LONDON LYRICS.
MAGOG'S PROPHECY.
Pastor cum traheret per freta navibus.
HOR. lib. i. od. 15.
As late, of civic glory vain,
The Lord Mayor drove down Mincing-lane,
The progress of the baimer'd train
To lengthen, not to shorten:
Gigantic Magog, vex'd with heat,
Thus to be made the rabble's treat,
Check'd the long march in Tower-street,
To tell his Lordship's fortune.
"Go, man thy barge for Whitehall Stair;
Salute th' Exchequer Barons there,
Then summon round thy civic chair
To dinner Whigs and Tories—
Bid Dukes and Earls thy hustings climb;
But mark my work, Matthias Prime,
Ere the tenth hour the scythe of Time
Shall amputate, thy glories.
"Alas! what loads of food I see,
What Turbots from the Zuyder Zee,
What Calipash, what Calipee,
What Salad and what Mustard:
Heads of the Church and limbs of Law,
Vendors of Calico and Straw,
Extend one sympathetic jaw
To swallow Cake and Custard.
"Thine armour'd Knights their steeds discard'
To quaff thy wine 'through helmet barr'd,'
While K.C.B.'s, with bosoms starr'd,
Within their circle wedge thee.
Even now I see thee standing up,
Raise to thy lip 'the loving cup,'
Intent its ruby tide to sup,
And bid thy hearers pledge thee.
"But, ah! how fleeting thy renown!
Thus treading on the heel of Brown;
How vain thy spangled suit, thy gown
Intended for three waiters:
Ere Lansdowne's speech is at an end,
I see a board of lamps descend,
Whose orbs in bright confusion blend,
And strew the floor with splinters.
"Their smooth contents spread far and near,
And in one tide impetuous smear
Knight, Waiter, Liveryman, and Peer:
Nay, even his Royal Highness
The falling board no longer props,
Owns, with amaze, the unwelcome drops
And, premature anointment, swaps
For oozy wet his dryness.
"Fear shrieks in many a varied tone,
Pale Beauty mourns her spotted zone,
And heads and bleeding knuckles own
The glittering prostration.
Behold! thou wip'st thy crimson chin,
And all is discord, all is din;
While scalded waiters swear thee in
With many an execration.
"Yet, Lucas, smile in Fortune's spite;
Dark mornings often change to bright;
Ne'er shall this omen harm a wight
So active and so clever.
How buoyant, how elastic thou!
With a lamp halo round thy brow,
Prophetic Magog dubs thee now
A Lighter man—than ever."