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What with captains in new jockey-boots and silk breeches,

Old dustmen with swinging great opera-hats, And shoeblacks reclining by statues in niches, There never was seen such a race of Jack Sprats!

From the Boulevards-but hearken !-yes-as I'm a sinner,

The clock is just striking the half-hour to dinner: So no more at present-short time for adorning My Day must be finish'd some other fine morning. Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS'* larder, my boy! And, once there, if the Goddess of Beauty and Joy Were to write "Come and kiss me, dear BOB!" I'd not budge

Not a step, DICK, as sure as my name is

* A celebrated restaurateur.

R. FUDGE.

LETTER IV.

FROM PHELIM CONNOR TO

"RETURN!"-no, never, while the withering hand Of bigot power is on that hapless land;

While, for the faith my fathers held to God,
Ev'n in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscrib'd, and-like the spot left bare
In Israel's halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there-
On all I love, home, parents, friends, I trace
The mournful mark of bondage and disgrace!
No!-let them stay, who in their country's pangs
See nought but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters' doors,
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:

* "They used to leave a yard square of the wall of the house unplastered, on which they write, in large letters, either the fore-mentioned verse of the Psalmist (If I forget thee, O Jerusalem,' &c.) or the words—The memory of the desolation."-Leo of Modena.

*Still let your

Still hope and suffer, all who can ! - but I,
Who durst not hope, and cannot bear, must fly.

But whither?-every-where the scourge pursues
Turn where he will, the wretched wanderer views,
In the bright, broken hopes of all his race,
Countless reflections of th' Oppressor's face.
Every where gallant hearts, and spirits true,
Are serv'd up victims to the vile and few;
While E-gl-d, every where—the general foe
Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe'er they glow-
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.

Oh, E-gl-d! could such poor revenge atone
For wrongs, that well might claim the deadliest

one;

Were it a vengeance, sweet enough to sate

The wretch who flies from thy intolerant hate,

* I have thought it prudent to omit some parts of Mr. Phelim Connor's letter. He is evidently an intemperate young man, and has associated with his cousins, the Fudges, to very little purpose.

To hear his curses on such barbarous sway

Echoed, where'er he bends his cheerless way;-
Could this content him, every lip he meets

Teems for his vengeance with such poisonous sweets;
Were this his luxury, never is thy name
Pronounc'd, but he doth banquet on thy shame ;
Hears maledictions ring from every side

Upon that grasping power, that selfish pride,
Which vaunts its own, and scorns all rights beside;
That low and desperate envy, which to blast
A neighbour's blessings, risks the few thou hast ;-
That monster, Self, too gross to be conceal'd,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffer'd shield ;-
That faithless craft, which, in thy hour of need,
Can court the slave, can swear he shall be freed,
Yet basely spurns him, when thy point is gain'd,
Back to his masters, ready gagg'd and chain'd!
Worthy associate of that band of Kings,
That royal, rav'ning flock, whose vampire wings
O'er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promis'd good,
Of hope, of freedom-but to drain her blood!

If thus to hear thee branded be a bliss

That Vengeance loves, there's yet more sweet than this,

That 'twas an Irish head, an Irish heart,

Made thee the fall'n and tarnish'd thing thou art; That, as the centaur * gave th' infected vest

In which he died, to rack his conqueror's breast, as heaps of dead

We sent thee C

GH:

Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,
So hath our land breath'd out, thy fame to dim,
Thy strength to waste, and rot thee, soul and limb,
Her worst infections all condens'd in him!

*

*

*

*

*

When will the world shake off such yokes? oh, when Will that redeeming day shine out on men,

That shall behold them rise, erect and free

As Heav'n and Nature meant mankind should be!
When Reason shall no longer blindly bow

To the vile pagod things, that o'er her brow,
Like him of Jaghernaut, drive trampling now;
Nor Conquest dare to desolate God's earth;
Nor drunken Victory, with a NERO's mirth,
Strike her lewd harp amidst a people's groans;
But, built on love, the world's exalted thrones

Membra et Herculeos toros

Urit lues Nessea,

Ille, ille victor vincitur.

SENEC. Hercul. Et.

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