  AND is there, then, no earthly place Where we can rest in dream Elysian, Without some cursed round English face Popping up near to break the vision? ’Mid northern lakes, ’mid southern vines, Unholy cits we’re doomed to meet; Nor highest Alps, nor Apennines, Are sacred from Threadneedle Street. If up the Simplon’s path we wind, Fancying we leave this world behind, Such pleasant sounds salute one’s ear As, “Baddish news from ’Change, my dear: The Funds (phew! curse this ugly hill!) Are lowering fast (what! higher still?) And (zooks! we’re mounting up to heaven!) Will soon be down to sixty-seven.” Go where we may, rest where we will, Eternal London haunts us still. The trash of Almack’s or Fleet-Ditch— And scarce a pin’s-head difference which— Mixes, though even to Greece we run, With every rill from Helicon. And if this rage for travelling lasts, If cockneys of all sets and castes, Old maidens, aldermen, and squires, To gape at things in foreign lands No soul among them understands; If Blues desert their coteries, To show off ’mong the Wahabees; If neither sex nor age controls, Nor fear of Mamelukes forbids Young ladies, with pink parasols, To glide among the Pyramids: Why, then, farewell all hope to find A spot that’s free from London-kind! Who knows, if to the West we roam, But we may find some Blue “at home” Among the Blacks of Carolina, Or, flying to the eastward, see, Some Mrs. Hopkins taking tea And toast upon the Wall of China? Thomas Moore. |
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