Young bards to dream of virtuous fame,
Young maids to lisp DE WAREN's name,
And mellower spinsters-of an age
Licensed to read Jean Jacques's page-
To picture all those blissful hours
He pass'd in these sequester'd bowers,
With his dear Maman and his flowers !
Spinsters, who--if, from glowing heart

Or erring head, some living maid
Had wander'd even the thousandth part

Of what this worthy Maman stray'd
Would bridle up their virtuous ching
In horror at her sin of sins,
And--could their chaste eyes kill with flashes-
Frown the fair culprit into ashes!
'Tis too absurd—-'t is weakness, shame,
This low prostration before Fame-
This casting down, beneath the car
Of Idols, whatsoe'er they are, .
Life's purest, holiest decencies,
To be career'd o'er as they please.
No--Jet triumphant Genius have
All that his loftiest wish can crave.
If he be worsh pp'd, let it be

For attributes, his noblest, firstNot with that base idolatry,

Which sanctifies his last and worst.

I may be cold—may want that glow
Of high romance, which bards should know;
That holy homige, which is felt
In treading where the great have dwell--
This reverence, whatsoe'er it be,

I fear, I feel, I have it not,
For here, at this still hour, to me

The charms of this delightful spot-
Its calm seclusion from the throng,

From all the heart would fain forgetThis narrow valley, and the song

Of its smıll murmuring rivuletThe fitting to and fro of birds,

Tranquil and tame as they were once
In Eden, ere the startling words

Of man disturb'd their orisons !
Those little, shadowy paths, that wind
Up the hill side, with fruit-trees lined,
And lighted only by the breaks
The gay wind in the foliage makes,
Or vistas here and there, that ope

Through weeping willows, like the snatches Of far-off scenes of light, which Hope,

Even through the shade of sadness, catches !All this, which-could I once but lose

The memory of those vulgar ties, Whose grossness all the heavenliest hues

Of Genius can no more disguise, Than the sun's beams can do away The filth of fens o'er which they playThis scene, which would have fill'd my heart

With thoughts of all that happiest is

Of Love, where self hath only part,

As echoing back another's bliss
Of solitude, secure and sweet,
Beneath whose shade the Virtues meet;
Which, while it shelters, never chills

Our sympathies with human woe,
But keeps them, like sequester'd rills,

Purer and fresher in their flow-
Of happy days, that share their beams

'T wixt quiet mirth and wise employOf tranquil nights, that give in dreams

The moonlight of the morning's joy !--
All this my heart could dwell on here,
But for those hateful memories near,
Those sordid truths, that cross the track
Of each sweet thought, and drive them back
Full into all the mire, and strife,
And vanities of that man's life,
Who, more than all that e'er have glow'd

With Fancy's flame (and it was his
If ever given to mortal) showed

What an impostor Genius is How with that strong, mimetic art

Which is its life, and soul, it takes All shapes of thought, all hues of heart,

Nor feels, itself, one throb it wakesHow like a gem its light may smile

D'er the dark path, by mortals trod, Itself as mean a worm, the while,

As crawls along the sullying sodWhat sensibility may fall

From its false lip, what plans to bless, While home, friends, kindred, country, all,

Lie waste beneath its selfishnessHow, with the pencil hardly dry

From colouring up such scenes of love And beauty, as make young hearts sigh.

And dream, and think through Heaven they rove, They, who can thus describe and move,

The very workers of these charms,
Nor seek, nor ask a Heaven above

Some Maman's or Theresa's arms !
How all, in short, that makes the boast
Of their false tongues, they want the most ,
And while, with Freedom on their lips,

Sounding her timbrels, to set free
This bright world, labouring in the eclipse

Of priestcraft and of slavery,
They may, themselves, be slaves as low

As ever lord or patron made,
To blossom in his smile, or grow,

Like stunted brushwood, in his shade' Out on the craft-I'd rather be

One of those hinds that round me tread, With just enough of sense to see

The noon-day sun that 's o'er my head, Than thus, with high-built genius cursed,

That hath heart for its foundation, Be all, at once, that 's brightest-worst

Sublimest-meanest in creation !

FABLE I.
THE DISSOLUTION OF THE HOLY ALLIANCE.

A Dream.
I've had a dream that bodes no good
Unto the Holy Brotherhood.
I may be wrong, but I confess-

As far as it is right or lawful
For one, no conjuror, to guess—

It seems to me extremely awful. Methought, upon the Neva's flood A beautiful Ice Palace stood; A dome of frost-work, on the plan Of that once built by Empress Anne,' Which shone by moonlight—as the tale is Like an aurora borealis.

In this said palace-furnish'd all

And lighted as the best on land are I dream'd there was a splendid ball,

Given by the Emperor Alexander, To entertain, with all due zeal,

Those holy gentlemen who 've shown a
Regard so kind for Europe's weal,

At Troppau, Laybach, and Verona.
The thought was happy, and designed
To hint how thus the human mind
May-like the stream imprison’d there-
Be check'd and chill'd till it can bear
The heaviest Kings, that ode or sonnet
E'er yet be-praised, to dance upon it.
And all were pleased, and cold, and stately,

Shivering in grand illumination-
Admired the superstructure greatly,

Nor gave one thought to the foundation.
Much too the Czar himself exulted,

To all plebeian fears a stranger,
As Madame Krudener, when consulted,

Had pledged her word there was no danger. So, on he caper'd, fearless quite,

Thinking himself extremely clever, And waltz'd away with all his might,

As if the frost would last for ever.

Just fancy how a bard like me,

Who reverence monarchs, must have trembled, To see that goodly company

At such a ticklish sport assembled.
Nor were the fears, that thus astounded
My loyal soul, at all unfounded ;
For, lo! ere long, those walls so massy

Were seized with an ill-omen'd dripping,
And o'er the floors, now growing glassy,

Their Holinesses took to slipping. The Czar, half through a Polonaise,

Could scarce get on for downright stumbling, And Prussia, though to slippery ways

So used, was cursedly near tumbling.
Yet still 't was who could stamp the floor most,
Russia and Austria 'mong the foremost.
And now, to an Italian air,

This precious brace would hand in hand go;
Now-while old ****** from his chair,
Intreated them his toes to spare-

Call'd loudly out for a fandango.
And a fandango, 'faith, they had,
At which they all set to like mad-
Never were Kings (though small the expense is
Of wit among their Excellencies,)
So out of all their princely senses.
But, ah! that dance—that Spanish dance

Scarce was the luckless strain begun,
When, glaring red-as 't were a glance

Shot from an angry southern sun-
A light through all the chambers flamed,

Astonishing old Father Frost,
Who, bursting into tears, exclaim'd,

“A thaw, by Jove !-we're lost, we're lost'
Run, F-! a second Waterloo
Is come to drown you-sauve qui peut !"
Why, why will monarchs caper so

In palaces without foundations ?
Instantly all was in a flow :

Crowns, fiddles, sceptres, decorations,
Those royal arms, that look'd so nice,
Cut out in the resplendent ice;
Those eagles, handsomely provided

With double heads for double dealings-
How fast the globes and sceptres glided

Out of their claws on all the ceilings!

a

1“It is well known that the Empress Anne built a palace of ice, on the Neva, in 1740, which was fifty-two feet in length, and when illuminated had a surprising effect.”— Pinkerton.

The Easterns, in a Prince, 't is said,
Prefer what is call'd a jolter-head;'
The Egyptians were n't at all partic'lar,

So that their Kings had not red hair-
This fault not even the greatest stickler

For the blood-royal well could bear. A thousand more such illustrations Might be adduced from various nations; But, 'mong the many tales they tell us,

Touching the acquired or natural right Which some men have to rule their fellows, There's one which I shall here recite :

Fable.
THERE was a land—to name the place

Is neither now my wish nor duty-
Where reign'd a certain royal race,

By right of their superior beauty.
What was the cut legitimate

Of these great persons' chins and noses,
By right of which they ruled the state,

No history I have seen discloses.

Proud Prussia's double bird of prey,
Tame as a spatch-cock, slunk away;
While-just like France herself, when she

Proclaims how great her naval skill isPoor ******* drowning fleurs-de-lys

Imagined themselves water-lilies. And not alone rooms, ceilings, shelves,

But-still more fatal execution The Great Legitimates themselves

Seem'd in a state of dissolution. The indignant Czar-when just about

To issue a sublime Ukase“Whereas, all light must be kept out”

Dissolved to nothing in its blaze. Next Prussia took his turn to melt, And, while his lips illustrious felt The influence of this southern air,

Some word like "Constitution," long Conceal'd in frosty silence there,

Came slowly thawing from his tongue. While ******, lapsing by degrees,

And sighing out a faint adieu To truffles, salmis, toasted cheese,

And smoking fondus, quickly grew

Himself into a fondu too ;Or, like that goodly King they make Of sugar, for a twelfth-night cake, When, in some urchin's mouth, alas, It melts into a shapeless mass! In short, I scarce could count a minute Ere the bright dome, and all within itKings, Fiddlers, Emperors—all were gone!

And nothing now was seen or heard But the bright river, rushing on,

Happy as an enfranchised bird, And prouder of that natural ray, Shining along its chainless way, More proudly happy thus to glide

In simple grandeur to the sea, Than when in sparkling fetters tied, And deck'd with all that kingly pride

Could bring to light its slavery! Such is my dream-and, I confess, I tremble at its awfulness. That Spanish dance—that southern beamBut I say nothing—there's my dreamAnd Madame Krudener, the she-prophet, May make just what she pleases of it.

But so it was a settled case

Some act of Parliament, pass'd snugly, Had voted them a beauteous race,

And all their faithful subjects ugly.

As rank, indeed, stood high or low,

Some change it made in visual organs ; Your Peers were decent-Knights, so so—

But all your common people gorgons ! Of course, if any knave but hinted

That the King's nose was turn'd awry, Or that the Queen (God save us !) squinted

The judges doom'd that knave to die. But rarely things like this occurr'd:

The people to their King were duteous, And took it, on his royal word,

That they were frights and he was beauteous. The cause whereof, among all classes,

Was simply this :—these island elves Had never yet seen looking-glasses,

And, therefore, did not know themselves. Sometimes, indeed, their neighbours' faces

Might strike them as more full of reason, More fresh than those in certain places,

But, Lord! the very thought was treason ! Besides, howe'er we love our neighbour,

And take his face's part, 't is known We never half so earnest labour,

As when the face attack'd's our own. So, on they went—the crowd believing

(As crowds well govern'd always do,) Their rulers, too, themselves deceiving

So old the joke they thought it true. But jokes, we know, if they too far go,

Must have an end; and so, one day,

FABLE II.
THE LOOKING-GLASSES.

Proem.
WHERE Kings have been by mob-elections

Raised to the throne, 't is strange to see
What different and what odd perfections

Men have required in royalty.
Some, likeing monarchs large and plumpy,

Have chosen their Sovereigns by the weight; Some wish'd them tall; some thought your dumpy,

Dutch-built the true Legitimate.'

| The Goths had a law to choose always a short thick man for their king.-Munster, Cosmog. lib. iii. 164.

1 “ In a Prince, a jolter-head is invaluable." - Oriental Field Sports.

FABLE III.
THE FLY AND THE BULLOCK.

Proem.
Of all that, to the sage's-survey
This world presents of topsy-turvey,
There's nought so much disturbs his patience
As little minds in lofty stations.
'T is like that sort of painful wonder
Which slight and pigmy columns under

Enormous arches give beholders ;
Or those poor Caryatides,
Condemn'd to smile and stand at ease,

With a whole house upon their shoulders
If, as in some few royal cases,
Small minds are burn into such places
If they are there, by Right Divine,

Or any such sufficient reason,
Why-Heaven forbid we should repine!-

To wish it otherwise were treason;
Nay, even to see it in a vision,
Would be what lawyers call misprision.
Sir Robert Filmer says—and he,

Of course, knew all about the matter“Both men and beasts love monarchy :"

Which proves how rational-the latter SIDNEY,

indeed, we know, had quite A different notion from the knight ; Nay, hints a King may lose his head

By slipping awkwardly his bridle:
But this is Jacobin, ill-bred,
And (now-a-days, when Kings are led

In patent snaffles) downright idle.
No, no—it is n't foolish Kings
(Those fix'd, inevitable things-
Bores paramount, by right of birth)

That move my wrath, but your pretenders Your mushroom rulers, sons of earth,

Who, not like t'others, crown'd offenders
(Regular gratia Dei blockheads,
Born with three kingdoms in their pockets,)
Nor leaving, on the scale of mind,
These royal Zeros far behind,
Yet, with a brass that nothing stops,

Push up into the loftiest stations,
And, though too dull to manage shops

Presume, the dolts, to manage nations!
This class it is that moves my gall,
And stirs up spleen, and bile, and all
While other senseless things appear
To know the limits of their sphere-
While not a cow on earth romances
So much as to conceit she dances-
While the most jumping Frog we know of,
Would scarce at Astley's hope to show off-
Your ****s and ****s dare,

Pigmy as are their minds, to set them
To any business, any where,
At
any

time that fools will let them.
But leave we here these upstart things
My business is, just now, with Kings;
To whom, and to their right-line glory,
I dedicate the following story.

Just hinting, by that gentle sign,

How little Nature holds it true, That what is call'd an ancient line

Must be the line of Beauty too.

From Dukes' they pass'd to regal phizzes,

Compared them proudly with their own, And cried, “How could such monstrous quizzes,

In Beauty's name, usurp the throne ?"

They then wrote essays, pamphlets, books,

Upon cosmetical economy, Which made the King try various looks,

But none improved his physiognomy.

And satires at the Court they levell’d,

And small lampoons, so full of slynesses, That soon, in short, they quite be-devil'd

Their Majesties and Royal Highnesses.

At length—but here I drop the veil,

To spare some loyal folks' sensations : Besides, what follows is the tale

Of all such late-enlighten’d nations ;

Of all to whom old Time discloses

A truth they should have sooner knownThat Kings have neither rights nor noses

A whit diviner than their own.