What was your fury then, ye crown'd array, Whose feast of spoil, whose plundering 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 serv'd 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 yourselves; 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 bless'd 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 stript of all, then fleec'd relations!
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 nought repeats
But broken leagues and subsidiz'd defeats;

* Singulis annis in quodam Atticæ fonte lota virginitatem recuperâsse fingitur.

At the Peace of Tilsit, where he abandoned his ally, Prussia, to France, and received a portion of her territory. The seizure of Finland from his relative of Sweden.

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 C

—GH,

In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits

Th' escape from Elba frighten'd into fits;-
Such were the saints, who doom'd NAPOLEON'S
life,

In virtuous frenzy, to th' assassin's knife.
Disgusting crew!—who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-fac'd 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 honour, when they've stain'd them

most;

-

From whose affection men should shrink as loath As from their hate, for they'll be fleec'd 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
O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;·
So, here I
pause farewell-another day,

rage

Return we to those Lords of pray'r and prey, Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine Deserve a lash-oh! weightier far than mine!

In the

* The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn "thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles;" and commanded that each of them should "swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!"

Which I knew would go smash with me one of these

days,

And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle, We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back Just to order another, by Jove I went crack!Or, as honest Toм said, in his nautical phrase, "D-n my eyes, Boв, in doubling the Cape you've miss'd stays." +

So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them, They're now at the Schneider's‡—and, while he's about them,

* An English tailor at Paris.

† A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in tacking.

The dandy term for a tailor.