The Sun.
London, England, 1831-01-01 00:00:00

MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

There is nothing in any of the periodicals of
this month equal in splendour, sarcasm, energy,
and stateliness of diction, to the following admi-
rable stanzas by (evidently) some master-hand,
who feels his strength and can exert it :

MERLIN'S PROPHECY FOR THE YEAR Mil !
Wizard! dreaming in your cave,
Twice ten thousand fathoms deep,
Where the brothers of the grave
Sit enthroned—Time, Death, and Sleep;
Where the bones of Saxon kings
Feed your ancient altars' blaze— •
Tell me what new wonder springs,
Wizard! on your New Year's gaze ?
MERLIN.
Stranger! leave me to my slumber—
Merlin long is sick of earth ;
Scoundrels still the soil will cumber,
Asses still give asses birth ;
Rogues will still be patriot praters,
Treasury slaves still sell their wives ;
Wigs and gowns will still hide traitors—
Polls have pensions for three lived I"
Times are coming—times are coming—
John Bull, you shall break your fast ;
Swords are clashing, drums are drumming—
Hours of humbug ! ye are past.
Horseguards men their backs are turning—
Pensioned beauties are undone ;
Ministers' own wigs are burning—
Boldly, New Year thou'st begun.
Hark, the bells from tower and steeple!
All the locusts of the State,
All the feeders on the people,
Must no longer dine on plate—
Mudt give up their Opera-boxes,
Must give up still prettier things—
Soft as turtles, sly as foxes,
Dear to men of stars andstrings!
Down his Highness goes for ever!
Heartless, haughty, hollow, cold;
Scorn has purged Ambition's fever,
Ridicule his tale has told.
With him sink his slavish rabble—
Puny, pettifogging gang !
Fit in Treasury lies to dabble,
Fit to cheer their Lord's harangue.
Now, Sir Bob, farewell thy proneurs I
Even Bill Holmes will cut thee dead ;
All by tricks, and none by honours,
Even thy 'treasury game has tied.
Shelved on Opposition benches,
Hume himself o'er thee shall crow—
Whig, prig, Russell, storm thy trenches :
Go, where thou at last must go!
All ye pets in Treasury chariots ;
All ye pampered, would-be queens—
WIYCK of Pilates and Iscariots,
Twenty summers past your teens!
On your cheeks your calling painted,
Battered, shattered, drunken, old—
All ye reputations tainted,—
Howl! your hour of pride is told !
All ve shallow Michael Cassios,
All ye men of aiguillettes,
All ye genus of mustachios,
All ye Hussar dandizettes ;
All ye tinselled aides-dc-camp,
Proud to lick a Marshal's shoe,
Scarlet as ye are, ere long,
Like your Marshal, ye'll look blue.
Ireland, " gem of land and ocean !
Finest pisant r y on earth !"
Wholesale dealer in commotion!
Soil of murder and of mirth !
Hack for every scoundrel's straddle,
Every brawling beggar's dupe;
Dan O'Connell on thy saddle—
Anglesca upon thy croupe.
Famed for Papists and potatoes ;
Famed for patriots, thick and thin;
Crammed with Brutuses and Catos
Every roul a Jacobin!
Ireland's bonds shall soon be broken,
Spite of Byng, Fitzroy, and Hill ;
Patriot lips the words nave spoken—
Blood and spoil shall have their fill.
Sounds are on the tempest winging.
What has spoke them ? Wrath and shame.
Memories start, like serpents, stinging ;
_Searching, wild, and bright, like flame.

- -
Europe, from thy deepest piiscin
Rings a voice that earth must hear,
When the Spirit once has risen;—
Man! thy day of grandeur's near!
Italy! thy pangs are numbered ;
Light shall through thy dungeon's shine ;
Many an age thy strength had slumbered—
Freedom's blaze forsook thy shrine.
But the reign of blood and plunder—
Tremble, Austria! shall be o'er ;
Heaven not yet has lost the thunder—
Gore shall yet be paid by gore.
Poland! long baptized in slaughter,
To high heaver thy cry is borne,
Though thy blood was poured like water,
Though thy heart by wolves was torn !
E'en on thee a light is beaming,
Light that summons from the grave--
Light from lance and sabre streaming,
Poland! thc,u'rt no more a slave!
Germany! thou too art waking,
Like the giant from his sleep,
Heavily thy fetters shaking,
Like the heavings of the deep
Ere the storm begins to blow;
Like the torrent on the steep,
Gathering ere it bursts below !
Who shall stand that torrent's sweep ?
Hour of mighty retribution!
Who shall stand when thou art come ?
Hour of fiery dissolution !
Strength a cypher, council dumb!
But the tempest shall be chidden,
Earth shall shine without a stain ;
Guilt beneath its mountains hidden,
Man shall be himself again!

" Poland, Past and Present" is full and com-
prehensive in its details, liberal in its tone of
politics, and in its language energetic and de-
clamatory. It bears evident traces of having
been penned by the same hand to which we are
indebted for the magnificent Prophecy of Merlin.
" ])efoe ; his Life and Writings," enters with
much minuteness into the political and ecclesi•
astical history in which this unprecedently volu-
minous writer flourished. " Monsieur St.
Croix" is a vigorously written tale, full of inci-
dent, but rather too abrupt and mysterious in its
termination. " Notes of the Months on Affairs
in General," as usual, are pertinent and caustic.