  Written in the manner of Spenser. [As the virulent style of political writing prevalent ninety years ago is now but little known, the present edition of The Poetry of the Anti-Jacobin seemed a convenient medium for giving some specimens of it which appeared in The Anti-Jacobin Review and Magazine, a work conducted on the same principles, but by different writers, and with the cognizance of the government. Two of them were by W. Cobbett, who, had he been less arrogant and contentious, and more consistent, would have been, in the words of Lord Dalling, “a very great man in the world; as it was he made a great noise in it”. (See pp. 311–319.) The Vision of Liberty is by C. Kirkpatrick Sharpe, an author and artist much esteemed by Scottish antiquarians, of which specimens only need be given. Of The Anarchists, the author is not known.] I. O wretched man, how long wilt thou refuse Thy Maker’s favour, and His mercy great? How long thy worldly happiness abuse, And growl and grumble at thy present state? Seeking accursed change both soon and late, And newest modes allured still to try— England, beware God’s wrath to aggravate, For foreign magic blinds thy charmed eye, And Liberty, sweet Liberty, is now the constant cry. II. As on my couch in slumber’s arms I lay, A vision did my senses entertain; Of late, me thought in France I miss’d my way, Amid a columnless deserted plain; No man or beast upon it did remain, Swept off by Discord’s wide destroying strife: Ne planted fence, ne field of waving grain, Marking the toiling farmer’s busy life, But ruined huts and castles, brent, were wondrous rife. III. Yet on this plain, most goodly to behold, Saw I a temple tow’ring to the sky, The dome where of was made of basest gold, Most false, but yet most lovely to the eye; And rotting pillars reareth it on high, Of ghastly human heads, and clotted gore, With dust, y’mixt the mortar doth supply, While foulest birds still round this temple soar, And filthy serpents hiss, and giant hyenas roar. Among the heads that did the mass compose, Three royal skulls were there—one of a king— Meek saint, who never once revil’d his foes, His bloody foes that him to scaffold bring; One of a maid; O heaven! that I could sing With Spenser’s tongue, her spotless purity, Her holy zeal, in courts so rare a thing, By lawless fiends condemn’d she was to die, And sent, untimely sent, to seek her native sky. V. The third I marked with melancholy eyes, A female head, that once a crown did wear, Cut off in life’s full bloom, now low she lies, The loose loves weeping o’er her early bier, Nor Virtue’s self denies a tender tear; So young a creature, wonder not she fell, And left the paths of chastity severe, Debauched by a court where lust did dwell Like treach’rous Circe, skill’d in many a witching spell. VI. Ah! where are now her gorgeous robes of state, The glitt’ring gems that did her fairness deck? The cringing nobles that on her did wait, The high-born dames that kneeled at her beck? Alas! a ghastly face, a bloody neck, A simple winding-sheet is now her share; Look here, ye proud ones, on this mighty wreck, And learn what perishable stuff ye are, From her poor mangled carcase, once so sweet and fair. VII. And on the ground there lay a murder’d child, A piteous sight it was, and full of woe, Who, when alive, by every art defil’d, With poison, they at last did overthrow, Wretches, who never ruth or conscience know; O lovely flowret cropt by villain hands, How will thy butchers dread th’ almighty brow, Arm’d with frowns, when each at judgment stands, And God the meed of murder from His throne commands. VIII. Then o’er the portal was this motto plac’d, “The house of liberty,” in gold y’writ, And, vent’ring in, I stood like one amaz’d Such sights of horror on my heart-strings smit. There Infidelity, in moody fit, Hugg’d Suicide—there Rage, and deadly Fears, There Lechery, with goatish leer did sit, And Murder, quaffing up his victim’s tears, With thousand other crimes, too foul for human ears. IX. In ’mid the house an image stood in state, Like to Voltaire in visage and in shape, Wither’d his heart with fellest rage and hate Shrivell’d and lean his carcase like an ape As he all-naked stood to every eye; Above an altar covered with crape, And formed of his books one might descry, Profane and lewd it was, and cramm’d with many a lie. X. And still from ’neath the altar roared he, As from a bull lowing in cavern deep, “Come worship me, O men, come worship me; Spit on the cross, of Jesus take no keep, I promise you an everlasting sleep; The soul and body both shall turn to clay; Ye penitents, why do ye sigh and weep? Let not damnation’s terrors you affray, Come learn my lore that drives all foolish fears away”. · · · · · XIV. Next came that cursed felon Thomas Paine, Mounted upon a tiger fierce and fell; And still a shower of blood on him doth rain, With tears that from the eyes of widows well; Loud in his ears the cries of orphans yell; The axe impending o’er his head alway While devils wait to catch his soul to hell, The knave is fill’d with anguish and dismay— And anxious round he looks, even straws do him affray. XV. Then saw I mounted on a braying ass William and Mary, sooth, a couple jolly; Who married, note ye how it came to pass, Although each held that marriage was but folly. · · · · · XVIII. Then came Maria Helen Williams Stone, Sitting upon a goat with bearded chin; And she hath written volumes many a one; Better the idle jade had learned to spin. · · · · · XIX. Next mounted on a monster like a louse, With parchments loaded, came a man of law, Sprung from an ancient Caledonian house, Cunningly could he quibble out a flaw; And this sage man would chatter like a daw, To prove the moon green cheese, and black, pure white, Spitting out treason from his greedy maw; To breed sedition was his chief delight, And scratch men’s scabs to ulcers still with all his might. Then on an Irish bull of skin and bone, A foul churl A harp Hibernian, stringless saving one, Well tun’d to harsh sedition’s growling hum; He hit the bull on which he had his bum Full many a bitter pang, nor gave him rest— Dealing his blows on Teagues that round him come, Grieving the while for man and brute opprest, Chaunting the Irish howl, abhorr’d of man and beast. XXI. O Ireland, spot accurs’d—tho’ glorious fair, Shines there the sun, the flowers enamell’d blow, And scent, with fragrance sweet, the balmy air, Rippling the gliding pools that softly flow; No noxious reptile there to man a foe Abides, but black revenge with cautious plan, Cool-blooded cruelty with torments slow, Springs rank; with weeds the goodly soil’s o’er-ran, And all the reptile’s venom rankles in the man. XXII. Then in a gorgeous car of beaten gold, Drove on a portly man, of mighty rank, A person comely, of extraction old; But, carrion-like, his reputation stank; Sly was the wight, with crafty quip and crank, To cram with glittering coin his bursting bags; Yet whilom taxing-men play’d him a prank, By catching in their traps some strayed nags, And eke some livery slaves, in miser’s livery rags. XXIII. Then on a turtle came proud London’s Mayor, Followed by Aldermen, a frowsy crew, Strong smelling of Cheapside, and luscious fair, Yet apoplexy made his followers few. Long antlers on the head of each man grew, So that they seem’d a host of moving horn; Anon as on they came they’d mump and chew, Stuffing their guts from dawning of the morn, Till shades of evening fell—for eating only born. XXIV. On a cock sparrow fed with Spanish flies, A swilling Captain came, with liquor mellow, And still the crowd in hideous uproar cries, “Sing us a bawdy song, thou d——d good fellow”, Incontinent he sets himself to bellow, And shouts with all the strength that in him lies; The Citizets exclaim, “He’s sans pareilly O”; The Citizens in raptures roll their eyes, And drink with leathern ears, the fool’s lewd ribaldries. On came these wights, and many more beside, Thick as the grains of sand upon the shore, Thick as a swarm of flies in summer tide, That on a dunghill hive and hover o’er; Most had their hides all scall’d, their trousers tore; Many sans breeches, shameless trudg’d along, And many a noble knave and titled w——e, With Irish bog-trotters would crowd and throng, Carolling catches base, and filthy French chanson. XXVI. Like roaring waves they cover’d all the plain; And tho’ equality they still requir’d, Each cudgell’d sore his breast with might and main, Each to get foremost ardently desir’d. Some fell into the dirt, and foul were mir’d, The rest rode over them and took no heed. Their yells, with patriotic ardour fired, So made my flesh to quake with very dread, That Morpheus left my couch, and all the vision fled. The insertion of the foregoing poem (which was never printed) into your entertaining and useful publication, will much oblige, Your humble servant, C. K. |
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