The helpless victim for whose blood they lusted, Then, and then only, monarchs may be trusted.

Then was, indeed, an hour of joy to those
Who sigh'd for justice-liberty-repose,
And hoped the fall of one great vulture's nest
Would ring its warning round, and scare the rest.
All then was bright with promise ;-Kings began
To own a sympathy with suff'ring Man,
And Man was grateful! Patriots of the South
Caught wisdom from a Cossack Emperor's mouth,
And heard, like accents thaw'd in Northern air,
Unwonted words of freedom burst forth there!

Who did not hope, in that triumphant time,
When monarchs, after years of spoil and crime,
Met round the shrine of Peace, and Heav'n look'd

on,

46

Who did not hope the lust of spoil was gone; That that rapacious spirit, which had play'd The game of Pilnitz o'er so oft, was laid; And Europe's Rulers, conscious of the past, Would blush, and deviate into right at last? But no-the hearts, that nursed a hope so fair, Had yet to learn what men on thrones can dare; Had yet to know, of all earth's rav'ning things, The only quite untameable are Kings! Scarce had they met, when, to its nature true, The instinct of their race broke out anew; Promises, treaties, charters, all were vain, AndRapine! rapine!" was the cry again. How quick they carved their victims, and how well, Let Saxony, let injured Genoa tell;-Let all the human stock that, day by day, Was, at that Royal slave-mart, truck'd away,— The million souls that, in the face of heaven, Were split to fractions, barter'd, sold, or given To swell some despot Power, too huge before, And weigh down Europe with one Mammoth more. How safe the faith of Kings let France decide;Her charter broken, ere its ink had dried-Her Press enthrall'd-her Reason mock'd again With all the monkery it had spurn'd in vain; Her crown disgraced by one, who dared to own He thank'd not France but England for his throne; Her triumphs cast into the shade by those, Who had grown old among her bitterest foes, And now return'd, beneath her conqu'rors' shields, Unblushing slaves! to claim her heroes' fields; To tread down every trophy of her fame, And curse that glory which to them was shame! Let these-let all the damning deeds, that then, Were dared through Europe, cry aloud to men, With voice like that of crashing ice that rings Round Alpine huts, the perfidy of Kings; And tell the world, when hawks shall harmless bear The shrinking dove, when wolves shall learn to spare

It could not last-these horrors could not last-
France would herself have ris'n, in might, to cast
Th' insulters off-and oh! that then, as now,
Chain'd to some distant islet's rocky brow,
NAPOLEON ne'er had come to force, to blight,
Ere half matured, a cause so proudly bright;—
To palsy patriot hearts with doubt and shame,
And write on Freedom's flag a despot's name ;-
To rush into the lists, unask'd, alone,

And make the stake of all the game of one!
Then would the world have seen again what pow'r
A people can put forth in Freedom's hour;
Then would the fire of France once more have
blazed ;-

For every single sword, reluctant raised
In the stale cause of an oppressive throne,
Millions would then have leap'd forth in her own,
And never, never had th' unholy stain
Of Bourbon feet disgraced her shores again.

But fate decreed not so-th' Imperial Bird,
That, in his neighboring eage, unfear'd, unstirr'd,
Had seem'd to sleep with head beneath his wing,
Yet watch'd the moment for a daring spring;—
Well might he watch, when deeds were done, that
made

His own transgressions whiten in their shade;
Well might he hope a world, thus trampled o'er
By clumsy tyrants, would be his once more:-
Forth from his cage the eagle burst to light,
From steeple on to steeple" wing'd his flight,
With calm and easy grandeur, to that throne
From which a Royal craven just had flown;
And resting there, as in his eyry, furl'd
Those wings, whose very rustling shook the world!

What was your fury then, ye crown'd array,
Whose feast of spoil, whose plund'ring holiday
Was thus broke up, in all its greedy mirth,
By one bold chieftain's stamp on Gallic earth!
Fierce was the cry, and fulminant the ban,-
"Assassinate, who will-enchain, who can,
"The vile, the faithless, outlaw'd, low-born man!"
“Faithless!”—and this from you-from you, for-
sooth,

Ye pious Kings, pure paragons of truth,
Whose honesty all knew, for all had tried;
Whose true Swiss zeal had served on every side;
Whose fame for breaking faith so long was known,
Well might ye claim the craft as all your own,
And lash your lordly tails, and fume to see
Such low-born apes of Royal perfidy!

Yes-yes-to you alone did it belong
To sin for ever, and yet ne'er do wrong—
The frauds, the lies of Lords legitimate
Are but fine policy, deep strokes of state;
But let some upstart dare to soar so high
In Kingly craft, and "outlaw" is the cry!
What, though long years of mutual treachery'
Had peopled full your diplomatic shelves
With ghosts of treaties, murder'd 'mong your-
selves;

Though each by turns was knave and dupe-what then?

A Holy League would set all straight again;
Like JUNO's virtue, which a dip or two

In some blest fountain made as good as new!"
Most faithful Russia-faithful to whoe'er
Could plunder best, and give him amplest share;
Who, ev'n when vanquish'd, sure to gain his ends,
For want of foes to rob, made free with friends,"
And, deepening still by amiable gradations,
When foes were stripp'd of all, then fleeced rela-
tions !50

Most mild and saintly Prussia-steep'd to th' ears
In persecuted Poland's blood and tears,
And now, with all her harpy wings outspread
O'er sever'd Saxony's devoted head!
Pure Austria too-whose hist'ry naught repeats
But broken leagues and subsidized defeats;
Whose faith, as Prince, extinguish'd Venice shows,
Whose faith, as man, a widow'd daughter knows!
And thou, oh England-who, though once as shy
As cloister'd maids, of shame or perfidy,
Art now broke in, and, thanks to CASTLEREAGH,
In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop. Let us see-in my last I was-where did I stop? Oh, I know-at the Boulevards, as motley a road as Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon; With its cafés and gardens, hotels and pagodas,

Its founts, and old Counts sipping beer in the sun: With its houses of all architectures you please, From the Grecian and Gothie, DICK, down by degrees

In virtuous frenzy to th' assassin's knife.
Disgusting crew!—who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-faced tyranny,
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,
From the false, juggling craft of men like these,
Their canting crimes and varnish'd villanies;
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honor, when they've stain'd them
most;

From whose affection men should shrink as loath
As from their hate, for they'll be fleeced by both;
Who, ev'n while plund'ring, forge Religion's name
To frank their spoil, and, without fear or shame,
Call down the Holy Trinity" to bless
Partition leagues and deeds of devilishness!
But hold-enough-soon would this swell of rage
O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page ;-

Where in temples antique you may breakfast or

dinner it,

Lunch at a mosque, and see Punch from a minaret.
Then, DICK, the mixture of bonnets and bow'rs,
Of foliage and fripp'ry, fiacres and flow'rs,
Green-grocers, green gardens-one hardly knows

whether

"Tis country or town, they're so mess'd up together! And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclined under trees;

Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,

Enjoying their news and groseille" in those arbors; While gayly their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling. And founts of red currant-juice round them are purling.

While to his case a tear I dropp`d,

And saunter'd home, thought I—ye gods! How many heads might thus be swopp'd.

And after all, not make much odds!
For instance, there's VANSITTART's head-
(Tam carum" it may well be said)
If by some curious chance it came

To settle on BILL SOAMES'S" shoulders,
Th' effect would turn out much the same
On all respectable cash-holders:
Except that while, in its new socket,

The head was planning schemes to win A zig-zag way into one's pocket,

The hands would plunge directly in.

Good Viscount SIDMOUTH, too, instead
Of his own grave, respected head,
Might wear (for aught I see that bars)

Old Lady WILHELMINA FRUMP'S—
So while the hand sign'd Circulars,

The head might lisp out, "What is trumps?"-
The REGENT's brains could we transfer
To some robust man-milliner,

The shop, the shears, the lace, and ribbon
Would go, I doubt not, quite as glib on;
And, vice versâ, take the pains

To give the PRINCE the shopman's brains,
One only change from thence would flow,
Ribbons would not be wasted so.

"Twas thus I ponder'd on, my Lord;

And, ev'n at night, when laid in bed,

I found myself, before I snored,

Thus chopping, swopping head for head.
At length I thought, fantastic elf!
How such a change would suit myself.
"Twixt sleep and waking, one by one,
With various pericraniums saddled,
At last I tried your Lordship's on,

And then I grew completely addled-
Forgot all other heads, od rot 'em!
And slept, and dreamt that I was—BOTTOM.

Aug. 21.
Walk'd out with daughter BID-was shown
The house of Commons, and the Throne,
Whose velvet cushion's just the same"
NAPOLEON Sat on-what a shame!
Oh, can we wonder, best of speechers,
When Louis seated thus we see,
That France's "fundamental features"
Are much the same they used to be!
However, God preserve the Throne,
And cushion too-and keep them free
From accidents, which have been known
To happen ev'n to Royalty!75

Aug. 28.

Read, at a stall (for oft one pops
On something at these stalls and shops,
That does to quote, and gives one's Book
A classical and knowing look.——
Indeed I've found, in Latin, lately,
A course of stalls improves me greatly)—
'Twas thus I read, that, in the East,

A monarch's fat's a serious matter;
And once in ev'ry year, at least,

He's weigh'd-to see if he gets fatter:7 Then, if a pound or two he be Increased, there's quite a jubilee!"

Suppose, my Lord—and far from me
To treat such things with levity-
But just suppose the REGENT's weight
Were made thus an affair of state;
And, ev'ry sessions, at the close,-

'Stead of a speech, which all can see, is
Heavy and dull enough, God knows--
We were to try how heavy he is.
Much would it glad all hearts to hear
That, while the Nation's Revenue
Loses so many pounds a year,

The Prince, God bless him! gains a few.

With bales of muslin, chintzes, spices,

I see the Easterns weigh their Kings;—

But, for the REGENT, my advice is,

We should throw in much heavier things: For instance — -'s quarto volumes,

Which, though not spices, serve to wrap them; Dominie STODDART'S Daily columns,

"Prodigious!"-in, of course, we'd clap themLetters, that CARTWRIGHT's" pen indites,

In which, with logical confusion,
The Major like a Minor writes,

And never comes to a Conclusion:-
Lord SOMERS' pamphlet—or his head---
(Ah, that were worth its weight in lead!)
Along with which we in may whip, sly,
The Speeches of Sir JOHN COX HIPPESLY;
That Baronet of many words,

Who loves so, in the House of Lords,
To whisper Bishops-and so nigh

Unto their wigs in whisp'ring goes,
That you may always know him by

A patch of powder on his nose!-
If this won't do, we in must cram
The "Reasons" of Lord BUCKINGHAM;
(A Book his Lordship means to write,

Entitled "Reasons for my Ratting :")
Or, should these prove too small and light,

His rump's a host-we'll bundle that in'