University of Virginia Library

Thus said the young Alexowitz, by Danube's sweeping side,
A hundred chiefs their vassals rule, in pomp and power, and pride;
While I, whose lordly sires bore sway, o'er wide Croatia's ban,
Now stand within their roofless halls a lone and landless man.

But think not I am come to mourn o'er hopes that flew away,
Like morning stars at dawning bright, but vanished with the day,
I come but on their threshold to whet my father's sword,
If fiefs and friends are mine no more, of that I still am lord:

I come to twine old memories with the hope of future days,
And link the phantom of their fame, with that which I will raise;
And if my cloak is scanty, and the winter wind is cold,
I'll think of how it howls in thee, my lost ancestral hold.

The Baron rides in coat of mail, the Churchman robed in fur,
And this must watch through vigils pale, and that the war-horse spur;
And what have they that I have not? high place and proud degree,
As high as their's, nor all forgot, once more my name may be.

I'll rear it by the banks of Rhine, in joyous Allemayne,
I'll rear it in thy gorgeous court, oh double-sceptred Spain;
For like the wind that wanders where it lists, a voice within,
Cries come with me, as bold as free, nor doubt while others win.

What, shall nought e'er be sacred, nought evade
The prying imp that pierces every shade,
That new Asmodeus, to whose subtle sight
Walls turn transparent—doors let through the light?
From north to south, from Paris to Whitehall,
He still must know it, let what will befal.
To rule the world, what unborn measures wait,
Hid in cabals of fashion or of state;
Whose will was wrong, whose wife has gone astray,
Who wrote the last new novel, or the play,
Or who should tremble did he but disclose
What late—but silence, for the realm's repose.
And thus with hint, and menace, and surmise,
And bold assertion round the circle flies;
And holds patrician follies out to view,
Till burn the many, eager to pursue,
And snatch the garb, and think 'twill fit them too.
Time was, e'er yet this universal rage
And thirst for knowledge lit the kindling age;
When ways were rough, and with the waning light,
The careful driver put up for the night,
Nor reached his goal, thus antient legends say,
Till twice he'd worshipped on the seventh day.
Thus now, with many a rest and pause between,
Winds his slow way, the Italian vetturin;
Thus now, alas! provoking many an oath,
The German schelm smokes on, and rivals both.
Then honest Marvel, once a quarter, down
To country voters sent the news from town,
And e'en quick rumour waited patient yet
For confirmation in next month's Gazette.
Now see thine honours, proud Olympia fail,
Not Phœbus' self could grapple with the mail.
Far flies the dust, the rapid road recedes,
Glow the hot wheels, and foam the panting steeds,
Levell'd alike the valley and the ridge,
And wondering Menai flows beneath his bridge;
And still as mountain, strait, and vale are crossed,
Expecting myriads cry, “the post, the post!”
Each light-heeled Mercury owns the warning note,
Throws down his cards, and buttons up his coat;
And hastes with news each longing door to greet,
From bank to market, and from street to street;
The shaggy pony hears the accustomed sound,
And pricks its ears, and neighing paws the ground,
And back with willing amble turns to bear
To hall or house the universal care.
Unconscious beast! the hay-rick's baser meed
Nerves all thy strength, and quickens all thy speed,
Thy frolic fellows, or thy whynnying foal,
And the long, glad, reiterated roll.
Oh, couldst thou know what hopes and fears depend
On that blest instant, when thy task shall end;
How at thy charge's magic spell shall glow,
Each varying passion, each emotion flow;
Well might'st thou deem thou serv'dst the sacred nine,
And all the pride of Pegasus be thine.
But see, fair science wider spreads her beam,
McAdam's self must sighing yield to steam,
And flying Fame shall time and space devour,
Born on the wings of “forty miles an hour.”
Now fright with war each northern isle and bay,
Where Pentland rolls round stormy Ronaldsay;
Now, of the barn ere yet the blaze be spent,
Bid Connaught rise and nobly follow Kent.
Almighty press! without thy fostering hand
Nor states, nor statesmen, now must dare to stand;
Traitors to thee, see priest-rid Charles o'erthrown,
And William dispossessed of half his own.
Ruled by thy dictates, creatures of thy sway,
The implicit world must wonder and obey.
Alike thy power, o'er least and greatest things,
Now puffs a novel, now deposes kings.
Thus lolls some eastern potentate at ease,
In high kiosk, that woos the mountain breeze,
Around him pages, minstrels, hangmen, wait,
And dancing girls, and ministers of state;
And now to this a careless look he turns,
Some pasha's bowstrung, or some city burns;
Now puffs his pipe, and nods on t'other side,
Through their gay maze voluptuous Almes glide,
And smiles, or gory heads, or feasts, or sighs,
Wait the least glance of those despotic eyes.

Where now his head shall hapless Curio hide,
Where find a refuge, through the world so wide?
Quick from the wrath impending, let him haste
To Syria's suns, or lone Australia's waste:—
What Curio! wherefore? not ten hours ago,
'Twas who but he! then whence this sudden blow?
Is the Bank broken, that the man's proscribed,
Found out a rogue, conspirator, or bribed?
None of all these—what was it? quickly tell;
Then you've not read this morning's article.
'Tis thought the Commons must impeach, if not,
They'll swear that all are black with the same blot,
Senates and ministers denounce alike,
And all at once with deadly vengeance strike.
Yet things like these are not quite new, you'll say,
E'en old Sir Robert kept such troops in pay;
And fought with flying Posts, and Gazetteers,
True Briton, Courants, more than twenty years;
And though such rats may seem scarce worth the banning,
They've clawed at wits, from Bolingbroke to Canning.
Yes, here our sires read politics—confest:
But we've high life and low life—all the rest.
How Julia holds Lord Henry's heart in thrall,
How sprung dire discord from his Grace's ball,
And mobs and courts, and fights, and blushing brides,
And city feasts, and Lord knows what besides.
Far from the town, where late she reign'd supreme,
A hapless maid with tears augments the stream,
The woodland stream, that careless murmurs on,
Nor heeds the sorrows of so sad a swan;
Light breathe the zephyrs round its fringing tree,
Where bells the buck, and hums the roving bee,
And the sweet sky above so calm and clear,
And earth around in summer's brightest cheer,
And birds that sing by starts from out the brake,
And fishes leap along the silver lake,
And song of mowers in the new-cut hay,
And glad bells faintly sounding far away,
And green leaves blending down the varied glade,
Might wake to rapture—not this hapless maid.
Alas! what spleen her tortur'd breast invades?
Like Myrrha pent within the cruel shades.
For her, ye Dryads, all your sports give o'er,
E'en that sad nymph could never hate ye more,
Nor Daphne now, a laurel's form that rears,
Nor Po's pale virgins with their amber tears,
Nor sad Clorinda, with her lover's dart
Fix'd in that green stem, once, Ah yet, her heart,
Could e'er to bard impart such thoughts of woe,
'Mid the green woods, as Delia's breast must know.
Then, blest Court Journal, as in knightly day,
Some fair forsaken pin'd her life away,
Swift flew her moments, number'd as she sunk,
Pale grew the leech, and inward smiled the monk,
And thought—God speed St. Francis and his shrine,
Her towers and manors are already mine;
Till from far shores her ransomed lover came,
And woke to bliss the just-expiring dame;
Thus can thy pages' magic mirror chase
Clouds from her heart, and dulness from her face,
Each long-loved scene to fancy's eye restore,
And change to London's streets the willowed shore.
See Summer's lion crouches in his lair,
And mellow Autumn waves his golden hair,
Still noon burns fierce, but evening gathers grey,
And red the leaf upon the beechen spray,
And morning frosts with pearls bedeck the mead,
When careful grooms first try the hunter's speed.
From glaring pavement, and from dusty street,
Fly the gay throng, September's joys to greet,
And lone Penates of the town must mourn
For six long months ere their loved lords return.
But shall his Grace in dull oblivion pine,
Till his great name grows cobwebbed as his wine?
Or captive hearts forget bright beauty's queen,
Lost and unhonoured in the sylvan scene?
No, Fame's quick minion heard his mistress call:
Nor more he hovers o'er the park or ball;
No more to operas he attends the fair,
Or wanders round deserted Grosvenor-square;
He seeks the shades, but onward as he flew,
He met Silenus and his merry crew,
Satyrs and Fauns, that cheered the chase along,
And Dryads, trilling sweet their woodland song:
Then thus the spirit—

—Hold, good bard, I pray,
I hear the horn—'twill do another day,
This song of yours, and what the spirit said,
The post comes in, and news is to be read,
So hush your lyre, and take the chaplet from your head.