University of Virginia Library

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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!”

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!