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And when Dissension flung her stain
Upon the light of Hymen's altar, And Destiny made Hymen's chain
As galling as the hangman's halter, He passed a most domestic life,
By many mistresses befriended, And did not put away his wife,
For fear the priest should be offended.
And thus at last he sank to rest
Amid the blessings of his people,
And bells were tolled from every steeple, And loud was every public throng
His brilliant character adorning, And poets raised a mourning song,
And clothiers raised the price of mourning.
His funeral was very grand,
Followed by many robes and maces, And all the great ones of the land
Struggling, as heretofore, for places; And every loyal minister
Was there, with signs of purse-felt sorrow, Save Pozzy, his lord chancellor,
Who promised to attend to-morrow.
Peace to his dust. His fostering care
By grateful hearts shall long be cherished; And all his subjects shall declare
They lost a grinder when he perished. They who shall look upon the lead
In which a people's love hath shrined him, Will say when all the worst is said,
Perhaps he leaves a worse behind him.
THE CHAUNT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. “Brazen companion of my solitary hours! do you, while I recline, pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of Wisdom and Virtue, which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen, and the guides of philosophers. Give me to-night a proem of our essay, an opening of our case, a division of our subject. Speak !"" (Slow music. The Friar falls asleep. The head chaunts as follows.)
-THE BRAZEN HEAD.
I THINK, whatever mortals crave,
With impotent endeavour,-
The world goes round for ever :
And therefore I determine,
Who will not read a sermon.
I think you've looked through many hearts,
And mused on many actions,
And Nature's compound fractions ;
From foreigner and neighbour;
And you have lost your labour.
I think the studies of the wise,
The hero's noisy quarrel, .
The poet's cherished laurel,
And all that charms or troubles,-
But still they all are bubbles.
I think the thing you call Renown,
The unsubstantial vapour
The sonnetteer a taper,
The horseman leaves behind him ;
Or if he does they blind him.
I think one nod of Mistress Chance
Makes creditors of debtors,
The sceptre for the fetters :
May live to gnaw the platters,
May wear the rags and tatters. I think the Tories love to buy
“Your Lordships" and "your Graces," By loathing common honesty,
And lauding commonplaces :
And some are very funny,
And some by telling money.
I think the Whigs are wicked knaves
(And very like the Tories)
And ask the price of glories :
At what their friends are planning,
As much as Mr. Canning.
I think that friars and their hoods,
Their doctrines and their maggots,
And far too many faggots :
And fight for two or seven,
And rather more to Heaven.
And thanks to Chester's learning,
At home are safe from burning : I think the Pope is on his back;
And, though 'tis fun to shake him, I think the Devil not so black
As many people make him.
I think that Love is like a play,
Where tears and smiles are blended, Or like a faithless April day,
Whose shine with shower is ended : Like Colnbrook pavement, rather rough,
Like trade, exposed to losses,
And very full of crosses.
I think the world, though dark it be,
Has aye one rapturous pleasure Concealed in life's monotony,
For those who seek the treasure :
One blossom on a briar,
One woman not a liar !
I think poor beggars court St. Giles,
Rich beggars court St. Stephen ; And death looks down with nods and smiles,
And makes the odds all even :
And some upon the billow,
And some beneath a willow.
I think that very few have sighed
When Fate at last has found them,
And barren moss around them :
And some have died of drinking ;
And I'm a fool for thinking!
MY OWN FUNERAL.
(From Beranger.) This morning, as in bed I lay,
Half waking and half sleeping, A score of Loves, immensely gay,
Were round my chamber creeping; I could not move my hand or head
To ask them what the stir meant ;
All whose hearts with mine were blended,