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
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;
His tub hath tougher walls than Sinopè:
Still will he hold his lanthorn up to scan
The face of monarchs for an « honest man. »
And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land
Of ne plus ultra Ultras and their band
Of mercenaries? and her noisy chambers
And tribune, which each orator first clambers
Before he finds a voice, and when 't is found,
Hears « the lie» echo for his answer round!
Our British Commons sometimes deign to hear;
A Gallic Senate hath more tongue
than ear;
Even Constant, their sole master of debate,
Must fight next day his speech to vindicate.
But this costs little to true Franks, who had 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 fulmined o'er each vocal dome,
Demosthenes has sanction'd the transaction,
In saying eloquence meant « Action, action!»
But where's the monarch? hath he dined? or yet
Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt?
Have revolutionary patès risen,
And turn'd the royal entrails to a prison?
Have discontented movements stirr'd the troops;
Or have no movements follow'd trait'rous soups?
Have carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed
Each course enough? or doctors dire dissuaded
Repletion? Ah, in thy dejected looks
I read all France's treasons in her cooks!
Good classic L! is it, canst thou say,
Desirable to be the « Désiré? »
Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's
Apician table and Horatian ode,
To rule a people who will not be ruled,
And love much rather to be scourged than school'd?
Ah! 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!7
And Waterloo-and trade-and--(hush! not yet
A syllable of imposts or of debt)-
And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh,
Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quill t'other day-
And 'pilots who have weather'd every storm'—
(But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform). »
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 was born a wit,
a Were the lamented Bard still living, what would he now say of Canning and of England?—of that sacred and natural alliance which so happily subsists between a patriot, paternal, and enlightened government, and a free, grateful, and prosperous people? It may truly be said of Canning, that he has saved England by his firmness, and that the rest of Europe would be saved if other statesmen would follow his example. (Note of the Editor.)
And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame
To unleaven❜d prose thine own poetic flame;
Our last, our best, our only orator,
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.
Thy saddle-girths are not yet quite secure,
Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure;
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 shews 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 ear of grain?
Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign?
He was your great Triptolemus; his vices
Destroy'd but realms, and still maintain'd your prices;
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 reclaim'd to most improving land?
The impatient hope of the expiring lease?
The doubling rental? What an evil's peace!
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;
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