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LXXIX.

Alas! how deeply painful is all payment! [purses.

Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment,

Such is the shortest way to general curses. They hate a murderer much less than a claimant

On that sweet ore which every body nurses. Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket:

LXXX.

So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken

To your instructor. Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken,

O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn Toward the great city.--Ye who have a spark in

Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn
According as you take things well or ill ;-
Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill !(')

LXXXI.

The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from

A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space Which well beseem'd the “ Devil's drawing-room,"

As some have qualified that wondrous place:

(1) [“ Under his proud survey the city lies,

And like a mist beneath a hill doth rise,
Whose state and wealth, the business and the crowd,
Seem at this distance but a darker cloud,
And is, to him who rightly things esteems,
No other in effect than what it seems;
Where, with like haste, tho' several ways they run,
Some to undo, and some to be undone;
While luxury and wealth, like war and peace,
Are each the other's ruin and increase." - DENHAM.]

But Juan felt, though not approaching home,

As one who, though he were not of the race, Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t’ other.(':

LXXXII.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,

Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping

In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping

On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy ;
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool's head- and there is London Town!

LXXXIII.

But Juan saw not this : each wreath of smoke

Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour
Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke

The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper) The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke

Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.

LXXXIV.

He paused - and so will I; as doth a crew

Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew

Our old acquaintance; and at least I'll try

(1) [India; America.]

To tell

you
truths

you

will not take as true,
Because they are so ;-a male Mrs. Fry, (')
With a soft besom will I sweep your halls,
And brush a web or two from off the walls,

LXXXV.

Oh Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why

Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses ? Try

Your hand at harden'd and imperial sin.
To mend the people's an absurdity,

A jargon, a mere philanthropic din,
Unless you make their betters better :- Fy!
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.

LXXXVI.

Teach them the decencies of good threescore;

Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses ; Tell them that youth once gone returns no more,

That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses ; Tell them Sir William Curtis (2) is a bore,

Too dull even for the dullest of excesses,
The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal,
A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.

LXXXVII.
Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late

On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated,
To set up vain pretences of being great,

'Tis not so to be good; and be it stated, (1) [The Quaker lady, whose benevolent exertions have effected so great a change in the condition of the female prisoners in Newgate.]

(2) [This worthy alderman died in 1829.)

The worthiest kings have ever loved least state ;

And tell them But you won't, and I have prated Just now enough ; but by and by I'll prattle Like Roland's horn (1) in Roncesvalles' battle.

(1)

[“ O for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,
And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died." - Marmion.]

END OF THE SIXTEENTH VOLUME.

LONDON: Printed by A. SPOTTISWOODE,

New-Street-Square.

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