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Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle

Beheld the desert peopled, as from hell,

With clashing hosts, who strew'd the barren sand

To re-manure the uncultivated land!

Spain! which, a moment mindless of the Cld,

Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid!

Austria! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital

Twice spared to be the traitress of his fall!

Ye race of Frederic! — Frederics but in name

And falsehood—heirs to all except his fame:

Who, crush'd at Jena, crouch'd at Berlin, fell

First, and but rose to "follow I Ye who dwell

Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet

The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt!

Poland! o'er which the avenging angel pass'd,

But left thee as he found thee, still a waste,

Forgetting all thy still enduring claim,

Thy lotted people and extinguish'd name,

Thy sigh for freedom, thy long flowing tear,

That sound that crashes in the tyrant's car —

Kosciusko 1 On—on—on—the thirst of war

Uaspe for the gore of serfs and of their czar.

The half barbaric Moscow's minarets

Gleam in the sun, but't is a sun that sets 1

Moscow! thou limit of his long career,

For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear

To see in vain—he saw thee—how? with spire

And palace fuel to one common Are.

To this the soldier lent his kindling match,

To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch.

To this the merchant flung his hoarded store.

The prince his hall—and Moscow was no more!

Subllmest of volcanos I Etna's flame

Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame;

Vesuvius shows his blaze, an usual sight

For gaping tourists, from his hackney'd height:

Thou stand'st alone unrivall'd, till the fire

To come, in which all empires shall.expire!

Thou other element! as strong and stern. To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn ! — Whose icy wing flapp'd o'er the faltering foe, Till fell a hero with each flake of snow; How did thy numbing beak and silent fang Pierce, till hosts perish'd with a single pang! In vain shall Seine look up along his banks For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks! In vain shall France recall beneath her vines Her youth—their blood flows faster than her wines; Or stagnant in their human ice remains In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken Her offspring chill'd; its beams are now forsaken. Of all the trophies gather'd from the war. What shall return ? —the conqueror's broken air!

'[Gustavus Adolphus fell at the great battle of Lutzen, in November, 163].]

» [The bla of Elba.]

5 1 refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus In JEtchjXui, when he Is left alone by his attendants, and before the arrival of the Chorus of Sea-nymphs. [Thus translated by Totter : —

M Ethereal air, and ye swift-winged winds.
Ye rivers springing from fresh founts, ye waves.
That o'or th* interminable ocean wreath
Your crisped smiles, thou all-producing earth.
And thee, bright sun, 1 call, whose flaming orb
Views the wide world beneath, see what, a god,
I suffer from the gods; with what fierce pains,
Behold, what tortures for revolving ages

The conqueror's yet unbroken heart 1 Again
The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain.
Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory,'
Beholds him conquer, but, alas! not die:
Dresden surveys three despots fly once more
Before their sovereign,—sovereign as before;
But there exhausted Fortune quits the field.
And Leipsic's treason bids the un vanquish'd yield;
The Saxon jackal leaves the lion's side
To turn the bear's, and wolfs, and fox's guide;
And backward to the den of his despair
The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair!

Oh ye ! and each, and all! Oh France ! who found
Thy long fair fields, plough'd up as hostile ground,
Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still
His only victor, from Montmartre's hill
Look'd down o'er trampled Paris! and thou Isle, >
Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile.
Thou momentary shelter of his pride.
Till woo'd by danger, his yet weeping bride!
Oh, France 1 retaken by a single march,
whoso path was through one long triumphal arch 1
Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo!
Which proves how fools may have their fortune too,
Won half by blunder, half by treachery:
Oh, dull Saint Helen 1 with thy gaoler nigh —
Hear I hear Prometheus * from his rock appeal
To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel
His power and glory, all who yet shall hear
A name eternal as the rolling year;
He teaches them the lesson taught so long.
So oft, so vainly—learn to do no wrong!
A single step into the right had made
This man the Washington of worlds betray'd:
A single step into the wrong has given
His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven;
The reed of Fortune, and of thrones the rod.
Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod;
His country's Cwsar, Europe's Hannibal,
Without their decent dignity of falL
Yet Vanity herself had better taught
A surer path even to the feme he sought.
By pointing out on history's fruitless page
Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage.
While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven.
Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven.
Or drawing from the no less kindled earth
Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth; •
While Washington's a watchword, such as ne'er
Shall sink while there's an echo left to air: *
While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and v>:
Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar!6
Alas! why must the same Atlantic wave
Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave —

I here must struggle; such unseemly chains
This new-raised ruler of the gods devised.
Ah me 1 That groan bursts from ray angulah'd heart.
My present woes and future to bemoan—

For favours shown
To mortal man I bear this weight of woe !"]

4 [The well-known motto on a French medal of Frankias was —

"Erlpult ccelo fulmen, sceptrumque tyrannis."]

» [" To be the first man (mil the Dictator), not to* Sylla, but the Washington, or Aristldes. the leader hi talent aoi truth, is to be next to the Divinity." — Byrtm Dtarj.]

'[Simon Bolivar, the liberator of Colombia and Peru, dW at San Pedro, December. 1830, of an illness brought ao kj excessive fatigue and exertion.]


The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave,
Who bunts the chains of millions to renew
Tht very fetters which his arm broke through,
And crush'd the rights of Europe and his own,
To flit between a dungeon and a throne?


But 'twill not be — the spark's awaken'd — lo!
The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow;
The same high spirit which beat back the Moor
Through eight long ages of alternate gore
Revives—and where? in that avenging clime
Where Spain was once synonymous with crime,
Where Cortes' and Piiarro's banner flew,
The infant world redeems her name of " New."
'T is the old aspiration breathed afresh,
To kindle souls within degraded flesh,
Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore
Where Greece teat — No! she still is Greece once

One common cause makes myriads of one breast,

Slaves of the east, or helots of the west;

On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurl'd,

The self-same standard streams o'er either world:

The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword; 1

The Chili chief abjures bis foreign lord;

The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek,

Young Freedom plumes the crest of each cacique;

Debating despots, hemm'd on either shore,

Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar;

Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance,

Sleep slightly by the half-tamed land of France,

Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain

Unite Ausonia to the mighty main:

But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye

Break o'er th' JEgean, mindful of the day

Of Salarnis! — there, there the waves arise,

Not to be lull'd by tyrant victories.

Lone, lost, abandon'd in their utmost need

By Christians, unto whom they gave their creed,

The desolated lands, the ravaged isle.

The foster'd feud encouraged to beguile,

The aid evaded, and the cold delay,

Prolong'd but in the hope to make a prey;* —

These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can show

The false friend worse than the infuriate foe.

But this Is well: Greeks only should free Greece,

Hot the barbarian, with his mask of peace.

How should tbe autocrat of bondage be

The king of serfs, and set the nations free?

Better still serve the haughty Mussulman,

Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan;

Better still toil for masters, than await,

The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, —

Jiumber'd by hordes, a human capital,

A live estate, existing but for thrall,

Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward

For the first courtier in the Czar's regard;

While their immediate owner never tastes

His sleep, tant dreaming of Siberia's wastes:

Better succumb even to their own despair,

And drive the camel than purvey the bear.

'[The famous hymn, ascribed to Callistratus : — "Cover'd with myrtle-wreaths. I '11 wear my sword Like brave Harmodius, and his patriot friend Aristogeiton, who the laws restored. The tyrant slew, and bade oppressfon end," &c. &c] 1 [tot the first authentic account of the Russian Intrigues


But not alone within the hoariest clime
Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time,
And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd
Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud,
The dawn revives: renown'd, romantic Spain
Holds back the invader from her soil again.
Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde
Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword;
Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth
Pollute the plains, aUke abhorring both;
Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears
The warlike fathers of a thousand years.
That seed Is sown and reap'd, as oft the Moor
Sighs to remember on his dusky shore.
Long in the peasant's song or poet's page
Has dwelt the memory of Abencerrage;
The Zegrl, and the captive victors, flung
Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung.
But these arc gone — their faith, their swords, their

Vet left more anti-christian foes than they;

The bigot monarch and the butcher priest,

The Inquisition, with her burning feast,

The faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel,

While sate the catholic Moloch, calmly cruel,

Enjoying, with inexorable eye,

That fiery festival of agony 1

The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both

By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth:

The long degenerate noble; the debased

Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced,

But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm;

The once proud navy which forgot the helm;

The once impervious phalanx disarray'd;

The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade;

The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore,

Save hers who earn'd it with the natives' gore j

The very language which might vie with Rome's,

And once was known to nations like their homes,

Neglected or forgotten: — such was Spain;

But such she is not, nor shall be again.

These worst, these home Invaders, felt and feci

The new Numantine soul of old Castile.

Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor!

The bull of Phalaris renews his roar;

Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo! not in vain

Revive the cry —" Iago ! and close Spain!"'

Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round,

And form the barrier which Napoleon found,—

The exterminating war, the desert plain.

The streets without a tenant, save the slain;

The wild sierra, with its wilder troop

Of vulture-plumed guerrillas, on the stoop

For their incessant prey; the desperate wall

Of Saragossa, migiitiest in her fall;

The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid

Waving her more than Amazonian blade;4

The knife of Arragon >, Toledo's steel;

The famous lance of chivalrous Castile;

The unerring rifle of the Catalan;

The Andaiusian courser In the van;

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The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid;

And In each heart the spirit of the Cid: —

Such have been, such shall be, such arc. Advance,

And win—not Spain, but thine own freedom, France!


But lo! a Congress! I What I that hallow'd name

Which freed the Atlantic? May we hope the same

For outwom Europe? With the sound arise,

Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes,

The prophets of young Freedom, summon'd far

From climes of Washington and Bolivar;

Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes,

Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; «

And stoic Franklin's energetic shade,

Robed in the lightnings which his hand allay'd;

And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake,

To bid us blush for these old chains, or break.

But who compose this senate of the few

That should redeem the many? IVho renew

This consecrated name, till now assign'd

To councils held to benefit mankind?

Who now assemble at the holy call?

The blest Alliance, which says three arc all!

An earthly trinity ! which wears the shape

Of heaven's, as man is mlmick'd by the ape.

A pious unity ! in purpose one—

To melt three fools to a Napoleon.

Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these;

Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees,

And, quiet in their kennel or their shed,

Cared little, so that they were duly fed;

But these, more hungry, must have something more,

The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore.

Ah! how much happier were good ^Esop's frogs

Than we I for ours are animated logs,

With ponderous malice swaying to and fro,

And crushing nations with a stupid blow;

All duly anxious to leave little work

Dnto the revolutionary stork.


Thrice blest Verona! since the holy three
With their imperial presence shine on thee j
Honour'd by them, thy treacherous site forgets
The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets;" *
Thy Scaligers—for what was " Dog the Great,"
"Can Grande V (which I venture to translate,)

1 [The Congress of the Sovereigns of Russia, Austria. Prussia, &c. &c. Ac. which assembled at Verona, in the autumn of 1832.]

5 [Patrick Henry, of Virginia, a leading member of the American Congress, died in June, 1797. Lord Byron alludes to his famous speech in 1765, in which, on saying, " Cipsar had his Brutus — Charles the First had his Cromwell — and George the Third —" Henry was interrupted with a shout or " Treason ! treason I I" — but coolly linished the sentence with —" George the Third may profit by their example."]

9 [" I have been over Verona. The amphitheatre is wonderful — beats even Greece. Of the truth of Juliet's story, they seem tenacious to a degree, Insisting on the fact—giving a date (1303), and showing a tomb. It is a plain, open, and partly decayed sarcophagus, with withered leaves In ft, in a wild and desolate conventual garden, once a cemetery, now ruined to the very graves. The situation struck me as very appropriate to the legend, being blighted as their love. I have brought away a few pieces of the granite, to give to my daughter and my nieces. The Gothic monuments of the Scaiiger princes pleased me, but' a poor virtuoso am 1.' "— Byron Letters, Ivor. 1816.]

4 [Cane I. Delia Scala, sumamed the Great, died in 1329: he was the protector of Dante, who celebrated him as " 11 Gran Lombardo."]

To these sublimer pugs 1 Thy poet too,

Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new; *

Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate;

And Dante's exile shelter'd by thy gate;

Thy good old man, whose world was all within

Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in: s

Would that the royal guests it girds about

Were so fiir like, as never to get out i

Ay, shout I inscribe ! rear monuments of shame,

To tell Oppression that the world is tame 1

Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage,

The comedy is not upon the stage;

The show is rich in ribandry and stars,

Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars;

Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy,

For thus much still thy fetter'd hands are free!


Resplendent sight! Behold the coxcomb Czar,'

The autocrat of waltzes and of war 1

As eager for a plaudit as a realm.

And just as fit for flirting as the helm;

A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit,

And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit;

Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw.

But harden'd back whene'er the morning's raw;

With no objection to true liberty.

Except that it would make the nations free.

How well the imperial dandy prates of peace!

How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece!

How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet,

Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet!

How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine,

With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain!

How royally show off in proud Madrid

His goodly person, from the South long hid:

A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows,

By having Muscovites for friends or foes.

Proceed, thou namesake of great Philip's son!

La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on;

And that which Scythia was to him of yore

Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore.

Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth,

Thy predecessor on the banks of Prutb;

Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine,

Many an old woman, but no Catherine. •

Spain, too, hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles —

The bear may rush into the lion's toils.

5 [Verona has been distinguished as the cradle of Bust/ Illustrious men. There is one still living:

Per cui la fama in te chiara risuona Egregta, eccelsa, alma Verona,— I mean Ippollto Plndemonte, a poet who has caught a portkr. of that sun whose sotting beams yet gild the honson of Italy His rural pieces, for their chaste style of colouring, taar repose, and their keeping, may bo said to be in poetry, what the landscape* of Claude Lorraine are in picture. — Hose]

6 [Claudian's famous old man of Verona, ** qui suburtfaoi nunquam egressus est."—The Latin verses are beauiruJy Imitated by Cowley: —

** Happy the man who his whole life doth bound
Within tlT enclosure of his little ground:
Happy the man whom the same humble place
(To hereditary cottage of his race)
From his first rising infancy has known.
And, by degrees, sees gently bending <T
With natural propensfou, to that earth
Which both preserved his life and gave him birth.
Him no false distant lights, by Fortune set.
Could ever into foolish wanderings get;
No change of Consuls marks to him the vear:
The change of seasons is his calendar," Jfcc ±c]
'[The Emperor Alexander ; who died in 1825.]
« The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (a

Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; >

Thmk'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields?

Better reclaim thy deserts, turn thy swords

To ploughshares, shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes,

Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout,

Than follow headlong in the fatal route,

To infest the clime whose" skies and laws are pure

With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure:

Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe;

Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago;

And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey?

Alas! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey.

I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun

Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun;

But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander

Rather a worm than such an Alexander!

| Be slaves who will, the cynic shall be free;

j Bis tub hath tougher walls than Sinope:
Still will he hold his lantern up to scan
The face of monarchs for an " honest man."


And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land Of Jk plus ultra ultras and their band ; Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers I And tribune, which each orator first clambers Before he finds a voice, and when't is found. Heart " the lie" echo for his answer round? Our British Commons sometimes deign to " hear!" A Gallic senate hath more tongue than ear; 'Eren Constant, their sole master of debate, Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. But this costs little to true Franks, who'd rather Combat than listen, were it to their father. What is the simple standing of a shot, To listening long, and interrupting not? Though this was not the method of old Rome, When Tully fulmlned o'er each vocal dome, Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction, In saying eloquence meant " Action, action!"


But where's the monarch 1 bath he dined ? or yet

Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt?

Hare revolutionary pates risen,

And tura'd the royal entrails to a prison?

Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops?

Or have no movements follow'd traitorous soups?

Have Carbonaro 4 cooks not carbonadoed

Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded

Repletion? Ah ! In thy dejected looks

I read all France's treason In her cooks I

Good classic Louis I Is it, canst thou say,

Desirable to be the " Desire?"

Great by courtesy), when surrounded by the Mussulmans ou tilt banks of the river t'ruth.

1 [" Eight thousand men had to Asturlas march'd
Beneath Count Julian's banner; the remains
Of that brave army Which in Africa
So well against the Mussulman made head,
Till tense of injuries insupportable.
And raging thirst of vengeance, overthrew
Their leader's noble spirit. To revenge
His quarrel, twice that number left their bones,
Slain In unnatural battle on the field
Of Xeret. where the sceptre from the Goths
By righteous Heaven was reft."—Suuthey't Roderick.]

'[According to Botta, the Neapolitan republicans who, •tarts*- the reign of King Joachim, fled to the recesses of the Atrotxl, and there formed a secret confederacy, were the srit that assumed the designation, since familiar all over hair, of" Carbonari" (colliers).]

Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode,'

Apician table, and Horatlan ode,

To rule a people who will not be ruled,

And love much rather to be scourged than school'd?

Ah 1 thine was not the temper or the taste

For thrones ; the table sees thee better placed;

A mild Epicurean, form'd, at best,

To be a kind host and as good a guest,

To talk of letters, and to know by heart

One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art:

A scholar always, now and then a wit,

And gentle when digestion may permit; —

But not to govern lands enslaved or free;

The gout was martyrdom enough for thee.


Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase
From a bold Briton In her wonted praise?
"Arts—arms—and George — and glory—and the
Isles —

And happy Britain—wealth—and Freedom's smiles—
White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof—
Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof—
Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curl'd,
That nose, the hook where he suspends the world !*

And Waterloo—and trade—and (hush 1 not yet

A syllable of Imposts or of debt)

And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,
Whose penknife slit a goose-quill t'other day —
And ' pilots who have weather'd every storm' *—
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name Re-

These are the themes thus sung so oft before,
Methinks we need not sing them any more;
Found in so many volumes far and near,
There's no occasion you should find them here.
Yet something may remain perchance to chime
With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme.
Even this thy genius. Canning ! may permit,
Who, bred a statesman, still wast born a wit,
And never, even in that dull House, couldst tame
To unleaven'd prose thine own poetic flame;
Our last, our best, our only orator,6
Even I can praise thee— Tories do no more:
Nay, not so much;—they hate thee, man, because
Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes.
The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo,
And where he leads the duteous pack will follow;
But not for love mistake their yelling cry;
Their yelp for game Is not an eulogy;
Less faithful far than the four-footed pack,
A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back.

* [Hartwell, in Buckinghamshire—the residence of Louis XVIII., during the latter years of the Emigration.]

4 "Naso suspendlt adunco."—Horace.

The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to hit acquaintance.

» [" The Pilot that weather'd the storm" it the burthen of a song, in honour of Pitt, by Mr. Canning.]

* [" I have never heard any one who fulfilled my Ideal of an orator. Grattan would have been near it. but for his harlequin delivery. Pitt 1 never heard — Fox but once: anil then he struck me as a debater, which to me seems as different from an orator as an improvisatore or a versifier from a pi>et. Grey is great, hut it is not oratory. Canning is sometimes very like one. Whltbread was the Demosthenes of bad taste and vulgar vehemence, but strong, and English. Holland Is impressive from tense and sincerity. Burdett is sweet and silvery as Belial himsolf, and. I think, the greatett favourite in Pandemonium."—Byron Diary, 1821.]

Thy saddle-girths arc not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ;1
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 car of grain?
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus j his vices
Destroy'd but realms, and still malntain'd your

He amplified to every lord's content

The grand agrarian alchymy, hight 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 reclaimed to most improving land?

The impatient hope of the expiring lease?

The doubling rental? What an evil's peace 1

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.

Sec these inglorious Cincinnati swarm,

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? for rent!

Year after year they voted cent, per cent., [rent I

Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions—why ? for

George the Fourth, or of tho high Toriei in the cabinet. He liVcd to verify some of the predictions of the poet—to

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 mUs.tcnt,
How reconcile? by reconciling rent I
And will they not repay the treasures lent?
No: down with every thing, and up with rent!
Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent.
Being, end, aim, religion—rent, rent, rent!
Thou sold'st thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess;
Thou shnuldst 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

And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash 1
So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall.
And found on 'Change a Fundling Hospital?
Lo! Mother Church, while all religion writhes,
Mkc 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 seif-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,
TBI 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 f


Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks.
The new Symplcgadcs — the crushing Stocks,
Where Midas might again his wish behold
In real paper or imagined gold.
That magic palace of Alclna shows
More wealth than Britain ever had to lose,
Were all her atoms of unleavcn'd ore,
And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore.
There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the

And the world trembles to bid brokers
How rich Is Britain ! not indeed In
Or peace or plenty, com 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
And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own;
All states, all things, all sovereigns they control.
And waft a loan " from Indus to the pore."
The banker— broker— baron " — brethren, speed
To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need.

abandon the foreign policy of hi* predecessor -
the Tory party by a coalition with the Whirt-
pare the way for Reform In Parliament.]

- [The head of the Itluctrlous boose of usually been designated "le premier biro ancestor baring, it is supposed, been the ArU

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