University of Virginia Library

'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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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!”

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.

“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.”

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.

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.

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.