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But these are gone-their faith, their swords, their Who now assemble at the holy call sway,
The blest Alliance, which says three are al'
A pious unity! in purpose one-
Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, That fiery festival of agony !
And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both
Cared little, so that they were duly fed; By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth; | But these, more hungry, must have something more The long degenerate noble; the debased
The power to bark and bitė, to toss and gore. Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced,
Ah! how much happier were good Æsop's frogs But more degraded; the unpeopled realm;
Than we! for ours are animated logs,
And crushing nations with a stupid blow;
All duly anxious to leave little work
Honor'd by then, thy treacherous site forgets These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel The vaunted tomb of “all the Capulets;”. The new Numantine soul of old Castile.
Thy Scaligers-for what was “Dog the Great," Up! up again! undaunted Tauridor!
“Can Grande,” (which I venture to translate,) The bull of Phalaris renews his roar;
To these sublimer pugs? Thy poet too, Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain
Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; Revive the cry" Iago! and close Spain!” * Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate; Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate; And form the barrier which Napoleon found, - Thy good old man,* whose world was all within The exterminating war, the desert plain,
Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in: The streets without a tenant, save the slain; Would that the royal guests it girds about The wild sierra, with its wilder troop
Were so far like, as never to get out! Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop
Ay, shout! inscribe! rear monuments of shame, For their incessant prey; the desperate wall To tell Oppression that the world is tame! Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall;
Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid
The comedy is not upon the stage; Waving her more than Amazonian blade,
The show is rich in ribandry and stars, The knife of Arragon,t Toledo's steel;
Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars; The famous lance of chivalrous Castile;
Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, The unerring rifle of the Catalan;
For thus much still thy fettered hands are free! The Andalusian courser in the van; The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid; And in each heart the spirit of the Cid:
Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb czar,
And just as fit for flirting as the helm;
A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit,
How well the imperial dandy prates of peace, Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes,
How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas;
Greece! And stoic Franklin's energetic shade,
How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd ; Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet! And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake,
How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ! But who compose this senate of the few
How royally show off in proud Madrid
A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, To councils held to benefit mankind !
By having Muscovites for friends or foes.
Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son! * "St. lago I and close Spain 1" the old Spanish war-cry.
La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on; The Arragonians are peculiarly dexterous in the use of this weapon, and fimplayed's perticularly in feimer French wan.
• The famous old man of Verona.
And that which Scythia was to him of yore To rule a people who will not be ruled,
And love much rather to be scourged than school'd ?
For thrones; the table sees thee better placed: Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best, Many an old woman, but no Catherine.*
To be a kind host and as good a guest, Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles To talk of letters, and to know by heart The bear may rush into the lion's toils.
One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art. Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields;
A scholar always, now and then a wit, Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? And gentle when digestion may permit;-Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords But not to govern lands enslaved or free; To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir The gout was martyrdom enough for thee
hordes, Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,
XIII. Than follow headlong in the fatal route,
Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure
From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure;
" Arts-arms—and George--and glory—and the Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe;
islesHer vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;
And happy Britain-wealth-and freedom's smilesAnd wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ?
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proofI am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun
Proud Wellington, with Eagle beak so curl'd, Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun;
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world! But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander
And Waterloo-and trade-and -(hush! not yet Rather a worm than such an Alexander !
A syllable of imposts or of debt)
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other dayStill will he hold his lantern up to scan
And 'pilots who have weather'd every storm'The face of monarchs. for an “honest man."
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform.") XI.
These are the themes thus sung so oft before,
Methinks we need not sing them any more; And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
Found in so many volumes far and near, Of ne plus ultra ultras and their band
There's no occasion you should find them here. Of mercenaries ? and her noisy chambers
Yet something may remain perchance to chime And tribune, which each orator first clambers
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme. Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found,
Even this thy genius, Canning! may permit, Hears “the lie" echo for his answer round!
Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, Our British commons sometimes deign to “hear!”
And never, even in that dull house could'st tame A Callic senate hath more tongue than ear;
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame; Even Constant, their sole master of debate,
Our last, our best, our only orator, Must fight next day his speech to vindicate.
Even I can praise thee-tories do no more; But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather
Nay, not so much ;-they hate thee, man, because Combat than listen, were it to their father. .
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. What is the simple standing of a shot,
The hounds will gather to the huntsman's hollo, To listening long, and interrupting not?
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; Though this was not the method of old Rome,
But not for love mistake their yelling cry; When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction,
Less faithful far than the fourfooted pack,
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
The unwieldy old white horse is apt at last Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ?
To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast Have revolutionary patés risen,
With his great self and rider in the mud;
But what of that? the animal shows blood.
Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ?
The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, Good classic Louis ! is it, canst thou say,
The first to make a malady of peace. Desirable to be the “ Desire ?"
For what were all these country patriots born? Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ? abode,
But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, Apician table, and Horatian ode,
Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all.
• The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by courtesy)
• "Naso suspendit adunco."-Horace. when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth. 1 The Poman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his acquaintanco.
And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes,
Church, state, and faction wrestle in the dark, The grand agrarian alchymy, hight rent.
Toss'd by the deluge in their common ark. Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, Shorn of her bishops, banks, and dividends, And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? Another Babel soars--but Britain ends. Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? And why? to pamper the self-seeking wants, The man was worth much more upon his throne. And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt; “Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ; But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; Admire their patience through each sacrifice, But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, Till taught to feel the lesson or their pride, And acres told upon the appointed day.
The price of taxes and of homicide ; But where is now the goodly audit ale?
Admire their justice, which would fain deny The purseproud tenant, never known to fail? The debt of nations :-pray who made it high? The farm which never yet was left on hand ? The marsh reclaim'd to most improving land ? The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks,
The new Symplegades—the crushing Stocks,
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, For fear that plenty should attain the poor.
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. Up, up again, ye rents ! exalt your notes,
There Fortune plays, while Rumor holds the stake, Or else the ministry will lose their votes,
And the world trembles to bid brokers break. And patriotism, so delicately nice,
How rich is Britain! not indeed in mines, Her loaves will lower to the market price;
Or peace or plenty, corn or oil, or wines; For ah! “the loaves and fishes," once so high,
No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, Are gone-their oven closed, their ocean dry,
Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money: And nought remains of all the millions spent,
But let us not to own the truth refuse, Excepting to grow moderate and content.
Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews? They who are not so, had their turn-and turn
Those parted with their teeth to good King John, About still flows from Fortune's equal urn;
And now, ye kings! they kindly draw your own; Now let their virtue be its own reward,
All states, all things, all sovereigns they control, And share the blessing which themselves prepared.
4. And waft a loan “from Indus to the pole.” See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,
The banker-broker-baron-brethren, speed Farmers of war, dictators of the farm;
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands,
Nor these alone: Columbia feels no less
Fresh speculations follow each success;
And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain
Her mild percentage from exhausted Spain. Year after year they voted cent. per cent.,
Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march; Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions--why? for,
'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. rent! They roar'd, they dined, they drank, they swore
Two Jews, a chosen people, can command
In every realm their scripture-promised land:they meant
Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold To die for England--why then live? for rent!
The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old. The peace has made one general malecontent
Two Jews—but not Samaritan's—direct Of these high-market patriots; war was rent!
The world, with all the spirit of their sect. Their love of country, millions all misspent,
What is the happiness of earth to them? How reconcile? by reconciling rent!
A congress forms their “New Jerusalem," And will they not repay the treasures lent?
Where baronies and orders both inviteNo: down with every thing, and up with rent!
Oh, holy Abraham! dost thou see the sight? Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent,
Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, Being, end, aim, religion-rent, rent, rent!
Who spit not "on their Jewish gaberdine," Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau! for a mess;
But honor them as portion of the show Thou should'st have gotten more, or eaten less;
(Where now, oh pope! is thy forsaken toe? Now thou hast swill’d thy pottage, thy demands
Could it not favor Judah with some kicks? Are idle; Israel says the bargain stands.
Or has it ceased to “kick against the pricks ?" Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war,
On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, And, gorged with blood, you grumble at a scar!
To cut from nations' hearts their “pound of fleshe? What! would they spread their earthquake even o'er cash ?
XVI. And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, Strange sight this Congress! destined to unite And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital ? All that's incongruous, all that's opposite.
I speak not of the sovereigns-they're alike, The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes
Must watch her through these paltry pageantries.
Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, Where Parma views the traveller resort Cajoles; there Wellington forgets to fight; To note the trappings of her mimic court. There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyr's ;* But she appears! Verona sees her shorn And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; Of all her beams--while nations gaze and mourn There Montmorenci, the sworn foe to charters, Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time Turns a diplomatist of great eclat,
To chill in their inhospitable clime; . To furnish articles for “the Debats; ”
(If e'er those awful ashes can grow cold; Of war so certain-yet not quite so sure
But no,--their embers soon will burst the mould;/ As his dismissal in the “ Moniteur."
She comes !-the Andromache (but not Racine's, Alas! how could his cabinet thus err?
Nor Homer's)-Lo! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! Can peace be worth an ultra-minister ?
Yes! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again
Which cut her lord's half-shatter'd sceptre through, “ Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain."
Do more? or less ?-and he in his new grave!
Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife,
But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home,
And sketch the group-the picture's yet to come
My muse 'gan weep, but ere a tear was spilt,
She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt!
While throng'd the chiefs of e7?ry highland clan A daughter? What did France's widow there?
To hail their brother, Vich Ian Aiderman !
Guildhall grows Gael, and echoes with Erse roar, Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave, Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave.
While all the Common Council cry “Claymore!” But, no-she still must hold a petty reign,
To see proud Albyn's tartan's as a belt Flank'd by her formidable chamberlain;
Gird the gross sirloin of a city Celt,
She burst into a laughter so extreme, • Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the minis- That I awokemand lo! 'twas no dream! ter, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign : « Ah ! Monsieur C , are you related to that Chateaubriand who
Here, reader, will we pause ;--if there's no harm iv who has written something?" (écrit quelque chose I) It is said that the author of Atala repented him for a moment of ais legitimacy.
This first-you'll have, perhaps, a second "Carmen." .
THE VISION OF JUDGMENT.
BY QUEVEDO REDIVIVUS.
SUGGESTED BY THE COMPOSITION SO ENTITLED BY THE AUTHOR OF "WAT TYLER."
" A Daniel come to judgment ! yea, a Daniel !
I thank thee, Jew, for teaching me that word."
| 3dly. Was he not entitled by William Smith, in
full parliament, “a rancorous renegado ?” Ir Aath been wisely said, that “One fool makes 4thly. Is he not poet laureate, with his own lines many;" and it hath been poetically observed, on Martin the regicide staring him in the face? “That fools rush in where angels fear to tread.”—Pope.
| And 5thly. Putting the four preceding items to. If Mr. Southey had not rushed in where he had tion of the laws to the publication of others, be no business, and where he never was before, and they what they may ? never will be again, the following poem would not I say nothing of the cowardice of such a proceedhave been written. It is not impossible that it may ing; its meanness speaks for itself; but I wish to be as good as his own, seeing that it cannot, by any touch upon the motive, which is neither more nor species of stupidity, natural or acquired, be worse. less than that Mr. S. has been laughed at a little in The gross flattery, the dull impudence, the renegado some recent publications, as he was of yore in the intolerance, and impious cant of the poem by the “ Anti-jacobin" by his present patrons. Hence all author of Wat Tyler, are something so stupendous this "skimble-scamble stuff" about “Satanic," and as to form the sublime of himself-containing the so forth. However, it is worthy of him." Qualis quintessence of his own attributes.
ab incepto.” So much for his poem-a word on his preface. In If there is any thing obnoxious to the political this preface it has pleased the magnanimous laureate opinions of a portion of the public in the following to draw the picture of a supposed “Satanic School," poem, they may thank Mr. Southey. He might the which he doth recommend to the notice of the have written hexameters, as he has written every legislature; thereby adding to his other laurels the thing else, for aught that the writer cared-had ambition of those of an informer. If there exists any they been upon another subject. But to attempt to where, excepting in his imagination, such a school, canonize a monarch, who, whatever were his houseis he not sufficiently armed against it by his own hold virtues, was neither a successful nor a patriot intense vanity? The truth is, that there are certain king-inasmuch as several years of his reign passed writers whom Mr. S. imagines, like Scrub, to have in war with America and Ireland, to say nothing of “ talked of him ; for they laughed consumedly," the aggressions upon France;-like all other exag
I think I know enough of most of the writers to geration, necessarily begets opposition. In whatwhom he is supposed to allude, to assert, that they, ever manner he may be spoken of in this new in their individual capacities, have done more good " Vision," his public career will not be more favorin the charities of life to their fellow-creatures in ably transmitted by history. Of his private virtues any one year, than Mr. Southey has done harm to (although a little expensive to the nation) there can himself by his absurdities in his whole life; and be no doubt. this is saying a great deal. But I have a few ques. With regard to the supernatural personages tions to ask.
treated of, I can only say, that I know as much 1stly. Is Mr. Southey the author of Wat Tyler? about them, and (as an honest man) have a better
2dly. Was he not refused a remedy at law by the right to talk of them than Robert Southey. I have highest judge of his beloved England, because it also treated them more tolerantly. The way in which was a blasphemous and seditious publication that poor insane creature, the laureate, deals about