The maw of shark, the tear of crocodile, Whate'er high station, undetermined yet, Awaits thee in the longing Cabinet,-- Whether thou seat thee in the room of Peel, Or from Lord Prig extort the Privy Seal, Or our Field-marshal-Treasurer fix on thee, A legal admiral, to rule the sea, Or Chancery-suits, beneath thy well known reign, Turn to their nap of fifty years again; (Already L--, prescient of his fate, Yields half his woolsack to thy mightier weight;) Oh! Eldon, in whatever sphere thou shine, For opposition sure will ne'er be thine, Though scowls apart the lonely pride of Grey, Though Devonshire proudly flings his staff away, Though Lansdowne, trampling on his broken chain, Shine forth the Lansdowne of our hearts again, Assist me thou; for well I deem, I see An abstract of my ample theme in thee. Thou, as thy glorious self hath justly said, From earliest youth, wast pettifogger bred, And, raised to power by fortune's fickle will, Art head and heart a pettifogger still. So, where once Fleet-ditch ran confessed, we vie A crowded mart and stately avenue; But the black stream beneath runs on the same, Still brawls in W--'s key,--still stinks like H--'s name. ***** THE DELIVERANCE OF VIENNA. TRANSLATED FROM VINCENZIO DA FILICAIA. (Published in the "Winter's Wreath," Liverpool, 1828.) "Le corde d'oro elette," etc. The chords, the sacred chords of gold, Strike, O Muse, in measure bold; And frame a sparkling wreath of joyous songs For that great God to whom revenge belongs. Who shall resist his might, Who marshals for the fight Earthquake and thunder, hurricane and flame? He smote the haughty race Of unbelieving Thrace, And turned their rage to fear, their pride to shame. He looked in wrath from high, Upon their vast array; And, in the twinkling of an eye, Tambour, and trump, and battle-cry, And steeds, and turbaned infantry, Passed like a dream away. Such power defends the mansions of the just: But, like a city without walls, The grandeur of the mortal falls Who glories in his strength, and makes not God his trust. The proud blasphemers thought all earth their own; They deemed that soon the whirlwind of their ire Would sweep down tower and palace, dome and spire, The Christian altars and the Augustan throne. And soon, they cried, shall Austria bow To the dust her lofty brow. The princedoms of Almayne Shall wear the Phrygian chain; In humbler waves shall vassal Tiber roll; And Rome a slave forlorn, Her laurelled tresses shorn, Shall feel our iron in her inmost soul. Who shall bid the torrent stay? Who shall bar the lightning's way? Who arrest the advancing van Of the fiery Ottoman?