To say nothing of all the wonders done Though strange these things, to mind and sense, Just go to her Majesty's Treasury, And that wave of the hand no soul resists, Not all its witcheries can compete With the friendly beckon towards Downing Street, Thus acted upon, above himself;- These effects observe, (with which I begin,) That, in short-not to mince his situation- Ever since the fatal day which saw That "pass" 233 perform'd on this Lord of Law- As it sent Harry Brougham to the right about- This wondrous change by outward survey; That's turn'd completely topsy-turvy:- Of a man in whose inside, when disclosed, The liver placed where the heart should be, And the spleen (like Brougham's, since laid on the An immortal old clothes-box, in which the great shelf) As diseased and as much out of place as himself. Grotius When suffering, in prison, for views heterodox, Was pack'd up incog., spite of jailers ferocious,237 And sent to his wife,298 carriage free, in a Box! But the fame of old Hugo now rests on the shelf, Since a rival hath risen that all parallel mocks ;That Grotius ingloriously saved but himself, While ours saves the whole British realm by a Box! And oh when, at last, even this greatest of Grotes Must bend to the Power that at every door knocks,299 May he drop in the urn like his own "silent votes," And the tomb of his rest be a large Ballot-Box. While long at his shrine, both from county and city, Shall pilgrims triennially gather in flocks, And sing, while they whimper, th' appropriate ditty, "Oh breathe not his name, let it sleep-in the Box." ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA. ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ. WHEN erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue Now in th' Old Bailey-lay meandering, In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em, Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em! Never, in short, did parallel Betwixt two heroes gee so well; And, among the points in which they fit, RIVAL TOPICS.242 AN EXTRAVAGANZA. OH Wellington and Stephenson, With these two heroes' capers? Still doom'd, from rise to set of sun, If down my Lord goes, down go we, As already doth Graham of Netherby! And a foolish lad was that only one, And Sir Thomas said, one day, to his wife, "My dear,an't but wish you joy, "For you pray'd for a boy, and you now have a boy, "Who'll continue a boy to the end of his life." Even such is our own distressing lot, And ourselves to witness it heaven condemn, We shall find him a sort of cub Old Parr, And, day and night, with awe I recall The late Mr Mathews' solemn prediction, "That boy'll be the death, the death of you all." THE BOY STATESMAN. BY A TORY. "That boy will be the death of me."-Mathews at Home. Aн, Tories dear, our ruin is near, With Stanley to help us, we can't but fall; Already a warning voice I hear, Like the late Charles Mathews' croak in my ear, "That boy-that boy'll be the death of you all." He will, God help us!-not even Scriblerius In the "Art of Sinking" his match could be; And our case is growing exceeding serious, For, all being in the same boat as he, LETTER FROM LARRY O'BRANIGAN TO THE REV. MURTHAGH O'MULLIGAN. ARRAH, where were you, Murthagh, that beautiful day?— Or, how came it your riverence was laid on the shelf, When that poor craythur, Bobby-as you were away Had to make twice as big a Tom-fool of himself. Throth, it wasn't at all civil to lave in the lurch A boy so desarving your tindh'rest affection;— Two such illigant Siamase twins of the Church, As Bob and yourself, ne'er should cut the connection. That parsons should forge thus appears mighty odd, And (as if somethin'"odd" in their names, too, must be,) One forger, of ould, was a riverend Dod, Thus making, from father to son, a good trade of it, Poisoners by right, (so no more could be said of it,) The cooks, like our lordships, a pretty mess made of it; While, famed for conservative stomachs, th' Egyptians Without a wry face bolted all the prescriptions. It is true, we've among us some peers of the past, Who keep pace with the present most awfully fastFruits, that ripen beneath the new light now arising With speed that to us, old conserves, is surprising, Conserves, in whom-potted, for grandmamma uses "Twould puzzle a sunbeam to find any juices. 'Tis true, too, I fear, midst the general movement, Ev'n our House, God help it, is doom'd to improvement, And all its live furniture, nobly descended, But sadly worn out, must be sent to be mended. With moveables 'mong us, like Brougham and like Durham, No wonder ev'n fixtures should learn to bestir 'em; While a riverend Todd's now his match, to a T.245 And, distant, ye gods, be that terrible day, ""Tis fit that in this question, we "Stick each to his own art“That yours should be the sophistry, "And mine the fighting part. "My creed, I need not tell you, is "Like that of Wellington, "To whom no harlot comes amiss, "Save her of Babylon; 247 "And when we're at a loss for words, "If laughing reasoners flout us, "For lack of sense we'll draw our swords"The sole thing sharp about us.”— "Dear bold dragoon," the bishop said, ""Tis true for war thou art meant; "And reasoning-bless that dandy head! "Is not in thy department. "So leave the argument to me— "And, when my holy labor "Hath lit the fires of bigotry, "Thou'lt poke them with thy sabre. "From pulpit and from sentry-box, "We'll make our joint attacks, |