FullReads

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 finisht some other fine morning.
Now, hey for old BEAUVILLIERS’S[3] 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
R. FUDGE.

[1] The Bill of Fare.–Very, a well-known Restaurateur.

[2] The favorite wine of Napoleon.

[3] A celebrated restaurateur.

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,
Even in the fields where free those fathers trod,
I am proscribed, and–like the spot left bare
In Israel’s halls, to tell the proud and fair
Amidst their mirth, that Slavery had been there[1]–
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 naught but food for factions and harangues;
Who yearly kneel before their masters’ doors
And hawk their wrongs, as beggars do their sores:
Still let your . . . .[2]
. . . . .
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 the Oppressor’s face.
Every where gallant hearts and spirits true,
Are served up victims to the vile and few;
While England, every where–the general foe
Of Truth and Freedom, wheresoe’er they glow–
Is first, when tyrants strike, to aid the blow.

Oh, England! 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,
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
Pronounced, 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 neighbor’s blessings risks the few thou hast;–
That monster, Self, too gross to be concealed,
Which ever lurks behind thy proffered 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 gained,
Back to his masters, ready gagged and chained!
Worthy associate of that band of Kings,
That royal, ravening flock, whose vampire wings
O’er sleeping Europe treacherously brood,
And fan her into dreams of promist 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 fallen and tarnisht thing thou art;
That, as the centaur gave the infected vest
In which he died, to rack his conqueror’s breast,
We sent thee CASTLEREAGH:–as heaps of dead
Have slain their slayers by the pest they spread,
So hath our land breathed out, thy fame to dim,
Thy strength to waste and rot thee soul and limb,
Her worst infections all condensed in him!