Oh my dear England! merry land! GOD bless you! Though taxes, corn-laws, fogs, and beer oppress you, Still, as of old, a jocund little isle, Still once a year at least allowed a smile; When, spite of virtue, cakes and ale abound, And laughter rings, and glasses clink around. Nor quite extinct is that robust old race (Autumn's last roses blooming on their face,) Whom, spite of silver hairs and trembling knees, At Christmas-time a pantomime can please. Still some bald heads adorn the lower row, Green, lusty lads of three-score years or so; Nor is the veteran yet ashamed to sit, Three times a year, with Tommy, in the pit.
But vain your hope, ye gentle sisters twain, Who hold of Passion's realm the double rein! Mirth-moving maid! and thou who wak'st the tear! Vain was your hope to build an empire here: Not ev'n _your_ slaves will freemen deign to be-- Fly to some region where the soul is free. Find some fat soil of indolence and rest, With some good-natured, easy tyrant blest, Who to himself the toil of ruling takes, And his own laws and his own blunders makes; Leaving his people only to obey, And sleep the noon and sing the night away. Or waste in tawdry theatres the hours Which here the service of the State devours.
Here nobler cares enlightened man engage Than the poor fictions of a trifling stage. Perhaps her sons th' alarmed Republic calls To solemn _caucus_ in her council halls, Wherein her trembling destiny awaits The awful issue of their high debates. What time have they the ravings to endure Of any mad young Prince or horn-mad Moor, When Duty calls them to contrive a way To pay the nation's debt--or not to pay? Or when perchance upon a single voice Depends an alderman's defeat or choice? Why should they care to hear a greedy Jew, With cut-throat air, insisting on his due, When they, by far more naturally, play Shylock themselves, in Wall-street, every day? Yet should, by hap, a genial evening spare The flaming patriot from his country's care, Or Business loose his limbs and tortured brain From the long thraldom of her golden chain, Why then his tireless energies demand A dish of knowledge, sold at second-hand: With indefatigable ears and eyes To look profound in lecture-rooms he tries, And picks Philosophy's delightful scraps From fossils, gases, diagrams and maps. For Science now is easy grown, and cheap, Keeps modest hours, nor interferes with sleep; And much there is to wonder at and know In all the 'ologies, from _aer_ to _zo_.
