The Press.
London, England, 1853-08-06 00:00:00

THE PRESS.

324

ELEGY

TO THE MEMORY OF AN UNFORTUNATE LADY.

(AFTER POPE.)
" What beckoning ghost" along the trading streets
Affrights the placid shopman whom it meets ?
'Tis she !—but why that strange and glassy eye,
Which shrinks if DAwsoN, or police, go by?
Oh ! wretched woman—poor Hungarian—tell,
Is it a crime to write what's apt to sell?*
To scribble books, which, nonsense though they be,
Are good as others' nonsense that we see ?

How is't, yo powers ! that European flood,
Or hot volcano, flings on us its mud?
At every breaking wave, or roaring fire,
(Still eddying fiercer, and still roaring higher) ;
Sometimes, indeed (as " Progress" makes increase),
Some plundered gentlemen come here, for peace ;
Live in retirement ;—better fortune wait,
Cursed for their luck, by factions of the State.f
But in huge swarms the " patriots" still pour ;
Kicked out for roaring, they come here to roar ;
Gather the idle hordes who love a brawl,
And stare at them, as tigers of Bengal.
How edifying when they can't agree,
And fights disturb the strange menagerie !
" Sir, you're no noble !" " Sir, I say you lie !"
" A fig for you, sir !" " Woman, you're a spy !"
The sober public sees the fellows fight,
And thinks, when both cry " Rascal," both are right !
From these, perhaps (e'er Nature bid her die),
Fate snatched poor BECK, or VON BECK, to the sky.:
As into air the thoughts of OSBORNE flow,
Or, as from Wow:is orations hearers go—
Or, as from young O'CoNNELL fly the " Tail"—
Or, as he bolts, whom would make his bail !
So, the poor BECK left cell and gaol behind,
And pass'd beyond the reach of patriot kind.

But thou, thou English dabbler in her fate,
Thou peddling agent of another's hate,
By " costs," if not by shame, thou bast been hurt—
And taxed as reservoir for foreign dirt.
Sure, if true feeling lives upon this ball,
Thy cockney audience from thy class shall fall ;
Nor gaping youngsters gather to be taught
Home-bred impertinence, and borrowed thought;—
Fancies from others stolen, and disguised—
By all who know not their first sources, prized—
Which, spoiled and altered, they think thine, and good,
As gold has, sometimes, painted, passed for wood.§
The simple cockney, prodigal of ear,
Should pause and think of the poor victim's bier,—
And know thy penny laurel, sprung from mud,
To have (like Polydoro's) its roots in blood !

The simple youngster, innocent of school,
Knows not a tripod from a cutty-stool!
He does not look at modern Muse to soo
If she's a slut that apes a mystery :
If with a Pythian attitude she stand,
Tho simple youngster bows and thinks her grand—
Admires her attitude, reveres her look—
Nor, at the sacrifice, suspects the cook.

What do they teach, then (poor unhappy shade!),
Thy cruel tortures, and thy rites unpaid?
Thy dubious " Von," thy taint of being " spy,"ll
The first fond flattery, and the final lie ?

• The Atheneum attributed part of the opposition to Beck, or " Von Beck," to the
jealousy of a rival Hungarian author.
♦ The kindness of her Majesty to the Orleans Princes provoked Cobden's sneer the
other day. He forgets that those gentlemen have a distant relationship with her Majesty,
through an English King from whom they descend; but his party generally know no
more of royal ancestry than they do of their own.
" Beek, or Vos Beck."—The good English public don't remember that on the
Continent the noble" only implies " gentility" of blood—not that you are anybody in
the state; or, indeed, that you may not be a billiard•marker.
When the French were at Malta, the people saved some church ornaments by
painting them over in this fashion.
II Mr. 'What au uproar is made by these fellows when some blackguard is set to
watch blackguards, in older to preserve the safety of an established Government! Yet
they can me " spies" themselves !

SATURDAY,

" By foreign hands thy dying eyes were closed,"
Where drunkards yelled, and fagged policemen dozed.
Death, the black magistrate, " dismissed the charge,"
And thou (in DAWSON'S spite) wert set at large !
What though Kossirrii had left his mother's friendllT
To a hard life, and to a wretched end—
What though, thy service done, thy chances past,—
Tpy party and thy friends turned tierce at last,—
Yet to thy grave shall straying wanderers come,
And decent English ponder at thy tomb.
Thus shall they muse upon thy dreary fate,
And bless the fortune of a settled State !
Muse on the " patriot," and the " patriot's" friend,
A rebel's kindness and a rebel's end ;
And " KOSBUTH'S eloquence" shall vapid be
Beside the moral that is breathed by thee!

5 See trial.

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AUGUST 6, 1853.

THE MINISTERIAL GROTTO.