« ՆախորդըՇարունակել »
The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, | With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,
Thrice blest Verona! since the holy three The new Numantine soul of old Castile.
With their imperial presence shine on thee! Up! up again ! undaunted Tauridor !
Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets The bull of Phalaris renews his roar;
The vaunted tomb of “ all the Capulets ;” Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain
Thy Scaligers—for what was “Dog the Great,” Revive the cry!-" Iago ! and close Spain ! ”i
“Can Grande,” (which I venture to translate) Yes, close her with your arined bosoms round, To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, And form the barrier which Napoleon found, Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; The exterminating war, the desert plain,
Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate; The wild sierra, with its wilder troop
Thy good old man, 3 whose world was all within Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in; For their incessant prey; the desperate wall Would that the royal guests it girds about Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall ;
Were so far like, as never to get out! The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid
Ay, shout! inscribe! rear monuments of shame, Waving her more than Amazonian blade!
To tell Oppression that the world is tame! The knife of Arragon 2 Toledo's steel;
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, The famous lance of chivalrous Castile;
The comedy is not upon the stage ; The unerring rifle of the Catalan;
The show is rich in ribandry and stars, The Andalusian courser in the van;
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, And in each heart the spirit of the Cid:
For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free. Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, And win-not Spain! but thine own freedom, France !
Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb Czar,
The autocrat of waltzes and of war!
But harden'd back whene'er the morning's raw; Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes,
With no objection to true liberty,
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace ! Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake,
Greece! To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, But who compose this senate of the few
Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet! That should redeem the many? Who renew How kindly would be send the mild Ukraine, This consecrated name, till now assign'd
With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! To councils held to benefit mankind ?
How royally show off in proud Madrid Who now assemble at the holy call ?
His goodly person, from the South long hid ! The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! a blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, An earthly trinity! which wears the shape
By having Muscovites for friends or foes. Of heaven's, as man is mimick'd by the ape. Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son! A pious unity! in purpose one
La Harpe, tbine Aristotle, beckons on; To melt three fools to a Napoleon.
And that which Scythia was to him of yore Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ;
Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, And, quiet in their kennel or their shed,
Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; Cared little, so that they were duly fed ;
Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, But these, more hungry, must have something | Many an old woman, but no Catherine.4 more
Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defilesThe power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. The bear may rush into the lion's toils. Ah, how much happier were good Æsop's frogs Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields; Than we! for ours are animated logs,
Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ?
(1) " St. Iago ! and close Spain!" the old Spanish war-cry.
(2) The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of this weapon, and displayed it particularly in former French wars.
(3) The famons old man of Verona.
(4) The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by courtesy), when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth.
Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords
XIII. To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir Shall noble Alpion pass without a phrase hordes,
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, “Arts-arms—and George—and glory, and the Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
isles To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure And happy Britain-wealth, and Freedom's smilesWith thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure : Wbite cliffs, that held invasion far aloofHer soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe:
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proofHer vultures, too, were gorged not long ago; Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curld, And would'st thon furnish them with fresher prey ? That nose, the hook where he suspends the world!ı Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
And Waterloo—and trade--and- (hush! not yet I am Diogenes, thou Russ and Hun
A syllable of imposts or of debt)-
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t’other dayRather a worm than such an Alexander !
And 'pilots who have weather'd every storm'Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free;
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform)." His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope :
These are the themes thus sung so oft before, Still will he hold his lantern up to scan,
Methinks we need not sing them any more; The face of monarchs for an “honest man.”
Found in so many volumes far and near,
There's no occasion you should find them here. XI.
Yet something may remain perchance to chime And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band
Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit, Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, And tribune, which each orator first clambers And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, To unleaven'd prose, thine own poetic filame; Hears “the lie" echo for his answer round?
Our last, our best, our only orator, Our British Commons sometimes deign to hear ! | Even I can praise thee-Tories do no more : A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; Nay, not so much ;-they hate thee, man, because Even Constant, their sole master of debate,
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; Combat than listen, were it to their father.
But not for love mistake their yelling cry; What is the sirople standing of a shot,
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy ; To listening long, and interrupting not ?
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, Though this was not the method of old Rome, A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back, When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
| Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure, Demosthenes has sanction’d the transaction, Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; In saying eloquence meant “Action, action!” The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last
| To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast XII.
With his great self and rider in the mud;
Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen
The first to make a malady of peace.
To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ? I read all France's treason in her cooks !
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say,
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. Desirable to be the “ Désiré ? "
And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? abode,
He was your great Triptolemus; his vices A pician table, and Horatian ode,
Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your To rule a people who will not be ruled,
The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent.
And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ! To be a kind host and as good a guest,
Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? To talk of letters, and to know by heart
The man was worth much more upon his throne. One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art : True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, A scholar always, now and then a wit,
But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt ; And gentle when digestion may permit; But not to govern lands enslaved or free;
(1) “Naso suspendit adunco."—HORACE. The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.
The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his acquaintance.
But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, “Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" Aud acres told upou the appointed day.
Admire their patience through each sacrifice, But where is now the goodly audit ale ?
Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride,
Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, The landed interest.-(you may understand
The new Symplegades—the crushing Stocks, The phrase much better leaving out the land)
Where Midas might again his wish behold The land self-interest groans from shore to shore,
In real paper or imagined gold. For fear that plenty should attain the poor.
That magic palace of Alcina shows
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
Were all her atoms of unleaven'd ore,
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. Her loaves will lower to the market price ;
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the For ah! "the loaves and fishes,” once so high,
stake, Are gone-their oven closed, their ocean dry,
And the world trembles to bid brokers break. And nought remains of all the million spent,
How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines, Excepting to grow moderate and content.
Or peace, or plenty, corr or oil, or wines ; They who are not so, had their turn--and turn
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : Now let their virtue be its own reward,
But let us not to own the truth refuse, And share the blessings which themselves pre
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ?
Those parted with their teeth to good King John, pared. See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own;
All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, Farmers of war, dictators of the farm ; Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands,
And waft a loan " from Indus to the pole.” Their fields manured by gore of other lands;
The banker-broker-baron-brethren, speed Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. Their brethren out to battle-why? for rent !
Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild per-centage from exhausted Spain. rent! They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march; they meant
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. To die for England—why then live ?—for rent !
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command The peace has made one general malcontent
In every realm their scripture-promised land :Of these high-market patriots; war was rent !
Two Jews keep down the Ronjans, and uphold Their love of country, millions all misspent,
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old :
Two Jews—but not Samaritans-direct
The world, with all the spirit of their sect.
What is the happiness of earth to them ? Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent,
A congress forms their “New Jerusalem," Being, end, aim, religion-rent, rent, rent!
Where baronies and orders both inviteThou sold'st thy birthright, Esau, for a mess;
Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight? Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less ;
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands
Who spit not “on their Jewish garberdine," Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands.
But honour them as portion of the showSuch, landlords ! was your appetite for war,
(Where now, oh Pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? And gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar!
Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? What! would they spread their earthquake even
Or has it ceased to “kick against the pricks?")
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, o'er cash ? And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ?
To cut from nations' hearts their “pound of flesli." So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, And found on 'Change a Fundling hospital !
XVI. Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes; All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. The prelates go to—where the saints have gone, | I speak not of the sovereigns—they're alike, And proud pluralities subside to one;
A common coin as ever mint could strike : Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark.
Have more of motley than their heavy kings. Shoru of her bishops, banks, and dividends,
Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, Another Babel soars—but Britain ends.
While Europe wonders at the vast design: And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, And prop the bill of these agrarian ants.
| Cajoles ; there Wellington forgets to fight;
There Chateanbriand forms new books of martyrs;1 | Where Parma views the traveller resort,
Of all her beams-while nations gaze and mournTo fimish'articles for the “ Débats;"
Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time Of war so certain-yet not quite so sure
To chill in their inhospitable clime; As his dismissal in the “ Moniteur."
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold; Alas! bor could his cabinet thus err!
But no,-their embers soon will burst the mould ;) Can peace be worth an ultra-minister?
She comes !-the Andromache (but not Racine's, He fais indeed, perhaps to rise again,
Nor Homer's,-Lo! on Pyrrhus arm she leans ! "Almost as quickly as he conquer'd Spain."
Yes! the right arm, get red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-sbatter'd sceptre through, IVIL
Is offer'd and accepted? Could a slave Enough of this sight more mournful woos Do more? or less -and he in his new grave! The averted eye of the reluctant muse.
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, The imperial daughter, the imperial bride,
And the ex-empress grows as er a wife! The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride;
So much for human ties in royal breasts ! The mother of the hero's hope, the boy,
Why spare men's feelings, when their own are The young Astyanax of modern Troy ;
jests? The stiil pale shadow of the loftiest queen
XVIII. That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen;
But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, She llits amidst the phantoms of the hour,
And sketch the group-the picture's yet to come. The theme of pity, and the wreck of power.
| My muse 'gan weep, but ere a tear was spilt, Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt! A daughter? What did France's widow there?
While throng'd the chiefs of every Highland clan Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave,
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman! Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, But, no she still must hold a petty reign,
While all the Common Council cry “Claymore !” Plank'd by her formidable chamberlain;
To see proud Albyn's tartans as a belt The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Gird the gross surloin of a city Celt, Must watch her through these paltry pageantries.
She burst into a laughter so extreme, What though she share no more, and shared in
That I awoke-and lo! it was no dream! vain, A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne,
Here, reader, will we pause :—if there's no harm in W nich swept from Moscow to the southern seas! This first-you'll have, perhaps, a second “CarYet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese,
The Blues :
A LITERARY ECLOGU E.
“Nimium ne crede colori."-VIRGIL.
ECLOGUE THE FIRST.
| For learning, which lately has taken the lead in London.- Before the Door of a Lecture Room.
The world, and set all the fine gentlemen read.
ing. Enter Tracy, meeting Inkel.
Tra. I know it too well, and have worn out my Ink. You're too late.
patience Is it over ?
With studying to study your new publications. Ink.
Nor will be this hour. There's Vamp, Scamp, and Mouthy, and WordsBut the benches are crainm'd like a garden in
words and Co. flower,
With their damnableWith the pride of our belles, who have made it the Ink. Hold, my good friend, do you know fashion ;
Whom you speak to ? m, instead of “beaux arts," we may say “ la belle Tra. Right well, boy, and so does “the Row :" passion”
You're an author--a poet
***** (ne storiand, who has not forgotten the author Chateaubriand who-who-who has written something? (écrit
posmiled a handsome compliment at Verona from quelque chose!). It is said that the author of Atala repented him W,vor o "Ah! Monsieur C., are you reluted to that for a moment of his legitimacy.
And think you that I The fellow's a fool, an impostor, a zany. Can stand tamely in silence, to hear you decry Tra. And the crowd of to-day shows that one The Muses ?
fool makes many. Excuse me: I meant no offence But we two will be wise. To the Nine ; though the number who make some Ink.
Pray, then, let us retire. pretence
Tra. I would, but — To their favours is such—but the subject to drop, Ink. There must be attraction much higher I am just piping hot from a publisher's shop, Than Scamp, or the Jew's harp, he nicknames his (Next door to the pastry-cook's; so that when I
lyre, Cannot find the new volume I wanted to buy To call you to this hotbed. On the bibliopole's shelves, it is only two paces, Tra.
I own it-'tis trueAs one finds every author in one of those places :) A fair lady Where I had just been skimming a charming
A spinster critique,
Miss Lilac ! So studded with wit, and so sprinkled with Greek!
The Blue ! Where your friend-you know who—has just got The heiress ? such a thrashing,
Tra. The angel ! That it is, as the phrase goes, extremely "refresh- Ink.
The devil! why, man, ing."
Pray get out of the hobble as fast as you can. What a beautiful word !
You wed with Miss Lilac ! 'twould be your per-
Say rather an angle. Tra.
Not left him a tatter - If you and she marry, you'll certainly wrangle. Not a rag of his present or past reputation,
I say she's a Blue, man, as blue as the ether. Which they call a disgrace to the age and the | Tra. And is that any cause for not coming to
nation. Ink. I'm sorry to hear this ! for friendship, you Ink. Humph! I can't say I know any happy know
alliance Our poor friend ! but I thought it would terminate which has lately sprung up from a wedlock with so.
science, Our friendship is such, I'll read nothing to shock it. She's so learned in all things, and fond of concerning You don't happen to have the Review in your | Herself in all matters connected with learning, pocket?
ThatTra. No; I left a round dozen of authors and Tra. What ? others
Ink. I perhaps may as well hold my tongue; (Very sorry, no doubt, since the cause is a bro. But there's five hundred people can tell you you're ther's)
wrong. All scrambling and jostling, like so many imps, Tra. You forget Lady Lilac's as rich as a Jew. And on fire with impatience to get the next Ink. Is it miss or the cash of mamma you purglimpse.
sue ? Ink. Let us join them.
Tra. Why, Jack, I'll be frank with you-someTra. What, won't you return to the lecture ?
thing of both. Ink. Why the place is so cramm'd, there's not The girl's a fine girl. room for a spectre.
And you feel nothing loth Besides, our friend Scamp is to-day so absurd — To her good lady-mother's reversion ; and yet Tra. How can you know that till you hear him ? Her life is as good as your own, I will bet.
I heard Tra. Let her live, and as long as she likes ; I deQuite enough ; and, to tell you the truth, my
Nothing more than the heart of her daughter and Was from his vile nonsense, no less than the heat.
hand. Tra. I have had no great loss, then ?
Ink. Why, that heart's in the inkstand—that Ink. Loss !--such a palaver!
hand on the pen. I'd inoculate sooner my wife with the slaver
Tra. Apropos-Will you write me a song now Of a dog when gone rabid, than listen two hours
and then ? To the torrent of trash which around him he pours, Ink. To what purpose? Pump'd up with such effort, disgorged with such Tra. You know, my dear friend, that in prose, labour,
My talent is decent, as far as it goes ; That- come-do not make me speak ill of one's But in rhyme neighbour.
You're a terrible stick, to be sure. Tra. I make you !
Tra. I own it: and yet, in these times, there's Ink. Yes, you! I said nothing until
no lure You compelld me, by speaking the truth
| For the heart of the fair like a stanza or two; Tru.
To speak ill! And so, as I can't, will you furnish a few ? Is that your deduction ?
Ink. In your name? Ink.
When speaking of Scamp ill, Tra. In my name. I will copy them out. I certainly follou, not set an example.
| To slip into her hand at the very next rout.