Written on hearing that the Austrians had entered Naples.
Carbone Notati!
down to the dust with them, slaves as they are From this hour, let the blood in their dastardly veins, That shrunk at the first touch of Liberty's war,
Be suck'd out by tyrants, or stagnate in chains!
On, on, like a cloud, through their beautiful vales,
Ye locusts of tyranny, blasting them o'er —
Fill, fill up their wide sunny waters, ye sails
From each slave-mart of Europe, and poison their shore!
Let their fate be a mock-word - let men of all lands
Laugh out, with a scorn that shall ring to the poles.
When each sword, that the cowards let fall from their hands,
Shall be forged into fetters to enter their souls!
And deep, and more deep, as the iron is driven,
Base slaves! may the whet of their agony be,
To think as the Damn'd haply think of that heaven
They had once in their reach—that they might have been free!
Shame, shame when there was not a bosom, whose heat
Ever rose o'er the ZERO of
--'s heart,
That did not, like echo, your war-hymn repeat,
And send all its prayers with your Liberty's start
When the world stood in hope when a spirit, that breathed
The fresh air of the olden-time, whisper'd about,
And the swords of all Italy, half-way unsheathed,
But waited one conquering cry to flash out!
When around you the shades of your Mighty in fame,
Filicajas and Petrarchs, seem'd bursting to view,
And their words and their warnings-like tongues of bright flame
Over Freedom's Apostles — fell kindling on you!
Good God, that in such a proud moment of life,
Worth the hist'ry of ages when, had you but hurl'd
One bolt at your bloody invader, that strife
Between freemen and tyrants had spread through the world
oh disgrace upon manhood!
That then
You should falter
even then, should cling to your pitiful breath, Cower down into beasts, when you might have stood men, And prefer the slave's life of damnation to death!
It is strange
shout, Tyranny shout,
Through your dungeons and palaces, "Freedom is o'er!"
If there lingers one spark of her light, tread it out,
And return to your empire of darkness once more.
For, if such are the braggarts that claim to be free,
Come, Despot of Russia, thy feet let me kiss -
Far nobler to live the brute bond-man of thee,
Than to sully e'en chains by a struggle like this!
Paris, 1821.
THE INSURRECTION OF THE PAPERS.
"It would be impossible for His Royal Highness to disengage his person from the accumulating pile of papers that encompassed it." Lord CASTLEREAGH's Speech upon Colonel M' MAHON'S Appointment.
LAST night I toss'd and turn'd in bed,
But could not sleep at length I said,
"I'll think of Viscount C-STL-R-GH,
"And of his speeches — that's the way.”
And so it was, for instantly
I slept as sound as sound could be;
And then I dream’d — oh, frightful dream!
FUSELI has no such theme;
never wrote or borrow'd
Any horror half so horrid!
Methought the P —— B, in whisker'd state,
Before me at his breakfast sate:
On one side lay unread Petitions,
On t'other, Hints from five Physicians
Here tradesmen's bills, official papers,
Notes from my Lady, drams for vapours
There plans of saddles, tea and toast,
Death-warrants and the Morning-Post.
When lo! the Papers, one and all,
As if at some magician's call,
Began to flutter of themselves
From desk and table, floor and shelves,
And, cutting each some different capers,
Advanced oh jacobinic papers!
As though they said, "Our sole design is
"To suffocate His Royal Highness'
The leader of this vile sedition
Was a huge Catholic Petition:
With grievances so full and heavy,
It threaten'd worst of all the bevy.
Then Common-Hall Addresses came
In swaggering sheets, and took their aim
Right at the R-G-T's well-dress'd head,
As if determined to be read!
Next Tradesmen's Bills began to fly
And tradesmen's bills we know mount high;
Nay, e'en Death-Warrants thought they'd best
Be lively too and join the rest.
But oh! The basest of defections!
His Letter about "predilections" -
His own dear Letter, void of grace,
Now flew up in its parent's face!
Shock'd with this breach of filial duty,
He just could murmur, "et Tu, Brute?"
Then sunk, subdued, upon the floor
At Fox's bust, to rise no more!
I waked and pray'd, with lifted hand,
"Oh! never may this Dream prove true;
"Though Paper overwhelms the land,
"Let it not crush the Sovereign too!"
PARODY OF A CELEBRATED LETTER.
Ar length, dearest FREDDY, the moment is nigh,
When, with P-RC-V-L's leave, I may throw my chains by; And, as time now is precious, the first thing I do
Is to sit down and write a wise letter to you.
I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Y-RM—TH and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs were decided
That is, till both Houses had posed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion -
For, though H-RTF-RD House had long settled the question,
I thought it but decent, between me and you,
That the two other House should settle it too.
I need not remind you how cursedly bad
Our affairs were all looking when Father went mad;
A strait-waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more limited Monarchy could not well be.
I was call'd upon then, in that moment of puzzle,
To choose my own Minister - just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.
I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.
So I sent word to say I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching
For tools of this kind, like MARTINUS'S SConce,
Would lose all their beauty if purified once;
And think only think - if our Father should find,
Upon graciously coming again to his mind,
That improvement had spoil'd any favourite adviser
That R-S was grown honest, or W-STM-REL-ND wiser
That R-D-R was, even by one twinkle, the brighter —
Or L-V-RP-L's speeches but half a pound lighter
What a shock to his old royal heart it would be!
No! far were such dreams of improvement from me,
And it pleased me to find at the house, where, you know,
There's such good mutton-cutlets and strong curaçoa,
That the Marchioness call'd me a duteous old boy,
And my Y-RM-TH's red whiskers grew redder for joy!
You know, my dear FREDDY, how oft, if I would,
By the law of last Sessions, I might have done good.
I might have withheld these political noodles
From knocking their heads against hot Yankee Doodles;
I might have told Ireland I pitied her lot,
Might have soothed her with hope but you know I did not.
And my wish is, in truth, that the best of old fellows
Should not, on recovering, have cause to be jealous,
But find that, while he has been laid on the shelf,
We've been all of us nearly as mad as himself.
You smile at my hopes but the Doctors and I
Are the last that can think the K-NG ever will die!
A new era's arrived — though you'd hardly believe it
And all things, of course, must be new to receive it.
New villas, new fêtes (which even WAITHMAN attends)
New saddles, new helmets, and why not new friends?
I repeat it "New Friends"
The delight I am in with this P-RC-V-L tribe.
Such capering such vapouring!
North, South, East, and West, they have cut such a figure,
That soon they will bring the whole world round our ears,
And leave us no friends but Old Nick and Algiers.
When I think of the glory they've beam'd on my chains,
"Tis enough quite to turn my illustrious brains;
It is true we are bankrupts in commerce and riches,
But think how we furnish our Allies with breeches!
We've lost the warm hearts of the Irish, 'tis granted,
But then we've got Java, an island much wanted,
To put the last lingering few who remain
Of the Walcheren warriors out of their pain.
Then, how WELLINGTON fights! and how squabbles his brother!
For Papists the one, and with Papists the other;
One crushing NAPOLEON by taking a city,
While 'other lays waste a whole Cath'lic Committee!
Oh, deeds of renown! shall I boggle or flinch,
1 The antique shield of Martinus Scriblerus, which, upon scouring, turn'd out to be only old sconce.
2 The letter-writer's favourite luncheon.
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