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(MARCH 1828.)

"Quid faciat lætas segetes," &c.

How cabinets are form'd, and how destroy'd,
How Tories are confirm'd, and Whigs decoy'd,
How in nice times a prudent man should vote,
At what conjuncture he should turn his coat,
The truths fallacious, and the candid lies,
And all the lore of sleek majorities,
I sing, great Premier. O, mysterious two,
Lords of our fate, the Doctor and the Jew,
If, by your care enriched, the aspiring clerk
Quits the close alley for the breezy park,
And Dolly's chops and Reid's entire resigns
For odorous fricassees and costly wines;

And you, great pair, through Windsor's shades who rove,
The Faun and Dryad of the conscious grove;

All, all inspire me, for of all I sing,

Doctor and Jew, and M

-s and K


Thou, to the maudlin muse of Rydal dear;

Thou more than Neptune, Lowther, lend thine ear.
At Neptune's voice the horse, with flowing mane
And pawing hoof, sprung from th' obedient plain;
But at thy word the yawning earth, in fright,
Engulf'd the victor steed from mortal sight.
Haste from thy woods, mine Arbuthnot, with speed,
Rich woods, where lean Scotch cattle love to feed :

Let Gaffer Gooch and Boodle's patriot band,
Fat from the leanness of a plundered land,
True Cincinnati, quit their patent ploughs,
Their new steam-harrows, and their premium sows;
Let all in bulky majesty appear,

Roll the dull eye, and yawn th' unmeaning cheer.
Ye veteran Swiss, of senatorial wars,

Who glory in your well-earned sticks and stars;
Ye diners-out from whom we guard our spoons;
Ye smug defaulters; ye obscene buffoons;
Come all, of every race and size and form,
Corruption's children, brethren of the worm;
From those gigantic monsters who devour
The pay of half a squadron in an hour,

-and P―;

To those foul reptiles, doomed to night and scorn,
Of filth and stench equivocally born;
From royal tigers down to toads and lice;
From Bathursts, Clintons, Fanes, to H-
Thou last, by habit and by nature blest
With every gift which serves a courtier best,
The lap-dog spittle, the hyæna bile,
The maw of shark, the tear of crocodile,
Whate'er high station, undetermined yet,
Awaits thee in the longing Cabinet,—
Whether thou seat thee in the room of Peel,
Or from Lord Prig extort the Privy Seal,
Or our Field-marshal-Treasurer fix on thee,
A legal admiral, to rule the sea,

Or Chancery-suits, beneath thy well-known reign,
Turn to their nap of fifty years again;

(Already L, prescient of his fate,

Yields half his woolsack to thy mightier weight;)
O! Eldon, in whatever sphere thou shine,
For opposition sure will ne'er be thine,
Though scowls apart the lonely pride of Grey,
Though Devonshire proudly flings his staff away,
Though Lansdowne, trampling on his broken chain,
Shine forth the Lansdowne of our hearts again.
Assist me thou; for well I deem, I see
An abstract of my ample theme in thee.

Thou, as thy glorious self hath justly said,
From earliest youth, wast pettifogger bred,
And, raised to power by fortune's fickle will,
Art head and heart a pettifogger still.

So, where once Fleet ditch ran confessed, we view
A crowded mart and stately avenue;

But the black stream beneath runs on the same,

Still brawls in W—'s key,—still stinks like H-'s


VOL. VII.-14*



(Published in the "Winter's Wreath," Liverpool, 1828.

"Le corde d'oro elette," &c.

THE chords, the sacred chords of gold,
Strike, oh Muse, in measure bold;

And frame a sparkling wreath of joyous songs
For that great God to whom revenge belongs.
Who shall resist his might,
Who marshals for the fight

Earthquake and thunder, hurricane and flame?
He smote the haughty race

Of unbelieving Thrace,

And turned their rage to fear, their pride to shame.
He looked in wrath from high,


Upon their vast array;
And, in the twinkling of an eye,
Tambour, and trump, and battle-cry,
And steeds, and turbaned infantry,

Passed like a dream away.

power defends the mansions of the just:
But, like a city without walls,

The grandeur of the mortal falls

Who glories in his strength, and makes not God his trust.

The proud blasphemers thought all earth their own;
They deemed that soon the whirlwind of their ire

Would sweep down tower and palace, dome and spire, The Christian altars and the Augustan throne.

And soon, they cried, shall Austria bow
To the dust her lofty brow.

The princedoms of Almayne

Shall wear the Phrygian chain;

In humbler waves shall vassal Tiber roll;
And Rome, a slave forlorn,

Her laurelled tresses shorn,

Shall feel our iron in her inmost soul.
Who shall bid the torrent stay?
Who shall bar the lightning's way?
Who arrest the advancing van
Of the fiery Ottoman ?

As the curling smoke wreaths fly
When fresh breezes clear the sky,
Passed away each swelling boast
Of the misbelieving host.
From the Hebrus rolling far
Came the murky cloud of war,
And in shower and tempest dread
Burst on Austria's fenceless head.
But not for vaunt or threat
Didst Thou, O Lord, forget

The flock so dearly bought, and loved so well.
Even in the very hour

Of guilty pride and power

Full on the circumcised Thy vengeance fell.
Then the fields were heaped with dead,
Then the streams with gore were red,

And every bird of prey, and every beast,
From wood and cavern thronged to Thy great feast.

What terror seized the fiends obscene of Nile!
How wildly, in his place of doom beneath,
Arabia's lying prophet gnashed his teeth,

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