Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore, And thus for wider carnage taught to pant, Transferr'd to gorge upon a sister sh.o.r.e, The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want, With just enough of talent, and no more, To lengthen fetters by another fix'd.

And offer poison long already mix'd.

XIII.

An orator of such set trash of phrase Ineffably--legitimately vile, That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise, Nor foes--all nations--condescend to smile; Not even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil, That turns and turns to give the world a notion Of endless torments and perpetual motion.

XIV.

A bungler even in its disgusting trade, And botching, patching, leaving still behind Something of which its masters are afraid, States to be curb'd, and thoughts to be confined, Conspiracy or Congress to be made-- Cobbling at manacles for all mankind-- A tinkering slave-maker, who mends old chains, With G.o.d and man's abhorrence for its gains.

XV.

If we may judge of matter by the mind, Emasculated to the marrow _It_ Hath but two objects, how to serve, and bind, Deeming the chain it wears even men may fit, Eutropius of its many masters,--blind To worth as freedom, wisdom as to wit, Fearless--because _no_ feeling dwells in ice, Its very courage stagnates to a vice.

XVI.

Where shall I turn me not to _view_ its bonds, For I will never _feel_ them:--Italy!

Thy late reviving Roman soul desponds Beneath the lie this State-thing breathed o'er thee-- Thy clanking chain, and Erin's yet green wounds, Have voices--tongues to cry aloud for me.

Europe has slaves--allies--kings--armies still, And Southey lives to sing them very ill.

XVII.

Meantime, Sir Laureate, I proceed to dedicate, In honest simple verse, this song to you.

And if in flattering strains I do not predicate, 'Tis that I still retain my "buff and blue"; My politics as yet are all to educate: Apostasy's so fashionable, too, To keep _one_ creed's a task grown quite Herculean: Is it not so, my Tory, Ultra-Julian?

VENICE, September 16, 1818.

THOMAS HOOD.

(1798-1845.)

LXI. c.o.c.kLE _v_. CACKLE.

This is not meant as a "cut" at that standard medicine named therein which has wrought such good in its day; but is a satire on quack advertising generally. The more worthless the nostrum, the more universal the advertising of it, such is the moral of Hood's satire.

Those who much read advertis.e.m.e.nts and bills, Must have seen puffs of c.o.c.kle's Pills, Call'd Anti-bilious-- Which some physicians sneer at, supercilious, But which we are a.s.sured, if timely taken, May save your liver and bacon; Whether or not they really give one ease, I, who have never tried, Will not decide; But no two things in union go like these-- Viz.--quacks and pills--save ducks and pease.

Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow, Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow, And friends portended was preparing for A human pate perigord; She was, indeed, so very far from well, Her son, in filial fear, procured a box Of those said pellets to resist bile's shocks, And--tho' upon the ear it strangely knocks-- To save her by a c.o.c.kle from a sh.e.l.l!

But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth, Who very vehemently bids us "throw Bark to the Bow-wows", hated physic so, It seem'd to share "the bitterness of Death": Rhubarb--Magnesia--Jalap, and the kind-- Senna--Steel--a.s.sa-foetida, and Squills-- Powder or Draught--but least her throat inclined To give a course to boluses or pills; No--not to save her life, in lung or lobe, For all her lights' or all her liver's sake, Would her convulsive thorax undertake, Only one little uncelestial globe!

'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case, If she put by the pill-box in a place For linen rather than for drugs intended-- Yet for the credit of the pills let's say After they thus were stow'd away, Some of the linen mended; But Mrs. W. by disease's dint, Kept getting still more yellow in her tint, When lo! her second son, like elder brother, Marking the hue on the parental gills, Brought a new charge of Anti-tumeric Pills, To bleach the jaundiced visage of his mother-- Who took them--in her cupboard--like the other.

"Deeper and deeper still", of course, The fatal colour daily grew in force; Till daughter W. newly come from Rome, Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part, To cure Mamma, another dose brought home Of c.o.c.kles;--not the c.o.c.kles of her heart!

These going where the others went before, Of course she had a very pretty store; And then--some hue of health her cheek adorning, The medicine so good must be, They brought her dose on dose, which she Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, "night and morning".

Till wanting room at last, for other stocks, Out of the window one fine day she pitch'd The pillage of each box, and quite enrich'd The feed of Mister Burrell's hens and c.o.c.ks,-- A little Barber of a by-gone day, Over the way Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops, Was one great head of Kemble,--that is, John, Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on, And twenty little Bantam fowls--with crops.

Little Dame W. thought when through the sash She gave the physic wings, To find the very things So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash, For thoughtless c.o.c.k, and unreflecting pullet!

But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles, Each peck'd itself into a peck of troubles, And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet.

They might as well have addled been, or ratted, For long before the night--ah woe betide The Pills! each suicidal Bantam died Unfatted!

Think of poor Burrel's shock, Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers, And laid in death as Everlasting Layers, With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the c.o.c.k, In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle, Giving, undone by c.o.c.kle, a last Cackle!

To see as stiff as stone, his un'live stock, It really was enough to move his block.

Down on the floor he dash'd, with horror big, Mr. Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig; And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble, Burst out with natural emphasis enough, And voice that grief made tremble, Into that very speech of sad Macduff-- "What!--all my pretty chickens and their dam, At one fell swoop!-- Just when I'd bought a coop To see the poor lamented creatures cram!"

After a little of this mood, And brooding over the departed brood, With razor he began to ope each craw, Already turning black, as black as coals; When lo! the undigested cause he saw-- "Pison'd by goles!"

To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction, Her window still stood open to conviction; And by short course of circ.u.mstantial labour, He fix'd the guilt upon his adverse neighbour;-- Lord! how he rail'd at her: declaring how, He'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary, Then, in another moment, swore a vow, He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory!

She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard, Lapp'd in a paradise of tea and cream; When up ran Betty with a dismal scream-- "Here's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farmyard!"

Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, With all the warmth that iron and a barbe Can harbour; To dress the head and front of her offending, The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking; In short, he made her pay him altogether, In hard cash, very _hard_, for ev'ry feather, Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking; Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple, So the sad dame unpocketing her loss, Had nothing left but to sit hands across, And see her poultry "going down ten couple".

Now birds by poison slain, As venom'd dart from Indian's hollow cane, Are edible; and Mrs. W.'s thrift,-- She had a thrifty vein,-- Destined one pair for supper to make shift,-- Supper as usual at the hour of ten: But ten o'clock arrived and quickly pa.s.s'd, Eleven--twelve--and one o'clock at last, Without a sign of supper even then!

At length the speed of cookery to quicken, Betty was called, and with reluctant feet, Came up at a white heat-- "Well, never I see chicken like them chicken!

My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in 'em!

Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, To flesh and bones, and perfect rags; but drat Those Anti-biling Pills! there is no bile in 'em!"

LORD MACAULAY.

(1800-1859.)

LXII. THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN'S TRIP TO CAMBRIDGE.

This is one of the numerous _jeux d'esprit_ in which Macaulay, in his earlier years, indulged at election times. It was written in 1827.

As I sate down to breakfast in state, At my living of t.i.thing-c.u.m-Boring, With Betty beside me to wait, Came a rap that almost beat the door in.

I laid down my basin of tea, And Betty ceased spreading the toast, "As sure as a gun, sir," said she, "That must be the knock of the Post".

A letter--and free--bring it here, I have no correspondent who franks.

No! yes! can it be? Why, my dear, 'Tis our glorious, our Protestant Bankes.

"Dear sir, as I know you desire That the Church should receive due protection I humbly presume to require Your aid at the Cambridge election.

"It has lately been brought to my knowledge, That the Ministers fully design To suppress each cathedral and college, And eject every learned divine.

To a.s.sist this detestable scheme Three nuncios from Rome are come over; They left Calais on Monday by steam, And landed to dinner at Dover.

"An army of grim Cordeliers, Well furnish'd with relics and vermin, Will follow, Lord Westmoreland fears, To effect what their chiefs may determine.

Lollards' tower, good authorities say, Is again fitting up as a prison; And a wood-merchant told me to-day 'Tis a wonder how f.a.ggots have risen.

"The finance-scheme of Canning contains A new Easter-offering tax: And he means to devote all the gains To a bounty on thumb-screws and racks.

Your living, so neat and compact-- Pray, don't let the news give you pain?

Is promised, I know for a fact, To an olive-faced padre from Spain."

I read, and I felt my heart bleed, Sore wounded with horror and pity; So I flew, with all possible speed, To our Protestant champion's committee.