’Said I, “The Lord of Hosts
     Have mercy on your land! 
     I see those dangling ghosts, —
     And you may keep command,
     And hang, and shoot, and have your day: 
     They hold your bill, and you must pay.

     ’"You’ve sent them where they’re strong,
     You carrion Double-Head! 
     I hear them sound a gong
     In Heaven above!”—­I said. 
     “My God, what feathers won’t you moult
     For this!” says I:  and then I bolt.

     ’The Bird’s a beastly Bird,
     And what is more, a fool. 
     I shake hands with the herd
     That flock beneath his rule. 
     They’re kindly; and their land is fine. 
     I thought it rarer once than mine.

     ’And rare would be its lot,
     But that he baulks its powers: 
     It’s just an earthen pot
     For hearts of oak like ours. 
     Think!  Think!—­four days from those frontiers,
     And I’m a-head full fifty years.

     ’It tingles to your scalps,
     To think of it, my boys! 
     Confusion on their Alps,
     And all their baby toys! 
     The mountains Britain boasts are men: 
     And scale you them, my brethren!’

     Cluck, went his tongue; his fingers, snap. 
     Britons were proved all heights to cap.

     And we who worshipp’d crags,
     Where purple splendours burn’d,
     Our idol saw in rags,
     And right about were turn’d. 
     Horizons rich with trembling spires
     On violet twilights lost their fires.

     And heights where morning wakes
     With one cheek over snow; —
     And iron-walled lakes
     Where sits the white moon low; —
     For us on youthful travel bent,
     The robing picturesque was rent.

     Wherever Beauty show’d
     The wonders of her face,
     This man his Jackass rode,
     High despot of the place.

     Fair dreams of our enchanted life
     Fled fast from his shrill island fife.

     And yet we liked him well;
     We laugh’d with honest hearts:-
     He shock’d some inner spell,
     And rous’d discordant parts. 
     We echoed what we half abjured: 
     And hating, smilingly endured.

     Moreover, could we be
     To our dear land disloyal? 
     And were not also we
     Of History’s blood-Royal? 
     We glow’d to think how donkeys graze
     In England, thrilling at their brays.

     For there a man may view
     An aspect more sublime
     Than Alps against the blue:-
     The morning eyes of Time! 
     The very Ass participates
     The glory Freedom radiates!

     Cassandra

     I

     Captive on a foreign shore,
     Far from Ilion’s hoary wave,
     Agamemnon’s bridal slave
     Speaks Futurity no more: 
     Death is busy with her grave.