Only think, Master Fred, what delight to behold,

Instead of thy bankrupt old City of Rags, A bran-new Jerusalem, built all of gold,

Sound bullion throughout, from the roof to the flags

A city where wine and cheap corn shall abound

A celestial Cocaigne, on whose butterfly shelves
We may swear the best things of this world will be found,

As your saints seldom fail to take care of themselves !

Thanks, reverend expounder of raptures elysian,

Divine Squintifobus, who, placed within reach Of two opposite worlds by a twist of your vision

Can cast, at the same time, a sly look at each ;

Thanks, thanks for the hopes thou hast given us, that we

May, even in our times a jubilee share,
Which so long has been promised by prophets like thee,

And so often has fail'd, we began to despair.

There was Whiston, who learnedly took Prince Eugene

For the man who must bring the Millennium about; There's Faber, whose pious predictions have been

All belied, ere his book's first edition was out;

There was Counsellor Dobbs, too, an Irish M.P.,

Who discoursed on the subject with signal eclat, And, each day of his life, sat expecting to see

A Millennium break out in the town of Armagh !

There was also—but why should I burden my lay
With

your Brotherses, Southcotes, and names less deserving, When all past Millenniums henceforth must give way

To the last new Millennium of Orator Irv-ng.

Go on, mighty man—doom them all to the shelf

And, when next thou with prophecy troublest thy sconce, Oh, forget not, I pray thee, to prove that thyself

Art the Beast (chapter 4) that sees nine ways at once!

THE LITTLE GRAND LAMA.

A FABLE FOR PRINCES ROYAL.

THOMAS MOORE.

In Thibet once there reign'd, we're told,
A little Lama, one year old-
Raised to the throne, that realm to bless,
Just when his little Holiness
Had cut-as near as can be reckoned-
Some say his first tooth, some his second.
Chronologers and verses vary,
Which proves historians should be wary.
We only know the important truth-
His Majesty had cut a tooth.

And much his subjects were enchantel,

As well all Lamas' subjects may be,
And would have given their heads, if wanted.

To make tee-totums for the baby
As he was there by Right Divine

(What lawyers call Jure Divino Meaning a right to yours and mine,

And every body's goods and rhino) Of course his faithful subjects' purses

Were ready with their aids and succorsNothing was seen but pension'd nurses,

And the land groan'd with bibs and tuckers,

Oh! had there been a Hume or Bennet
Then sitting in the Thibet Senate,
Ye gods, what room for long debates
Upon the Nursery Estimates !
What cutting down of swaddling-clothes

And pin-a-fores, in nightly battles !
What calls for papers to expose

The waste of sugar-plums and rattles!
But no-if Thibet had M.P.s,
They were far better bred than these;
Nor gave the slightest opposition,
During the Monarch's whole dentition.

But short this calm; for, just when he
Had reach'd the alarming age of three,
When royal natures—and, no doubt
Those of all noble beasts—break out,
The Lama, who till then was quiet,
Show'd symptoms of a taste for riot;
And, ripe for mischief, early, late,
Without regard for Church or State,
Made free with whosoe'er came nigh-

Tweak'd the Lord Chancellor by the nose,
Turn'd all the Judges' wigs awry,

And trod on the old General's toesPelted the Bishops with hot buns,

Rode cock-horse on the city maces,
And shot, from little devilish guns,

Hard peas into his subjects' faces.
In short, such wicked pranks he play'd,

And grew so mischievous (God bless him!)
That his chief Nurse—though with the aid
Of an Archbishop—was afraid,

When in these moods, to comb or dress bim; And even the persons most inclined

For Kings, through thick and thin, to stickle, Thought him (if they'd but speak their mind

Which they did not) an odious pickle.

At length, some patriot lords—a breed

Of animals they have in Thibet, Extremely rare, and fit, indeed,

For folks like Pidcock to exhibitSome patriot lords, seeing the length To which things went, combined their strength, And penn'd a manly, plain and free Remonstrance to the Nursery; In which, protesting that they yielded,

To none, that ever went before 'emIn loyalty to him who wielded

The hereditary pap-spoon o'er 'emThat, as for treason, ’t was a thing

That made them almost sick to think ofThat they and theirs stood by the King,

Throughout his measles and his chin-cough,

When others, thinking him consumptive,
Had ratted to the heir Presumptivel-
But still—though much admiring kings
(And chiefly those in leading-strings) —
They saw, with shame and grief of soul,

There was no longer now the wise
And constitutional control

Of birch before their ruler's eyes;
But that, of late, such pranks and tricks,

And freaks occurr'd the whole day long, As all

, but men with bishoprics, Allow'd, even in a King, were wrongWherefore it was they humbly pray'd

That Honorable Nursery,
That such reforms be henceforth made,

As all good men desired to see ;-
In other words (lest they might seem
Too tedious) as the gentlest scheme
For putting all such pranks to rest,

And in its bud the mischief nipping-They ventured humbly to suggest

His Majesty should have a whipping!

When this was read—no Congreve rocket

Discharged into the Gallic trenches, E'er equall’d the tremendous shock it

Produc'd upon the Nursery Benches. The Bishops, who, of course had votes,

By right of age and petticoats, Were first and foremost in the fuss

“ What, whip a Lamal-suffer birch To touch his sacred infamous ! Deistical l-assailing thus

The fundamentals of the Church ! No-no_such patriot plans as these (So help them Heaven—and their sees!) They held to be rank blasphemies."

The alarm thus given, by these and other

Grave ladies of the Nursery side, Spread through the land, till, such a pother Such party squabbles, far and wide,

Never in history's page had been
Recorded, as were then between
The Whippers and Non-whippers seen.
Till, things arriving at a state

Which gave some fears of revolution,
The patriot lords' advice, though late,

Was put at last in execution.
The Parliament of Thibet met-

The little Lama call'd before it,
Did, then and there, his whipping get,
And (as the Nursery Gazette
Assures us) like a hero bore it.

And though 'mong Thibet Tories, some
Lament that Royal Martyrdom
(Please to observe, the letter D
In this last word 's pronounced like B),
Yet to the example of that Prince

So much is Thibet's land a debtor, 'Tis said her little Lamas since

Have all behaved themselves much better.

ETERNAL LONDON.

THOMAS MOORE.

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 doom'd to meet; Nor highest Alps nor Appenines

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-