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THE EXILE'S LAY
PART
SECOND
Isle of the palace and of
cottage low!
Where streams of poverty
and riches flow;
And float wherever thy
proud pennant flies;
A sound in discord with its
symphony,
Doth echo far, and pierce
the troubled sky,
The air with voice of thy
oppressed is stirred;
A constant wail, like
raven's croak is heard;
Or spirits in distress
forever flying,
Whose melancholy dirge is
never dying.
From where thy numerous,
hopeless, paupers dwell,
As heart-crushed as the
prisoner in his cell:-
From alleys dark and close,
in cities vast,
And cots that scarcely
shelter from the blast.
Where poverty doth humble
to the dust,
And hunger often craves in
vain a crust
Where Sickness languishes
by rushlight dim,
And winter's cold doth
palsy every limb!
Where weeping Want, his
tattered rags unfold,
And wander round mid
mountain heaps of gold!
And sometimes famishes
alas! and dies,
With the rich metal
glittering in his eyes!
From those whom fate and
partial fortune foil,
But half remunerated doomed
to toil;
And waste their strength,
and nothing lay aside,
For the sick hour, nor for old
age provide;
To soothe the closing days
of life, and stand,
'Twixt manly pride, and
charity's cold hand!
There is an evil, with deep
buried roots,
Whose branches bend, with
deadly poisonous fruits;
This giant tree of evil, it
appears,
Has been maturing for a
thousand years;-
From time when vassal's
rights were not regarded,
And chivalry was
bounteously rewarded
With lands and titles;
and to make both sure,
Were granted "laws
of primogeniture:"
Which laws have proved a
heavy curse at best,
And time, and craft,
and self, have done the rest:
Broad acres, long improved
by others' toil,
Each year increased the
value of the soil;
Till now their rising rents
and leases bring,
To lords an income equal
for a king;
The greedy owners sternly
bold it fast,
And grudge each parting
house-lot to the last;
Or dole their acres out at
monstrous price,
On lease; and when
increased in value thrice,
By others' bone and sinew,
come again
To swell their riches, and
their vast domain.
Their unrelenting steward
rolls in fat,
A pretty miniature,
aristocrat:
The link between the farmer
and his lord,
He piles each year,
another's golden hoard:
A pampered hireling, oft
with heart of stone;
He robs the bees to
feed an idle drone!
Still they, unsatisfied,
make farmers give
Such monstrous prices, that
they scarce can live:
Who o'er their hapless,
bitter fortune mourn,
And crowd, alas! the
laborer in their turn.
And thus it is, when longer
grows the purse,
In selfish hands,
proportioned is the curse.
"Knowledge is
power;" to this all men assent;
But money! is it not omnipotent?
And doth it not, its
owner's feelings steel?
Making him tread his
fellows 'neath his heel?
Custom and law, each
generous impulse cool,
And conscience, too,
conveniently they school.
The strong in power,
forever grasping more,
Frame laws to aid the rich,
and grind the poor.
England! how curs'd art
thou with legal wrong!
How vile are they, who
still the curse prolong!
What is thy bane? thy
deadly upas tree!
Drag of thy glorious car of
liberty
Thy rankling poison? Aristocracy.
Its very breath seems to
pollute the gale!
And where it comes, the
victims all turn pale!
It crossed the broad
Atlantic on the breeze,
And human energy began to
freeze;
The sounds of busy progress
well-nigh hushed,
And treasured hopes of noble
minds near crushed;
Until a democratic storm
did rise,
And cleared the stench from
fair Columbia's skies!
Then the new world, from
centre to the main,
More sweetly smiled and
breathed fresh air again!
It floated where Napoleon's
eagles soared,
And where the French their
only god adored!
The noble birds fell
writhing to the dust!
And Bonaparte's fresh
laurels fell - a crust!
It paralyzed the blood
within his veins,
And tamed him down for
exile and for chains!
It passed his lonely isle
and sapped his strength,
And prematurely brought him
death at length.
If then it hath such awful,
blasting powers,
To chill such fiery blood
in such brief hours,
Oh, what can flourish,
where, for evermore,
At home it blows and floats
from shore to shore?
The Aristocracy can all
endure,
The arduous duties of
a sinecure;
Of counting gold, wet with
the poor man's tear,
For which they've
lounged and slept, and snored a year!
They guard from sin (?)
have souls to heaven sent,
At last, by rigid act of
Parliament!
But make them pay for it in
many a tithe,
While struggling victims
'neath their burdens writhe.
Yes, "livings," *
worth a, thousand pounds a year,
In the control of Bishop,
Duke, or Peer,
------------------------------------
*There is a direct tax
levied chiefly on the middle classes for
the support of the
"Established Church:" the aggregate amount
paid in each parish is
denominated "livings" or "benefits."
------------------------------------
Wrung out of honest,
working people's thrift,
Are handed to some
fav'rite, like a Christmas gift!
And further still, to push
their wicked farce on,
Two flocks oft guarded are
by one rum parson.
'Tis true, all go to
heaven which way they please,
Or go to h--l, but
Bishops will have fees.
What a vile marriage this,
of Church and State,
The gross abomination how I
hate;
Whose offspring should be
piety perhaps,
Instead of MILLIONS into
Bishop's laps!
No wonder Wesley such a
crew forsook,
To start a purer church on
his own hook.
Victims, why suffer?
Agitate divorce;
That failing, use a little Cobden
force,
The cause of God and
liberty promoting,
Just try if there is virtue
yet in voting:
Go, snap the rotten band
for aye asunder;
And stop their solemn mockery
and plunder!
The English middle class,
when fairly stirred,
And roused to their own
interest, will be heard.
Would I could waft to them
a Yankee breeze!
And make them call aloud
for wide "Franchise!"
And ballot box, to vote for
whom they please.-
Demand more education
for the poor;
For that all know, is Freedom's
only door!
See cobweb sinecures
all duly broomed,
Where golden dust of
industry's entombed.
Nor longer let them mar the
dome of state,
But leave the money-spiders
to their fate!
They 'll take no damage by
the fall, they've stood
Too long already, sucking
poor men's blood!
The laws of Primogeniture
pull down
About the lordly heads, and
let them frown;
If anything, it would
improve their bust,-
Powdering their heads a
little with its dust!
And of the document, leave
not a trace,
But burn it up before their
angry face:
Who by its light, if it
burns bright, may see,
To will their lands with
more of equity!
Claim boldly, the taxation
is unfair;
Make every titled nabob pay
his share;
Give them who shun the
change, to understand
They must relax their hold,
or loose their hand:
Tell them this truth, and
come to it they must:
Taxes on property alone are just.
But they jog on so mighty
sure and steady,
The De'il can't stir them
until they get ready.
What is the startling,
true, and sad comment
On all the gold Aristocrats
have spent,
Their transatlantic
brethren to enslave,-
And to back up kidnaping on
the wave?
And indirectly to support
their own,
To place an exiled Bourbon
on a throne?
To scourge a haughty nation
with the sword,
Because with them, their
voice did not accord;
For, seeing what themselves
did wish them blind to,
And having things the way
they had a mind to:
For cutting off an empty
wooden head,
And worshipping a genius in
its stead?
(Ah Bonaparte! didst thou a
sceptre wield,
A throne for aye from
disrespect to shield?)
Britain! thy rocks and
hills have heard the first,
Dread chapter, comments
that to heaven did burst!
'Twas widows, orphans,
maidens, mother's cries!
For husbands, fathers,
lovers, that did rise!
Who poured in foreign lands
their life's red tide!
To gloat aristocratic sway
and pride!
The second chapter, debt:
from loans on loans,
Oh! mountain weight! hark,
how the nation groans.
What mind can grasp eight
hundred million pounds?
To Albion's poor, how
mournfully it sounds!
What giant strength, to
stand erect, and straight,
A nation must possess, and
bear such weight!
What reckless insolence, so
much to ask,
How stupid they, who bent
to every task!
The next black chapter, has
no end; 'tis tax!
And who can prophesy the dread
climax?
Oh! hadst thou listened to
thy Fox's wit,
Thou hadst not fallen in to
such a pit(t)!
Thy throne, with such a
monarch, might have stood,
Without being crimson'd
with thy noblest blood!
Might have remained secure
for unknown years,
And not be floating with
thy daughter's tears!
And thy good Queen been
spared of half her sighs,
That for her suffering
subjects now arise.
Ah! were it not for thy
accursed debt,
What deeds of glory might
thou not do yet!
The praises of the world
thou might'st excite,
By nobly rising in thy lion
might!
To shield young nations in
their trying hour,
Of struggling infancy, from
tyrant's power;
With mane erect, and fiery
flashing eyes!
Scathing thy foes, like
lightning from the skies!
Making offensive despots
shake with dread,
Before thy grand
approaching earthquake tread!
And crouch like wolves to
hear thy thundering roar!
Loud as storm billows
'gainst a rocky shore!
Like sudden sweeping gale
upon the main,
Or the tornado ravaging the
plain,
Thou would'st hew down, and
make a gory path!
And slake in blood thy
vengeance and thy wrath!
Base tyrants would turn
pale, and stand aghast,
To see their strength
prostrated by thy blast!
Black Despotism, coward
like, would hide,
To see thee on, in glorious
triumph, ride!
Would tear his hoary locks,
and writhe with pain,
And gnash his teeth, above
his broken chain!
While every cave, and hill,
and vale around,
Would with his groans of
agony resound!
Justice would smile, and
wave her keen-edged sword,
To find her scales to
equity restored;
And Liberty, exulting in
thy pride,
Would at the infant
nation's birth preside;
Crown thee with bays, the
mighty undefiled;
And greet thee, both her
champion and her child!
But thou art under bonds to
keep the peace,
And not again thy fearful
debt increase.
With folded arms, must hear
rough tyrants shout,
While treading a young
nation's freedom out.
Nor power to make third
parties stand at bay,
And let a struggling people
have fair play.
Would I could make the hand
of Power relax,
And soften down its heart,
and make it wax:-
Then deeply mould, with
scrupulous patient care,
Both Love and Pity's angel
image there!
Then Want, might tears,
without a cork-screw, draw
From lordly eyes; oh! what
a mighty thaw!
The freshet large would pay
up all arrears,
The congeal'd pity of a
thousand years!
All their unequal laws they
would repent,
And form a Democratic
Parliament;
Then we should see my lord
and lady walk
Where Poverty, and Vice,
and Hunger stalk!
Take erring subjects gently
by the hand,
And feed and clothe the
poor throughout the land.
But no, such tenderness can
never be,
Another course claims their
philanthropy.
‘Tis distant sights,
at which their hearts grow bigger,
A banished monarch,
or an injured nigger.
They can spend millions to
wipe slavery’s curse;
And quietly put thousands
in their purse!*
Lend John Bull cash, from
blacks sold to the nation:
The world admires (?) their
double speculation!
Can they find in their
hearts for paupers room?
No! they are left to
farmers and their doom.
They leave them to the
farmers did I say?
Alas! they used to in a
by-gone day.
Then poor had sympathy,
were duly fed;
But now the yeoman by the
nose is led.
---------------------------------------------------------
* We are willing they
should have all the credit due them, in
bringing about that great
philanthropic enterprise: Still it is
notorious, that the
undertaking received the most encouragement
from the middle classes. It
is also a fact that it was strongly
opposed by some of the aristocracy,
until they found that the
slaves were to be paid for
at a fair valuation; when they at
once consented, and quietly
pocketed the money for slaves which they owned.
---------------------------------------------------------
He furnishes all that the
law demands,
But chief control is taken
from his hands.
The poor-rates raised by
extra tax each year,
And lordlings fix it, to go
almost clear;
The middle classes raise it
‘gainst their will ;
The poor are taxed, to feed
the poorer still !
While rich impertinence, by
shocking laws,
Have got the pauper firmly
in its paws,
The lamb and lion! poor and
autocrat!
Who feeds them scant, lest
they should grow too fat!
Who 've built them palaces,
their rags to mock,
And when within, the more
their feelings shock!
Here poverty is treated as
a crime!
Old age abused, for not
withstanding Time!
They dole their rations out
by weight, as tho'
Poor, guilty prisoners were
our deadly foe;
Nor can misfortune or grey
want relieve,
Without insulting those the
gift receive.
And feed their paupers
scantier than their swine,
Nor yield a crust, unsoaked
in tears of brine!
O, for a Byron's diamond
pen to lash,
Or blind the guilty with
its fearful flash!
To tell them how I hate
their borrowed glory,
Above all things this side
of purgatory!
Ye painted worms! who many
hues unfold;-
Ye worst of paupers! decked
in lace and gold!
Ye heirs of waste! born
nought but to consume:
To eat, ride, lounge, and
sleep, and snuff perfume;
Ye flaunting butterflies of
scented bowers!
Prisoners of sickly ease,
and mis-spent hours!
What are your products, ye
vile want creators?
Just to have 'round a score
of liv'ried waiters.
Alas! for the poor, ragged
starvling's sake,
Would those were all the
bitter wants you make !
Ye mammoth millstones!
whose whole weight is thrust
Upon the laborer, grinding
him to dust!
From whence your right on
golden wing to be,
Soaring for aye above
humanity?
And with a scornful and
insulting frown,
On fellow dust from far be
looking down!
Ye need not cross again the
ocean's waves,
To exercise your sympathy
on slaves:
A Lady Sutherland may find,
I 'm sure,
Enough of slaves at home at
her own door:
With more effect, and with
far bettter face,
She might find fairer
subjects for her Grace!
From their false height,
all distant objects grow,
More plain than those
immediately below:
They see our negroes tasks,
and stripes, and gore
And hear their groans above
Atlantic's roar!
While brethren toil from
cradle to the grave,
And starve and die without a
hand to save!
While thus your fellow
creatures starving are,
And others toil from morn
till rising star,
(I have a subject to take
up your time)
Is idleness and luxury a
crime?
When that's resolved, go
count the myriad souls,
That have been sent to their
eternal goals!
(And if ye can,) the
burning tears, and sighs,
That has been wrung from
women's hearts and eyes!
And guess how far their sad
united cry,
Would pierce the trembling
air and liquid sky!
Go mete the sea of blood,
that has been spilt!
And lastly reckon the
amount of guilt
That rests upon each empty,
haughty head!
By whom their tears, and
noble blood were shed!
By crushing red
Destruction's gory car
In foreign and unnecessary
war!
O! for a wizard's awful
power!
Some solemn evening's
silent hour:
When through your endless
pleasure grounds,
Ye take your dull
accustomed rounds;
When Day in Evening's lap
is dying,
And every breeze a dirge is
sighing:
As Night lets her dark
curtain down,
And Nature seems to wear a
frown,
When hushed each daylight's
harsher feeling,
And melancholy thoughts are
stealing;
To waft upon the evening
air,
The rending sounds of dark
despair!
From brethren sinking in
distress,
And cots that you might
cheaply bless:
And what would sound to
thee still worse,
A dying pauper's bitter
curse!
To conjure up by bush and
post
As ye pass by, 'a horrid
ghost!
Whom ye your aid, alas,
denied,
And who in want and misery
died!
Divert each pale face 'mid
the gloom,-
Its vengeance should
survive the tomb:-
While every one with fiery
sword,
A threatening aspect should
afford:
With angry scowl, and
instinct true,
They fix their hollow eyes
on you;
Then flash their swords
above your head,
And shriek, "We
died for want of bread!"
And as ye haste through
lawn, or park,
While shades of night grow
thick and dark,
I'd summon from the battle
plain
The ghostly forms of
thousands slain,
Looking as when they
breathed their last
Where hell's war-demon
onward pass'd;
The echo of whose mighty
tread
Again should thunder over
head,
As tho' he'd gloated not
his fill,
But urged their spirits
onward still,
His banner red, still
floating high
Making them battle in the
sky;
Their clay still warm their
bed still wet,
Their gaping wounds still
bleeding yet.
The frightened deer in
groups should flee,
And leaves should quiver on
each tree:
The trembling ground my
power should feel,
And, as when earthquakes
jar, should reel,
While thunders roll, peal
after peal,
And lightnings dart from
blacken'd sky,
Like Jove's own
anger-flashing eye,
Revealing scenes of crimson
dye:
Where soldiers still with
look of pride,
Lie pale and stiffi'ning
side by side,
As comrade by his comrade
died;
Where sunder'd limbs upon
the ground,
And headless trunks are
scatter'd round:
Some holding swords in
deathly grip,
And others pressing to
their lip
Lov'd images of maiden
fair,
For whom went up their
dying prayer.
When hushed the thunders,
you shall hear
Dread sounds still falling
on your ear:
The solemn murmur of a
flood,
The ripple of a stream of
blood,
And women's mourning
shrieks be heard,
And flaps like wings of of
a huge bird;
For dimly seen on troubled
air,
Would darkly hover wild
despair!
And death stalks where war
fiends had been,
Gazing and smiling on the
scene.
And should this fail to
make you just,
I'd turn your coffers all
to dust,
Or eat them through and
through with rust;
I'd haunt you in your
midnight dreams,
And dog your steps by woods
and streams,
I'd stain with blood your
hoards of gold,
And visit you with plagues
untold;
Until your iron hearts
relent,
And you your selfishness
repent.
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