Part 28 (1/2)

II.

Curs'd be the clime, and curs'd the laws, that lay Insulting bonds on George's sovereign sway!

Arise, my soul, on wings of fire, To G.o.d's anointed, tune the lyre; Hail! George, thou all-accomplish'd King!

Just type of him who rules on high!

Hail inexhausted, boundless spring Of sacred truth and Holy Majesty!

Grand is thy form--'bout five feet ten, Thou well-built, worthiest, best of men!

Thy chest is stout, thy back is broad-- Thy Pages view thee, and are aw'd!

Lo! how thy white eyes roll!

Thy whiter eye-brows stare!

Honest soul!

Thou'rt witty, as thou'rt fair!

III.

North of the Drawing-room a closet stands: The sacred nook, St James's Park commands!

Here, in sequester'd state, Great GEORGE receives Memorials, treaties, and long lists of thieves!

Here all the force of sov'reign thought is bent, To fix Reviews, or change a Government!

Heav'ns! how each word with joy _Caermarthen_ takes!

G.o.ds! how the lengthen'd chin of _Sydney_ shakes!

Blessing and bless'd the sage a.s.sociate see, The proud triumphant league of incapacity.

With subtile smiles, With innate wiles, How do thy tricks of state, GREAT GEORGE, abound!

So in thy Hampton's mazy ground, The path that wanders In meanders, Ever bending, Never ending, Winding runs the eternal round.

Perplex'd, involv'd, each thought bewilder'd moves; In short, quick turns the gay confusion roves; Contending themes the ernbarra.s.s'd listener baulk, Lost in the labyrinths of the devious talk!

IV.

Now shall the levee's ease thy soul unbend, Fatigu'd with Royalty's severer care!

Oh! happy few! whom brighter stars befriend, Who catch the chat--the witty whisper share!

Methinks I hear In accents clear, Great Brunswick's voice still vibrate on my ear-- ”What?--what?--what?

Scott!--Scott!--Scott!

Hot!--hot!--hot!

What?--what!--what?”

Oh! fancy quick! oh! judgment true!

Oh! sacred oracle of regal taste!

So hasty, and so generous too!

Not one of all thy questions will an answer wait!

Vain, vain, oh Muse, thy feeble art, To paint the beauties of that head and heart!

That heart where all the virtues join!

That head that hangs on many a sign!

V.

Monarch of mighty _Albion_, check thy talk!

Behold the _Squad_ approach, led on by _Palk_!

_Smith, Barwelly, Cattt Vansittart_, form the band-- Lord of Brirannia!--let them kiss thy hand!-- For _sniff_[1]!--rich odours scent the sphere!

'Tis Mrs. _Hastings_' self brings up the rear!

G.o.ds! how her diamonds flock On each unpowdere'd lock!

On every membrane see a topaz clings!

Behold her joints are fewer than her rings!