Punch: Punch (76.1879)

198

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

THE TABLES TURNED.

Lady Clara Robinson (ne'e Vere de Vere) is subject to fits of Radicalism. After suddenly informing her daughter Gwendoline that kind hearts
are'more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood, site gives her permission to go and play with ''those nice daughters of the
People."

Gwendoline Robinson. "You may Play with me, little Girls!"

Small Daughter of'the Reople. "If you please, Miss, Mother don't like trs to Play with Strange Children ! "

"AUT CyESAE, AUT NIHIL!"

Or, Tyrant v. Terror.

A dread alternative ! Yet one -which, is

Autocracy's eternal Nemesis.

Poor Csesar ! Though he pose as present God,

Though serf-born serfs stand trembling at his nod,

Though purchased cheers and prayers his ears salute,

Though long the voice of Mutiny be mute,

There comes a moment when Hate's whispers swell

From muffled murmur to triumphant yell.

And Csesar, though his sword be swift of stroke,

And his tense hands lay weight upon the yoke,

Yet, in the darkened chamber of his mind,

Dreads the grim shadow which no bonds can bind,

More than the solid ranks of leagued foes,

Whom steel may smite or policy oppose.

Lo, Cfesar Liberator, where he stands

Clutching the fetters ! But the hundred hands

Of that pervading phantom mock his gyves.

A foe that fears not death hath many lives.

When you can shackle shadows, bind the cloud,

Or prison the north wind when piping loud

Over your frozen wastes, then, Csesar, hope

With the raised spirit of Revolt to cope

By chain, and gag, and scourge. The thing is bred

Of age-long tyranny ; its hopes have fed

On food you furnished when your hosts went forth

To fight for freedom, and so learn its worth.

'Tis blind and bloody, as are all things born

Of cold oppression and of callous scorn.

As is the tyrant, must his victim be,

First, sacrifice, then scourge of tyranny.

Sedition's spirit but reflects the mood
Of the oppressor; hate breeds hate, and blood
Is.bloodshed's bitter spring. The grisly shade
That darkens o'er your path is but arrayed
In your own terrors, and its acts are fraught
With the bad lessons Tyranny has taught.
Cassar, this is no ghost, which you may lay
In the Red Sea of State revenge, or stay
With bonds or barriers. Secret, steadfast, stern,
As is the rule it aims to overturn,
Wide-ranging, subtly spread, hid deep from sight,
As some swift-growing poisonous parasite,
'Twill paralyse the arm that strikes at it,
Or, smitten, swift its severed joints re-knit,
Nor die till ordered freedom's healthier growth
Supplants the Tyrant and the Terror both.

National Tribute to Lord B.

{Reduced to 1. 8. D.)

The Subscribers to the Tracy Turnerelli Wreath—in for a
penny.

The Subscribers to the Taxation of England—in for a great many
pounds. _

Hint to a Hero.

My Garibaldi, rest content,

Let your friends look at home ;
To wage war for Trieste and Trent,

Might be the loss of Rome.

The Patron Saint of Railways.—St. Pancrash.