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AFTER-THOUGHT.-SONNET.-BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN.

AFTER-THOUGHT.*

AH, GOD! the petty fools of rhyme,
That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars
Before the stony face of Time,

And look'd at by the silent stars;

That hate each other for a song,
And do their little best to bite,
That pinch their brothers in the throng,
And scratch the very dead for spite; -

And strive to make an inch of room

For their sweet selves, and can not hear The sullen Lethe rolling down

On them and theirs, and all things here;

When one small touch of Charity

Could lift them nearer Godlike State, Than if the crowded Orb should cry Like those that cried DIANA great.

And I too talk, and lose the touch
I talk of. Surely, after all,
The noblest answer unto such
Is kindly silence when they bawl.

SONNET

TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY.†

FAREWELL, Macready, since to-night we part.
Full-handed thunders often have confest

Thy power, well-used to move the public breast.
We thank thee with one voice, and from the heart.
Farewell, Macready; since this night we part.

Go, take thine honors home: rank with the best,
Garrick, and statelier Kemble, and the rest
Who made a nation purer thro' their art.
Thine is it, that our Drama did not die,

243

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Should he land here, and for one hour prevail,
There must no man go back to bear the tale:
No man to bear it-
Swear it! we swear it!

Nor flicker down to brainless pantomime,
And those gilt gauds men-children swarm to see.
Farewell, Macready; moral, grave, sublime.
Our Shakspeare's bland and universal eye
Dwells pleased, thro' twice a hundred years, on Although we fight the banded world alone,
thee.

We swear to guard our own.

BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN.‡
RISE, Britons, rise, if manhood be not dead;
The world's last tempest darkens overhead;
The Pope has bless'd him;
The Church caress'd him;
He triumphs; may be we shall stand alone.
Britons, guard your own.

His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd gold,
By lying priests the peasants' votes controll'd.
All freedom vanish'd,
The true men banish'd,

He triumphs; may be we shall stand alone.
Britons, guard your own.

Peace-lovers we-sweet Peace we all desire.
Peace-lovers we-but who can trust a liar? -
Peace-lovers, haters

Of shameless traitors,

We hate not France, but this man's heart of stone.
Britons, guard your own.

* Punch, March 7, 1846, signed "Alcibiades."

Read by Mr. John Forster at a dinner given to Mr. Macready, March 1, 1851, on his retirement from the stage.

This and the two following pieces were printed in the Examiner

in 1852. The last two were signed "Merlin.”

THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852.
My lords, we heard you speak; you told us all
That England's honest censure went too far;
That our free press should cease to brawl,
Not sting the fiery Frenchman into war.
It was an ancient privilege, my lords,
To fling whate'er we felt, not fearing, into words.

We love not this French God, this child of Hell,
Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise,
But though we love kind Peace so well,

We dare not, e'en by silence, sanction lies.
It might safe be our censures to withdraw;
And yet, my lords, not well; there is a higher law.

As long as we remain, we must speak free,
Though all the storm of Europe on us break;
No little German state are we,

But the one voice in Europe; we must speak;
That if to-night our greatness were struck dead,
There might remain some record of the things we
said.

If you be fearful, then must we be bold.
Our Britain can not salve a tyrant o'er.

244

HANDS ALL ROUND.-THE WAR.-1865-1866.

Better the waste Atlantic roll'd

On her and us and ours forevermore.

What! have we fought for freedom from our prime, At last to dodge and palter with a public crime?

Shall we fear him? our own we never feared.

Gigantic daughter of the West,

We drink to thee across the flood, We know thee and we love thee best, For art thou not of British blood? Should war's mad blast again be blown, Permit not thou the tyrant powers

From our first Charles by force we wrung our To fight thy mother here alone, claims,

Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd,

And flung the burthen of the second James.

I say we never fear'd! and as for these,

We broke them on the land, we drove them on the

seas.

And you, my lords, you make the people muse,
In doubt if you be of our Baron's breed-
Were those your sires who fought at Lewes ?
Is this the manly strain of Runnymede ?
O fall'n nobility, that, overawed,

But let thy broadsides roar with ours.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.

O rise, our strong Atlantic sons,

When war against our freedom springs! O speak to Europe through your guns! They can be understood by kings. You must not mix our Queen with those That wish to keep their people fools;

Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this monstrous Our freedom's foemen are her foes, fraud.

We feel, at least, that silence here were sin.
Not ours the fault if we have feeble hosts-
If easy patrons of their kin

Have left the last free race with naked coasts! They knew the precious things they had to guard: For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word.

Though niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons forget? We are not cotton-spinners all,

But some love England, and her honor yet. And these in our Thermopylæ shall stand,

And hold against the world the honor of the land.

HANDS ALL ROUND.

FIRST drink a health, this solemn night,
A health to England, every guest;
That man's the best cosmopolite

Who loves his native country best.

May Freedom's oak for ever live

With stronger life from day to day;

That man's the best Conservative

Who lops the mouldered branch away.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's hope confound!

To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

A health to Europe's honest men!

Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails! From wronged Poerio's noisome den,

From ironed limbs and tortured nails!
We curse the crimes of southern kings,
The Russian whips and Austrian rods-

We likewise have our evil things;
Too much we make our Ledgers, Gods.
Yet hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To Europe's better health we drink, my friends,

And the great name of England, round and round!

What health to France, if France be she,
Whom martial progress only charms?
Yet tell her-better to be free

Than vanquish all the world in arms.
Her frantic city's flashing heats

But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. Why change the titles of your streets? You fools, you'll want them all again. Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round.

She comprehends the race she rules.
Hands all round!

God the tyrant's cause confound!

To our dear kinsmen in the West, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.

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