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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.
But corn,like every mortal thing,must fall-
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain?
Why would you trouble Bonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus! his vices
Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd
your prices;

He amplified, to every Lord's content,
The grand Agrarian Alchymy-high Rent.
Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars,
And lower wheat to such desponding
quarters?

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.
Up! up again! ye rents, exalt your notes,
Or else the Ministry will lose their votes,
And Patriotism, so delicately nice,
Her loaves will lower to the market-price;
For ah!"the loaves and fishes," once so high,
Are gone their oven closed, their ocean dry;
And nought remains of all the millions spent,
Excepting to grow moderate and content.
They who are not so,had their turn—and turn
About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
Now let their virtue be its own reward,
And share the blessings which themselves
prepared.
See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,

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| 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?

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Where Midas might again his wish behold
In real paper or imagined gold.
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.
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds
the stake,

And the world trembles to bid brokers break.
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines,
Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or wines;
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey,
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money:
But let us not to own the truth refuse,
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews?
Those parted with their teeth to good King
John,

And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own;

All states, all things, all sovereigns they controul,

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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,

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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
To note the trappings of her mimic court.
But she appears! Verona sees her shorn
Of all her beams-while nations gaze and

mourn

Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time
To chill in their inhospitable clime
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold—
But no,-their embers soon will burst the
mould);
She comes! - the Andromache (but not
Racine's,
Nor Homer's); lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans!
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo,
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre
through,
Is offer'd and accepted! Could a slave

roar,

Do more? or less?—and he in his new grave! To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse
And the Ex-Empress grows as Er a wife!
So much for human ties in royal breasts!
Why spare men's feelings, when their own
are jests?

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
Gird the gross sirloin of a City-Celt,
She burst into a laughter so extreme,
That I awoke- and lo! it was no dream!

Here, reader, will we pause:- if there's no harm in

My Muse 'gan weep, but,ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the Chiefs of every High- This first--you'll, have, perhaps, a second

land clan

Carmen."

THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.

BY QUEVEDO REDIVIV US.

SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT TYLER."

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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.

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Who shielded tyrants, till each sense with-
drawn

Left him nor mental nor external sun:
A better farmer ne'er brush'd dew from lawn,
A worse king never left a realm undone !
He died-but left his subjects still behind,
One half as mad—and t'other no less blind.

He died!—his death made no great stir on earth;

His burial made some pomp; there was
profusion

Of velvet, gilding, brass, and no great dearth
Of aught but tears

He's dead—and upper earth with him has
done:

He's buried; save the undertaker's bill,
Or lapidary scrawl, the world is gone
For him, unless he left a German will;
But where's the proctor who will ask his son?
In whom his qualities are reigning still,
Except that household virtue, most un-

common,

Of constancy to a bad, ugly woman.

"God save the king!" It is a large economy
In God to save the like; but if he will
Be saving, all the better; for not one am I
Of those who think damnation better still:
I hardly know too if not quite alone am I
In this small hope of bettering future ill
By circumscribing, with some slight re-
striction,
The eternity of hell's hot jurisdiction.

I know this is unpopular; I know
"Tis blasphemous; I know one may be damn'd
For hoping no one else may e'er be so;
I know my catechism; I know we are cramm'd
With the best doctrines till we quite o'erflow;
I know that all save England's church have
shamm'd,

And that the other twice two hundred
churches

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
The fools who flock'd to swell or see the
show,

Who cared about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe.
There throbb'd not there a thought which
pierced the pall;
And when the gorgeous coffin was laid low,
It seem'd the mockery of hell to fold
The rottenness of eighty years in gold.

So mix his body with the dust! It might
Return to what it must far sooner, were
The natural compound left alone to fight
Its way back into earth, and fire, and air;
But the unnatural balsams merely blight

purchase.

God help us all! God help me, too! I am,
God knows, as helpless as the devil can wish,
And not a whit more difficult to damn
Than is to bring to land a late-hook'd fish,
Or to the butcher to purvey the lamb;
Not that I'm fit for such a noble dish
As one day will be that immortal fry
Of almost every body born to die.

Saint Peter sat by the celestial gate,
And nodded o'er his keys; when lo! there

came

A wonderous noise he had not heard of
late-

A rushing sound of wind, and stream,
and flame;
In short, a roar of things extremely great,
Which would have made aught save a saint
exclaim;

But he, with first a start and then a wink,
Said, "There's another star gone out, I
think!"

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"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-
That head of his, which could not keep a

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 all theSaints came out,and took him in;
And there he sits by Saint Paul, cheek by
jowl;

That fellow Paul - the parvenu! The skin
Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl
In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin
So as to make a martyr, never sped
Better than did this weak and wooden head.

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,
A Spirit of a different aspect waved
His wings, like thunder-clouds above some

coast

Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved;

His brow was like the deep when tempesttost;

Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved
Eternal wrath on his immortal face,
And where he gazed a gloom pervaded space.

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,
Like birds when soars the falcon;and they felt
A tingling to the tip of every feather,
And form'd a circle, like Orion's belt,
Around their poor old charge, who scarce
knew whither

His guards had let him, though they
gently dealt
With royal manes (for, by many stories.
And true, we learn the angels all are Tories).

As things were in this posture, the gate flew
Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges
Flung over space an universal hue
Of many-colour'd flame, until its tinges
Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made

a new

Aurora borealis spread its fringes
O'er the North Pole; the same seen, when
ice-bound,
By Captain Parry's crews, in "Melville's
Sound."

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