222 pride's pictures. 



Religion weeps ! e'en through that empty aisle, 

 Where Pride's rich vestments cover inward glee : 



And Latin impotence is wont to smile, 

 At meek-eyed Pity, on contrition's knee. 



Nor Odin's monuments, nor Joan's fell disguise. 

 In their long past and horrid days of doom : 



Heaped half the troubles on the good and wise. 

 As present priestcraft on a nation's tomb. 



Yet turn we from the sight— with tears away. 

 For soon our country's hopes shall be fulfilled : 



Her destinies secure, she mocks delay : 



The Monarch's madness, who is not self-willed. 



Peel might his country save — but will he save 



That country Byron loved, and deified ? 

 Can pride elate, raise Canning from his grave ? 



Who to Fame's temple climbs without a guide ? 



Your Pitt of yesterday was Freedom's fool : 1 

 Pride's Royal George unlike a king, at best : 



Achilles' self but vain ambitions tool : 



So were your Pompeys — Cssars, and the rest : 



Pride's Attic madmen of the day and hour, 



Without the reasoning faculty, profound : 

 Those light-heeled vampyres through the dance of power, 

 That make a noise above, not under ground. 



Beneath our feet, and in the noiseless grave. 

 Those Thebans boast but meretricious names : 



Nor Granta's, nor Oxonia's follies, save 



Their titles and distinctions from the flames. 



Yet turn to where the Boatman plies his trade 

 Upon the stream of Thames and glory too : 



Under the round Moon's melancholy shade. 

 Filling the night-watch with Urania's woe. 



All, all is dulness, save his splashing noise. 

 Which tends to wake the stilly pause of sleep : 



But his, poor wretch ! are solitary joys : 

 He moves, and has his being on the deep. 



Darksome and fearful flows that trembling stream, 



As on he wanders to th' eternal main : 

 Through yon arched bridge, where Friars once did dream, 



Thence, to far Holland, France, Iberia, Spain, 



