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A plenty horn of jewels. And here I
(Who wish to give the devil her due) declare

Against that ugly piece of calumny,
Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a



Still “ Bellanaine !” they shouted, while we glide
'Slant to a light Ionic portico,
The city's delicacy, and the pride
Of our Imperial Basilic; a row
Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show
Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,
All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo !

The strangest sight—the most unlook’d-for chanceAll things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance.


Stead of his anxious Majesty and court
At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,
Congées and scrape-graces of every sort,
And all the smooth routine of gallantries,
Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,
A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall,
Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries

Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall, Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth



Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor
Of moth's down, to make soft the royal beds,
The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor
Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads ;
Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads
Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other;
Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting breeds,

Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother.


A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back,
Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels,
And close into her face, with rhyming clack,
Began a Prothalamion ;-she reels,
She falls, she faints! while laughter peals
Over her woman's weakness. · Where!” cried I,
“Where is his Majesty ?" No person feels

nclined to answer; wherefore instantly
I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die.


Jostling my way I gaind the stairs, and ran
To the first landing, where, incredible !
I met, far gone in liquor, that old man,
That vile impostor Hum,

So far so well,
For we have proved the Mago never fell
Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence;
And therefore duly shall proceed to tell,

Plain in our own original mood and tense,
The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis immense !

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Feb. 1815.


In thy western halls of gold

When thou sittest in thy state, Bards, that erst sublimely told Heroic deeds, and

sang of fate, With fervour seize their adamantine lyres, Whose chords are solid rays, and twinkle radiant fires.


Here Homer with his nervous arms

Strikes the twanging harp of war,
And even the western splendour warms,

While the trumpets sound afar :
But, what creates the most intense surprise,
His soul looks out through renovated eyes.


Then, through thy Temple wide, melodious swells

The sweet majestic tone of Maro's lyre: The soul delighted on each accent dwells,

Enraptured dwells,—not daring to respire, The while he tells of grief around a funeral pyre.


'Tis awful silence then again ;

Expectant stand the spheres;

Breathless the laureli'd peers, Nor move, till ends the lofty strain,

Nor move till Milton's tuneful thunders cease, And leave once more the ravish'd heavens in peace.


Thou biddest Shakspeare wave his hand,

And quickly forward spring The Passions-a terrific band

And each vibrates the string That with its tyrant temper best accords, While from their Master's lips pour forth the

inspiring words.


A silver trumpet Spenser blows,

And, as its martial notes to silence flee, From a virgin chorus flows

A hymn in praise of spotless Chastity.

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