[2] This is not quite according to the facts of the case; his wife having been the contriver of the stratagem, and remained in the prison herself to give him time for escape.
ANNOUNCEMENT OF A NEW THALABA.
ADDRESSED TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ.
When erst, my Southey, thy tuneful tongue
The terrible tale of Thalaba sung—
Of him, the Destroyer, doomed to rout
That grim divan of conjurors out,
Whose dwelling dark, as legends say,
Beneath the roots of the ocean lay,
(Fit place for deep ones, such as they,)
How little thou knewest, dear Dr. Southey,
Altho' bright genius all allow thee,
That, some years thence, thy wondering eyes
Should see a second Thalaba rise—
As ripe for ruinous rigs as thine,
Tho' his havoc lie in a different line,
And should find this new, improved Destroyer
Beneath the wig of a Yankee lawyer;
A sort of an "alien," alias man,
Whose country or party guess who can,
Being Cockney half, half Jonathan;
And his life, to make the thing completer,
Being all in the genuine Thalaba metre,
Loose and irregular as thy feet are;—
First, into Whig Pindarics rambling,
Then in low Tory doggrel scrambling;
Now love his theme, now Church his glory
(At once both Tory and ama-tory),
Now in the Old Bailey-lay meandering,
Now in soft couplet style philandering;
And, lastly, in lame Alexandrine,
Dragging his wounded length along,
When scourged by Holland's silken thong.
In short, dear Bob, Destroyer the Second
May fairly a match for the First be reckoned;
Save that your Thalaba's talent lay
In sweeping old conjurors clean away,
While ours at aldermen deals his blows,
(Who no great conjurors are, God knows,)
Lays Corporations, by wholesale, level,
Sends Acts of Parliament to the devil,
Bullies the whole Milesian race—
Seven millions of Paddies, face to face;
And, seizing that magic wand, himself,
Which erst thy conjurors left on the shelf,
Transforms the boys of the Boyne and Liffey
All into foreigners, in a jiffy—
Aliens, outcasts, every soul of 'em,
Born but for whips and chains, the whole of 'em?
Never in short did parallel
Betwixt two heroes gee so well;
And among the points in which they fit,
There's one, dear Bob, I cant omit.
That hacking, hectoring blade of thine
Dealt much in the Domdaniel line;
And 'tis but rendering justice due,
To say that ours and his Tory crew
Damn Daniel most devoutly too.
RIVAL TOPICS.[1]
AN EXTRAVAGANZA.
Oh Wellington and Stephenson,
Oh morn and evening papers,
Times, Herald, Courier, Globe, and Sun,
When will ye cease our ears to stun
With these two heroes' capers?
Still "Stephenson" and "Wellington,"
The everlasting two!—
Still doomed, from rise to set of sun,
To hear what mischief one has done,
And t'other means to do:—
What bills the banker past to friends,
But never meant to pay;
What Bills the other wight intends,
As honest, in their way;—
Bills, payable at distant sight,
Beyond the Grecian kalends,
When all good deeds will come to light,
When Wellington will do what's right,
And Rowland pay his balance.
To catch the banker all have sought,
But still the rogue unhurt is;
While t'other juggler—who'd have thought?
Tho' slippery long, has just been caught
By old Archbishop Curtis;—
And, such the power of papal crook,
The crosier scarce had quivered
About his ears, when, lo! the Duke
Was of a Bull delivered!
Sir Richard Birnie doth decide
That Rowland "must be mad,"
In private coach, with crest, to ride,
When chaises could be had.
And t'other hero, all agree,
St. Luke's will soon arrive at,
If thus he shows off publicly,
When he might pass in private.
Oh Wellington, oh Stephenson,
Ye ever-boring pair,
Where'er I sit, or stand, or run,
Ye haunt me everywhere.
Tho' Job had patience tough enough,
Such duplicates would try it;
Till one's turned out and t'other off,
We Shan have peace or quiet.
But small's the chance that Law affords—
Such folks are daily let off;
And, 'twixt the old Bailey and the Lords,
They both, I fear, will get off.