The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed Edited, with notes, by Sir George Young |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | III. |
Part III. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
 | The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed |  |
291
III. Part III.
1839.
293
I THE CONTESTED ELECTION.
TO VISCOUNT MORPETH, M.P.
295
'Tis sweet, when winds are lashing ocean
Into a terrible commotion,
Amidst the elemental roar
To fold one's arms upon the shore,
And see another, friend or stranger,
Tossed to and fro in mortal danger.
'Tis sweet, when on a field of battle
The sabres flash, the bullets rattle,
To choose an elevated spot,
Beyond the reach of shell or shot,
And watch the heroes taking pains
To batter out each other's brains.
In language somewhat more sublime
So said a fine old Roman poet;
But had he lived to know our time
As you, my lord, already know it,
Another verse he might have wrought,
Not less sonorous, to assure us
That of all sweets 'tis sweetest thought
By all the herd of Epicurus,
When writs are flying up and down,
And folk, in country and in town,
With drums and trumpets, feasts and fights,
Are making burgesses and knights,
To drive from Malton, quite delighted
At finding Malton so united,
And mark how people rob and gull
Some luckless friend at York or Hull.
Into a terrible commotion,
Amidst the elemental roar
To fold one's arms upon the shore,
And see another, friend or stranger,
Tossed to and fro in mortal danger.
'Tis sweet, when on a field of battle
The sabres flash, the bullets rattle,
To choose an elevated spot,
Beyond the reach of shell or shot,
And watch the heroes taking pains
To batter out each other's brains.
In language somewhat more sublime
So said a fine old Roman poet;
But had he lived to know our time
As you, my lord, already know it,
296
Not less sonorous, to assure us
That of all sweets 'tis sweetest thought
By all the herd of Epicurus,
When writs are flying up and down,
And folk, in country and in town,
With drums and trumpets, feasts and fights,
Are making burgesses and knights,
To drive from Malton, quite delighted
At finding Malton so united,
And mark how people rob and gull
Some luckless friend at York or Hull.
Hard, very hard, the patriot's fate,
Whom Brooks's and the stars send down
To be the Liberal candidate
For some extremely liberal town!
Who quits his house in sweet May Fair
In vain regretting and repining,
While Fashion in her glory there
Is fiddling, flirting, dancing, dining—
Who drops the visit that was planned
To Naples by his wife and daughters,
Or that which Clarke and Keate command
To Cheltenham for a course of waters—
Who rattles from his country seat
When hounds are meeting all about him,
Or steals away from Lombard Street
When business can't go on without him—
Who leaves, in short, by hurried stages
Whate'er amuses or engages,
And, hanging out a ponderous flag
On Crown or Castle, Star or Stag,
By speech and placard makes it clear
To all who see, and all who hear,
That he's the man to represent
The march of mind in Parliament,
And play the champion or the martyr,
Next session, for the People's Charter.
Whom Brooks's and the stars send down
To be the Liberal candidate
For some extremely liberal town!
Who quits his house in sweet May Fair
In vain regretting and repining,
While Fashion in her glory there
Is fiddling, flirting, dancing, dining—
Who drops the visit that was planned
To Naples by his wife and daughters,
Or that which Clarke and Keate command
To Cheltenham for a course of waters—
Who rattles from his country seat
When hounds are meeting all about him,
297
When business can't go on without him—
Who leaves, in short, by hurried stages
Whate'er amuses or engages,
And, hanging out a ponderous flag
On Crown or Castle, Star or Stag,
By speech and placard makes it clear
To all who see, and all who hear,
That he's the man to represent
The march of mind in Parliament,
And play the champion or the martyr,
Next session, for the People's Charter.
Hark, 'tis a fine barouche and four!
The ostlers to the gate are springing;
Bright eyes peep out at every door;
From every tower the bells are ringing.
Awakened to his country's call,
His broadsides say to all who read 'em,
Sir Felix Froth, of Frothy Hall,
Invites us, one and all, to freedom!
The ostlers to the gate are springing;
Bright eyes peep out at every door;
From every tower the bells are ringing.
Awakened to his country's call,
His broadsides say to all who read 'em,
Sir Felix Froth, of Frothy Hall,
Invites us, one and all, to freedom!
Sir Felix Froth we must admit
A moderate Whig, of moderate wit;
He sips his wine, he taps his box,
And lauds the memory of Fox;
He thinks all jobs extremely dirty,
But has not heard of one since 'thirty;
He hailed Reform with pride and pleasure,
But calls the Act a “final measure.”
Like great Earl Grey, whose nerves were shocked
One day when Doctor Carpue knocked,
Sir Felix looks with dread and doubt
Upon the “pressure from without;”
Like small Lord John, who now grows sick
Of argument by stone and stick,
Sir Felix cries, “The Constitution
Don't want an annual Revolution.”
If Knatchbull's doctrine seems to him
A superannuated whim,
It does not follow he should vote
With Mr. Ward or Mr. Grote;
And if he'd lend his help with joy
To stifle Shaw or gag Lefroy,
That can't imply an approbation
Of all O'Connell's agitation.
In short, Sir Felix would suggest
That movement's safest when at rest,
And hint that Freedom would be better
For here a bolt, and there a fetter.
Alas! Sir Felix will discover,
Ere half his canvass shall be over,
That sound opinions on demand
Advance, recede, contract, expand;
That choice of right and wrong depends
Upon the wishes of one's friends;
That all from time must wisdom borrow;
That white to-day is black to-morrow;
And that it's hard, in public station,
Midst all the changes of creation,
While winds and waters veer and vary,
Super antiquas vias stare.
A moderate Whig, of moderate wit;
He sips his wine, he taps his box,
And lauds the memory of Fox;
He thinks all jobs extremely dirty,
But has not heard of one since 'thirty;
298
But calls the Act a “final measure.”
Like great Earl Grey, whose nerves were shocked
One day when Doctor Carpue knocked,
Sir Felix looks with dread and doubt
Upon the “pressure from without;”
Like small Lord John, who now grows sick
Of argument by stone and stick,
Sir Felix cries, “The Constitution
Don't want an annual Revolution.”
If Knatchbull's doctrine seems to him
A superannuated whim,
It does not follow he should vote
With Mr. Ward or Mr. Grote;
And if he'd lend his help with joy
To stifle Shaw or gag Lefroy,
That can't imply an approbation
Of all O'Connell's agitation.
In short, Sir Felix would suggest
That movement's safest when at rest,
And hint that Freedom would be better
For here a bolt, and there a fetter.
Alas! Sir Felix will discover,
Ere half his canvass shall be over,
That sound opinions on demand
Advance, recede, contract, expand;
That choice of right and wrong depends
Upon the wishes of one's friends;
299
That white to-day is black to-morrow;
And that it's hard, in public station,
Midst all the changes of creation,
While winds and waters veer and vary,
Super antiquas vias stare.
Old Shears the tailor, who has long
Been sagest of the clubroom sages,
Learned in Paine, in Cobbett strong,
And deep in Bentham's lucid pages—
In whose mysterious shop are wrought,
Not vests alone, but systems, newer
Than any that have yet been taught
By any Westminster Reviewer—
Protests that Whig and Tory both
Are cut from just the selfsame cloth;
Avows that from his very heart he
Abhors the name of either party;
And, when his man begins to wheedle,
Is quite intent upon his needle.
Harmodius Nibbs, the fierce conductor
Of every poor man's “best instructor,”
Who by an inch of odorous taper
Compiles the Independent Paper,
And racks his brain and dims his eyes
In calling names and coining lies,
Through two laborious columns simmers
Against all waverers and trimmers;
Applauds his own impartial pen,
And roars for “measures,” not for “men.”
And soon the Union frankly states
By half a dozen delegates—
Undaunted patriots, who assemble
In council at the Cato's Head,
To make confederate tyrants tremble
And deprecate the tax on bread—
That they've prepared a little string
Of questions about everything,
To which they're anxious he should say
His “yes,” or “no,” without delay;
And, since they all desire to show
How very deeply they respect him,
They'll pelt him if he answers “no,”
And if he answers “yes,” elect him.
Been sagest of the clubroom sages,
Learned in Paine, in Cobbett strong,
And deep in Bentham's lucid pages—
In whose mysterious shop are wrought,
Not vests alone, but systems, newer
Than any that have yet been taught
By any Westminster Reviewer—
Protests that Whig and Tory both
Are cut from just the selfsame cloth;
Avows that from his very heart he
Abhors the name of either party;
And, when his man begins to wheedle,
Is quite intent upon his needle.
Harmodius Nibbs, the fierce conductor
Of every poor man's “best instructor,”
Who by an inch of odorous taper
Compiles the Independent Paper,
And racks his brain and dims his eyes
In calling names and coining lies,
300
Against all waverers and trimmers;
Applauds his own impartial pen,
And roars for “measures,” not for “men.”
And soon the Union frankly states
By half a dozen delegates—
Undaunted patriots, who assemble
In council at the Cato's Head,
To make confederate tyrants tremble
And deprecate the tax on bread—
That they've prepared a little string
Of questions about everything,
To which they're anxious he should say
His “yes,” or “no,” without delay;
And, since they all desire to show
How very deeply they respect him,
They'll pelt him if he answers “no,”
And if he answers “yes,” elect him.
Sir Felix fancies that he sees
Clearer and clearer by degrees.
Six years ago, he hoped and trusted,
The franchise had been well adjusted;
But yet the virtue of the invention
May be improved by some extension;
He's quite convinced—he may be wrong—
That Parliaments don't last too long;
But their duration, on reflection,
May be curtailed without objection;
He feels that every honest man
Will poll in public, if he can,
But votes for ballot, when he's bid,
As meekly as Sir Hussey did.
Clearer and clearer by degrees.
Six years ago, he hoped and trusted,
The franchise had been well adjusted;
But yet the virtue of the invention
May be improved by some extension;
He's quite convinced—he may be wrong—
That Parliaments don't last too long;
301
May be curtailed without objection;
He feels that every honest man
Will poll in public, if he can,
But votes for ballot, when he's bid,
As meekly as Sir Hussey did.
These trifles settled—presto, pass!
The Baronet becomes a hero,
And sees his hopes in fortune's glass
Mount up to summer heat from zero.
And now he valorously fights
The battle of the many's rights;
Surfeits at taverns, smokes at clubs,
Harangues from wagons and from tubs;
Delights all hearers and beholders,
And rides on independent shoulders.
Whene'er he speaks, the gazers own
He speaks with Wakley's silver tone;
Whene'er he stops, the gazers vow
He stops with Duncombe's graceful bow.
The ladies take prodigious pride
In broidering banners six yards wide;
The schoolboys, hurrying from their broth,
Shout “Froth for ever, vote for Froth!”
The Baronet becomes a hero,
And sees his hopes in fortune's glass
Mount up to summer heat from zero.
And now he valorously fights
The battle of the many's rights;
Surfeits at taverns, smokes at clubs,
Harangues from wagons and from tubs;
Delights all hearers and beholders,
And rides on independent shoulders.
Whene'er he speaks, the gazers own
He speaks with Wakley's silver tone;
Whene'er he stops, the gazers vow
He stops with Duncombe's graceful bow.
The ladies take prodigious pride
In broidering banners six yards wide;
The schoolboys, hurrying from their broth,
Shout “Froth for ever, vote for Froth!”
War's sinews are of gold, they say;
Since never yet from empty pockets
Came spear and shield in Cæsar's day,
In Wellington's, grenades and rockets:
And soon Sir Felix is afraid,
In spite of chairing and of cheering,
That not of cheaper stuff are made
The sinews of electioneering.
Since never yet from empty pockets
302
In Wellington's, grenades and rockets:
And soon Sir Felix is afraid,
In spite of chairing and of cheering,
That not of cheaper stuff are made
The sinews of electioneering.
“Another thousand!—bless my heart!
Upon my life you make me start;
You can't persuade me, in my senses,
It's all ‘legitimate expenses.’
When Parliament with such applause
Destroyed St. Michael's and St. Mawes—
Excuse me, Sir—I really thought,
That seats were never to be bought;
That candidates were not to hear
Of flagmen, stavesmen, breakfasts, beer;
In short, that we had full security
For perfect principle and purity.”
Fine phrases! but it seems the game
Continues pretty much the same;
And Liberal sentiments don't weigh,
Unless combined with liberal pay.
“For Queen and Country one is willing,
Of course, to lavish every shilling;
But, Sir, one's family, 'tis true,
Must sometimes be remembered too.
Miss Froth—my Lady hints, with reason—
May want a settlement next season;
And Harry will be begging soon
Papa to make him a dragoon.
I don't complain—the honour's such—
But, hang it! it might cost too much.”
Upon my life you make me start;
You can't persuade me, in my senses,
It's all ‘legitimate expenses.’
When Parliament with such applause
Destroyed St. Michael's and St. Mawes—
Excuse me, Sir—I really thought,
That seats were never to be bought;
That candidates were not to hear
Of flagmen, stavesmen, breakfasts, beer;
In short, that we had full security
For perfect principle and purity.”
Fine phrases! but it seems the game
Continues pretty much the same;
And Liberal sentiments don't weigh,
Unless combined with liberal pay.
“For Queen and Country one is willing,
Of course, to lavish every shilling;
But, Sir, one's family, 'tis true,
Must sometimes be remembered too.
303
May want a settlement next season;
And Harry will be begging soon
Papa to make him a dragoon.
I don't complain—the honour's such—
But, hang it! it might cost too much.”
When first from hand of truant Will
A stone goes rolling down a hill,
So slow it starts, with every hop
You think it's coming to a stop.
If in the middle of its journey
You touch it, it may chance to burn ye:
And do but look how very fast
It leaps to level ground at last.
Thus wise Sir Felix, first intending
The greatest caution in descending,
Quickens his pace as he advances,
Discards his conscientious fancies,
Sends tickets out as thick as hail,
Floods all the market place with ale,
Sells out his tranquil Three per Cents,
Anticipates his Christmas rents,
And thinks as lightly of his purse
As Mr. Smith or Mr. Nurse.
A stone goes rolling down a hill,
So slow it starts, with every hop
You think it's coming to a stop.
If in the middle of its journey
You touch it, it may chance to burn ye:
And do but look how very fast
It leaps to level ground at last.
Thus wise Sir Felix, first intending
The greatest caution in descending,
Quickens his pace as he advances,
Discards his conscientious fancies,
Sends tickets out as thick as hail,
Floods all the market place with ale,
Sells out his tranquil Three per Cents,
Anticipates his Christmas rents,
And thinks as lightly of his purse
As Mr. Smith or Mr. Nurse.
Yet after all the cost and pain
Bestowed on dinners and on speeches,
Some few are found, whose stubborn brain
Nor rhetoric nor rhino reaches:
Some few incorrigible Tories,
Who fancy all they read is true
Of Britain's liberties and glories,
Of Trafalgar and Waterloo;
Who say a nation ought to be
Contented to be great and free,
And call it sin to seek aught further
By arson, robbery and murder;
Who hold the country of their birth
The finest country upon earth,
And will not for instruction go
To Jefferson or Mirabeau;
Odd men, and willing to be odd,
Who read their Bible, serve their God,
And snap their fingers at the Pope,
And wish O'Connell in a rope.
On such dull bigots soft coercion
May work, perhaps, a late conversion.
When logic fails in grave debate,
A brickbat often carries weight;
When prejudice is proof 'gainst wit,
A club may make a happier hit;
Where these no good effect produce,
A horse pond will be found of use.
Sir Felix, most humane of men,
Looks vastly serious now and then;
Assures the Mayor he hates a riot,
And begs reformers to be quiet;
But yet his stiff respect for law
In proper time begins to thaw;
He vows it's monstrously ill-bred
To take a friendly joke in dudgeon;
He half suspects that Tory head
Was only made for Liberal bludgeon;
He sees, as plain as noonday sun
That might is right, when Whigs employ it;
And finally, enjoys the fun
As Johnny Elliot might enjoy it.
Bestowed on dinners and on speeches,
304
Nor rhetoric nor rhino reaches:
Some few incorrigible Tories,
Who fancy all they read is true
Of Britain's liberties and glories,
Of Trafalgar and Waterloo;
Who say a nation ought to be
Contented to be great and free,
And call it sin to seek aught further
By arson, robbery and murder;
Who hold the country of their birth
The finest country upon earth,
And will not for instruction go
To Jefferson or Mirabeau;
Odd men, and willing to be odd,
Who read their Bible, serve their God,
And snap their fingers at the Pope,
And wish O'Connell in a rope.
On such dull bigots soft coercion
May work, perhaps, a late conversion.
When logic fails in grave debate,
A brickbat often carries weight;
When prejudice is proof 'gainst wit,
A club may make a happier hit;
Where these no good effect produce,
A horse pond will be found of use.
Sir Felix, most humane of men,
Looks vastly serious now and then;
305
And begs reformers to be quiet;
But yet his stiff respect for law
In proper time begins to thaw;
He vows it's monstrously ill-bred
To take a friendly joke in dudgeon;
He half suspects that Tory head
Was only made for Liberal bludgeon;
He sees, as plain as noonday sun
That might is right, when Whigs employ it;
And finally, enjoys the fun
As Johnny Elliot might enjoy it.
A minute more—another second—
The poll is closed; the votes are reckoned.
What if Sir Felix finds his place
Is just the hindmost in the race?
Repulsed to-day, he yet may rally
His forces for to-morrow's sally.
Soon, to redeem his lost position,
Coppock shall frame him a petition;
A Whig Committee, nothing loath,
Shall at the table take the oath;
Hired witnesses with tales shall ply 'em
For only two pounds two per diem;
While Hill shall jumble law and fact,
Misstate the case, misquote the Act;
And lest some unit of the quorum
Should have a fancy for decorum,
And stumble on the least pretence
To Common Law, or common sense,
The Fates shall take peculiar care
To put a Strickland in the chair.
The poll is closed; the votes are reckoned.
What if Sir Felix finds his place
Is just the hindmost in the race?
Repulsed to-day, he yet may rally
His forces for to-morrow's sally.
Soon, to redeem his lost position,
Coppock shall frame him a petition;
A Whig Committee, nothing loath,
Shall at the table take the oath;
Hired witnesses with tales shall ply 'em
For only two pounds two per diem;
While Hill shall jumble law and fact,
Misstate the case, misquote the Act;
306
Should have a fancy for decorum,
And stumble on the least pretence
To Common Law, or common sense,
The Fates shall take peculiar care
To put a Strickland in the chair.
307
II. THE POLITICAL DRAWING-ROOM.
TO LADY---.
308
Fair Lady, nor less good than fair,
When I have watched your various bounty
Diffusing, like the liberal air,
Its love and life through half the county;
When I have seen, in hut or shed,
By which your fairy foot has glided,
The supper dressed, the pillow spread,
The fuel stored, the drug provided;
When I have witnessed round your path
Averted vengeance, softened wrath—
The sluggard roused to honest labour,
The miser won to clothe his neighbour,
The tears of sorrow wiped away,
The lips of childhood taught to pray;
Thus, I have thought, to clasp the tie
That links the humble to the high,
To make the coronet more bright
Before a grateful people's sight,
And show in wealth the copious source
Whence mercy takes its constant course—
This, more than sharp and shrill debate
About the sins of Church or State,
Is noble Woman's public duty—
The patriotism of British beauty.
When I have watched your various bounty
Diffusing, like the liberal air,
Its love and life through half the county;
When I have seen, in hut or shed,
By which your fairy foot has glided,
The supper dressed, the pillow spread,
The fuel stored, the drug provided;
When I have witnessed round your path
Averted vengeance, softened wrath—
The sluggard roused to honest labour,
The miser won to clothe his neighbour,
The tears of sorrow wiped away,
The lips of childhood taught to pray;
Thus, I have thought, to clasp the tie
That links the humble to the high,
309
Before a grateful people's sight,
And show in wealth the copious source
Whence mercy takes its constant course—
This, more than sharp and shrill debate
About the sins of Church or State,
Is noble Woman's public duty—
The patriotism of British beauty.
But belles there are, whose proud enjoyment
Affects a more sublime enjoyment;
Who love their country with such kindness,
Despite its baseness and its blindness,
That, not content to charm and bless it,
They must reform it and redress it;
Who, bright with every natural grace,
With ---'s figure, ---'s face,
To make themselves quite overpowering,
Must write like Bentham, talk like Bowring.
Affects a more sublime enjoyment;
Who love their country with such kindness,
Despite its baseness and its blindness,
That, not content to charm and bless it,
They must reform it and redress it;
Who, bright with every natural grace,
With ---'s figure, ---'s face,
To make themselves quite overpowering,
Must write like Bentham, talk like Bowring.
Go, gaze on all the wondrous things,
The skinny, scaly, feathery, furry,
Which science from the wide world brings
To pine in Middlesex and Surrey—
Read tomes of travels—Clarke's and Cook's—
And lounge through gallery and Museum,
And open all the folio books
Of pictures at the Athenæum;
You'll own at last, of all the creatures,
With various forms and various features,
That daily walk, and swim, and fly
About the earth, the sea, the sky,
You find the oddest on your notes—
A Radical in petticoats.
The skinny, scaly, feathery, furry,
Which science from the wide world brings
To pine in Middlesex and Surrey—
Read tomes of travels—Clarke's and Cook's—
And lounge through gallery and Museum,
And open all the folio books
Of pictures at the Athenæum;
310
With various forms and various features,
That daily walk, and swim, and fly
About the earth, the sea, the sky,
You find the oddest on your notes—
A Radical in petticoats.
Thanks to Sir Matthew's useful Bill,
Once more the house is counted out;
We'll step to George Street if you will,
And look at Lady Daisy's Rout.
Once more the house is counted out;
We'll step to George Street if you will,
And look at Lady Daisy's Rout.
Since every beast and every bird
In the huge Ark together trembled,
Oh when was such a motley herd
Of living creatures e'er assembled?
Quacks, knaves of every rank and station
And creed and tongue and hue and nation,
Precursors, Liberators, Chartists,
Christinos, Masons, Bonapartists,
Cigar consumers, opium chewers,
Bad novelists and worse reviewers,
Commissioners, inspectors, clerks,
John Wood, John Mill, Joe Hume, Joe Parkes!
Sweet Lady Daisy, formed by Venus
Best specimen of all the genus—
For since man's ears by trash were tickled
Trash ne'er from lips more lovely trickled—
Oh what could make her, with those eyes
As deeply blue as summer's heaven,
So sagely witty, gaily wise,
And hardly—hardly twenty-seven,
With such a person, such a purse,
So many thousand pounds and graces,
With such a pen for prose and verse,
Such taste in lovers and in laces—
Oh what could make her bear to be
The very curious thing we see?
A radiant jewel vilely set,
Half Jacobin and half coquette,
A rebel in the softest silks,
A kind of muslin Mr. Wilkes,
Bright student, but of dullest knowledge,
Fair scholar, but in foulest college,
In spite of nature's lavished store—
Youth, beauty, talent, wit—a bore!
When Johnny Campbell, in a queer rage,
Denounces all the British Peerage,
And tears to rags the robe his heir
A few years hence intends to wear—
When Joseph Hume, the cunning man,
The wondrous Cocker of Kilkenny,
Elucidates the newest plan
To spend a pound and spare a penny—
When Colonel Thompson's loyal warning
Reminds us of the hallowed morning
In the huge Ark together trembled,
Oh when was such a motley herd
Of living creatures e'er assembled?
Quacks, knaves of every rank and station
And creed and tongue and hue and nation,
Precursors, Liberators, Chartists,
Christinos, Masons, Bonapartists,
Cigar consumers, opium chewers,
Bad novelists and worse reviewers,
Commissioners, inspectors, clerks,
John Wood, John Mill, Joe Hume, Joe Parkes!
Sweet Lady Daisy, formed by Venus
Best specimen of all the genus—
For since man's ears by trash were tickled
Trash ne'er from lips more lovely trickled—
311
As deeply blue as summer's heaven,
So sagely witty, gaily wise,
And hardly—hardly twenty-seven,
With such a person, such a purse,
So many thousand pounds and graces,
With such a pen for prose and verse,
Such taste in lovers and in laces—
Oh what could make her bear to be
The very curious thing we see?
A radiant jewel vilely set,
Half Jacobin and half coquette,
A rebel in the softest silks,
A kind of muslin Mr. Wilkes,
Bright student, but of dullest knowledge,
Fair scholar, but in foulest college,
In spite of nature's lavished store—
Youth, beauty, talent, wit—a bore!
When Johnny Campbell, in a queer rage,
Denounces all the British Peerage,
And tears to rags the robe his heir
A few years hence intends to wear—
When Joseph Hume, the cunning man,
The wondrous Cocker of Kilkenny,
Elucidates the newest plan
To spend a pound and spare a penny—
When Colonel Thompson's loyal warning
Reminds us of the hallowed morning
312
On which prophetic cricks perplex
The stiffness of all royal necks—
When Lord John Russell vents his spleen
Against a Bishop or a Dean—
When great O'Connell dubs at once
Wellesley a dastard, Peel a dunce,
The world admits, in all such cases,
How well the work the workman graces;
But out alas!—'tis what in France
Our neighbours call a “false position,”
When elephants will hornpipes dance,
Or Lady Daisy lisp sedition!
The stiffness of all royal necks—
When Lord John Russell vents his spleen
Against a Bishop or a Dean—
When great O'Connell dubs at once
Wellesley a dastard, Peel a dunce,
The world admits, in all such cases,
How well the work the workman graces;
But out alas!—'tis what in France
Our neighbours call a “false position,”
When elephants will hornpipes dance,
Or Lady Daisy lisp sedition!
What strange and unconnected matter
You hear the lovely lady chatter!
'Tis now the Spirit of the Time,
And now the fashions of the season,
And here a little bit of rhyme,
And there a little bit of reason;
That clever paper in the Globe,
And Lady Jersey's charming robe;
Ingenious Carson's newest toque,
And funny Buller's latest joke;
Deep thoughts upon the nation's debt,
Fine praise of Elsler's pirouette,
[Sermons] against patrician vices,
And eulogies of Gunter's ices!
You hear the lovely lady chatter!
'Tis now the Spirit of the Time,
And now the fashions of the season,
And here a little bit of rhyme,
And there a little bit of reason;
That clever paper in the Globe,
And Lady Jersey's charming robe;
Ingenious Carson's newest toque,
And funny Buller's latest joke;
Deep thoughts upon the nation's debt,
Fine praise of Elsler's pirouette,
[Sermons] against patrician vices,
And eulogies of Gunter's ices!
313
III. THE TREASURY BENCH.
TO VISCOUNT PALMERSTON.
315
King George the Third in Cockspur Street
Sits fast and firm upon his seat,
Though wickedly the rabble chat
About his coat and queue and hat,
Though boys, irreverently pert,
Bespatter him with mud and dirt,
And men of proper taste declare
The creature has no business there.
But we, my Lord, confess at last,
Though you've your spiteful critics too,
That quite as firm and quite as fast
Upon the Treasury Bench are you.
Sits fast and firm upon his seat,
Though wickedly the rabble chat
About his coat and queue and hat,
Though boys, irreverently pert,
Bespatter him with mud and dirt,
And men of proper taste declare
The creature has no business there.
But we, my Lord, confess at last,
Though you've your spiteful critics too,
That quite as firm and quite as fast
Upon the Treasury Bench are you.
Opinions pass with years away;
A doctrine is but for a season;
If loyalty's in vogue to-day,
The rage to-morrow will be treason;
But whether Britain's favourite hue
Be pink or orange, red or blue,
We see your lordship still arrayed
In party's most triumphant shade;
And whether Fortune's smile or frown
Set Whig or Tory up or down,
We find your lordship's public views
Precisely what the Dame would choose.
What if in other times you fought
For Church and State with Londonderry?
In all he said, in all he thought,
Lord Melbourne's very like him—very!
What if, by Percival led on,
You marched sedition's threats to stifle?
From Percival to dear Lord John
The step is, after all, a trifle!
Canning, of course, was all divine,
But Shiel to-day is just as fine;
Vansittart's sums were neat and nice;
But Heaven! the ciphers of Spring Rice!
Though Mr. Hobhouse, as you know,
Was half a rebel long ago,
Sir John Cam Hobhouse now may be
A man with whom you quite agree;
And though 'tis certain Hume was once
Blockhead and blunderer, dolt and dunce,
Of late we may perhaps presume
There's something to be said for Hume!
Oh what a light will history shed
Hereafter round your lordship's head!
How consecrate to deathless fame
Your great forgetfulness of shame;
Of whom it must be gravely writ
By pen of Whig and pen of Tory,
That after making praise of Pitt,
And twining wreaths for Wellesley's glory,
You, that the State, through storm and calm,
Might still have hands and heads to speed her,
Heard Evans brag without a qualm,
And polled, without a blush for Leader!
A doctrine is but for a season;
If loyalty's in vogue to-day,
The rage to-morrow will be treason;
But whether Britain's favourite hue
Be pink or orange, red or blue,
We see your lordship still arrayed
In party's most triumphant shade;
316
Set Whig or Tory up or down,
We find your lordship's public views
Precisely what the Dame would choose.
What if in other times you fought
For Church and State with Londonderry?
In all he said, in all he thought,
Lord Melbourne's very like him—very!
What if, by Percival led on,
You marched sedition's threats to stifle?
From Percival to dear Lord John
The step is, after all, a trifle!
Canning, of course, was all divine,
But Shiel to-day is just as fine;
Vansittart's sums were neat and nice;
But Heaven! the ciphers of Spring Rice!
Though Mr. Hobhouse, as you know,
Was half a rebel long ago,
Sir John Cam Hobhouse now may be
A man with whom you quite agree;
And though 'tis certain Hume was once
Blockhead and blunderer, dolt and dunce,
Of late we may perhaps presume
There's something to be said for Hume!
Oh what a light will history shed
Hereafter round your lordship's head!
How consecrate to deathless fame
Your great forgetfulness of shame;
317
By pen of Whig and pen of Tory,
That after making praise of Pitt,
And twining wreaths for Wellesley's glory,
You, that the State, through storm and calm,
Might still have hands and heads to speed her,
Heard Evans brag without a qualm,
And polled, without a blush for Leader!
Sure none should better know how sweet
The tenure of official seat,
Than one who every session buys
At such high rate the gaudy prize;
One who for this so long has borne
The scowl of universal scorn,
Has seen distrust in every look,
Has heard in every voice rebuke,
Has shrunk from Stanley's quick retort,
Has winced at Wakley's cool support;
Exulting yet—as home he goes
From sneering friends and pitying foes—
That shun him—loathe him—if they will,
He keeps the seals and salary still.
The tenure of official seat,
Than one who every session buys
At such high rate the gaudy prize;
One who for this so long has borne
The scowl of universal scorn,
Has seen distrust in every look,
Has heard in every voice rebuke,
Has shrunk from Stanley's quick retort,
Has winced at Wakley's cool support;
Exulting yet—as home he goes
From sneering friends and pitying foes—
That shun him—loathe him—if they will,
He keeps the seals and salary still.
And truth to say, it must be pleasant
To be a minister at present;
To make believe to guide the realm
Without a hand upon the helm,
And wonder what with such a crew
A pilot e'er should find to do;
To hold what people are content
To fancy is the Government,
And touch extremely little of it
Except the credit and the profit;
To feel secure, when peril's near,
By shutting up the eye and ear;
To stop sedition's rude advances
By printing Normanby's romances;
To keep the Czar from mischief brewing
By never minding what he's doing;
To guard our colonies from harms
By slyly coaxing them to arms;
To share vacation's joyous hours
'Twixt Brighton's domes and Windsor's towers,
And gossip here, and gossip there,
With ladies dark, and ladies fair;
To sketch, when Fancy prompts exertion,
A note for Metternich's diversion,
Or protocol, so smoothly rounded
It must by twenty be expounded;
When Follett presses, Sugden poses,
To bid gay Stanley count the noses,
And leave the Cabinet's defence
To Bulwer's wit, and Blewitt's sense!
To hear demands for explanation
On India, Belgium, trade, taxation,
And answer, that perhaps they'll try
To give an answer by-and-by;
To save the Church and serve the Crown,
By letting others pull them down;
To promise, pause, prepare, postpone,
And end by leaving things alone;
In short, to earn the people's pay
By doing nothing every day—
These tasks, these joys, the Fates assign
To well-placed Whigs in 'thirty-nine.
To be a minister at present;
318
Without a hand upon the helm,
And wonder what with such a crew
A pilot e'er should find to do;
To hold what people are content
To fancy is the Government,
And touch extremely little of it
Except the credit and the profit;
To feel secure, when peril's near,
By shutting up the eye and ear;
To stop sedition's rude advances
By printing Normanby's romances;
To keep the Czar from mischief brewing
By never minding what he's doing;
To guard our colonies from harms
By slyly coaxing them to arms;
To share vacation's joyous hours
'Twixt Brighton's domes and Windsor's towers,
And gossip here, and gossip there,
With ladies dark, and ladies fair;
To sketch, when Fancy prompts exertion,
A note for Metternich's diversion,
Or protocol, so smoothly rounded
It must by twenty be expounded;
When Follett presses, Sugden poses,
To bid gay Stanley count the noses,
And leave the Cabinet's defence
To Bulwer's wit, and Blewitt's sense!
319
On India, Belgium, trade, taxation,
And answer, that perhaps they'll try
To give an answer by-and-by;
To save the Church and serve the Crown,
By letting others pull them down;
To promise, pause, prepare, postpone,
And end by leaving things alone;
In short, to earn the people's pay
By doing nothing every day—
These tasks, these joys, the Fates assign
To well-placed Whigs in 'thirty-nine.
We ascertain on looking back
In Plunket's tattered almanack—
Where, though we know there's nothing in it
To charm his lordship for a minute,
A student of more humble breeding
May find some scraps of curious reading—
That to the noble and the wise
The trust of England's destinies
Appeared, when George the Third was King,
To be a very serious thing.
Then statesmen found in State affairs
Laborious studies, anxious cares;
The joyless meal, the sleepless bed,
The aching heart, the plodding head;
Unheeded sacrifice of wealth,
Unpitied forfeiture of health;
Oft, tasked beyond its utmost strength,
The frail machine gave way at length,
And, fainting at his post of pride,
The nation's weary servant died.
In Plunket's tattered almanack—
Where, though we know there's nothing in it
To charm his lordship for a minute,
A student of more humble breeding
May find some scraps of curious reading—
That to the noble and the wise
The trust of England's destinies
Appeared, when George the Third was King,
To be a very serious thing.
Then statesmen found in State affairs
Laborious studies, anxious cares;
The joyless meal, the sleepless bed,
The aching heart, the plodding head;
320
Unpitied forfeiture of health;
Oft, tasked beyond its utmost strength,
The frail machine gave way at length,
And, fainting at his post of pride,
The nation's weary servant died.
But things are changed. The march of knowledge
Proceeds in Court as well as College.
The freshman on the banks of Cam,
Shall master, in a fortnight's cram,
Truths which, beside those waters muddy,
Cost great Sir Isaac years of study.
The lisping girl, who half conjectures
The meaning of a course of lectures,
Shall tell you tales of gas and steam,
Of which Lord Bacon did not dream.
What marvel, if the art to rule
Discoveries of the modern school
Have made so simple, as to fit
The compass of the largest wit?
What marvel, if on land and sea
Our destiny should guided be
With hardly half as much expense
Of time or trouble, thought or sense,
As Mr. Meynell may be able
To lavish yearly on his stable,
Lord Albert on his perfumed locks,
Lord Spencer on a Durham ox,
Sam Rogers on his beauteous books,
Or Holland on his corps of cooks?
Proceeds in Court as well as College.
The freshman on the banks of Cam,
Shall master, in a fortnight's cram,
Truths which, beside those waters muddy,
Cost great Sir Isaac years of study.
The lisping girl, who half conjectures
The meaning of a course of lectures,
Shall tell you tales of gas and steam,
Of which Lord Bacon did not dream.
What marvel, if the art to rule
Discoveries of the modern school
Have made so simple, as to fit
The compass of the largest wit?
What marvel, if on land and sea
Our destiny should guided be
With hardly half as much expense
Of time or trouble, thought or sense,
As Mr. Meynell may be able
To lavish yearly on his stable,
321
Lord Spencer on a Durham ox,
Sam Rogers on his beauteous books,
Or Holland on his corps of cooks?
While crowds expect him and abuse,
Long hours, at his official quarters,
Patrons of negroes and of Jews,
Whig pamphleteers and Church-rate martyrs,
While drowsy clerks at last despair,
And Young begins to think of dining,
In lovely Sappho's elbow chair
Behold our gay First Lord reclining.
Forgetful in his dreamy trance
Which way the noisy world is going,
Of Turk or Russian, Spain or France,
As little as his lackey knowing,
With his bright colleague he debates
The Keepsake of the coming winter,
Admires the poems and the plates,
Applauds the painter and the printer;
Lends, too, his judgment to revise
Some startling tale or soothing sonnet,
Embellishes some “Scene of Sighs,”
Or points some “Ode to Cynthia's bonnet;”
Yet now and then a respite asks
From all the literary labour,
To share the sweet domestic tasks
Of her, his fair fantastic neighbour;
And turns from Mulgrave's dreary prose,
Or wakes from Morpeth's drowsy verses,
To measure baby's chin and nose,
And sip his caudle with the nurses.
Long hours, at his official quarters,
Patrons of negroes and of Jews,
Whig pamphleteers and Church-rate martyrs,
While drowsy clerks at last despair,
And Young begins to think of dining,
In lovely Sappho's elbow chair
Behold our gay First Lord reclining.
Forgetful in his dreamy trance
Which way the noisy world is going,
Of Turk or Russian, Spain or France,
As little as his lackey knowing,
With his bright colleague he debates
The Keepsake of the coming winter,
Admires the poems and the plates,
Applauds the painter and the printer;
Lends, too, his judgment to revise
Some startling tale or soothing sonnet,
Embellishes some “Scene of Sighs,”
Or points some “Ode to Cynthia's bonnet;”
Yet now and then a respite asks
From all the literary labour,
322
Of her, his fair fantastic neighbour;
And turns from Mulgrave's dreary prose,
Or wakes from Morpeth's drowsy verses,
To measure baby's chin and nose,
And sip his caudle with the nurses.
Pity that Scandal should come by,
With pointing finger, squinting eye,
To hint reproach, to whisper harm,
To kindle doubt, to rouse alarm;
That such a course of faultless pleasure,
So very proper to engage
In his long listlessness of leisure
A Premier—of a certain age—
Should furnish food for jest and frown
To Themis in her wig and gown,
And entertain remotest climes,
Recorded in the Globe and Times.
Cruel to her, whose sullied fame
Scarce yet redeems its early whiteness!
Cruel to him, whose hearth became
Void, void of all that gave it brightness!
And cruel to the orphaned ones
Whose slumber often will recall
Those witching looks and winning tones!
Cruel, in short, to each and all
But plain John Campbell, who with ease
Bore off the verdict, and the fees.
With pointing finger, squinting eye,
To hint reproach, to whisper harm,
To kindle doubt, to rouse alarm;
That such a course of faultless pleasure,
So very proper to engage
In his long listlessness of leisure
A Premier—of a certain age—
Should furnish food for jest and frown
To Themis in her wig and gown,
And entertain remotest climes,
Recorded in the Globe and Times.
Cruel to her, whose sullied fame
Scarce yet redeems its early whiteness!
Cruel to him, whose hearth became
Void, void of all that gave it brightness!
And cruel to the orphaned ones
Whose slumber often will recall
Those witching looks and winning tones!
Cruel, in short, to each and all
323
Bore off the verdict, and the fees.
Shift we the scene. More safely now
The Minister shall buzz and bow
In regions, where no comment rude
From lip or pen shall e'er intrude.
There he, the fond and favoured guest,
Shall look his liveliest, gloze his best,
On everything, or nothing, chatter,
And smoothly fawn, and softly flatter.
In curious tints shall he pourtray,
To make the royal listener gay,
Her pious Grandsire's stiff devotions,
Her moral Grandam's serious notions,
Her Uncle Frederic's bigot zeal,
Her Uncle William's wish for Peel.
Oft shall he whisper, deep and low,
The things he whispered long ago,
When in saloons he first began
To be a fascinating man,
'Ere yet the high ambition rose
To deal religion “heavy blows.”
Oft shall he picture, with an air
Not very much the worse for wear,
How noble through the park she rides,
How graceful through the dance she glides,
How wonderful it is to see
Her fingers touch the ivory key;
And still, while Britain stands or falls
By dint of banquets and of balls,
While badinage directs the nation,
And politics are all flirtation,
Quick Ridicule shall smother half
Of her inexorable laugh;
Stern Censure, just prepared to preach,
Like Gibson Craig, shall lose her speech;
The Muse herself shall take upon her
The prudence of a Maid of Honour,
And, hushing her uncourtly spleen,
Sigh gently forth, “God save the Queen!”
The Minister shall buzz and bow
In regions, where no comment rude
From lip or pen shall e'er intrude.
There he, the fond and favoured guest,
Shall look his liveliest, gloze his best,
On everything, or nothing, chatter,
And smoothly fawn, and softly flatter.
In curious tints shall he pourtray,
To make the royal listener gay,
Her pious Grandsire's stiff devotions,
Her moral Grandam's serious notions,
Her Uncle Frederic's bigot zeal,
Her Uncle William's wish for Peel.
Oft shall he whisper, deep and low,
The things he whispered long ago,
When in saloons he first began
To be a fascinating man,
'Ere yet the high ambition rose
To deal religion “heavy blows.”
Oft shall he picture, with an air
Not very much the worse for wear,
How noble through the park she rides,
How graceful through the dance she glides,
324
Her fingers touch the ivory key;
And still, while Britain stands or falls
By dint of banquets and of balls,
While badinage directs the nation,
And politics are all flirtation,
Quick Ridicule shall smother half
Of her inexorable laugh;
Stern Censure, just prepared to preach,
Like Gibson Craig, shall lose her speech;
The Muse herself shall take upon her
The prudence of a Maid of Honour,
And, hushing her uncourtly spleen,
Sigh gently forth, “God save the Queen!”
That she may see, our Bright and Fair,
How arduous is her path to fame,
How much of solemn thought and care
An empire's interests fitly claim;
That she may know how poor 'twould seem
In one who graces Britain's throne
To patronize a party's scheme
Or make a favourite's cause her own;
That she may feel to Whom belong
Alike the contest and the prize,
Whence springs the valour of the strong,
Whence flows the counsel of the wise;
That she may keep in womanhood
The heaven-born impulses of youth,
The zeal for universal good,
The reverence for eternal Truth;
That she may seek the right and just;
That she may shun the false and mean;
That she may win all love and trust,
Blessing and blest—God save the Queen!
How arduous is her path to fame,
How much of solemn thought and care
An empire's interests fitly claim;
That she may know how poor 'twould seem
In one who graces Britain's throne
To patronize a party's scheme
Or make a favourite's cause her own;
That she may feel to Whom belong
Alike the contest and the prize,
Whence springs the valour of the strong,
Whence flows the counsel of the wise;
325
The heaven-born impulses of youth,
The zeal for universal good,
The reverence for eternal Truth;
That she may seek the right and just;
That she may shun the false and mean;
That she may win all love and trust,
Blessing and blest—God save the Queen!
THE END.
| The political and occasional poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed | |