'TWAS sunset—(much ill-usÈd hour,

And Southey swears it's yellow!)—

And so I lay and smoked the weed—

Immaculate Havannah!—

And watch'd a spider nobbling flies

In an artistic manner.

And mused in speculative vein

On England, and her story;

Why Palmerston was dubb'd a Whig,

And Derby was a Tory;—

Which diff'ring Poets tell you

Is ev'ry shade from green to red,

Why Manchester detested war,

And cottons took delight in;

Why Cobden's voice was all for peace,

And Horsman's all for fighting;—

Why England sent out Bibles' store,

To teach our pig-tail'd brother;

And gave him Gospel with one hand,

And Opium with the other;—

And why the Church was always poor,

And Lawyers lived in clover,

And why my tailor made me pay

His last.. account.. twice... over...

And why———

Perhaps it was the scent

That hover'd round my bow'r?

Perhaps it was the flies that haunt

That soul-subduing hour?

Or else those interesting gnats,

Which sting one so severely,

Made dreamy music round my head,

Until I slept—or nearly:—

But lo! I floated on a pool,

Beneath a monstrous funnel,

Whose crowning disc shone faint above,

Like sun-light thro' a tunnel;

And forms and faces quaint and strange

Swept by me ev'ry minute;

And ev'ry breast transparent lay

And had a window in it.

Then sudden thro' my mind it flash'd—

What mania could have got'em—

The place was truth's historic well,

And I—was at the bottom!

And first I mark'd a sombre man *

Of aspect wondrous saintly,

Whose pious eyes look'd shock'd and good,

If Sin but whisper'd faintly;

* Sir John Paul.

And every Sunday in the plate,

His clinking gold was given

With such an air—the righteous vow'd

His alms had conquer'd Heaven!

And such his godly wrath'gainst all

Who betted, swore, or liquor'd,—

Old women said around his head

An Angel halo flicker'd.

But looking through his heart I saw

A blank, dark, moral torpor,—

And while he gave his princely alms

He cursed the needy pauper.

And all men grovell'd at his feet

With coax, and crawl, and wheedle;—

But I thought of Dives' burning tongue

And the parabolic needle.

And next I spied a priestly band,

In cassock, cope, and mitre,

Who diff'ring slightly from the Church,

Lent all their wits to spite her,—

With some who thought church-music gave

The Devil grievous handles;

And some who lit Polemic War

By lighting altar-candles;

And one who held a certain place

Most probable to get to,

Unless he preach'd in a scarlet cloak

And pray'd in a falsetto!—

But one thing I could plainly read,

On ev'ry breast displaying;—

The rev'rend men took more delight

In quarrelling than praying!

They pass'd—and lo! an Hebrew youth,

To ebon locks confessing,

The sturdy yeomanry of Bucks

In honey'd phrase addressing.

And so enthusiastic wax'd

The sleek bucolic charmer;

As if his body, soul, and brains,

Had all been born a farmer.

And he felt "glad" and "proud," he said,

To meet his friends again—

"His valued friends!"—and in his heart

He wished himself in Spain;—

Of all spots in the world, he said,

To see them there he'd rather,—

And inly sent them ev'ry one

To Jericho—or farther.

And so he gave their right good health—

And off it went in toppers;

And call'd them "Men and Patriots,"

And in his heart "Clodhoppers."—

And then—with very blandest smiles—

From self and boon carousers,

Gave prizes to some model louts,

And one a pair of trousers!! *

* Vide "Times" of 4 Nov. 1857, giving an account of the meeting of the Amersham and Chesham Agricultural Association.

And as he cried "Take, fine old man,

"These best of merit's brandings,"—

He thought "Was ever such a Calf

"On such thin understandings!"

Just then roll'd by, so bluff and bold,

A tar—from truck to kelson—

And prophesied such vast exploits,

Men cried—"Another Nelson!"

"You'll see," quoth he, "I'll shortly be

"In Heav'n or Cronstadt reckon'd"—

But never meant to chance the first,

Or go too near the second.

And then I lost him in the crowd,

Nor could the question try on;

If I'd heard the voice of Balaam's ass

Or the roar of Britain's lion;

But when I thought what bumping things

The hero had been saying,

I felt I knew what Gray must mean

By the din of battle braying.—