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Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 http://archive.org/details/ageofbronzeorcar01byro 
 
THE 
 
 AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED BY C. H. REYNELL, BROAD STREET, GOLDEN SQUARE. 
 
THE 
 
 AGE OF BRONZE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 CARMEN SECULARE ET ANNUS HAUD MIRABILIS. 
 
 "Impar Congressus Achilli." 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 LONDON, 1823: 
 
 PRINTED FOR JOHN HUNT, 
 22, OLD BOND STREET. 
 
Treasure Room 
 
 THE 
 
 AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 i. 
 
 The " good old times" — all times when old are good — 
 
 Are gone ; the present might be if they would ; 
 
 Great things have been, and are, and greater still 
 
 Want little of mere mortals but their will ; 
 
 A wider space, a greener field is given 
 
 To those who play their " tricks before high heaven." 
 
 I know not if the angels weep, but men 
 
 Have wept enough — for what ? — to weep again. 
 
 II. 
 
 All is exploded — be it good or bad. 
 
 Reader ! remember when thou wert a lad, 10 
 
 Then Pitt was all ; or, if not all, so much, 
 
 His very rival almost deemed him such. 
 
 We, we have seen the intellectual race 
 
 B 
 
 g 1 Q Q ft ? 
 
 f v 'x o» o O* ^ 
 
6 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Of giants stand, like Titans, face to face — 
 
 Athos and Ida, with a dashing sea 
 
 Of eloquence between, which flowed all free, 
 
 As the deep billows of the Mgean roar 
 
 Betwixt the Hellenic and the Phrygian shore. 
 
 But where are they — the rivals? — a few feet 
 
 Of sullen earth divide each winding sheet. 20 
 
 How peaceful and how powerful is the grave 
 
 Which hushes all ! a calm, unstormy wave 
 
 Which oversweeps the world. The theme is old 
 
 Of " Dust to dust ;" but half its tale untold. 
 
 Time tempers not its terrors — still the worm 
 
 Winds its cold folds, the tomb preserves its form — 
 
 Varied above, but still alike below ; 
 
 The urn may shine, the ashes will not glow. 
 
 Though Cleopatra's mummy cross the sea, 
 
 O'er which from empire she lured Anthony ; 30 
 
 Though Alexander's urn a show be grown 
 
 On shores he wept to conquer, though unknown — 
 
 How vain, how worse than vain at length appear 
 
 The madman's wish, the Macedonian's tear. 
 
 He wept for worlds to conquer — half the earth 
 
 Knows not his name, or but his death and birth 
 
 And desolation ; while his native Greece 
 
 Hath all of desolation, save its peace. 
 
 He " wept for worlds to conquer !" he who ne'er 
 
 Conceived the globe, he panted not to spare ! 40 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 7 
 
 With even the busy Northern Isle unknown, 
 Which holds his urn, and never knew his throne. 
 
 III. 
 
 But where is he, the modern, mightier far, 
 
 Who, bom no king, made monarchs draw his car; 
 
 The new Sesostris, whose unharnessed kings, 
 
 Freed from the bit, believe themselves with wings, 
 
 And spurn the dust o'er which they crawled of late, 
 
 Chained to the chariot of the chieftain's state ? 
 
 Yes ! where is he, the Champion and the Child 
 
 Of all that's great or little, wise or wild ? 50 
 
 Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones? 
 
 Whose table, earth — whose dice were human bones ? 
 
 Behold the grand result in yon lone isle, 
 
 And, as thy nature urges, weep or smile. 
 
 Sigh to behold the eagle's lofty rage 
 
 Reduced to nibble at his narrow cage ; 
 
 Smile to survey the Queller of the Nations 
 
 Now daily squabbling o'er disputed rations ; 
 
 Weep to perceive him mourning, as he dines, 
 
 O'er curtailed dishes and o'er stinted wines ; 60 
 
 O'er petty quarrels upon petty things — 
 
 Is this the man who scourged or feasted kings ? 
 
 Behold the scales in which his fortune hangs, 
 
 A surgeon's statement and an earl's harangues ! 
 
 A bust delayed, a book refused, can shake 
 
 The sleep of him who kept the world awake. 
 
 249382 
 
B THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Is this indeed the Tamer of the Great, 
 
 Now slave of all could teaze or irritate — 
 
 The paltry jailer and the prying spy, 
 
 The staring stranger with his note-book nigh? 70 
 
 Plunged in a dungeon, he had still been great ; 
 
 How low, how little was this middle state, 
 
 Between a prison and a palace, where 
 
 How few could feel for what he had to bear ! 
 
 Vain his complaint, — my lord presents his bill, 
 
 His food and wine were doled out duly still : 
 
 Vain was his sickness, — never was a clime 
 
 So free from homicide — to doubt's a crime ; 
 
 And the stiff Surgeon, who maintained his cause, 
 
 Hath lost his place, and gained the world's applause. 80 
 
 But smile — though all the pangs of brain and heart 
 
 Disdain, defy, the tardy aid of art ; 
 
 Though, save the few fond friends, and imaged face 
 
 Of that fair boy his sire shall ne'er embrace, 
 
 None stand by his low bed — though even the mind 
 
 Be wavering, which long awed and awes mankind ; — 
 
 Smile — for the fettejjed Eagle breaks his chain, 
 
 And higher worlds than this are his again. 
 
 IV. 
 
 How, if that soaring Spirit still retain 
 
 A conscious twilight of iiis blazing reign, 90 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 9 
 
 How must he smile, on looking down, to see 
 
 The little that he was and sought to be ! 
 
 What though his name a wider empire found 
 
 Than his ambition, though with scarce a bound ; 
 
 Though first in glory, deepest in reverse, 
 
 He tasted empire's blessings and its curse ; 
 
 Though kings, rejoicing in their late escape 
 
 From chains, would gladly be their tyrant's ape ; 
 
 How must he smile, and turn to yon lone grave, 
 
 The proudest sea-mark that o'ertops the wave ! 100 
 
 What though his jailor, duteous to the last, 
 
 Scarce deemed the coffin's lead could keep him fast, 
 
 Refusing one poor line along the lid 
 
 To date the birth and death of all it hid, 
 
 That name shall hallow the ignoble shore, 
 
 A talisman to all save him who bore : 
 
 The fleets that sweep before the eastern blast 
 
 Shall hear their sea- boys hail it from the mast ; 
 
 When Victory's Gallic column shall but rise, 
 
 Like Pompey's pillar, in a desart's skies, 1 10 
 
 The rocky isle that holds or held his dust 
 
 Shall crown the Atlantic like the hero's bust, 
 
 And mighty Nature o'er his obsequies 
 
 Do more than niggard Envy still denies. 
 
 But what are these to him ? Can glory's lust 
 
 Touch the freed spirit or the fettered dust ? 
 
 Small care hath he of what his tomb consists, 
 
10 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Nought if he sleeps — nor more if he exists : 
 
 Alike the better-seeing Shade will smile 
 
 On the rude cavern of the rocky isle, i20 
 
 As if his ashes found their latest home 
 
 In Rome's pantheon, or Gaul's mimic dome. 
 
 He wants not this ; but France shall feel the want 
 
 Of this last consolation, though so scant ; 
 
 Her honour, fame, and faith, demand his bones, 
 
 To rear above a pyramid of thrones ; 
 
 Or carried onward in the battle's van 
 
 To form, like Guesclin's * dust, her talisman. 
 
 But be it as it is, the time may come 
 
 His name shall beat the alarm like Ziska's drum. 130 
 
 V. 
 
 Oh heaven! of which he was in power a feature; 
 Oh earth ! of which he was a noble creature ; 
 Thou isle ! to be remembered long and well, 
 That sawst the unfledged eaglet chip his shell ! 
 Ye Alps, which viewed him in his dawning flights 
 Hover, the victor of an hundred fights ! 
 Thou Rome, who sawst thy Caesar's deeds outdone 
 Alas ! why past he too the Rubicon ? 
 
 * Guesclin died during the siege of a city ; it surrendered, and the keys 
 were brought and laid upon his bier, so that the place might appear ren- 
 dered to his ashes. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 11 
 
 The Rubicon of man's awakened rights, 
 
 To herd with vulgar kings and parasites ? 140 
 
 Egypt ! from whose all dateless tombs arose 
 
 Forgotten Pharoahs from their long repose, 
 
 And shook within their pyramids to hear 
 
 A new Cambyses thundering in their ear ; 
 
 While the dark shades of forty ages stood 
 
 Like startled giants by Nile's famous flood ; 
 
 Or from the pyramid's tall pinnacle 
 
 Beheld the desart peopled, as from hell, 
 
 With clashing hosts, who strewed the barren sand 
 
 To re-manure the uncultivated land! 150 
 
 Spain ! which, a moment mindless of the Cid, 
 
 Beheld his banner flouting thy Madrid ! 
 
 Austria ! which saw thy twice-ta'en capital 
 
 Twice spared, to be the traitress of his fall ! 
 
 Ye race of Frederic ! — Frederics but in name 
 
 And falsehood — heirs to all except his fame ; 
 
 Who, crushed at Jena, crouched at Berlin, fell 
 
 First, and but rose to follow; ye who dwell 
 
 Where Kosciusko dwelt, remembering yet 
 
 The unpaid amount of Catherine's bloody debt ! 160 
 
 Poland ! o'er which the avenging angel past, 
 
 But left thee as he found thee, still a waste ; 
 
 Forgetting all thy still enduring claim, 
 
 Thy lotted people and extinguished name ; 
 
 Thy sigh for freedom, thy long-flowing tear, 
 
12 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 That sound that crashes in the tyrant's ear ; 
 
 Kosciusko ! on — on — on — the thirst of war 
 
 Gasps for the gore of serfs and of their Czar ; 
 
 The half barbaric Moscow's minarets 
 
 Gleam in the sun, but 'tis a sun that sets ! 1 70 
 
 Moscow ! thou limit of his long career, 
 
 For which rude Charles had wept his frozen tear 
 
 To see in vain — he saw thee — how ? with spire 
 
 And palace fuel to one common fire. 
 
 To this the soldier lent his kindling match, 
 
 To this the peasant gave his cottage thatch, 
 
 To this the merchant flung his hoarded store, 
 
 The prince his hall — and, Moscow was no more ! 
 
 Sublimest of volcanos ! Etna's flame 
 
 Pales before thine, and quenchless Hecla's tame; 180 
 
 Vesuvius shews his blaze, an usual sight 
 
 For gaping tourists, from his hacknied height : 
 
 Thou stand'st alone unrivalled, till the fire 
 
 To come, in which all empires shall expire. 
 
 Thou other element ! as strong and stern 
 
 To teach a lesson conquerors will not learn, 
 
 Whose icy wing flapped o'er the faltering foe, 
 
 Till fell a hero with each flake of snow ; 
 
 How did thy numbing beak and silent fang 
 
 Pierce, till hosts perished with a single pang ! 190 
 
 In vain shall Seine look up along his banks 
 
 For the gay thousands of his dashing ranks ; 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 13 
 
 In vain shall France recall beneath her vines 
 
 Her youth ; their blood flows faster than her wines ; 
 
 Or stagnant in their human ice remains 
 
 In frozen mummies on the Polar plains. 
 
 In vain will Italy's broad sun awaken 
 
 Her offspring chilled ; its beams are now forsaken. 
 
 Of all the trophies gathered from the war, 
 
 What shall return ? The conqueror's broken car ! 200 
 
 The conqueror's yet unbroken heart ! Again 
 
 The horn of Roland sounds, and not in vain. 
 
 Lutzen, where fell the Swede of victory, 
 
 Beholds him conquer, but, alas ! not die : 
 
 Dresden surveys three despots fly once more 
 
 Before their sovereign, — sovereign as before ; 
 
 But there exhausted Fortune quits the field, 
 
 And Leipsic's treason bids the unvanquished yield ; 
 
 The Saxon jackall leaves the lion's side 
 
 To turn the bear's, and wolfs, and fox's guide, 210 
 
 And backward to the den of his despair 
 
 The forest monarch shrinks, but finds no lair ! 
 
 Oh ye ! and each, and all ! Oh, France ! who found 
 
 Thy long fair fields plough'd up as hostile ground, 
 
 Disputed foot by foot, till treason, still 
 
 His only victor, from Montmartre's hill 
 
 Looked down o'er trampled Paris ; and thou, isle, 
 
 Which seest Etruria from thy ramparts smile, 
 
 Thou momentary shelter of his pride, 
 
14 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Till wooed by danger, his yet weeping bride ; 220 
 
 Oh, France ! retaken by a single march, 
 
 Whose path was through one long triumphal arch ! 
 
 Oh, bloody and most bootless Waterloo, 
 
 Which proves how fools may have their fortune too 
 
 Won, half by blunder, half by treachery ; 
 
 Oh, dull Saint Helen ! with thy jailer nigh — 
 
 * Hear ! hear ! Prometheus from his rock appeal 
 
 To earth, air, ocean, all that felt or feel 
 
 His power and glory, all who yet shall hear 
 
 A name eternal as the rolling year j 230 
 
 He teaches them the lesson taught so long, 
 
 So oft, so vainly — learn to do no wrong ! 
 
 A single step into the right had made 
 
 This man the Washington of worlds betrayed j 
 
 A single step into the wrong has given 
 
 His name a doubt to all the winds of heaven ; 
 
 The reed of Fortune and of thrones the rod, 
 
 Of Fame the Moloch or the demigod ; 
 
 His country's Caesar, Europe's Hannibal, 
 
 Without their decent dignity of fall. 240 
 
 Yet Vanity herself had better taught 
 
 A surer path even to the fame he sought, 
 
 By pointing out on history's fruitless page 
 
 * I refer the reader to the first address of Prometheus in iEschylus, when 
 he is left alone by his attendants, and before the arrival of the Chorus of Sea- 
 nymphs. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 15 
 
 Ten thousand conquerors for a single sage. 
 
 While Franklin's quiet memory climbs to heaven, 
 
 Calming the lightning which he thence hath riven, 
 
 Or drawing from the no less kindled earth 
 
 Freedom and peace to that which boasts his birth : 
 
 While Washington's a watch-word, such as ne'er 
 
 Shall sink while there's an echo left to air : 250 
 
 While even the Spaniard's thirst of gold and war 
 
 Forgets Pizarro to shout Bolivar ! 
 
 Alas ! why must the same Atlantic wave 
 
 Which wafted freedom gird a tyrant's grave — 
 
 The king of kings, and yet of slaves the slave, 
 
 Who burst the chains of millions to renew 
 
 The very fetters which his arm broke through, 
 
 And crushed the rights of Europe and his own 
 
 To flit between a dungeon and a throne ? 
 
 VI. 
 
 But 'twill not be — the spark's awakened — lo ! 260 
 
 The swarthy Spaniard feels his former glow ; 
 The same high spirit which beat back the Moor 
 Through eight long ages of alternate gore, 
 Revives — and where ? in that avenging clime 
 Where Spain was once synonimous with crime, 
 Where Cortes' and Pizarro's banner flew ; 
 The infant world redeems her name of " New." 
 
16 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Tis the old aspiration breathed afresh, 
 
 To kindle souls within degraded flesh, 
 
 Such as repulsed the Persian from the shore 270 
 
 Where Greece was — No ! she still is Greece once more. 
 
 One common cause makes myriads of one breast, 
 
 Slaves of the East, or Helots of the West ; 
 
 On Andes' and on Athos' peaks unfurled, 
 
 The self-same standard streams o'er either world ; 
 
 The Athenian wears again Harmodius' sword ; 
 
 The Chili chief abjures his foreign lord $ 
 
 The Spartan knows himself once more a Greek ; 
 
 Young Freedom plumes the crest of each Cacique ; 
 
 Debating despots, hemmed on either shore, 280 
 
 Shrink vainly from the roused Atlantic's roar ; 
 
 Through Calpe's strait the rolling tides advance, 
 
 Sweep slightly by the half-tamed land of France, 
 
 Dash o'er the old Spaniard's cradle, and would fain 
 
 Unite Ausonia to the mighty main : 
 
 But driven from thence awhile, yet not for aye, 
 
 Break o'er th' iEgean, mindful of the day 
 
 Of Salamis — there, there, the waves arise, 
 
 Not to be lulled by tyrant victories. 
 
 Lone, lost, abandoned in their utmost need 290 
 
 By Christians unto whom they gave their creed, 
 
 The desolated lands, the ravaged isle, 
 
 The fostered feud encouraged to beguile, 
 
 The aid evaded, and the cold delay, 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 17 
 
 Prolonged but in the hope to make a prey ; — 
 
 These, these shall tell the tale, and Greece can shew 
 
 The false friend worse than the infuriate foe. 
 
 But this is well : Greeks only should free Greece, 
 
 Not the barbarian, with his mask of peace. 
 
 How should the Autocrat of Bondage be 300 
 
 The king of serfs, and set the nations free? 
 
 Better still serve the haughty Mussulman, 
 
 Than swell the Cossaque's prowling caravan ; 
 
 Better still toil for masters, than await, 
 
 The slave of slaves, before a Russian gate, — 
 
 Numbered by hordes, a human capital, 
 
 A live estate, existing but for thrall, 
 
 Lotted by thousands, as a meet reward 
 
 For the first courtier in the Czar's regard ; 
 
 While their immediate owner never tastes 310 
 
 His sleep, sans dreaming of Siberia's wastes ; 
 
 Better succumb even to their own despair, 
 
 And drive the camel than purvey the bear. 
 
 VII. 
 
 But not alone within the hoariest clime, 
 
 Where Freedom dates her birth with that of Time j 
 
 And not alone where, plunged in night, a crowd 
 
 Of Incas darken to a dubious cloud, 
 
 The dawn revives : renowned, romantic Spain 
 
18 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Holds back the invader from her soil again. 
 
 Not now the Roman tribe nor Punic horde 320 
 
 Demand her fields as lists to prove the sword ; 
 
 Not now the Vandal or the Visigoth 
 
 Pollute the plains alike abhorring both ; 
 
 Nor old Pelayo on his mountain rears 
 
 The warlike fathers of a thousand years. 
 
 That seed is sown and reaped, as oft the Moor 
 
 Sighs to remember on his dusky shore. 
 
 Long in the peasant's song or poet's page 
 
 Has dwelt the memory of Abencerage, 
 
 The Zegri, and the captive victors, flung 330 
 
 Back to the barbarous realm from whence they sprung. 
 
 But these are gone — their faith, their swords, their sway, 
 
 Yet left more Antichristian foes than they : 
 
 The bigot monarch and the butcher priest, 
 
 The Inquisition, with her burning feast, 
 
 The Faith's red " auto," fed with human fuel, 
 
 While sate the Catholic Moloch, calmly cruel, 
 
 Enjoying, with inexorable eye, 
 
 That fiery festival of agony ! 
 
 The stern or feeble sovereign, one or both 340 
 
 By turns; the haughtiness whose pride was sloth; 
 
 The long degenerate noble ; the debased 
 
 Hidalgo, and the peasant less disgraced 
 
 But more degraded ; the unpeopled realm ; 
 
 The once proud navy which forgot the helm ; 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 19 
 
 The once impervious phalanx disarrayed ; 
 
 The idle forge that form'd Toledo's blade ; 
 
 The foreign wealth that flow'd on ev'ry shore, 
 
 Save her's who earned it with the natives' gore ; 
 
 The very language, which might vie with Rome's, 350 
 
 And once was known to nations like their home's, 
 
 Neglected or forgotten : — such was Spain ; 
 
 But such she is not, nor shall be again. 
 
 These worst, these home invaders, felt and feel 
 
 The new Numantine soul of old Castile. 
 
 Up ! up again ! undaunted Tauridor ! 
 
 The bull of Phalaris renews his roar ; 
 
 Mount, chivalrous Hidalgo ! not in vain 
 
 Revive the cry — " lago ! and close Spain !" * 
 
 Yes, close her with your armed bosoms round, 360 
 
 And form the barrier which Napoleon found, — 
 
 The exterminating war ; the desart plain ; 
 
 The streets without a tenant, save the slain ; 
 
 The wild Sierra, with its wilder troop 
 
 Of vulture-plumed Guerillas, on the stoop 
 
 For their incessant prey ; the desperate, wall 
 
 Of Saragossa, mightiest in her fall; 
 
 The man nerved to a spirit, and the maid 
 
 Waving her more than Amazonian blade; 
 
 The knife of Arragon,f Toledo's steel; 370 
 
 * " St. Iago ! and close Spain !" the old Spanish war-cry. 
 f The Arragonians are peculiarly dextrous in the use of this weapon, 
 and displayed it particularly in former French wars. 
 
20 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 The famous lance of chivalrous Castile; 
 
 The unerring rifle of the Catalan; 
 
 The Andalusian courser in the van ; 
 
 The torch to make a Moscow of Madrid ; 
 
 And in each heart the spirit of the Cid : — 
 
 Such have been, such shall be, such are. Advance, 
 
 And win — not Spain, but thine own freedom, France ! 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But lo ! a Congress ! What, that hallowed name 
 
 Which freed the Atlantic ? May we hope the same 
 
 For outworn Europe ? With the sound arise, 380 
 
 Like Samuel's shade to Saul's monarchic eyes, 
 
 The prophets of young Freedom, summoned far 
 
 From climes of Washington and Bolivar j 
 
 Henry, the forest-born Demosthenes, 
 
 Whose thunder shook the Philip of the seas ; 
 
 And stoic Franklin's energetic shade, 
 
 Robed in the lightnings which his hand allayed ; 
 
 And Washington, the tyrant-tamer, wake, 
 
 To bid us blush for these old chains, or break. 
 
 But who compose this Senate of the few 390 
 
 That should redeem the many ? Who renew 
 
 This consecrated name, till now assigned 
 
 To councils held to benefit mankind ? 
 
 Who now assemble at the holy call ? 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 21 
 
 The blest Alliance, which says three are all ! 
 
 An earthly Trinity ! which wears the shape 
 
 Of heaven's, as man is mimicked by the ape. 
 
 A pious unity ! in purpose one — 
 
 To melt three fools to a Napoleon. 
 
 Why, Egypt's gods were rational to these ; 400 
 
 Their dogs and oxen knew their own degrees, 
 
 And, quiet in their kennel or their shed, 
 
 Cared little, so that they were duly fed ; 
 
 But these, more hungry, must have something more, 
 
 The power to bark and bite, to toss and gore. 
 
 Ah, how much happier were good iEsop's frogs 
 
 Than we ! for ours are animated logs, 
 
 With ponderous malice swaying to and fro, 
 
 And crashing nations with a stupid blow, 
 
 All dully anxious to leave little work 410 
 
 Unto the revolutionary stork. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Thrice blest Verona ! since the holy three 
 With their imperial presence shine on thee ; 
 Honoured by them, thy treacherous site forgets 
 The vaunted tomb of " all the Capulets •" 
 Thy Scaligers — for what was " Dog the Great," 
 u Can Grande " (which I venture to translate) 
 To these sublimer pugs ? Thy poet too, 
 
22 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Catullus, whose old laurels yield to new ; 
 
 Thine amphitheatre, where Romans sate ; 420 
 
 And Dante's exile, sheltered by thy gate ; 
 
 Thy good old man, * whose world was all within 
 
 Thy wall, nor knew the country held him in : 
 
 Would that the royal guests it girds about 
 
 Were so far like, as never to get out ! 
 
 Aye, shout ! inscribe ! rear monuments of shame, 
 
 To tell Oppression that the world is tame ! 
 
 Crowd to the theatre with loyal rage, 
 
 The comedy is not upon the stage ; 
 
 The show is rich in ribbonry and stars, 430 
 
 Then gaze upon it through thy dungeon bars ; 
 
 Clap thy permitted palms, kind Italy, 
 
 For thus much still thy fettered hands are free ! 
 
 X. 
 
 Resplendent sight ! behold the coxcomb Czar, 
 
 The autocrat of waltzes and of war ! 
 
 As eager for a plaudit as a realm, 
 
 And just as fit for flirting as the helm ; 
 
 A Calmuck beauty with a Cossack wit, 
 
 And generous spirit, when 'tis not frost-bit; 
 
 Now half dissolving to a liberal thaw, 440 
 
 * The famous old man of Verona. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 23 
 
 But hardened back whene'er the morning's raw j 
 
 With no objection to true liberty, 
 
 Except that it would make the nations free. 
 
 How well the Imperial Dandy prates of peace, 
 
 How fain, if Greeks would be his slaves, free Greece ! 
 
 How nobly gave he back the Poles their Diet, 
 
 Then told pugnacious Poland to be quiet ! 
 
 How kindly would he send the mild Ukraine, 
 
 With all her pleasant pulks, to lecture Spain ; 
 
 How royally shew off in proud Madrid 450 
 
 His goodly person, from the South long hid ; 
 
 A blessing cheaply purchased, the world knows, 
 
 By having Muscovites for friends or foes. 
 
 Proceed, thou namesake of Great Philip's son ! 
 
 La Harpe, thine Aristotle, beckons on; 
 
 And that which Scythia was to him of yore, 
 
 Find with thy Scythians on Iberia's shore. 
 
 Yet think upon, thou somewhat aged youth, 
 
 Thy predecessor on the banks of Pruth ; 
 
 Thou hast to aid thee, should his lot be thine, 460 
 
 Many an old woman, but no Catherine. * 
 
 Spain too hath rocks, and rivers, and defiles — 
 
 The bear may rush into the lion's toils. 
 
 Fatal to Goths are Xeres' sunny fields ; 
 
 * The dexterity of Catherine extricated Peter (called the Great by cour- 
 tesy) when surrounded by the Mussulmans on the banks of the river Pruth. 
 
24 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Think'st thou to thee Napoleon's victor yields ? 
 
 Better reclaim thy desarts, turn thy swords 
 
 To ploughshares^ shave and wash thy Bashkir hordes, 
 
 Redeem thy realms from slavery and the knout, 
 
 Than follow headlong in the fatal route, 
 
 To infest the clime whose skies and laws are pure 470 
 
 With thy foul legions. Spain wants no manure ; 
 
 Her soil is fertile, but she feeds no foe ; 
 
 Her vultures, too, were gorged not long ago ; 
 
 And wouldst thou furnish them with fresher prey ? 
 
 Alas ! thou wilt not conquer, but purvey. 
 
 I am Diogenes, though Russ and Hun 
 
 Stand between mine and many a myriad's sun ; 
 
 But were I not Diogenes, I'd wander 
 
 Rather a worm than such an Alexander ! 
 
 Be slaves who will, the Cynic shall be free ; 480 
 
 His tub hath tougher walls than Sinope : 
 
 Still will he hold his lanthorn up to scan 
 
 The face of monarchs for an "honest man." 
 
 XI. 
 
 And what doth Gaul, the all-prolific land 
 Of ne plus ultra Ultras and their band 
 Of mercenaries ? and her noisy Chambers 
 And Tribune, which each orator first clambers 
 Before he finds a voice, and when 'tis found, 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 25 
 
 Hears " the lie " echo for his answer round ! 
 
 Our British Commons sometimes deign to hear ; 490 
 
 A Gallic Senate hath more tongue than ear ; 
 
 Even Constant, their sole master of debate. 
 
 Must fight next day his speech to vindicate. 
 
 But this costs little to true Franks, who had rather 
 
 Combat than listen, were it to their father. 
 
 What is the simple standing of a shot, 
 
 To listening long, and interrupting not ? 
 
 Though this was not the method of old Rome, 
 
 When Tully fulmined o'er each vocal dome, 500 
 
 Demosthenes has sanctioned the transaction, 
 
 In saying eloquence meant " Action, action !" 
 
 XII. 
 
 But where's the Monarch ? hath he dined ? or yet 
 
 Groans beneath indigestion's heavy debt ? 
 
 Have revolutionary pates risen, 
 
 And turned the royal entrails to a prison ? 
 
 Have discontented movements stirred the troops ? 
 
 Or have no movements followed traitrous soups ? 
 
 Have Carbonaro cooks not carbonadoed 
 
 Each course enough ? or doctors dire dissuaded 
 
 Repletion? Ah! in thy dejected looks 510 
 
 I read all France's treason in her cooks ! 
 
 Good classic Louis! is it, canst thou say, 
 
26 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Desirable to be the " Desire ?" 
 
 Why wouldst thou leave calm Hartwell's green abode, 
 - Apician table and Horatian ode, 
 To rule a people who will not be ruled, 
 And love much rather to be scourged than schooled ? 
 Ah ! thine was not the temper or the taste 
 For thrones, the table sees thee better placed : 
 A mild Epicurean, formed, at best, 520 
 
 To be a kind host and as good a guest, 
 To talk of letters, and to know by heart 
 One half the poet's, all the gourmand's art; 
 A scholar always, now and then a wit, 
 And gentle when digestion may permit — 
 But not to govern lands enslaved or free ; 
 The gout was martyrdom enough for thee ! 
 
 XIII. 
 
 Shall noble Albion pass without a phrase 
 
 From a bold Briton in her wonted praise ? 
 
 " Arts — arms — and George — and glory and the isles — 530 
 
 And happy Britain — wealth and freedom's smiles — 
 
 White cliffs, that held invasion far aloof — 
 
 Contented subjects, all alike tax-proof — 
 
 Proud Wellington, with eagle beak so curled, 
 
 That nose, the hook where he suspends the world ! * 
 
 * " Naso suspendit adunco." — Horace. 
 The Roman applies it to one who merely was imperious to his acquaintance. 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 27 
 
 And Waterloo — and trade — and (hush ! not yet 
 
 A syllable of imposts or of debt) 
 
 And ne'er (enough) lamented Castlereagh, 
 
 Whose pen-knife slit a goose-quill t'other day — 
 
 And * pilots who have weathered every storm ' — 540 
 
 (But, no, not even for rhyme's sake, name reform)." 
 
 These are the themes thus sung so oft before, 
 
 Methinks we need not sing them any more ; 
 
 Found in so many volumes far and near, 
 
 There's no occasion you should find them here. 
 
 Yet something may remain perchance to chime 
 
 With reason, and, what's stranger still, with rhyme ; 
 
 Even this thy genius, Canning ! may permit, 
 
 Who, bred a statesman, still was born a wit, 
 
 And never, even in that dull house, couldst tame 550 
 
 To unleavened prose thine own poetic flame ; 
 
 Our last, our best, our only orator, 
 
 Even I can praise thee — Tories do no more, 
 
 Nay, not so much ; — they hate thee, man, because 
 
 Thy spirit less upholds them than it awes. 
 
 The hounds will gather to their huntsman's hollo, 
 
 And where he leads the duteous pack will follow; 
 
 But not for love mistake their yelling cry, 
 
 Their yelp for game is not an eulogy; 
 
 Less faithful far than the four-footed pack, 560 
 
 A dubious scent would lure the bipeds back. 
 
 Thy saddle girths are not yet quite secure, 
 
28 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 Nor royal stallion's feet extremely sure ; 
 The unwieldy old White Horse is apt at last 
 To stumble, kick, and now and then stick fast 
 With his great self and rider in the mud ; 
 But what of that ? the animal shews blood. 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Alas, the country ! how shall tongue or pen 
 
 Bewail her now uncountry gentlemen ? 
 
 The last to bid the cry of warfare cease, 670 
 
 The first to make a malady of peace. 
 
 For what were all these country patriots born? 
 
 To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn ? 
 
 But corn, like every mortal thing, must fall, 
 
 Kings, conquerors, and markets most of all. 
 
 And must ye fall with every ear of grain ? 
 
 Why would you trouble Buonaparte's reign ? 
 
 He was your great Triptolemus; his vices 
 
 Destroyed but realms, and still maintained your prices; 
 
 He amplified to every lord's content 580 
 
 The grand Agrarian Alchymy hight Rent. 
 
 Why did the tyrant stumble on the Tartars, 
 
 And lower wheat to such desponding quarters ? 
 
 Why did you chain him on yon isle so lone ? 
 
 The man was worth much more upon his throne. 
 
 True, blood and treasure boundlessly were spilt, 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 29 
 
 But what of that? the Gaul may bear the guilt; 
 
 But bread was high, the farmer paid his way, 
 
 And acres told upon the appointed day. 
 
 But where is now the goodly audit ale ? 590 
 
 The purse-proud tenant never known to fail ? 
 
 The farm« which never yet was left on hand? 
 
 The marsh reclaimed to most improving land ? 
 
 The impatient hope of the expiring lease ? 
 
 The doubling rental? What an evil 's peace! 
 
 In vain the prize excites the ploughman's skill, 
 
 In vain the Commons pass their patriot bill ; 
 
 The landed interest — (you may understand 
 
 The phrase much better leaving out the land) — 
 
 The land self-interest groans from shore to shore, 600 
 
 For fear that plenty should attain the poor. 
 
 Up ! up again ! ye rents, exalt your notes, 
 
 Or else the Ministry will lose their votes, 
 
 And Patriotism, so delicately nice, 
 
 Her loaves will lower to the market price ; 
 
 For ah ! " the loaves and fishes," once so high, 
 
 Are gone — their oven closed, their ocean dry, 
 
 And nought remains of all the millions spent, 
 
 Excepting to grow moderate and content. 
 
 They who are not so, had their turn— and turn 610 
 
 About still flows from Fortune's equal urn ; 
 
 Now let their virtue be its own reward, 
 
 And share the blessings which themselves prepared. 
 
30 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 See these inglorious Cincinnati swarm, 
 
 Farmers of war, Dictators of the farm ! 
 
 Their ploughshare was the sword in hireling hands, 
 
 Their fields manured by gore of other lands ; 
 
 Safe in their barns, these Sabine tillers sent 
 
 Their brethren out to battle — why ? for Rent ! 
 
 Year after year they voted cent, per cent. 620 
 
 Blood, sweat, and tear-wrung millions — why ? for Rent ! 
 
 They roared, they dined, they drank, they swore they meant 
 
 To die for England — why then live ? for Rent ! 
 
 The peace has made one general malcontent 
 
 Of these high-market patriots ; war was Rent ! 
 
 Their love of country, millions all mis-spent, 
 
 How reconcile ? by reconciling Rent. 
 
 And will they not repay the treasures lent ? 
 
 No : down with every thing, and up with Rent ! 
 
 Their good, ill, health, wealth, joy, or discontent, 640 
 
 Being, end, aim, religion — Rent, Rent, Rent! 
 
 Thou soldst thy birthright, Esau ! for a mess : 
 
 Thou shouldst have gotten more, or eaten less j 
 
 Now thou hast swilled thy pottage, thy demands 
 
 Are idle ; Israel says the bargain stands. 
 
 Such, landlords ! was your appetite for war, 
 
 And, gorg'd with blood, you grumble at a scar ! 
 
 What, would they spread their earthquake even o'er Cash ? 
 
 And when land crumbles, bid firm paper crash ? 
 
 So rent may rise, bid bank and nation fall, 650 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 31 
 
 And found on Change a Fundling Hospital? 
 
 Lo, Mother Church, while all religion writhes, 
 
 Like Niobe, weeps o'er her offspring, Tithes ; 
 
 The Prelates go to — where the saints have gone, 
 
 And proud pluralities subside to one ; 
 
 Church, state, and faction, wrestle in the dark, 
 
 Tossed by the Deluge in their common ark. 
 
 Shorn of her Bishops, banks, and dividends, 
 
 Another Babel soars — but Britain ends. 
 
 And why ? to pamper the self-seeking wants, 660 
 
 And prop the hill of these agrarian ants. 
 
 " Go to these ants, thou sluggard, and be wise ;" 
 
 Admire their patience through each sacrifice, 
 
 Till taught to feel the lesson of their pride, 
 
 The price of taxes and of homicide ; 
 
 Admire their justice, which would fain deny 
 
 The debt of nations : — pray, who made it high ? 
 
 XV. 
 
 Or turn to sail between those shifting rocks, 
 
 The new Symplegades — the crushing Stocks, 
 
 Where Midas might again his wish behold 670 
 
 In real paper or imagined gold. 
 
 That magic palace of Alcina shows 
 
 More wealth than Britain ever had to lose, 
 
 Were all her atoms of unleavened ore, 
 
 And all her pebbles from Pactolus' shore. 
 
32 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 There Fortune plays, while Rumour holds the stake, 
 
 And the world trembles to bid brokers break. 
 
 How rich is Britain ! not indeed in mines, 
 
 Or peace, or plenty, corn, or oil, or wines ; 
 
 No land of Canaan, full of milk and honey, 680 
 
 Nor (save in paper shekels) ready money : 
 
 But let us not to own the truth refuse, 
 
 Was ever Christian land so rich in Jews ? 
 
 Those parted with their teeth to good King John, 
 
 And now, ye kings ! they kindly draw your own ; 
 
 All states, all things, all sovereigns they controul, 
 
 And waft a loan " from Indus to the Pole/' 
 
 The banker— broker — baron — brethren, speed 
 
 To aid these bankrupt tyrants in their need. 
 
 Nor these alone ; Columbia feels no less 
 
 Fresh speculations follow each success; 690 
 
 And philanthropic Israel deigns to drain 
 
 Her mild per centage from exhausted Spain. 
 
 Not without Abraham's seed can Russia march, 
 
 'Tis gold, not steel, that rears the conqueror's arch. 
 
 Two Jews, a chosen people, can command 
 
 In every realm their scripture-promised land : — 
 
 Two Jews keep down the Romans, and uphold 
 
 The accursed Hun, more brutal than of old : 
 
 Two Jews — but not Samaritans — direct 
 
 The world, with all the spirit of their sect. 700 
 
 What is the happiness of earth to them ? 
 
 A Congress forms their " New Jerusalem," ,* 
 
THE AGE OP BRONZE. 33 
 
 Where baronies and orders both invite — 
 
 Oh, holy Abraham ! dost thou see the sight ? 
 
 Thy followers mingling with these royal swine, 
 
 Who spit not " on their Jewish gaberdine," 
 
 But honour them as portion of the show — 
 
 (Where now, oh, Pope ! is thy forsaken toe ? 
 
 Could it not favour Judah with some kicks ? 710 
 
 Or has it ceased to " kick against the pricks ?") 
 
 On Shylock's shore behold them stand afresh, 
 
 To cut from nation's hearts their " pound of flesh." 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Strange sight this Congress ! destined to unite 
 
 All that's incongruous, all that's opposite. 
 
 I speak not of the Sovereigns — they're alike, 
 
 A common coin as ever mint could strike : 
 
 But those who sway the puppets, pull the strings, 
 
 Have more of motley than their heavy kings. 
 
 Jews, authors, generals, charlatans, combine, 720 
 
 While Europe wonders at the vast design : 
 
 There Metternich, power's foremost parasite, 
 
 Cajoles j there Wellington forgets to fight ; 
 
 There Chateaubriand forms new books of martyrs ; * 
 
 * Monsieur Chateaubriand, who has not forgotten the author in the mi- 
 nister, received a handsome compliment at Verona from a literary sovereign : 
 " Ah ! Monsieur C — ■ — , are you related to that Chateaubriand who — who — 
 who has written something V (ecrit quelque chose !) It is said that the author 
 of Atala repented him for a moment of his legitimacy. 
 
34 THE AGE OF BRONZE 
 
 And subtle Greeks intrigue for stupid Tartars ; 
 
 There Montmorency, the sworn foe to charters, 
 
 Turns a diplomatist of great eclat, 
 
 To furnish articles for the " Debats ;" 
 
 Of war so certain — yet not quite so sure 
 
 As his dismissal in the " Moniteur." 730 
 
 Alas ! how could his cabinet thus err ? 
 
 Can peace be worth an Ultra-Minister ? 
 
 He falls indeed, perhaps to rise again 
 
 " Almost as quickly as he conquered Spain." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 Enough of this — a sight more mournful woos 
 
 The averted eye of the reluctant Muse. 
 
 The imperial daughter, the imperial bride, 
 
 The imperial victim — sacrifice to pride; 
 
 The mother of the hero's hope, the boy, 
 
 The young Astyanax of modern Troy ; 740 
 
 The still pale shadow of the loftiest queen 
 
 That earth has yet to see, or e'er hath seen; 
 
 She flits amidst the phantoms of the hour, 
 
 The theme of pity, and the wreck of power. 
 
 Oh, cruel mockery ! Could not Austria spare 
 
 A daughter ? What did France's widow there ? 
 
 Her fitter place was by St. Helen's wave, 
 
 Her only throne is in Napoleon's grave. 
 
 But, no,— she still must hold a petty reign, 
 
THE AGE OF BRONZE. 35 
 
 Flanked by her formidable chamberlain ; 740 
 
 The martial Argus, whose not hundred eyes 
 
 Must watch her through these paltry pageantries. 
 
 What though she share no more and shared in vain 
 
 A sway surpassing that of Charlemagne, 
 
 Which swept from Moscow to the Southern seas, 
 
 Yet still she rules the pastoral realm of cheese, 
 
 Where Parma views the traveller resort 
 
 To note the trappings of her mimic court. 
 
 But she appears ! Verona sees her shorn 
 
 Of all her beams — while nations gaze and mourn — 750 
 
 Ere yet her husband's ashes have had time 
 
 To chill in their inhospitable clime ; 
 
 (If ere those awful ashes can grow cold ; — 
 
 But no, — their embers soon will burst the mould) 
 
 She comes ! — the Andromache (but not Racine's, 
 
 Nor Homer's) Lo ! on Pyrrhus' arm she leans ! 
 
 Yes ! the right arm, yet red from Waterloo, 
 
 Which cut her lord's half shattered sceptre through, 
 
 Is offered and accepted ! Could a slave 
 
 Do more ? or less ? — and he in his new grave ! 760 
 
 Her eye, her cheek, betray no inward strife, 
 
 And the i&r-Empress grows as Ex a wife ! 
 
 So much for human ties in royal breasts ! 
 
 Why spare men's feelings, when their own are jests ? 
 
36 THE AGE OF BRONZE. 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 But, tired of foreign follies, I turn home, 
 
 And sketch the groupe — the picture's yet to come. 
 
 My Muse 'gan weep, but, ere a tear was spilt, 
 
 She caught Sir William Curtis in a kilt ! 
 
 While thronged the Chiefs of every Highland clan 
 
 To hail their brother, Vich Ian Alderman ! 770 
 
 Guildhall grows Gael, and echos with Erse roar, 
 
 While all the Common Council cry, ". Claymore !" 
 
 To see proud Albyn's Tartans as a belt 
 
 Gird the gross sirloin of a City Celt, 
 
 She burst into a laughter so extreme, 
 
 That I awoke — and lo ! it was no dream ! 
 
 Here, reader, will we pause : — if there's no harm in 
 This first — you'll have, perhaps, a second " Carmen." 
 
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