Punch (39.1860)

124

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[September 29, 1860.

lady “ Then, why did you leave ? ”

Domestic. “ Well, Ma’am, ip you arst me, I b’lieve the reel reason were, that Missus thought I were too Good Looking ! ”

BRENNUS AT THE SCALES.

Again the hills of Italy
Echo the din of war,

Again the eagles gather

To Lome, from near and far,

Again the seven-hilled city,

The conqueror’s guerdon stands,

But not, as erst, with conquest’s sword
Held in Barbarian hands !

When Rome, an infant giant,

First crowned her seven-fold height,

The stalwart North its swarnis poured forth
To crush the rising might.

There strode the swarthy Cymry,

The red Gaul at his side,

And tower and town went helpless down,
Before the sweeping tide.

But, Heaven’s high purpose needed
That rising Roman power,

And nerved the stately senators
To meet the awful hour.

In robes of white, on chairs of state,

They barred the invaders’ way—

’Gainst Cymric fire and Gaulish ire,

A weaponless array !

How changed the men, how changed the parts!

The scene alone the same.

Now Heav’n strikes with the invaders,

And works the invaded shame.

For patriot hands, see hireling bands,

The mass-book for the glaive ;

A fluttered, epiccene old priest,

For senate stern and grave !

Still holdeth well the parallel—•

Like in unlikeness all—

On what is done doth still look on,

A Brennus, chief of Gaul!

Not, frank and bold like him of old,

That led the Cymric horde,

But a masked brow—a muffled hand,

That grasps a doubtful sword !

Again the steel-yard is brought forth,

Again Rome’s fate is weighed :

Though other weights are in the plates,

Than those of yore displayed.

Old Rome went free—her ransom-fee,

A thousand pounds of gold,

Now, Europe’s hopes against a Pope’s
Unequal balance hold!

Strange, how despite the ill-matched freight
The scales uncertain play,

While still as death, with bated breath,

We watch them as they sway.

And well we know—be’t weal or woe
That in the upshot lies—

The scale where Brennus flings his sword
Will be the scale to rise !

Were this a man our wit could scan,

The choice might easy seem ;

Small doubt were there which scale would beai
To earth, which kick the beam.

With fear and lies, before our eyes,

’Gainst truth and valour hung,

Were his a hand at our command,

Long since the sword were flung!

But what is truth and what is ruth,

What human hopes to him?

Whose tortuous ways elude our gaze,

So molelike, dark, and dim!

One thing alone to faith is known,

Heaven wills whate’er befall—

And this man’s hand, and this man’s brand.
Are God’s that guideth all !

4

Lying by Lightning.

The Telegram which said that Louis Napoleon had been shot at,
said the thing which wa3 not. Really telegraphic announcements are
•often so romantic, the electric wires do tell such stories, that any
astounding message transmitted by them will soon come to be called
an electric Tell-a-cram.

Rather Too Much.

It is too bad of Members to do the talking in Parliament, and out of
Parliament too. If they hold forth to the extent they do when the
House is open, they might have the decency to hold their tongues
during t he recess. "Not. a single M.P. seems to possess w hat TaLLEY-
I hand called un grand talent pi ur la silence.

i