task they are bound.

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Pure age of patriots—and pick-pockets too—
(What those design, perhaps these may but do).
These latter gentry are too harshly used,
And somewhat inconsistently abused—
To love their neighbours as themselves, they're bound,
And do but stretch the sense beyond the sound,
And love their neighbour's goods, too, as their own,
Nor rest until their warm affection's shown.

Great age of Homœopathists, too, that seem
Of Esculapius now the heirs supreme;
Hygeia's chosen ministers, that twine
Fresh garlands for her fair and golden shrine.
Also of doctrines new, y'cleped Malthusian—
Can aught appear less like to a delusion?
In short, of all things practical and plain,
And rational and simple, sound and sane.
As for that poor ghost Glory, once so prized,
'Tis now, it seems, expelled and exorcised;
Such foolish, unsubstantial dreams must fade
In the bright blaze of knowledge now displayed.

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The ancient banners now are dimmed with dust,
The swords of belted knighthood dulled with rust.
Then let the Oaks, while still improvement spreads,
Bow down the hoary honours of their heads;
Then let them meeklier bend above the plain,
Razed be the records of their billowy reign,
Forget their ancient triumphs on the main.
Time was, a thousand fell to build up fair
A glorious Queen of Ocean and the War,
Our thunder-bearing armaments of pride,
Our bannered fleets, that o'er the ocean ride
Like floating pyramids, with outstretched sails,
And tapering masts, whose point the strained eye fails
To mark against the blue sky, bright and clear,
As speeds the vessel on its swift career,
The Utilitarian and the Economist
Deem, doubtless, should be scratched from out the list,—
The full list of the State's expenditure,
Superfluous in the Utopias bright and pure—
Born, bred, (and buried) in their sapient brain—
Fain would they thin their numbers on the main—

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And think your frigates and your seventy-fours
Should never have been launched from the English shores;
And deem those barks of proud materials framed,
Reft from the forests long by man unclaimed—
From the old woods of shadowy ages borne,
That deepened midnight, and that darkened morn;
Of timber and of fuel but a waste,
And much upon that Element misplaced!
Save only in fair Commerce' service now,
Would they the “deep and dark blue ocean” plough—
But how long would our glorious land maintain
Her proud supremacy upon the main,
Did not the thundering cannon of her ships
Speak “Victory” from their adamantine lips?
Her vessels hover, like winged genii, round
To guard their queen, with mightiest empire crown'd.
But I forget—in this progressing time
Supremacy is counted but a crime—
Equality for nations, as for men,—
Be this the darling theme of tongue and pen!

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Doubtless the air, the earth, the liberal light,
Are every breathing creature's certain right.
And can it be contested or gainsayed,
That also in its ample sweep was made,
Far as the thought can reach, the eye can scan,
The Universal Main for Universal Man!
Nor let the oak indignantly complain,
And grieve o'er these restrictions of its reign,
(It yet o'ershadoweth far the checquered ground,
And casts its deep rich emerald tints around,
Still flourishes as verdant midst the scene—
'Tis we ourselves that are not quite so green.)
The long-sung laurel, as we late have shown,
Views its fair triumphs lost—its glories flown;
Those leaves that wreathed the imperial diadem,
More precious far than costliest gold and gem,—
That clasped a Cæsar's godlike forehead round,
And many a conqueror's brow victorious bound;
Whose chaplet urged the intrepid warrior on,
Until the prize was grasped—the treasure won—

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The priceless treasure—the immortal prize,
The first and fairest in a hero's eyes—
Those leaves are now but laurel leaves again,
(And yet as evergreens some charms retain)—
Those leaves are now but laurel leaves once more,
And all their glory and their pride is o'er—
Unwreathe the Demi-god's imperial crest,
And let these leaves, no longer pleached, be pressed;
With care extract the inly-circling juice,
And mark its secret properties and use;
Those glossy garlands have a virtue hid
Their clustering foliage' shadowy pride amid.
Now let them to the important test be brought,
Lo! see the wonders in a moment wrought—
A mighty change hath o'er their fortunes come,
Dragged from the immortal dedicated dome—
Torn from the Temple of the God of Wars,
The thunderer of the earth, the all dreadful Mars,
Behold them thus condemned at once to fall—
Now dedicate to Apothecaries Hall!

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The Faculty adopt them for their own,
And all their latent usefulness is shown,
No more to bind the immedicable wound
With Glory's empty charm—a breath—a sound—
But to be now medicinally used,
With skill administered—with care infused!
The smug apprentice now may wreathe his brows
With those immortal and transcendant boughs;
(Perhaps, though not on Battle's sanguined plain,
The youthful hero boasts his hosts of slain—
Experienced in the gloomy work of Death,
Perhaps he treads too on Destruction's path!)
The knight of brandished spoon, and balmy still,
The smoothing spatula—the soothing squill—
The phial, and the potion, and the pill,
The pestle and the mortar—he, even he,
May pluck the leaves of Daphne's deathless tree!
Yet not to him alone may be confined
Those chaplets, wont the warriors' brows to bind,
Degraded now from that triumphal arch,
Where they hung nodding o'er the tromp-timed march,

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And from the proudly-bannered trophied tent,
Where they in broad festoons were greenly bent.
Although a medicine they in sooth may make,
They also lend new flavour to a cake;
A poison or a liqueur too prepare—
There's a distinction—but slight difference there,
(For shrewdly to suspect I feel inclined
They are cousins germane, of one stock and kind;)
So, if you'd seek them in a fresh disguise,
You'll haply meet them, veiled from careless eyes,
In the confectioner's odoriferous shop,
'Chance placed 'twixt liquorice and lollypop.
My knowledge of such things is very slight,
And no receipt-book's near to set me right,
Therefore forgive me if I now forbear
With nice precision duly to declare
The exact position in which may be found
Of these proud leaves, so honoured, so renowned,
The disembodied essence!—I am told,
Yet know not, if the story's truth may hold,

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That oft they may be found where, better still,
Less famed ingredients would their places fill—
The apricot's smooth kernels, sweet and white,
Or peach-stone kernels, not so perfect quite.
But shall we mourn above their altered state,
And wear the willow for the laurel's fate,
And uselessly deplore their present case,
Still bent their ancient glories to retrace?
No! let us smile away the airy dream,
Let those who like it, when they've quaffed the stream—
Oft sloe-leaf juice—by courtesy called tea—
Then peaceful sip their peaceful ratafia!
But yet 'tis vain to doubt it or deny—
We sometimes cast a fond reverted eye
Back to the dreams and deeds too of our sires,
And glow a moment with congenial fires—
And grieve a moment o'er the broken spell
Which once all hearts confessed so fondly well
And sadden o'er that grove of glory, shorn—
Stripped of its dignities—abased—forlorn—

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The Evergreen hath fallen, in period brief,
Into its fortune's sere and yellow leaf;
Yet still Apollo should his sanction lend,
And bless the lofty laurel and befriend,
Yea! still should Medicine's God the patron be
Of that degraded and deserted tree—
Since he who slew the Python with his dart,
Is likewise Master of the healing art.
He who the Chariot of the Sun commands,
Also the use of Medicine understands;
He who the rapt and fervent bard adores,
Protects the Pharmacopolist's choice stores,
And drugs and rhymes confess his radiant sway,
And owe allegiance to the God of day.
The Poet and Practitioner agree,
Oh! bright-locked Phœbus, in adoring thee;
The drama and the draught, the oil and ode,
Boast great Apollo as their patron-god.

Still the bay tree and all its leaves grow sere,
More at a discount each succeeding year;

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253

Tea leaves—tobacco leaves—the cotton tree,
May now exulting claim Precedency,
(Save as regards its pure extracted dew—
'Tis only prized in that one point of view!)
Sandal wood—rose wood—every branch of trade,
Of far more great importance now are made.
Ask at our busy marts, our crowded ports,
Fair Commerce' haunts and Business' crammed resorts;
Ask in our manufacturing districts all,
(Where none are freed from busy Mammon's thrall.)
One answer will your strict enquiries greet,
One certain truth all voices will repeat—
These are the days of money-making cares,
Of bonds, and notes, and bills, and loans, and shares;
Of speculations and monopolies—
Subscriptions—competitions—schemes—supplies—
As for the dream of Glory, weak and vain,
That cannot now delude men's minds again;
All have one fixed pursuit, one dear intent,
All on one object are profoundly bent,

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254

The lining of the Pocket and the Purse;
To all besides this age seems much averse.
What is the Victor's medal—what but trash?
Compared with witching, wonder-working cash?
What is the Conqueror's chariot and his crown
To change or notes paid regularly down?
What his proud arch, his pillar, and his scroll,
His Royal banner, and his blazoned roll;
His glittering orders and his laurelled name,
His vain distinctions and his empty fame;
What to the jingling, glittering, smiling coin,
Prosperity's exhaustless, boundless mine;
Why, what indeed?—'tis ready money still,
That gives us all things—any thing we will.
With that compared all else is worthless chaff;
That is Aladdin's lamp, and Prospero's staff,
Minerva's ægis, and Medea's charms,
Apollo's arrow, and Achilles' arms.

What is there seen by eye, or known to thought,
That may not now by mighty gold be bought?

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255

Glory and honour, triumph, greatness, fame,
The World's applauding shout—a deathless name,
The Critics' admiration and their praise,
Aye! even the once much prized, much honour'd bays!
Give but an ample and sufficient bribe,
And you secure the whole impartial tribe.
Well may the barren tree of Glory's field
At once its influence lose, its triumphs yield;
Then let the Oak submit too, to his fate,
Since he is overlooked and out of date.
Lo! even the Birch may lord it now above
The ancient Monarch of the British grove.
(The Birch—that mighty chastener and sworn foe
Of all the dull, the heedless, and the slow;
The scourge of idler, dunce, and wayward rogue),
Since now the Schoolmaster's so much in vogue,
Since now the Schoolmaster exerts such sway,
And doth a part so great and glorious play,
And waves his twig-bound sceptre far and wide,
Whose branching honours spread on every side—

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256

While myriads tremble at the enforced appeal,
Which they are doomed, oft keenly too, to feel.

One word, too, to the high and haughty Pine,
As arrogant and boastful in its line,
Still proudly soaring from its mountain bed,
And lifting free its bold ambitious head,
Almost as though it felt already there,
The appended streamer floating in the air—
As though it towering and commanding stood,
A stately mast o'er Ocean's foam-streaked flood,
As though already in its pillared pride
It shot in glorious height above the tide,
While—as right onwards rode the bounding bark
Free from its head—high soaring as the lark
Flew that fair streamer in its lofty grace,
As 'twere rejoicing in its pride of place;
But it must learn to lessen and to lower
Its bold claims now—forgetting thus to tower,
Pine-tree and fir shall now more humbly bend,
(A deal of pride doth with their firmness blend),

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257

If not, they'll fall uprooted in the storm,
Since they require a Radical Reform.

And if men look beneath Earth's face—even there
May much be found to claim their generous care.
The Diamond—Say, pray what can be its right
To shame all other Stones, supremely bright,
And make, as 'twere, monopoly of light?
He glistens and he glows—a flashy spark,
While his poor brother Charcoal, dim and dark,
Is all begrimed, and lustreless, and sad,
Like some smutched chimney-sweeper, coarsely clad.
(Why doth it blaze out in such bright array?
What better is't than other dust and clay,
Or wood or stone—or any thing beside?
'Tis time to mortify such maudlin pride.)
As for the charcoal, though we cannot trace
A likeness in its dull and dingy face
To that proud gem that must attract all eyes,
The monarch's portion and the merchant's prize.

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258

(This seems a bathos—yet it is not so,
Ask but of those who have best right to know,
Whether in these days there are no such things
As merchants greater than the greatest kings?
If Mammon makes the man—if Mammon gives
The noblest life in which a mortal lives—
If Mammon raises him—refines—renews,
With the Supreme Elixir which he brews!)
Yet he belongs, 'tis said, to the same race,
Perchance the poor ill-fated charcoal's case
Is but a younger brother's after all,
To whom no portion of good things may fall—
And all the unjust contrivance is, be sure,
A kind of natural Primogeniture.
The diamond doubtless hath, which is not fair,
The sparkling shiners all to his own share,
The coat of many colours is his own,
And Nature's partial tenderness is shown!
No wonder he affects a pomp undue—
No wonder that he grows hard hearted too!

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259

But let the diamonds, in vain splendour dight,
Tremble through all their frame of trembling light,
Such glittering toys this polished age will scorn,
And leave them in unpolished plight forlorn,
In sad and solitary gloom to pine,
Lost and neglected in their native mine.

Turn to the living world a little space,
Ah! much is there of wrong, and vile, and base,
Much that must wound the Liberal's noble heart,
And make his inmost bosom ache and smart.
There, there are grievances—abuses—wrongs—
Which ask for folio volumes—fluent tongues—
For pure and practised hands—and Argus eyes,
And zealous counsels, learned, and deep, and wise.
And man, I fear, is slightly here to blame,
I say it with deep sorrow and much shame,
But still I doubt he is apt to entertain—
I dwell on this with true concern and pain,
Strange partialities—aversions too,
And stubborn prejudices not a few.

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260

This class of creatures wins his kind regard,
While that he loathes, which seems unjust and hard.
He pets with fondling care his favourite dog,
But turns from speckled toad and croaking frog;
The one wins all his tenderness and trust,
The other's made his by-word of disgust.
He treats his horse as fashioned for his use,
His ass—as only made for his abuse.
This he with patronizing zeal befriends,
To that but injuries and reproach extends.
How ill are used—Oh! hear their moving tale—
The scaly people in Creation's scale;
Shut out from all improvement and all knowledge
(For who can found in the under seas a college?)
Their education is neglected quite,
And their best interests are kept out of sight.
We've heard of learned and enlightened pigs—
Four-footed pedants—tailed and snouted prigs,
Instructed well in several kinds of lore—
(I own I love not a pedantic bore).

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261

These doubtless were (to school when duly brought)
Upon the Hamiltonian system taught,
And deeply versed as soon as they could grunt—
(I do not mean their boar-ships to affront)—
At their first entrance on Life's crowded—sty,
In the Baconian philosophy,
Condemned full soon to have the azure hose
Drawn on their innocent young pettitoes;
The boaresses themselves shall con the page
The accomplished Liter-ati of the age!
We have heard, too, of grimalkins, who have acquired
Polite accomplishments by all admired;
That have a mighty store of knowledge reaped,
Up to the whiskers in their learning steeped;
But who e'er heard of herring yet, or haddock,
That could discern a steeple from a shaddock;
That could distinguish, with observant eye—
However they might be induced to try—
Some old sea monster's salted, pickled bone,
Even from their near relation's—or their own?

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No! for these poor, degraded dunces yet,
They have not so much as learned their alphabet.
As far as A, B, C, they may progress,
But never will arrive at F.R.S.—
Never will go so far as to Ex-cel,
Till blank De-cay the O-ce-an world shall quell.
Our own domestic animals, perchance,
May, as their Masters march, in time advance;
But for the sea-fish, also the fresh-water,
Their portion still is Ignorance, “Night's daughter.”
No scrolls for them unfold, no maps expand,
The tree of knowledge grows but on the Land!
But, till its mighty roots far-spreading creep,
Deeply to fix themselves within the Deep,
We must confess, howe'er against our will,
That knowledge is but superficial still.
But let it now those depths of ocean sound,
And prove in every sense, indeed profound,
The Schoolmaster's abroad, is all the cry.
Now let his lessons be no longer dry;

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Now let him take his fortune at high tide,
Nor rest upon his oars, nor deign to glide,
Only where smoothest currents flow along;
He still should try the head-long and head-strong.
Methinks 'twould seem he is not wont to fear
To go beyond his depth,—why pause, then, here?
No; let him plunge at once head-foremost down,
We cannot think that he was born to drown,
And seek the ancient realms of the azure god,
Whose trident shall be vailed before his rod.
And if old Neptune, throned on ooze and slime
(Let me not spare the rod, and spoil the rhyme),
Should prove refractory, or sneer, or nod,
He may be taught to tremble at the rod.
Since first rude Boreas, harsh and howling rose,
He hath been well accustomed unto blows.
Besides, would he arrange the matter well,
He might descend to where the Nereids dwell—
Not in a bucket, but in diving bell;
Then teach and preach through all the watery city,
And if he ne'er returns, the more's the pity.

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Let not his hopes in the great deep be damped,
His energies submerged, his projects swamped.
The breakers need not cost him any trouble,
He is used to froth, to noise, and to a bubble,
And likes, while foreign tongues, he is apt to quote,
To feel the flowing liquids in his throat;
In short, if he the proper method try,
He is sure to go on well and swimmingly,
His craft so noble, and his drift so steady,
Himself so used besides to currents heady.
His projects divers,—and his subjects boys,
(Though full-grown candidates for Learning's joys,
Now far and wide impatiently aspire,
While glow with keen Ambition's restless fire—
Hurrying to school grey Grandam and Grandsire;)
His schemes afloat, his hopes a soaring train,
His zeal enkindling evermore—a-main,
His ardour still unquenched,—he shall not sink,
Though sea and sky to him look black as ink;
'Gainst wind and tide, should he be strong to pull,
So competent to manage well—the scull.

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The poor illiterate fishes—could they know
How much their fellow-creatures they are below,
How very much beneath the rest they are;
How they would ope their silly eyes and stare.
Alas! their gloomy darkness is profound,
For them no lights are lit—no books are bound;
No press is sanctioned, and no pens are slit,
No schools are 'stablished, and no works are writ,
No themes are classed, no treatises composed,
No tracts distributed, no truths disclosed,
To inform their minds, their fancies, too, to hit,
No tomes are penned of wisdom or of wit.
They never hang transfixed on some smooth line,
Bating, when, Hook! they meet with points of thine.
They have no freedom of Election—no!
Although from pole to pole they are free to go.
They have no public meetings—none—the sinners!
Nor give, although they furnish public dinners;
They are never on their legs, they have no bills,
No clause have they, they have nothing but their gills.

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No candidates ambitious seem to obtain
Their favour, nor their kind regards to gain;
Nor to the interior of their hidden state
E'er show the slightest wish to penetrate,
(Perchance, because, though they might not be spurned,
They doubt they ne'er would be by them returned!)
'Mongst us they are infamously represented;
'Tis their great Duty to be discontented!
The Sea might seem to be, oh! shame and sorrow!
But little better than a rotten borough.
Corruption certainly doth there go on,
And all know well how fish are to be won.
And by what baits most likely to be caught,
Each has his price too,—all are to be bought.
Surely while petty Fins-bury even is free,
That mightier Finsbury,—the fish peopled sea,
Should boast a privileged Constituency,
But fishes are as I have said before,
Sucked down at sea, quite swallowed up on shore!

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That Captain Cook who sailed so often o'er them,
It was not to instruct them, nor to explore them.
And all the Cooks who have come after him,
Have made sad work for all the fish that swim!
What do they do but slay them, weigh them, try them,
Scale them and scald them, crimp them, flay them, fry them?
True, Natural History may inform us well
Of those poor natives of the scale and shell,
But though we prize them and their merits own,
Too oft our sympathies are strangely shown!
And though we study, through their various maze,
The different habits, manners, uses, ways
Of these thronged tribes of the Ocean's teeming wastes,
We think meanwhile, far more of our own tastes!
And serve them in a very saucy way,
(While firstly we tre-pan them, then be-tray)—
And take with them a prompt and speedy course,
By which we seal their fate without remorse.

And will no liberal member make a motion,
To benefit the inhabitants of Ocean?

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Will none now take them, under their protection?
Then let them rise in floundering Insurrection!
And nobly seek their dormant claims to urge,
And prove the fierce insurgents of the surge;
If we advance them not in Being's Scale,
Shall the whale be content but to be-wail?
To blubber and to blow his mighty nose,
Nor lay a train to o'erwhelm his hated foes?
(Ah! now for these he but train-oil provides,
And leaves his very bones for them besides.)
No! he will spout at once whole columns forth,
And shed sedition East, West, South, and North!
(And deeply 'mid his own reflections dash,
Nor check his fearful tale—nor spare the lash.)
If there be no reporters near to write
The strong out-pourings of his vengeful spite,
Yet we need surely entertain no fear,
But that all those who go to sea will hear.
The watery world will quake with quick e-motion,
And he shall nobly agitate the Ocean!

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So shall he soon his uproused comrades warm,
Nor throw cold water on the plans they form;
So shall he revolutionize the sea,
The greatest champion of bright Liberty.
What! shall the long scorned Sturgeon, Salmon, Shark,
Be satisfied to flounder in the dark?
And, from his place long banished, shall the Plaice,
Like a true flat fish, aid his own disgrace?
Say—shall the Seal with slaves and minions mix,
And thus the seal to his own ruin fix?
Say—shall the Sword-fish hide within the deep,
Nor forth in flashing ire indignant leap,
Shall they forsake the path the hero treads?
And say—shall the Oysters die too in their beds?—
In stupid dulness long consent to dwell,
Closed in the locked up chamber of their shell?
(Save we burglariously dare to break
Through the rough walls, and our forced entrance make,
With ruthless hand that splits their sacred roof,
'Gainst all but man's unfair intrusion proof.)

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Shall Soles consent thus soulless to survive,
Nor for their liberties and birthrights strive?
Will not the Dog-fish doggedly refuse
To endure that yoke which must so sorely bruise?
And will not the crustaceous fish become
More crusty, bound to so unjust a doom?
The crawling crabs more cross and crabbed grow,
Nay, lean to war, and ever as they go
Look slant and sideways on the hated foe?
And if in truth all justice be denied,
Trace many a Machiavelian path aside,
And indirectly thus their efforts aid,
Who seek the oppressor's dreaded power to evade—
And though they scarce can regularly join
In great Improvement's forward march, their line
May suit themselves far better—theirs may be
A natural, though a crooked policy.

All, all will blend in union firm and strong,
A close, compact, indissoluble throng—

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(They surely are not of the melting mood,
Since they so long have dwelt within the flood.)
And ye have cause, ye nations of the Wave,
To rise 'gainst those who injure and enslave;
Deep wrongs like yours must not go unrepaid,
Or tyranny will flourish undismayed.
Rise—rise, ye children of the billowy brine,
Take your own path, though we may cross your line—
Ye have been long kept under—but away,
If once ye rise—ye then must gain the day!
The old veteran warriors of the by past war
Are now a straitened few, and scattered far;
And we are credibly informed the new
Can never flesh their swords, ye fish, on you!
Rise—Ocean-monsters, rise! and ye small imps,
Ye simple shoals of sprats, and smelts, and shrimps—
Rise one—rise all—and wage a finny war,
Can matters well be worse than now they are?
Rise one—rise all—a vast and mighty host,
That yet can make no strength of arms their boast,

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Being, in fact, without them—as we know,
Though some possess a formidable row,
Of sharpened weapons, that might daunt the foe!
Some bear upon their backs a ponderous shield,
Beneath which they are perfectly coneealed;
('Tis on their backs, with sorrow I repeat,
Since this smacks much of flight and of retreat)
And yet of flying fish not oft we hear,
And therefore should suppress the ready sneer.
But rise, ye slumb'ring nations of the Deep,
Arouse ye from your dull lethargic sleep,
And show the Earth, that ye of the Ocean are
The very muscles and the soul of war.

But till the above required results take place,
I pity much the piscatorial race.
Amongst themselves there is need too of reforms,
They have their social breezes, civil storms;
Poor things, no wonder they have nought else to do.
But when we have contrived to make them blue,

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Things will, no doubt, a new complexion wear,
A better colour, and a brighter, bear!
Then the belle lettres, the charming and sublime,
Shall far more worthily employ their time!
The classic authors shall delight their leisure,
And yield them all, profound and speechless pleasure.
The Blue Seas then, the Black, White, Red, or Green,
Shall view a different and far happier scene.
The sharks and dolphins shall together play,
Together float in learning's peaceful way;
The kraken and the cod shall then combined,
With zeal promote the noble March of Mind;
The ignorant shall then forbear to assail
Those who are clad in Wisdom's solid mail;
The Illiberal shall be rigorously taught
To honour, then, the Enlightened as they ought.
Nor shall the idlers scorn, with puffed up notion,
The poor industrious Operatives of Ocean,
The builder-worms, that patient, year by year,
The wondrous island structure firmly rear;

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The humble working classes of the Main,
That ceaseless toil, yet not for hire or gain;
That labour hard, unpausing, evermore,
Until their labour and their life are o'er.

Alas! at present countless wrongs are found
'Mid those deep waters which we may not sound;
There, there, we are told, for vanity or victual,
The great for ever prey upon the little.
But let them now in tender bonds entwine,
Leviathan shall with the minnows join,
In close fraternity and kindly ties,
Nor vulgarly presume upon his size!
'Tis but by accident he is of that class
Which boasts so huge a bulk, so vast a mass;
And he should verily lament and mourn
That to such broad distinctions he is born.
Rather than triumph in the chance which thus
Gave him a station so conspicuous.
But we must now unwillingly leave these
To the great Lethe of the unsounded seas,

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275

And cast a look on things more known and near,
Where e'er may Evil's cloven hoof appear;
Turn to the tribes that ply the buzzing wing,
That bear the fairy Sucker—the fine sting—
The little, lightsome natives of the air,
Which daily we behold disporting there;
Let's hope, amongst the industrious, sober bees,
(Or in our Gardens or their wild-wood trees),
Let's fondly hope, it shortly will be seen
They have taken measures to depose their Queen,
'Tis such a blot upon their busy lives,
That they must have a Sovereign in their hives.
Oh! they must soon, or each prove Freedom's Martyr,
Possess their 'stablished Constitutional Charter!
If they a pattern, prudently demand,
Let them look round them—plenty are at hand,
(The Spanish I would scarcely recommend,
Because it breeds fresh troubles without end;
Nor yet would I advise the Portuguese—
Dark, blood-stained quarrels seem to arise from these;

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276

Likewise the French undoubtedly appears
To be the spring of sanguinary tears.)
Then let the bees, when in revolt they rise,
A good and just one for themselves devise,
Then shall they wax far greater when they are free,
And taste the enduring sweets of Liberty.
Oh! let them join now in their common cause,
And frame a comb—I mean a code of laws;
Then turn their lingering, lumbering drones adrift
For their own livelihoods to make a shift.
I have heard it hinted—may it prove untrue,
That 'mongst the Ants—a busy nation too,
Such things are known and suffered, shame and grief,
As a director, master, ruler, chief,
That they no expedition undertake,
No wise improvement e'er attempt to make,
Without a chosen Leader to conduct,
To teach the way, to enlighten and instruct,
That they've their labourers too, and lower classes,
(Who e'er could think that ants would be such asses?)

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And that within their little social state,
Inferiors and dependants watch and wait,
Surely these mournful truths but serve to show
How far a bad example's force will go!
It is our fault who long have led the way,—
Long borne the abuse of Government and sway!
Perhaps they have a House of Lords—beside
Where doubtless swelled with ancestorial pride,
The hereditary lawgivers would fain
Spurn rude dictation and their rights maintain,
And dare their real opinions to proclaim,
Without a shade of dread or dream of shame!—
A standing Army ready at a call,
To plunge their foes, or keep themselves in thrall;
Penal codes, press-gangs, pension-lists, poor rates,
Pamphlets and Parliamentary debates;
(Whose great redundance surely mostly springs
From a confused and faulty state of things;)
With Corporations they may saddled be,
And tax collectors that must gall the free,

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278

They may have learned associations too,
Logicians blusterous, and ladies blue,
Critics censorious, and compilers cold,
And tedious bores with tales three times retold.

They may have speculations too, and schemes
That burst like bubbles and depart like dreams;
Perhaps they have their distant colonies
Which cost in war or peace a fearful price,
Also it may be a huge national debt,
(The cause of all their ceaseless toil and fret),
Fearfully heavy, desperately large,
Which they are deeply anxious to discharge;
(Oh! let them first discharge their hireling throng,
Nor countenance so vile and foul a wrong,
Yea, let them mend their practices ere long!)
Perhaps they have ancient colleges and schools,
With all their musty antiquated rules,
Perhaps they have,—Oh! crying ill of all,
Which must most direly grieve and deeply gall,

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279

A rigorous, strong, constabulary force,
Which checks sweet Freedom's riots in their course!
So human do they truly seem to be
Frail miniatures of our Humanity!
So human are they in a thousand ways,
Which fill the observer with profound amaze;
But if they've common sense, (which we miscall,
Since 'tis the most uncommon sense of all,)
They now the first, the glorious part will play,
And teach their human fellows thus the way,
The great example they will nobly show,
And lower the lofty ones and lift the low,
And give Equality to all around,
Then shall no evils in their state be found.
How can we boast with vain and flighty words,
That we are made and born creation's Lords,
How dream that a superior stamp we bear,
Since apes and ants mock both our acts and air?
Since it, alas! is well known to be true
That almost every thing we strive to do,

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280

Is better done by things we proudly scorn,
And deem were solely for our service born!
See, how the beaver builds, the silk-worm spins,
The mole his way with nice precision wins,
Through subterraneous galleries, finely wrought,
With toil that tires him not, and costs him nought!

The Arabs, a brave people, bold and free,
(Who boast, and justly, of their liberty,
A fine, unfettered independent race,)
Think little of precedence, pelf, or place,

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Yet have a most pernicious custom, which,
I am told they carry to a dangerous pitch,
While they themselves are simple, plain, and free,
They strangely prize their courser's pedigree;
And on that pedigree build all their pride,
And on their haughty way rejoicing ride!
Thus striving to their very beasts to teach
Those hurtful maxims which we most impeach.
But let the hardy, fearless Arab chief,
Now, while 'tis time, turn over a new leaf,
Nor aid the wrongs he loathes—drawn far astray,
But take a fairer, more straight-forward way,
Nor turn the small head of his noble steed,
By vain, fantastic boastings of his breed;
Nor bid him trample down his fellow-brute,
With step imperious and disdainful foot.
Brave children of the desert! can ye care,
Or for the inheritance of horse or mare,
If they, indeed, are fleeter than the air?
Oh! let the manes of their fathers rest,
Nor let them rear on high a haughty crest;

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282

If they still take, like rushing winds, their way,
What can they want with sixteen quarters, pray?
If they with speed the trackless wilds can trace,
What matter their forerunners in Life's race?
Their herald should the flashing lightning be,
The plane their only genealogic tree.
If they've a shining coat of sleek, smooth pride,
And legs of bounding vigour, proved and tried,
What do they need a coat of arms beside?
Oh! if by their main strength they can prevail,
What boots a flourished, vain, heraldic tale?
If they leave all behind them in their flight,
What went before them's immaterial quite;
If they can leap o'er each obstructing thing,
It scarce can matter from what source they spring;
And if their withers are unwrung—say true—
Imports it from what withered stock they grew?

There doubtless is, I must with grief declare,
Foul play amongst the fair fowls of the air.

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283

The monarch eagle—why should he pretend
His feathered fellows should before him bend.
Why should he plume himself with paltry pride,
On being lord of the aëry regions wide?
Or, with hooked beak, so high and haughty look,
And rule the upper world by hook or crook.
Let him a little from his height descend—
I only give this counsel as a friend.

'Mongst beasts as well as birds we sorrowing see
The baleful system of supremacy;
But not for very long can this endure—
'Tis doomed to be subverted, I feel sure!
The lordly Lion must his pride abate;
His rugged throne must quickly abdicate!—
That high and most majestic king of beasts,
Who boasts purveyors for his royal feasts—
Is not the sharp and active jackall styled
The noble brute's provider in the wild?—
He now can have no caterer, carver, taster—
Thus may despatch his dinner all the faster!

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284

E'en let him now—'twill be his wisest plan—
Commence the quiet, country gentleman,
Kill his own mutton—furnish his own meal—
Chase his own venison—cut up his own veal!

That hoary-bearded patriarch, he must now
The sovereign herd's triumphant claim avow;
He must submit to our projected law,
And walk with his brute subjects paw in paw,
While all the glories of his former reign
Fall from him like the dew-drops from his mane.
Let him our will contentedly obey,
And peacefully resign his ancient sway,
And walk in quiet, with retractile claws,
(For these are things that still should give him pause;)
Though our proposed and most prodigious bill
(To be drawn up with boundless care and skill),
For Universal and Complete Reform,—
A cause to make e'en rocks of ice grow warm!—
Hath no retractile clause, but still is found
Full armed to deal momentous changes round!

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285

He now must view his ancient state withdrawn,
With none to pray, speak fair, sa-lam, or fawn.
No more shall he his code despotic frame,
Nor barbarously enforce his boastful claim!
To our provisions he must now submit,
And swallow whatsoe'er we may think fit.
Yet he may trust us—liberal and discreet—
Nor fear but we will give him what is meet.
His savage majesty must now, 'tis plain,
Dismiss his proud and ostentatious train,
Yield all his vain advantages, and then
Retire in meek submission to his den;—
Renounce his ill-advised pretentions quite,
Nor dare defend presumptuously his right,—
Renounce his hateful privileges all,
And hail his equal in his own Jack-all!
Even haughty man who still supreme looks down
On all things with a lordly, lofty frown,
Who, fired with conscious greatness towers erect,
And claims from wide creation due respect;

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286

Even haughty man, when all this comes to pass,
May find his fellow in his own Jack-ass!

And now methinks 'tis time to set you free,
Dear Reader, from my strain of Liberty;
My rather tedious and protracted song,
(I trust it carried you with it along;)
Methought I caught, ere yet the strain was o'er,
The murmurous echo of a muffled snore,
Which fell with such a dulcet dying close,
It must have breathed from an enlightened nose;
Yet, if with patience you would kindly deign,
Still courteously to hearken, I would fain
Whisper some parting words within your ear,—
Perhaps I am not just what I appear.
Some slight confessions I have here to make,
If you, indeed, are now quite broad awake,
And willing for some moments, to attend,
For truly, now my strain draws near its end;
I own that I feel anxious ere we part,
Although I know not, Reader, what thou art,

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287

That thou should'st better guess at what I am,
For sooth to say, it suits me not to sham,
The truth is this, (but I would have you know,
I beg and wish it may no farther go;
And take a strictly confidential tone,
And breathe this for your private ear alone;)—
The truth is this, I speak with all submission,
Myself, I am nothing of a Politician!
(Perchance you have discovered this before,
And thought you had some little right to snore.)
Like other parrots, I repeat by rote,
Whate'er I hear, with closely copied note.
To settled principles I lay small claim,
My course I shape, my free opinions frame—
My creed political, I found and form,
Much as a straw might do amid a storm!
(Borne hither, thither, rapidly away,
Unconscious of the least support or stay.)
Or as a weed, swift carried down a stream,
'Midst thousand, petty, eddying waves, I deem!

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288

Or as a little, running, rain-swoln rill,
Drawn down a steep declivity of hill.
And now methinks that you at least must own,
My secret self I have distinctly shown,
Nor sought to cheat your penetrating eyes,
By shrouding my defects in fair disguise;
Yet, as times go, methinks that I may boast
That my opinions are as good as most;
As independent and original
As many others, were truth told of all,
As sound as even my neighbours, would they show
Theirs but as openly to friend and foe!
And therefore though by some I may be blamed,
I think I have no cause to be ashamed.
And let me also to your ear confide,
That I have this advantage on my side,
I can adopt full quickly for my own,
Of others, both the opinions and the tone,
Nor seek the merits of the case to learn,
It costs me nothing to retract or turn;

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289

No sacrifice at all in this I make,
And still—for know that I have nought at stake—
The newest notions, strongest side I choose,—
Give credit to the candour of my muse!
But I outrun my limits—to conclude,
Man is already more than half renewed.
Now, now, let Nature be reformed at last,
Doubtless in her bright Prime, in the Elder Past,
Things were far better ordered and arranged,
Though now so much corrupted and so changed,—
Different from things which now shocked Reason sees,
Abuses will creep in by slow degrees,
And 'tis our duty to abolish these;
Then we must never fail to recollect
Great Nature, once so fresh,—with due respect,—
Is now indeed an antiquated Dame,
Decrepit, withered, with a worn out frame,
Large wrinkles, ages have contrived to plough,
Along her once serene and radiant brow,
Perhaps she may be in her dotage too,
Not quite aware of all that she may do;

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290

Aged, superannuated, gone to wreck,
And needing many a wholesome hint and check!
Shorn of her strength, and health, and fallen away
Into her second childhood, bent and grey,
The withered victim of a long decay!
She may be now, o'er-worn with many cares,
Unequal grown to rule her own affairs,
And also ('tis most likely) worse and worse,
May stubborn prove, opinionated, perverse,
(As people rather elderly become,
At least, no doubt, it is the case with some,
When if you offer them the least advice,
They frown, and quarrel with you in a trice!)
But in these days of superfine invention,
'Twere best that she retired upon a pension;
For doubtless, man, with equal skill and grace,
Can well fill up her once important place;
Even now in countries civilized, she seems,
With her bowed woods, lowered hills, and tortured streams,
(Disfigured on their mirrors and their marge,
By mill, by towing-path, and bridge, and barge,)

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291

Her choaked-up plains, her intercepted views,
Her clouded aspects, and her altered hues,
In endless ways transfigured and disguised—
Even now scarce seen in countries civilized!
She is driven to corners, banished, hunted, hid,
And called to account, and crossed, and check'd, and chid,
Through buildings, artificial works, and smoke,
We scarce can trace one old familiar look,
One kindling feature undeformed, of her,
Once prized by Poet and Philosopher.
Of her, who in the fair world's earlier stage,
Was the inspiration of the enraptured Sage,
The Painter's idol, and the Dreamer's bliss;
But then that age was most unlike to this.
In the loud, busy, darksome, crowded town,
Where frightful founderies flame, and factories frown,
Who could with close and careful search, e'er find
Aught that of her, or hers might once remind?
She may be charming, and she may be fair,
But wholly out of place would she be there!

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292

In short, each day brings ample evidence,
That man can with her services dispense;
And if you must with your own eyes behold
The charms which sage and soaring bard have told,
Go view the Opera's gay and gilded scene,
The dazzling stage, the richly painted skreen,
The Panorama's bright and blazing field,
Where beauty after beauty is revealed;
And the Exhibitions, with their paintings too,
Representations, doubtless, chaste and true,
At least abounding with bright red and blue,
Yellow and scarlet, purple, orange, green,
Which in profuse diversity are seen.
If you are not right well content with these,
Good worthy sir, you must be hard to please.
In truth, those paintings, beautiful and bright,
That rivet long the connoisseur's charmed sight,
Are oft so rarely touched in every part,
That Nature near them would appear like Art!
Nay, I feel sure, where she by chance to call,
She would not know herself therein at all!

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293

But when I said, some little time ago,
Forgetful of the truths I ought to know,
That our true interests now seemed to require
That Nature on a Pension should retire,
I own I fell into a strange mistake,
(Surely I then could scarce be quite awake,)
Since Pensions cannot now permitted be,
By a discreet Reforming Ministry.
Let merit or misfortune then beware,
Nor dare to seek a balm or guerdon there.
Pensions no more are to be given away,
But kept for those who live on prey and pay.
But the new Poor Law, to which all must bow,
Is fairly come in operation now,
And let the mighty Pauper—if, indeed,
She be reduced, and should assistance need—
Apply for aid, and duly be received
In some huge Union Workhouse and relieved;
Though, if the accounts we read and hear be true,—
(I cannot yet believe them half—can you?)—

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Far better had she, when her means grow scant,
And lodging, medicine, clothes, she is doomed to want,
And kindly service and sustaining cheer,—
To her own howling deserts, wild and drear,
With all convenient haste herself betake,
Than for relief such application make;
To parching Lybia's staring sterile plains,
Uncooled, unwatered by refreshing rains;—
Zahara's hideous nakedness of waste,
Where any living thing would seem misplaced;
Arabia's long, lone tracts of blinding sand,
Where fields of boundless barrenness expand,—
The untrodden gloomy regions unexplored,
Where Earth was ne'er enjoyed nor Heaven adored;
Where hateful reptiles house, foul monsters brood,
And nothing seems to be of Fair or Good!
And to their loneliest, dreariest haunts withdraw,
Than trust the tender mercies of that Law!
If—I say if—those dire accounts be true,
Which Pity's starting tears, that cloud the view,
Permit not the eyes, o'erflowing, to read through;

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295

So full of misery, bitterness, and woe,
That every tear seems keen as fire to flow!

What Giant Spectre sternly stalks along,
Close followed by a gaunt and ghastly throng,
Than spectres more appalling to the view,
With tear-stained cheeks of blue cadaverous hue,
And with their faint limbs, quivering all the while,
(Wrung by long years of labour, suffering, toil,)
With weak convulsive life, and living pain,
Which sheeted spectre ne'er shall know again;
And with their dim eyes rolling in despair,
And starting dews that bathe their matted hair,
They groan, they sigh, they shriek, they weep, they wail,
They tell with choking sobs their piteous tale,
For pity—is't or pardon that they pray?
What crimes can they have ere committed—say?
Their crime is to be poor, and to be old—
A deadly crime, as our new statesmen hold.
Their state was wont to meet with kind respect,
Compassion, sympathy—not harsh neglect,

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Not barbarous, heartless cruelty. But now,
All this is changed—Reform knows why and how!
Therefore be deaf to their distracted prayer,
The aged wife from the aged husband tear;
True—they can live but by each other's side—
But what of that? That prayer must be denied.
One thing is sure, torment them as we list,
The Poor and Old, we know, can ne'er resist.
Therefore, be deaf, and vainly let them crave,—
They will but sink the sooner to their grave,
And save the parish some few precious pence;
(Your true Reformers have such sound, strong sense,
They look alone to stern utility,
So long as they may not the sufferers be!)

See how around the knees of that dread Thing
In wild, convulsive agony they cling;—
The aged, and the friendless, and the infirm,
Whose earthly sorrows must be near their term.
By all dear charities—all cherished ties—
All Heaven doth sanctify—all man can prize—

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All justice claims—all mercy craves—they ask;
But vain their tears, and hopeless is their task;
It shakes them off, and scowling looks around,
And every look doth, withering, pierce and wound.
That dreadful form, that breathes not human breath—
What is't?—What is it like?—Half Life, half Death.
No blood seems in Its shrunken veins to flow,
No vital energies within to glow;
Its hideous hair of snakes hangs down in coils,
To catch the wretched in its treacherous toils;
Its icy mantle is spread open wide,
To fold round those, the suppliants at its side,—
That icy mantle which no warmth supplies,
Whose weight like lead upon their shoulders lies—
Whose touch but chills the marrow in their bones;—
Thus, when “they cry for bread It gives them stones.”
It seems a fearful visitant of wrath,
That takes 'mid groans and sighs its destined path;
A Proteus-Phantom, that all shapes assumes,
Like changeful shadows seen 'mid twilight glooms;

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Now it less harsh, less terrible appears,
Though still an aspect stern and dread it rears—
Now seems to gaze with forward-looking eye,
As if instinct with silent prophecy,
Unto the distant but the coming days,
Intent to work out good by desperate ways.
Now 'tis a tyrant, of all tyrants worst,
Most cold, most cowardly, cruel, and accursed,
That picks its victims out with studious care
From those that weakest and most helpless are;
Then with a hypocritical pretence,
Torments them with a doom of sad suspense,
And keeps those shivering, whom it will not save,
Between the sickly pallet and the grave.
It holds within its bare and bony hand
A shadowy cornucopia and dread wand;
From this but garbage, dregs, and ashes fall,
While that enjoins submission still to all.
Its frightful train is such as may befit,—
And Poor Law Bill is on its forehead writ.

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But Lo! the cries seem smothered by despair,
They die away in low, faint murmurings there;
No longer ringing and re-echoing round,—
In leaden silence lie the sufferers bound.
It is too much—the penance and the pain—
Too much for Human Nature to sustain.
Hold, ye oppressors, hold the ruthless arm;
Ye whom no grief can touch, no pity warm!
Whose heavy, cruel, and too skilful stroke,
All love-bound links hath loosed, all bonds hath broke!
Your law all laws, of Heaven and Earth derides—
Avaunt! ye black, unhallowed parricides!
For ye smite down with sacriligious hand
The aged Fathers and grey Mothers of the Land!
The Parents of our Population—those
Whose heads are whitened o'er by countless snows,
Who in past years with tender rapture pressed
Their rosy offspring to their feeling breast,
And in the luxury of Love's silence smiled
Above the slumbers of the Heaven-sent child—

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What time, enwrapped in deep and dreamless rest,
The humble cradle held its infant guest—
Then watched from step to step their children rise,
And alter e'en to their parental eyes,
Till, fondly anxious for their darlings' fate,
They long considered o'er their future state,
Loath the beloved ones from their homes to lose,
Yet eager for their cherished weal to choose,
Then sent them forth to gain their honest bread—
Perchance in some industrious, peaceful trade,
Or haply to take part in England's wars,
To share her triumphs, and to wear her scars;
Or lay the promising and youthful head
On beaming Glory's red and reeking bed.
Yet, if Heaven willed the poor man's child to spare,
Hearing—for Heaven will hear the poor man's prayer—
How deep the bliss that either heart confessed,
While child and parent, in each other blest,
Glowed with an honest pride, and joyed to dwell
On tales that one would hear—the other tell;

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Or they might choose for them a different doom,
The labourer's mattock—the mechanic's loom;—
Their children, and their children's children too,
Are those whom now in manhood's strength we view!
The hoar Progenitors of the actual race—
The present Generation—in their place—
The Parents of the People—How provides
Our Land for them?—Ye iron-souled parricides,
Whose law all earthly, heavenly laws derides!
Ye deal to these their scant and slight supply,
Which scarce or grants to live, or spares to die.
What! Shall we leave them to their dire despairs?
We, of the fruit of their long toils the heirs,
And see them crushed—oppressed?—Where am I?—Where?—
I wake to view these horrors melt in air!
Starting, I wake, in wonder and amaze—
What hideous vision hath appalled my gaze?—
What frightful dream hath visited my brain,
For surely I have bowed to Morpheus' reign?—

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302

Surely it must have been a dream of woe;
For can such horrors be endured below?—
Or could it be reality, in sooth?—
Oh! answer—Could it, could it then be truth?—
Away!—let whining Tories raise a rout
Old women's wrongs and wretchedness about;
A fellow-feeling makes them much inclined,
No doubt, to pity these and to be kind!—
We heed not if they sulk, or if they storm,
We are all Reformers, and this is Reform.

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SONNET

ON THE LAMENTED DEATH OF THE COUNTESS HOWE.

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304

TO SILVIO PELLICO.

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305

LINES.

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306

THE PASSION-LIGHTNINGS SEARED AND SCATHED TOO SOON.

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307

STANZAS.

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308

WAKING AT MIDNIGHT.

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309

FAR AWAY!—LONG AGO!

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310

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311

I FLEW TO 'SCAPE FROM LOVE AND THEE.

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312

MOUNTAINEER'S BATTLE SONG.

Let their spears glance to the sun!
Nor these can daze—nor those can stun!
Our ears are armed! our watchful eyes
Are conversant with yon bright skies.

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313

Like the Persians of old time,
The great hills are our shrines sublime!
We have lived 'mid scenes of dread,
We can die, when hope is dead!
Still unshrinking and unscared,
With our swords and bosoms bared!
Freedom's light is match'd by none—
Let their spears glance to the sun!

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314

INEZ TO MANUEL.

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315

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316

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317

HUMAN LIFE.

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318