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Whose faith, as Prince, extinguish'd Venice shows, Whose faith, as man, a widow'd daughter knows! And thou, oh England-who, though once as shy As cloister'd maids, of shame or perfidy,

Art now broke in, and, thanks to C

GH,

In all that's worst and falsest lead'st the way!

Such was the pure divan, whose pens and wits

Th' escape from Elba frighten'd into fits;—
Such were the saints, who doom'd NAPOLEON'S
life,

In virtuous frenzy, to th' assassin's knife.
Disgusting crew!-who would not gladly fly
To open, downright, bold-fac'd tyranny,
To honest guilt, that dares do all but lie,
From the false, juggling craft of men like these,
Their canting crimes and varnish'd villanies;
These Holy Leaguers, who then loudest boast
Of faith and honour, when they've stain'd them

most;

From whose affection men should shrink as loath As from their hate, for they'll be fleec'd by both; Who, ev'n while plund'ring, forge Religion's name To frank their spoil, and, without fear or shame,

Call down the Holy Trinity to bless

Partition leagues, and deeds of devilishness!

But hold-enough-soon would this swell of rage
O'erflow the boundaries of my scanty page;—
So, here I pause-farewell- another day,
Return we to those Lords of pray'r and prey,
Whose loathsome cant, whose frauds by right divine
Deserve a lash-oh! weightier far than mine!

* The usual preamble of these flagitious compacts. In the same spirit, Catherine, after the dreadful massacre of Warsaw, ordered a solemn "thanksgiving to God in all the churches, for the blessings conferred upon the Poles;" and commanded that each of them should "swear fidelity and loyalty to her, and to shed in her defence the last drop of their blood, as they should answer for it to God, and his terrible judgment, kissing the holy word and cross of their Saviour!"

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Which I knew would go smash with me one of these

days,

And, at yesterday's dinner, when, full to the throttle, We lads had begun our dessert with a bottle Of neat old Constantia, on my leaning back Just to order another, by Jove I went crack! Or, as honest Tom said, in his nautical phrase, "D-n my eyes, Boв, in doubling the Cape you've miss'd stays." +

So, of course, as no gentleman's seen out without them, They're now at the Schneider's-and, while he's about them,

* An English tailor at Paris.

† A ship is said to miss stays, when she does not obey the helm in tacking.

The dandy term for a tailor.

Here goes for a letter, post-haste, neck and crop.

Let us see- in my

last I was where did I stop?

Oh, I know—at the Boulevards, as motley a road as

Man ever would wish a day's lounging upon; With its cafés and gardens, hotels and pagodas,

Its founts, and old Counts sipping beer in the sun : With its houses of all architectures you please, From the Grecian and Gothic, DICK, down by degrees

To the pure Hottentot, or the Brighton Chinese; Where in temples antique you may breakfast or dinner it,

Lunch at a mosque, and see Punch from a minaret.
Then, DICK, the mixture of bonnets and bowers,
Of foliage and frippery, fiacres and flowers,
Green-grocers, green gardens-one hardly knows

whether

'Tis country or town, they're so mess'd up together!
And there, if one loves the romantic, one sees
Jew clothes-men, like shepherds, reclin'd under trees;
Or Quidnuncs, on Sunday, just fresh from the barber's,
Enjoying their news and groseille* in those arbours;

* "Lemonade and eau-de-groseille are measured out at every corner of every street, from fantastic vessels, jingling with bells,

While gaily their wigs, like the tendrils, are curling,

And founts of red currant-juice* round them are purling.

Here, Dick, arm in arm as we chattering stray,
And receive a few civil "God-dems" by the

For, 'tis odd, these mounseers,

wasted our wealth

-

way,

though we've

And our strength, till we've thrown ourselves into

a phthisic,

To cram down their throats an old King for their

health,

As we whip little children to make them take

physic;

Yet, spite of our good-natur'd money and slaughter,
They hate us, as Beelzebub hates holy-water!
But who the deuce cares, DICK, as long as they

nourish us

Neatly as now, and good cookery flourishes

to thirsty tradesmen or wearied messengers."— See Lady Morgan's lively description of the streets of Paris, in her very amusing work upon France, book vi.

*These gay, portable fountains, from which the groseille water is administered, are among the most characteristic ornaments of the streets of Paris.

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