XLVI

Eve of the land which still is Paradise!

Italian beauty! didst thou not inspire Raphael, who died in thy embrace, and vies With all we know of Heaven, or can desire, In what he hath bequeath'd us?-in what guise, Though flashing from the fervour of the lyre, Would words describe thy past and present glow, While yet Canova can create below?

XLVII

"England! with all thy faults I love thee still," I said at Calais and have not forgot it;

I like to speak and lucubrate my fill;

I like the government (but that is not it); I like the freedom of the press and quill;

I like the Habeas Corpus (when we've got it); I like a parliamentary debate,

Particularly when 't is not too late ;

XLVIII

I like the taxes, when they 're not too many;

I like a seacoal fire, when not too dear;
I like a beefsteak, too, as well as any;
Have no objection to a pot of beer;
I like the weather, when it is not rainy,

That is, I like two months of every year.

And so God save the Regent, Church, and King! Which means that I like all and every thing.

XLIX

Our standing army, and disbanded seamen,
Poor's rate, Reform, my own, the nation's debt,
Our little riots just to show we're free men,
Our trifling bankruptcies in the Gazette,
Our cloudy climate, and our chilly women,
All these I can forgive, and those forget,
And greatly venerate our recent glories,
And wish they were not owing to the Tories.

LXXV

One hates an author that 's all author, fellows
In foolscap uniforms turn'd up with ink,
So very anxious, clever, fine, and jealous,
One don't know what to say to them, or think,
Unless to puff them with a pair of bellows;

Of coxcombry's worst coxcombs e'en the pink
Are preferable to these shreds of paper,

These unquench'd snuffings of the midnight taper.

LXXVI

Of these same we see several, and of others,

Men of the world, who know the world like men, Scott, Rogers, Moore, and all the better brothers, Who think of something else besides the pen; But for the children of the " mighty mother's,' The would-be wits and can't-be gentlemen, I leave them to their daily "tea is ready," Smug coterie, and literary lady.

LXXVII

The poor dear Mussulwomen whom I mention
Have none of these instructive pleasant people,
And one to them would seem a new invention,

Unknown as bells within a Turkish steeple;
I think 't would almost be worth while to pension
(Though best-sown projects very often reap ill)
A missionary author, just to preach

Our Christian usage of the parts of speech.

LXXVIII

No chemistry for them unfolds her gases,
No metaphysics are let loose in lectures,
No circulating library amasses

Religious novels, moral tales, and strictures
Upon the living manners, as they pass us;

No exhibition glares with annual pictures; They stare not on the stars from out their attics, Nor deal (thank God for that!) in mathematics.

LXXIX

Why I thank God for that is no great matter,
I have my reasons, you no doubt suppose,
And as, perhaps, they would not highly flatter,
I'll keep them for my life (to come) in prose;
I fear I have a little turn for satire,

And yet methinks the older that one grows

Inclines us more to laugh than scold, though laughter Leaves us so doubly serious shortly after.