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In short, what with mountebanks, Counts, and

friseurs,

Some mummers by trade, and the rest amateurs

What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,

Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, And shoeblacks reclining by statues in niches, There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

From the Boulevards-but hearken!-yes-as I'm a sinner,

The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner;

So no more at present-short time for adorn

ing

My day must be finish'd some other fine morning.

Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS** larder, my boy!

And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy

Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge

Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is

R. FUDGE.

*A celebrated Restaurateur.

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO

"RETURN!"-no, never, while the withering hand

Of bigot power is on that hapless land;
While, for the faith of my fathers held to God,
Ev'n in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscrib'd, and like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been
there*-

On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!-let them stay, who in their country's

pangs

See nought but food for factions and harangues; Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors, And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their

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"They use to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the forementioned verse of the Psalmist (if I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' etc.) or the wordsThe memory of the desolation." Leo of Modena.

+ I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose.

31

Still hope and suffer, all who can !--but I, Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.

But whither?---every where the scourge

pursues

Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,

In the bright, broken hopes of all his race, Countless reflections of th' Oppressor's face! Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true, Are serv' up victims to the vile and few; While E******, every where-the general

foe

Of truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glowIs first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow!

Oh, E****** ! could such poor revenge atone For wrongs that well might claim the deadliest

one;

Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate, To hear his curses on such barbarous sway Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless

way;

Could this content him, every lip he meets Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous

sweets;

Were this his luxury, never is thy name
Pronounc'd, but he doth banquet on thy shame;
Hears maledictions ring from e side
every

Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride, Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside;

That low and desperate envy, which to blast A neighbour's blessings, risks the few thou hast;

That monster, Self, too gross to be conceal'd, Which ever lurks behind thy proffer'd shield ;That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need, Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,

Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'd

Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd!
Worthy associate of that band of Kings,
That royal, rav'ning flock, whose vampire
wings

O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promis'd good,
Of hope, of freedom-but to drain her blood!
If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss

That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this,

That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,
Made thee the fall'n and tarnish'd thing thou

art;

That, as the Centaur* gave th' infected vest, In which he died, to rack his conqueror's

breast,

We sent thee C.

Have slain their spread,

-GH:-as heaps of dead

slayers by the pest they

* Membra et Herculeos toros

Urit lues Nessea.

Ille, ille victor vincitur.-Senec. Hercul. OEI.

So hath our land breath'd out-thy fame to

dim,

Thy strength to waste, and rot thee, soul and limb

Her worst infections all condens'd in him!

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When will the world shake off such yokes? oh,

when

Will that redeeming day shine out on men,
That shall behold them rise, erect and free
As Heav'n and Nature meant mankind should
be!

When reason shall no longer blindly bow
To the vile pagod things. that o'er her brow,
Like him of Jahernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth;
Nor drunken victory with a NERO's mirth;
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's

groans ;

But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones Shall to the virtuous and the wise be given— Those bright, those sole Legitimates of Hea

ven!

When will this be?-or, oh is it in truth, But one of those sweet, day-break dreams of youth,

In which the Soul, as round her morning springs,

'Twixt sleep and waking, sees such dazzling things!

And must the hope, as vain as it is bright,

Be all giv'n up?—and are they only right,

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