AFTER-THOUGHT.-SONNET.-BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN. AFTER-THOUGHT.* AH, GOD! the petty fools of rhyme, And look'd at by the silent stars; That hate each other for a song, And strive to make an inch of room For their sweet selves, and can not hear The sullen Lethe rolling down On them and theirs, and all things here; When one small touch of Charity Could lift them nearer Godlike State, Than if the crowded Orb should cry Like those that cried DIANA great. And I too talk, and lose the touch SONNET TO WILLIAM CHARLES MACREADY.† FAREWELL, Macready, since to-night we part. Thy power, well-used to move the public breast. Go, take thine honors home: rank with the best, 243 Should he land here, and for one hour prevail, Nor flicker down to brainless pantomime, We swear to guard our own. BRITONS, GUARD YOUR OWN.‡ His ruthless host is bought with plunder'd gold, He triumphs; may be we shall stand alone. Peace-lovers we-sweet Peace we all desire. Of shameless traitors, We hate not France, but this man's heart of stone. * Punch, March 7, 1846, signed "Alcibiades." Read by Mr. John Forster at a dinner given to Mr. Macready, March 1, 1851, on his retirement from the stage. This and the two following pieces were printed in the Examiner in 1852. The last two were signed "Merlin.” THE THIRD OF FEBRUARY, 1852. We love not this French God, this child of Hell, We dare not, e'en by silence, sanction lies. As long as we remain, we must speak free, But the one voice in Europe; we must speak; If you be fearful, then must we be bold. 244 HANDS ALL ROUND.-THE WAR.-1865-1866. Better the waste Atlantic roll'd On her and us and ours forevermore. What! have we fought for freedom from our prime, At last to dodge and palter with a public crime? Shall we fear him? our own we never feared. Gigantic daughter of the West, We drink to thee across the flood, We know thee and we love thee best, For art thou not of British blood? Should war's mad blast again be blown, Permit not thou the tyrant powers From our first Charles by force we wrung our To fight thy mother here alone, claims, Prick'd by the Papal spur, we rear'd, And flung the burthen of the second James. I say we never fear'd! and as for these, We broke them on the land, we drove them on the seas. And you, my lords, you make the people muse, But let thy broadsides roar with ours. God the tyrant's cause confound! To our dear kinsmen of the West, my friends, O rise, our strong Atlantic sons, When war against our freedom springs! O speak to Europe through your guns! They can be understood by kings. You must not mix our Queen with those That wish to keep their people fools; Would lisp in honey'd whispers of this monstrous Our freedom's foemen are her foes, fraud. We feel, at least, that silence here were sin. Have left the last free race with naked coasts! They knew the precious things they had to guard: For us, we will not spare the tyrant one hard word. Though niggard throats of Manchester may bawl, What England was, shall her true sons forget? We are not cotton-spinners all, But some love England, and her honor yet. And these in our Thermopylæ shall stand, And hold against the world the honor of the land. HANDS ALL ROUND. FIRST drink a health, this solemn night, Who loves his native country best. May Freedom's oak for ever live With stronger life from day to day; That man's the best Conservative Who lops the mouldered branch away. God the tyrant's hope confound! To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. A health to Europe's honest men! Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails! From wronged Poerio's noisome den, From ironed limbs and tortured nails! We likewise have our evil things; God the tyrant's cause confound! To Europe's better health we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round! What health to France, if France be she, Than vanquish all the world in arms. But fire, to blast, the hopes of men. Why change the titles of your streets? You fools, you'll want them all again. Hands all round! God the tyrant's cause confound! To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends, And the great name of England, round and round. She comprehends the race she rules. God the tyrant's cause confound! To our dear kinsmen in the West, my friends, |