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Hail, CAMDEN, hail! most liberal man;
Stand forth-thy alter'd creed display;
Ah, fear not now old Cobbett's ban,
And cast no pension now away.
Thy gift of principle shall gain
What gift of pension sought in vain,
The love e'en of reformers.
No longer Cobbett tortures-No,
His praises on thy coronet glow;
Hunt approbation murmurs,
To utter plaudits all combine;-
Who would not change for bliss like To place 'twould show the people's
thine ?


Hail, BROWNLOW; wond'rous wight, all

Long didst thou toil in vain for fame;
Thy Rattle-speech was made to fail;
'Twas good, but Plunkett still o'ercame.
Thy bold display of Orange-ism,
Alas! scarce yielded aught but schism,
Save firing Plunkett's passion.
When on the Popish priesthood blazed
Thy eloquence, none plaudits raised;
This priesthood was the fashion.
Well might a change of creed delight thee,
So ill did faithfulness requite thee.

Fierce Orangeman-the Pope's ally;
Both in one moment art thou seen;
From pole to pole thy pinions fly,
They pause not-take no rest between.
Adventurous 'twas to make no stay,
To gaze around thee at midway,
The country's thoughts divining.
Success the boldness has surpass'd,
And on thy forehead is at last
Its long-sought emblem shining.
Ah! hadst thou saved the state, I trow,
Thou hadst not then been praised as now.

Men who can change as thou hast done,
Must through all change's circle run.

Thine was an odd conversion still,
It outraged all conversion's laws;
What reason scorn'd, that did the will;
Effect ran counter unto cause.
Thy life in Ireland spent could find
But lies;-thy eyes, thy ears-thy mind
Could bring but falsehoods round thee.
Doyle and O'Connell's ears and eyes
Thou usest-lo! the vapour flies
That did so long confound thee.
They eat their words to vomit light;
Their contradictions set thee right.

Hail, Bray's immortal VICAR, hail!
Enlighten'd man, much slander'd sage!
When reason, truth, and light prevail,
Thy virtues every heart engage.
All now thy matchless creed embrace;
All thy unerring footsteps trace;
And yet 'tis monstrous shabby,
That no one will the Commons move,

Thy statue in the Abbey.
This statue would in every street-
Were justice done—our vision meet.

What curse sits on thee, erring PEEL,
To make thee to thy tenets cling,
When such seductions round thee steal;
When changing would such worship

Why scorns thine eye those glorious suns,
Doyle and O'Connell? Ah, why shuns
Thine ear what Cobbett preaches?
Why dost thou hate what turncoats say?
Why pause when Brownlow shows the

Why combat Canning's speeches!
Ah, foolish man, thy fault discover;
Recant-renounce thy creed-go over !

What must I say, sage LIVERPOOL,
To thee? I love thee, though I doubt ;-
Still dost thou mean to play the fool,-
A bigot in-still one go out?
No; hear thy faithful Canning plead,
And just a little more concede;
Be in his ranks enlisted.

Go o'er, mount liberal colours-close
Thy long and bright career with those
Thou hast so long resisted.
Care not though churchmen rail or laugh,
The Whigs will write thy epitaph.

Oh, ELDON! that thy mighty mind
Should be with thine own loss delighted,
Oh! that thine eye should be stone-blind,
Where interest makes the fool keen-

Why dost thou madly court abuse?
Why Whiggery's rancorous hatred chuse,
And not its admiration?

Why dost thou like a giant stand,

Forsake the State, the Church, the

Proceed, brave man, and pause not here; To crush the Liberals of the land,
Now for thy heretic sins atone;
To serve alone the nation?
Some moulder'd saint's great toe revere,
And kiss some martyr's ankle-bone.
Use holy water, humbly make
Some pilgrimage, thy church forsake,
And all its guilty errors.
O'Connell shall instruct thee well;
Doyle shall absolve thee, and repel
All thy apostate terrors.


Be wise-think of thyself alone.

Speak not of wisdom, fitness;-stuff!
These to the shifting winds we throw ;
Of them the land has had enough,
And all things must be liberal now.

What is illiberal must not be :-
The test, just and unerring, see,
And use it without quarrel;
Eat liberal beef, drink liberal wine;
Speak liberal law, and gayly shine
In liberal apparel.

Illiberal food is out of season;
Illiberal words are just not treason.

Go o'er, and for the Papists vote;
Turn Liberal, nay, turn Papist-then
Shall each enlightened, liberal throat,
Pronounce thee first and best of men.
Thou then in Jeffrey's page shalt shine;-
Whig prints will call thee quite divine ;-
Brougham with thy friends will number.
Care not what may befall the realm,
Ere change the land may overwhelm
Thou in the tomb may'st slumber.
Examples swarm; nay, speak the word,
Change-sell thy conscience-be ador'd!

Ah, why by YORK's illustrious DUKE,
Is England's bigot-Church preferr'd?
Why will he brave the Whig's rebuke,
And idly speak of GEORGE THE THIRD?
Why will he wander to the grave
Of this dead King for counsel,-lave
With tears his lifeless ashes?

A different light our sky illumes;
All that HE taught the blaze consumes,
That now upon us flashes.
Before our eyes new systems swim ;-
We follow Bonaparte-not him.

What is an oath?-shall vows to God Bind man?-shine the new lights in vain ?

Shall conscience form a chain-a rod,
And not a thing to sell for gain?
Law-makers' laughter sits on both;
Shall kings and people then be loath
To add their laughter to it?
Swear as you please, and any scribe
Amidst the news-inventing tribe,
Will, as you like, construe it.
If this content ye not, resolve ye
To seek the Pope, he will absolve ye.

When Parliament the Church forsakes-
Stern freedom's nurse-to raise another
That bondsmen of its votaries makes,
Ah, Prince, thy foolish scruples smother.
Who-who may gain by this like thee?
A fetter'd King thy brother see;
His will's by statute bounded.
Be, till the Papist conquers, mute,
Then mount the throne, reign absolute,
By none but slaves surrounded.
No longer with thy interest trifle;
This might the stoutest conscience stifle.

Change-change all callings, all conditions;

All things, as well as trade, are free. More liberal views, GREAT GEORGE, acquire;

Forget all taught Thee by thy SIRE;
His life, cast from before Thee.
The Great NAPOLEON Copy,-then
Thou'lt ravish all enlightened men ;
All Liberals will adore Thee;
Then Mackintosh will chaunt thy praise,
With all the "hirelings" Jeffrey pays.

Shall no one change but politicians, When none apostates now can be?

Why, CHESTER'S BISHOP, dost thou bring
The people's prayers before the Lords?
Why dost thou scourge the sagelLord King,
Unto the utter loss of words?
Illiberal man! thy church betray;
Fly to the Pope, and take, I pray,
Us to the Holy Father.

What may not powers like thine obtain ?
A Cardinal's hat thou'lt surely gain;
Perchance the Popedom rather.
Ah, lead us to the liberal things,
The Romish Church around it flings.

Hail, Britain's beauteous daughters, hail!
Who, what the seraphs are, reveal;
Shall fashion woo you now and fail?
From man no lesson will ye steal?
The witching blush-the melting eyes,
Whose blaze both charms and purifies,-
Lights love-scathes vicious feeling;
The lips whence virtue's warblings flow;
The soul, pure as the virgin-snow,
When from the cloud 'tis stealing:
These win our liberal hearts no longer,
We must have charms more liberal-

Be liberal-change, and from you shake
A principle with every flounce;
New tenets with new ribbons take;
And old ones with old gowns renounce.
The heathenism your grandams taught,
Forget-with empty ills 'tis fraught;
I fear 'twill make us hate ye.
Seek some one of the liberal school,
To teach you how ye still may rule;
Still make us angels rate ye.
Fear not such tutors now abound;
'Tis of the old school none are found.

I'll change myself—I'll e'en go o'er;
Why should I fight against the nation?
I'll be your foe, ye Whigs, no more;
Come, Brougham, and give me “ educa-

Yet gentle be thy speech and touch,
I love not sound and fury much,
I cannot bear rough fingers:

My wrath a breath will sometimes move,
And yet 'tis natural-some small love
Of old things in me lingers.

Smile, if thou canst, and clap my back;
I cannot learn from scowl and thwack.

And shouldst thou deign to hear my call, I wander near Saint Stephen's door;
Give to no mad invectives vent;
Use far less powder, and more ball;
Deal much in fact and argument.
Thou hast an ugly way of using
Much Billingsgate, and then abusing
All who may dare retort it.
Now, if thou play'st this trick on me,
I fear thou wilt thy pupil see
Apt on thyself to sport it.

And if thou chance to strike, I trow,
This pupil may return the blow.

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As that, long sigh'd for, may be gain'd,
Or that, endanger'd, be retain'd.

Hence with the idle mockery-hence !
Thy arrows, wanton Satire, spare.-
Heaven! in thy wrath, no plague dispense,
To make me what the turncoats are.
Purge me, yea! purge me thrice with

Keep from me all that men desire;
Friends, wealth, fame, rank, and splendour;
But lead me not from side to side,
As lib'ral Ministers may provide ;-
As parties gain may tender ;-

What though its door is closed on me;
What though upon its sacred floor
I in no party-ranks may be;
Yet I can there my party find;
There on me party leaders bind
The chains ne'er to be broken.-
There, spite of faction's triumphs,-spite
Of all the new-invented light,
My party creed is spoken.
There party-colours o'er me wave,
Which charm and make me party's slave.

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No. I.

1. Classical Journal, No. 61.

2. Lionel Lincoln.

3. Popery, &c. by the Rev. Geo. Croly.

4. Lawyers and Legislators.

5. Present Operations and future Prospects of the Mexican Mine Associations. By Sir W. Rawson.

6. Letter to the Lord Chancellor, on the Necessity and Practicability of forming a Code of the Laws of England. By Crofton Uniacke. 7. Arrowsmith's Outlines of the World.

April 22.-IT is easy to say that a feeble and indecisive habit of mind is produced by desultory and omnivorous reading. I deny the fact, although it is asserted, if I mistake not, in the pages of Waverley. The author is himself a direct contradiction to his own assertion. How various and urpremeditated his reading must have been! It would be hard to persuade me that he began a regular and systematic course for his historical novels that he laid down a fixed rule for reading himself up to all the points of life and learning which fill his varied pages. Nor is he the only instance I should quote to prove the want of truth in that remark, although it is so often made. Pliny, according to his nephew, made a sensible observation on reading-that there is no book so bad or so foolish as not to supply something worth recollecting. Pope read everything. Milton spent his youth in poring over romances, and his poetry, remote as his subjects are from the gests which fill the pages of these compositions, is thoroughly instinct with their spirit ; even in hell he finds a corner to bring in Charle magne and all his peerage fighting in Fontarabia, against the forces sent from Biserta upon Afric's shore. In the temptation of our Saviour, we are presented with Agrican, and Gallephrone, and Angelica the fair. Nay, when disclaiming the themes of his early favourites as frivolous, he does it in their own language, and tells of impresses quaint-bases and trappings, gorgeous knights at tilt and tournament, &c. Warburton read every thing, from the fathers of the church to the last pamphlet by old Dennis. I could easily enlarge my list, but I need not, as what I want to say is done already. I only wished to defend my own practice of reading whatever comes before me. It is plea

sant for little people to lurk behind great names--to defend our own propensities, by proving them in some degree analogous to the powerful minds of the world.

Hobbes-I am looking at an old engraving of him this moment, prefixed to the third edition of his Thucydides, (1723). It is no great effort of artbut it is well enough executed to let us see the powerfully expanded brow-the thoughtful corrugation above his well-developed nose, the deepset, brow-shadowed, fierce eyes, and the firmly compressed lips of that remarkable thinker-Hobbes, I say, was in the habit of observing that he never read books, "lest," as he said, "they should make me as foolish as those who do." It was the saying of a man strong and fearless in the resources of his own mind. Yet that it was, even in him, but an exaggeration, is evident. He who translated Thu cydides in youth, who did Homer into verse-I cannot afford a more complimentary phrase, though I own I like to read his Homer-after he was eighty-the friend of all the remarkable men of perhaps our most remarkable country, from Lord Bacon to Dryden-the sturdy champion in a thousand controversies, whose steel cap, as Warburton truly said, was the object to be thundered on by every young polemic who wished to try his powers-must have been, from the necessity of the case, from the variety of the objects which attracted his attention, a most various reader. So Leibnitz.

But really this is too much of a flourish of trumpets. There is no need of seeking these Dii majorum gentium of literature-of unsphering the spirit of Plato, or any other mighty philosopher, to acquit me, R. J. sitting quietly in Lincoln's Inn, of devouring all that I can get-of reading as deep

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