LowLY to thee, his liege, with love and reverence bending,
Christopher North presents this tome, the twelfth of his labours.
May thine eye be pleased, and thy heart well satisfied, while thou
Rovest o'er the varied page of Maga vested in olive.
Nonsense, perhaps, is there much random writing, and some too
Of that abundant food which joys in the title of Balaam.
But besides these much more, thy cultivate mind will discover—
Many a page rich fraught with wit, and beauty, and pathos,
Jewels of sparkling verse, and high and rapturous musings,
Tale, and critique, and song, of woe, or drollery, swelling
From the grief-stricken heart, or the soul loud-laughing in gladness ;-
And above all, the voice for ever boldly proclaiming,
HONOUR TO THEe, O King, and pride in the glory of Britain!
Torn be his tongue from his mouth, and trampled his lip in the kennel,
If while life remains, while his Magazine flourishes proudly,
Such a voice be not heard from loyal Christopher's bosom.
Scoundrel indeed is he, in ruffian Whiggery thrice dyed,
Who can withhold from thee due meed of praise and of honour,
Mirror of brilliant Kings !-the PRINCE and GENTLEMAN blended!
Elegant, graceful, polite, kind, affable MONARCH OF FREEMEN!
King of the men whose arms both Orient and Occident bowed to,
Who, with unconquer'd keel, have ploughed the bosom of Ocean;
Lords of the human race, but proud of thee as a Master.
Gladly, in future days, th' unborn historian of England
Will, with unwearied pen, retrace thy glorious annals:
Proud will he be to tell, that in moments of darkness and danger
Thou to the helm wert call'd, and firm wert found in thy station;
Portugal, ancient ally, deliver'd from barbarous outrage;
Spain, arous'd to the fight, and led through the terrible conflict;
Germany, mighty land! the mother of sages and heroes,
Waked from her deadly sleep, like th' irresistible Danite
Bursting her bonds, to chase her worse than Philistine foemen ;
Holland, rejoicing again 'neath the much lov'd standard of Orange;
Russia, urg'd to war to shower down fierce desolation
On the godless host, who, led by the Jacobin Despot,
Went, in evil strength, to heap on the terrified nations
Misery, and sin, and shame, and slavery, woe and oppression,
Fire and sword in their hands, vice, lust, hate, rage in their bosoms.
Why need I mention more ?-All Europe hails thee, O Monarch!
As the Angel of Light, who stood 'twixt the dead and the living,
Staid the raging plague, and gave back peace to the nations.
Nay, even France herself, whence flowed the pestilent torrent,
Now to purer views and truer feelings awaken'd,
Cured of her feverish rage and pernicious ambition of conquest,
Under the stainless flag and the ancient lilies of Bourbon,
Owns, 'tis to England's King she owes the blessings of order.-
Thine was the rule adorn'd by the brightest of WELLINGTON's trophies ;
Bounds not every heart, as 'twere to sound of a trumpet,
When we speak of the tide of ceaseless victory, flowing
From the day when Junot, defeated, fled from Vimiera,
Until the glorious hour when the Lions of England were planted
High o'er the walls of Tholouse, in the ancient domain of the Black Prince?
How thou art loved at home, it now were bootless to mention;
Dumb is Faction itself, (the multifaced demon of Southey):
Not a sound is heard but shouts of love and affection,
Ringing in thundering cheers wherever thou turnest thy footsteps.
Ireland received her King with a more than national uproar ;
Hanover, land of thy sires, with greetings rapturous hail'd thee;
Such would the greeting be, hadst thou to thy icy dominions,
Won by the sword of Wolfe, to Arctic Canada wander'd ;
Such would the greeting be in India, land of the Bramin.
Ne'er does the glorious sun, the argent lamp of Apollo,
Set in the realms which are swayed beneath thy merciful sceptre;
Monarch in every zone, whether temperate, torrid, or frigid,
Thou in every zone art loved, O King, as a Father.
What dost thou think, my liege, of the metre in which I address thee?
Doth it not sound very big, very bouncing, bubble-and-squeaky,
Rattling and loud, and high, resembling a drum or a bugle-
Rub-a-dub-dub like the one, like t'other tantara-rara?
(It into use was brought of late by thy Laureate Doctor-
But, in my humble opinion, I write it better than he does)
It was chosen by me as the longest measure I knew of,
And, in praising one's King, it is right full measure to give him.
Just for a jiff I shall stop, to drink thy health in a bumper,
Then for a handful of lines to make a fine peroration!
HERE IS THE HEAalth of the King! with hurrà quadruply re
Long may his Majesty live in health, in glory, in greatness!
Loved by his people at home, look'd up to abroad by the nations!
Blest may he be rising up-blest lying down to his slumbers!
Gay be his visions in sleep, and happy his thoughts in the day time!
Ruled be the land in love, and-kept be the Whigs out of office!
And when the final hour shall summon him hence to the judgment,
Summons that must be obeyed by prince as well as by peasant,
May he descend to the tomb as loved as his father before him!
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