Till the poor venders find the cost,
-Time to eternal ages lost!

No sculptured idol decks the place,
Of such excelling form and face,
That Grecian pride might feign its birth
A statue fallen from heaven to earth:
The goddess here is best design'd,

-A flimsy harlot, bold and blind;
Invisible to standers-by,

And yet in everybody's eye!

FORTUNE her name;-a gay deceiver,

Cheat as she may, the crowd believe her;
And she, abuse her as they will,

Showers on the crowd her favours still :
For 'tis the bliss of both to be
Themselves unseen, and not to see;

Had she discernment,-pride would scout
The homage of her motley rout;
Were she reveal'd,—the poorest slave
Would blush to be her luckiest knave.
Not good OLD FORTUNE here we scorn,
In classic fable heavenly born;
She who for nothing deigns to deal
Her blanks and prizes from One Wheel;
And who, like Justice, wisely blind,
Scatters her bounties on mankind
With such a broad impartial aim,

If none will praise her, none should blame;
For were ten thousand fancies tried,

Wealth more discreetly to divide
Among the craving race of man,
Wit could not frame a happier plan.

Here, 'tis her Counterfeit, who reigns
O'er haunted heads and moon-struck brains;
A Two-wheel'd Jade, admired by sots,
Who flings, for cash in hand, her lots
To those, who, fain "their luck to try,"
Sell Hope, and Disappointment buy.

The wily sorceress here reveals,

With proud parade, her mystic Wheels;
-Those Wheels, on which the nation runs
Over the morals of its Sons;

-Those Wheels, at which the nation draws
Through shouting streets its broken laws!
Engines of plotting Fortune's skill
To lure, entangle, torture, kill.

Behold her, in imperial pride,

King, Lords, and Commons at her side;
Arm'd with authority of state,

The public peace to violate;

More might be told,—but not by me

Must this "eternal blazon" be.

Between her Wheels the Phantom stands,
With Syren voice, and Harpy hands:
She turns th' enchanted axle round;
Forth leaps the "TWENTY THOUSAND POUND!"
That "twenty thousand" one has got;
But twenty thousand more have not.
These curse her to her face, deplore
Their loss, then-take her word once more;
Once more deceived, they rise like men
Bravely resolved-to try again;
Again they fail ;-again trapann'd,

She mocks them with her sleight of hand;
Still fired with rage, with avarice steel'd,
Perish they may, but never yield;
They woo her till their latest breath,

Then snatch their prize—a blank in death.
The priests, that in her temple wait,
Her minor ministers of fate,

Like Dian's silversmith's of old,
True to the craft that brings them gold,
Lungs, limbs, and pens unwearied ply
To puff their Goddess to the sky;
Oh that their puffs could fix Her there,
Who builds such castles in the air,

And in the malice of her mirth
Lets them to simpletons on earth!
-Who steals the rainbow's peaceful form,
But is the demon of the storm;
-Assumes a star's benignant mien,
But wears a comet's tail unseen;
-Who smiles a Juno to the crowd,
But all that win her catch a cloud,
And, doom'd Ixion's fate to feel,
Are whirl'd upon a giddier wheel.

-Oh that her priests could fix her there,
Whose breath and being are but air!
Yet not for this their spells they try,
They bawl to keep her from the sky,
A harmless meteor in that sphere;
A baleful Ignis fatuus here,

With wandering and bewildering light,
To cheer, and then confound the sight,
Guide the lone traveller,-then betray,
Where Death in ambush lurks for prey.
Fierce, but familiar, at their call,
The veriest fiend of Satan's fall;
-The fiend that tempted him to stake
Heaven's bliss against the burning lake;
-The fiend that tempted him again,
To burst the darkness of his den,
And risk whate'er of wrath untried
Eternal justice yet could hide,

For one transcendent chance, by sin,
Man and his new-made world to win;
-That fiend, while Satan play'd his part
At Eve's fond ear, assail'd her heart,
And tempted her to hazard more
Than fallen Angels lost before;
They ruin'd but themselves-her crime
Brought death on all the race of time:

-That fiend comes forth, like Etna's flame;

The SPIRIT OF GAMBLING call his name;

So flush'd and terrible in power,

The Priests themselves he would devour;
But straight, by Act of Parliament,
Loose through the land his plagues are sent.
The Polypus himself divides,

A legion issues from his sides;
Ten thousand shapes he wears at will,
In every shape a devil still;
Eager and restless to be known
By any mark, except his own;
In airy, earthly, heavenly guise,
No matter, if it strike the eyes;

Yet ever at the clink of pelf,
He starts, and shrinks into himself:
-A traitor now, with face of truth,
He dupes the innocence of youth;
A shrewd pretender, smooth and sage,
He tempts the avarice of age;
A wizard, versed in damned arts,
He trammels uncorrupted hearts;
He lulls Suspicion, Sense waylays,
Honour and Honesty betrays,

Finds Virtue sleeping, and by stealth
Beguiles her with a dream of wealth;
Till rich and poor, till fools and wise,
Haste to the headlong sacrifice,
Gaze till they slip into the snare;

-Angels might weep to see them there;
Then to the Lottery Wheels away,
The SPIRIT OF GAMBLING drags his prey.
Hail to the fiery bigot's rack!

Hail Juggernaut's destructive track!
Hail to the warrior's iron car!
But oh, be Lottery Wheels afar!
I'll die by torture, war, disease,
I'll die-by any Wheels but these!

VOL. II.

NO. V.-TO BRITAIN.

I LOVE Thee, O my native Isle !
Dear as my mother's earliest smile;
Sweet as my father's voice to me
Is all I hear, and all I see,

When, glancing o'er thy beauteous land,
In view thy Public Virtues stand,
The Guardian-angels of thy coast,
Who watch the dear domestic Host,
The Heart's Affections, pleased to roam
Around the quiet heaven of Home.
I love Thee,-when I mark thy soil
Flourish beneath the peasant's toil,
And from its lap of verdure throw
Treasures which neither Indies know.
I love Thee,-when I hear around
Thy looms, and wheels, and anvils sound,
Thine engines heaving all their force,
Thy waters labouring on their course,
And arts, and industry, and wealth
Exulting in the joys of health.

I love Thee,-when I trace thy tale
To the dim point where records fail;
Thy deeds of old renown inspire
My bosom with our fathers' fire;
A proud inheritance I claim

In all their sufferings, all their fame;
Nor less delighted, when I stray

Down History's lengthening, widening way,
And hail Thee in thy present hour,
From the meridian arch of power,
Shedding the lustre of thy reign,
Like sunshine, over land and main.
I love Thee,-when I read the lays
Of British bards, in elder days,
Till, rapt on visionary wings,
High o'er thy cliffs my spirit sings;