Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure; The unwieldy old White Horse is apt at last To stumble,kick,and now and then stick fast With his great self and rider in the mud; But what of that? the animal shows blood. Alas, the country! how shall tongue or pen Bewail her now uncountry-gentlemen ?— The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, The first to make a malady of peace. For what were all these country-patriots born? To hunt,and vote, and raise the price of corn. He amplified, to every Lord's content, Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone? The man was worth much more upon his throne. True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, And acres told upon the appointed day. But where is now the goodly audit-ale? The purse-proud tenant never known to fail? The farm which never yet was left on hand? The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land? The impatient hope of the expiring lease? The doubling rental? What an evil's peace! In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill; The landed interest (you may understand The phrase much better leaving out the land) The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, For fear that plenty should attain the poor. | | Farmers of war, Dictators of the farm! Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, Their fields manured by gore of other lands; Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent Their brethren out to battle-why? forRent! Year after year they voted cent. per cent. Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millionswhy? for Rent! They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant To die for England-why then live? for Rent! The peace has made one general malcontent Of these high-market patriots; war was Rent! Their love of country,millions all mis-spent. How reconcile?—by reconciling Rent. And will they not repay the treasures lent? No: down with every thing, and up with Rent! Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, a discontent, Being, end, aim, religion - Rent, Rent,Rent! Thou sold'st thy birth-right, Esau! for a mess: Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less; Now thou hast swill'd thy pottage, thy demands Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands. Such, landlords, was your appetite for war, And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar! What, would they spread their earthquake even o'er Cash? And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash? So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital? Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes; The Prelates go to where the Saints have gone, And proud pluralities subside to one; Church, state, and faction, wrestle in the dark, Toss'd by the Deluge in their common ark. Shorn of her Bishops, banks, and dividends, Another Babel soars—but Britain ends. And why?to pamper the self-seeking wants, And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. "Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise;" Admire their patience through each sacrifice, Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, The price of taxes and of homicide; Admire their justice, which would fain deny The debt of nations:- pray, who made it high? Where Midas might again his wish behold And the world trembles to bid brokers break. And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own; All states, all things, all sovereigns they controul, Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 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? A Congress forms their "New Jerusalem,” Where baronies and orders both inviteOh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight? Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, Who spit not "on their Jewish gaberdine," But honour them as portion of the show(Where now, oh, Pope! is thy forsaken toe? Could it not favour Judah with some kicks? Or has it ceased to "kick against the pricks?") On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, To cut from nations' hearts their "pound of flesh." Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. I speak not of the Sovereigns-they're alike, A common coin as ever mint could strike: But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, The averted eye of the reluctant Muse. The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, The imperial victim-sacrifice to pride; The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, The young Astyanax of modern Troy; The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen; She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour, The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. Oh, cruel mockery! Could not Austria spare A daughter? What did France's widow there? Her fitter place was by St. Helen's waveHer only throne is in Napoleon's grave. But, no,- she still must hold a petty reign, Flank'd by her formidable Chamberlain ; The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. What though she share no more and shared in vain A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, Which swept from Moscow to the Southern seas, Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, Where Parma views the traveller resort mourn Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time roar, Do more? or less?—and he in his new grave! To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman! But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, And sketch the group-the picture's yet to come. While all the Common-Council cry, "Clay more!" To see proud Albyn's Tartans as a belt Here, reader, will we pause:- if there's no harm in My Muse 'gan weep, but,ere a tear was spilt, land clan Carmen." THE VISION OF JUDGMENT. BY QUEVEDO REDIVIV US. SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT TYLER." It almost quench'd his innate thirst of evil. | What nature made him at his birth, as bare (Here Satan's sole good work deserves in- As the mere million's base unmummied sertionclay Tis, that he has both generals in reversion.) Yet all his spices but prolong decay. Who shielded tyrants, till each sense with- Left him nor mental nor external sun: He died!—his death made no great stir on earth; His burial made some pomp; there was Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth He's dead—and upper earth with him has He's buried; save the undertaker's bill, common, Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman. "God save the king!" It is a large economy I know this is unpopular; I know And that the other twice two hundred save those shed by And synagogues have made a damn'd bad collusion; For these things may be bought at their true worth: Of elegy there was the due infusionBought also; and the torches, cloaks, and banners, Heralds, and relics of old Gothic manners, Form'd a sepulchral melo-drame. Of all Who cared about the corpse? The funeral So mix his body with the dust! It might purchase. God help us all! God help me, too! I am, Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate, came A wonderous noise he had not heard of A rushing sound of wind, and stream, But he, with first a start and then a wink, "No," quoth the Cherub; "George the Third is dead," "And who is George the Third?” replied the Apostle; “What George? what Third?" "The King of England, "said The Angel. “Well! he wo'nt find kings to jostle Him on his way; but does he wear his head? Because the-we saw here had a tussle, And ne'er would have got into heaven's good graces, Had he not flung his head in all our faces. He was, if I remember, king of- crown On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance A claim to those of martyrs-like my own: If I had had my sword, as I had once When I cut ears off, I had cut him down; But having but my keys, and not my brand, I only knock'd his head from out his hand. And then he set up such a headless howl, That fellow Paul - the parvenu! The skin But had it come up here upon its shoulders, There would have been a different tale to tell: The fellow-feeling in the Saints beholders Seems to have acted on them like a spell, And so this very foolish head heaven solders Back on its trunk: it may be very well, And seems the custom here to overthrow Whatever has been wisely done below." The Angel answer'd, "Peter! do not pout; The king who comes has head and all entire, And never knew much what it was about— He did as doth the puppet – by its wire, And will be judged like all the rest,no doubt: My business and your own is not to inquire Into such matters, but to mind our cueWhich is to act as we are bid to do.” While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, Cleaving the fields of space, as doth the swan Some silver-stream(say Ganges,Nile,or Inde, Or Thames, or Tweed), and midst them an old man With an old soul, and both extremely blind, Halted before the gate, and in his shroud Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud. But bringing up the rear of this bright host, coast Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; His brow was like the deep when tempesttost; Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate, Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or sia, With such a glance of supernatural hate, As made Saint Peter wish himself within; He potter'd with his keys at a great rate, And sweated through his apostolic skin: Of course his perspiration was but ichor, Or some such other spiritual liquor. The very cherubs huddled altogether, His guards had let him, though they As things were in this posture, the gate flew a new Aurora borealis spread its fringes |