A country in all senses the most dear To foreigner or native, save some silly ones, Who 'kick against the pricks' just at this juncture, And for their pains get only a fresh puncture.
What a delightful thing 's a turnpike road!
So smooth, so level, such a mode of shaving The earth, as scarce the eagle in the broad Air can accomplish, with his wide wings waving.
Had such been cut in Phaeton's time, the god Had told his son to satisfy his craving With the York mail;- but onward as we roll, 'Surgit amari aliquid'- the toll Alas, how deeply painful is all payment!
Take lives, take wives, take aught except men's purses:
As Machiavel shows those in purple raiment, Such is the shortest way to general curses.
They hate a murderer much less than a claimant On that sweet ore which every body nurses;-Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
So said the Florentine: ye monarchs, hearken To your instructor. Juan now was borne, Just as the day began to wane and darken, O'er the high hill, which looks with pride or scorn Toward the great city.- Ye who have a spark in Your veins of Cockney spirit, smile or mourn According as you take things well or ill;-Bold Britons, we are now on Shooter's Hill!
The sun went down, the smoke rose up, as from A half-unquench'd volcano, o'er a space Which well beseem'd the 'Devil's drawing-room,'
As some have qualified that wondrous place:
But Juan felt, though not approaching home, As one who, though he were not of the race, Revered the soil, of those true sons the mother, Who butcher'd half the earth, and bullied t' other.
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusky, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown On a fool's head- and there is London Town!
But Juan saw not this: each wreath of smoke Appear'd to him but as the magic vapour Of some alchymic furnace, from whence broke The wealth of worlds (a wealth of tax and paper):
The gloomy clouds, which o'er it as a yoke Are bow'd, and put the sun out like a taper, Were nothing but the natural atmosphere, Extremely wholesome, though but rarely clear.
He paused- and so will I; as doth a crew Before they give their broadside. By and by, My gentle countrymen, we will renew Our old acquaintance; and at least I 'll try To tell you truths you will not take as true, Because they are so;- a male Mrs. Fry, With a soft besom will I sweep your halls, And brush a web or two from off the walls.
Oh Mrs. Fry! Why go to Newgate? Why Preach to poor rogues? And wherefore not begin With Carlton, or with other houses? Try Your head at harden'd and imperial sin.
To mend the people 's an absurdity, A jargon, a mere philanthropic din, Unless you make their betters better:- Fy!
I thought you had more religion, Mrs. Fry.
Teach them the decencies of good threescore;
Cure them of tours, hussar and highland dresses;
Tell them that youth once gone returns no more, That hired huzzas redeem no land's distresses;
Tell them Sir William Curtis is a bore, Too dull even for the dullest of excesses, The witless Falstaff of a hoary Hal, A fool whose bells have ceased to ring at all.
Tell them, though it may be perhaps too late, On life's worn confine, jaded, bloated, sated, To set up vain pretence of being great, 'T is not so to be good; and be it stated, The worthiest kings have ever loved least state;
And tell them- But you won't, and I have prated Just now enough; but by and by I 'll prattle Like Roland's horn in Roncesvalles' battle.
