Southampton.
As 'tis now, my dear Tully, some weeks since I started
By railroad for earth, having vowed ere we parted
To drop you a line by the Dead-Letter post,
Just to say how I thrive in my new line of ghost,
And how deucedly odd this live world all appears,
To a man who's been dead now for three hundred years,
I take up my pen, and with news of this earth
Hope to waken by turns both your spleen and your mirth.
In my way to these shores, taking Italy first,
Lest the change from Elysium too sudden should burst,
I forgot not to visit those haunts where of yore
You took lessons from Paetus in cookery's lore.
Turned aside from the calls of the rostrum and Muse,
To discuss the rich merits of _rôtis_ and stews,
And preferred to all honors of triumph or trophy,
A supper on prawns with that rogue, little Sophy.
Having dwelt on such classical musings awhile,
I set off by a steam-boat for this happy isle,
(A conveyance _you_ ne'er, I think, sailed by, my Tully,
And therefore, _per_ next, I'll describe it more fully,)
Having heard on the way what distresses me greatly,
That England's o'errun by _idolaters_ lately,
Stark, staring adorers of wood and of stone,
Who will let neither stick, stock or statue alone.
Such the sad news I heard from a tall man in black,
Who from sports continental was hurrying back,
To look after his tithes;--seeing, doubtless, 'twould follow,
That just as of old your great idol, Apollo,
Devoured all the Tenths, so the idols in question,
These wood and stone gods, may have equal digestion,
And the idolatrous crew whom this Rector despises,
May eat up the tithe-pig which _he_ idolizes.
London.
'Tis all but too true--grim Idolatry reigns
In full pomp over England's lost cities and plains!
On arriving just now, as my first thought and care
Was as usual to seek out some near House of Prayer,
Some calm holy spot, fit for Christians to pray on,
I was shown to--what think you?--a downright Pantheon!
A grand, pillared temple with niches and halls,
Full of idols and gods, which they nickname St. Paul's;--
Tho' 'tis clearly the place where the idolatrous crew
Whom the Rector complained of, their dark rites pursue;
And, 'mong all the "strange gods" Abr'ham's father carved out,[1]
That he ever carv'd _stranger_ than these I much doubt.
Were it even, my dear TULLY, your Hebes and Graces,
And such pretty things, that usurpt the Saints' places,
I shouldnt much mind,--for in this classic dome
Such folks from Olympus would feel quite at home.
But the gods they've got here!--such a queer omnium gatherum
Of misbegot things that no poet would father 'em;--
Britannias in light summer-wear for the skies,--
Old Thames turned to stone, to his no small surprise,--
Father Nile, too,--a portrait, (in spite of what's said,
That no mortal e'er yet got a glimpse of his _head_,)
And a Ganges which India would think somewhat fat for't,
Unless 'twas some full-grown Director had sat for't;--
Not to mention the _et caeteras_ of Genii and Sphinxes,
Fame, Victory, and other such semi-clad minxes;--
Sea Captains,[2]--the idols here most idolized;
And of whom some, alas! might too well be comprized
Among ready-made Saints, as they died _cannonized_;
With a multitude more of odd cockneyfied deities,
Shrined in such pomp that quite shocking to see it 'tis;
Nor know I what better the Rector could do
Than to shrine there his own beloved quadruped too;
As most surely a tithe-pig, whate'er the world thinks, is
A much fitter beast for a church than a Sphinx is.
But I'm called off to dinner--grace just has been said,
And my host waits for nobody, living or dead.
[1] Joshua xxiv 2.
[2] Captains Mosse, Riou etc.
LINES ON THE DEPARTURE OF LORD CASTLEREAGH
AND STEWART FOR THE CONTINENT.[1]
_at Paris[2] et Fratres, et qui rapure sub illis.
vix tenuere manus (scis hoc, Menelae) nefandas_.
OVID. _Metam. lib_. xiii. v. 202.
Go, Brothers in wisdom--go, bright pair of Peers,
And my Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The _one_, the best lover we have--_of his years_,
And the other Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.
Go, Hero of Chancery, blest with the smile
Of the Misses that love and the monarchs that prize thee;
Forget Mrs. Angelo Taylor awhile,
And all tailors but him who so well _dandifies_ thee.
Never mind how thy juniors in gallantry scoff,
Never heed how perverse affidavits may thwart thee,
But show the young Misses thou'rt scholar enough
To translate "_Amor Fortis_" a love, _about forty_!
And sure 'tis no wonder, when, fresh as young Mars,
From the battle you came, with the Orders you'd earned in't,
That sweet Lady Fanny should cry out "_My stars_!"
And forget that the _Moon_, too, was some way concerned in't.
For not the great Regent himself has endured
(Tho' I've seen him with badges and orders all shine,
Till he lookt like a house that was _over_ insured)
A much heavier burden of glories than thine.
And 'tis plain, when a wealthy young lady so mad is,
Or _any_ young ladies can so go astray,
As to marry old Dandies that might be their daddies,
The _stars_ are in fault, my Lord Stewart, not they!
Thou, too, t'other brother, thou Tully of Tories,
Thou _Malaprop_ Cicero, over whose lips
Such a smooth rigmarole about; "monarchs," and "glories,"
And "_nullidge_," and "features," like syllabub slips.
Go, haste, at the Congress pursue thy vocation
Of adding fresh sums to this National Debt of ours,
Leaguing with Kings, who for mere recreation
Break promises, fast as your Lordship breaks metaphors.
Fare ye well, fare ye well, bright Pair of Peers,
And may Cupid and Fame fan you both with their pinions!
The one, the best lover we have--_of his years_,
And the other, Prime Statesman of Britain's dominions.
[1] This and the following squib, which must have been written about the
year 1815-16, have been by some oversight misplaced.
[2] Ovid is mistaken in saying that it was "at Paris" these rapacious
transactions took place--we should read "at Vienna."