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; On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace pangs See nought but food for factions and harangues; Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors, And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their "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 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! O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood, That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this, That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart, 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! When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when Will that redeeming day shine out on men, When reason shall no longer blindly bow 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, |