Volume 68 / Part 1 — THE MASQUERADE OF FREEDOM.

I. When Freedom first appeared beneath, Right simple was the garb she wore: Her brows were circled with a wreath Such as the Grecian victors bore: Her vesture all of spotless white, Her aspect stately and serene; And so she moved in all men's sight As lovely as a Maiden Queen.

II. And queenlike, long she ruled the throng, As ancient records truly tell; Their strength she took not from the strong, But taught them how to use it well. Her presence graced the peasant's floor As freely as the noble's hall: And aye the humbler was the door, The still more welcome was her call.

III. But simple manners rarely range Beyond the simpler ages' ken: And e'en the Virtues sometimes change Their vesture and their looks, like men. Pride, noble once, grows close and vain, And Honour stoops to vulgar things, And old Obedience slacks the rein, And murmurs at the rule of kings.

IV. So Freedom, like her sisters too, Has felt the impulse of the time, Has changed her garments' blameless hue, And donn'd the colours dear to crime First in a Phrygian cap she stalked, And bore within her grasp the spear; And ever, when abroad she walk'd, Men knew Revenge was following near.

V. She moves again—The death-drums roll, The frantic mobs their chorus raise, The thunder of the Carmagnole— The war-chant of the Marseillaise' Red run the streets with blameless blood— The guillotine comes clanking down— And Freedom, in her drunken mood, Can witness all without a frown.

VI. Times change again: and Freedom now, Though scarcely yet less wild and frantic, Appears, before men's eyes below, In guises more intensely antic. No single kind of garb she wears, As o'er the earth she goes crusading; But shifts her habit and her airs Like Joe Grimaldi masquerading.

VII. Through Paris you may see her tread, The cynosure of all beholders; A bonnet rouge upon her head, A ragged blouse upon her shoulders. More decent now than once she was, Though equally opposed to riches, She still upholds the good old cause, Yet condescends to wear the breeches.

VIII. The Huns behold her as of yore, With grisly beard and monstrous swagger; The swart Italian bows before The Goddess with the mask and dagger. The German, as his patriot thirst With beer Bavarian he assuages, Surveys her image, as at first 'Twas pictured in the Middle Ages.

IX. Her glorious form appears to him In all its pristine pomp and glitter, Equipped complete from head to heel, In semblance of a stalwart Ritter. With doublet slash, and fierce moustache, And wrinkled boots of russet leather, And hose and belt, with hat of felt Surmounted by a capon's feather.

X. Mysterious as Egyptian Sphinx, A perfect riddle—who can solve her? One while she comes with blazing links, The next, she's armed with a revolver. Across the main, whene'er the shoe Upon her radiant instep pinches, To-day, she'll tar and feather you; To-morrow, and she merely Lynches.

XI. While thus abroad, in varied guise, We see the fair enchantress flitting, She deigns to greet in other wise Her latest satellites in Britain. Sometimes, in black dissenting cloth, She figures like an undertaker; And sometimes plunges, nothing loath, Into the garments of a Quaker.

XII. You'll find her recommending pikes At many a crowded Chartist meeting, Where gentlemen, like William Sykes, To exiled patriots vote their greeting. You'll find her also with her friends, Engaged upon a bloody errand, When, stead of arguments, she sends Her bludgeoneers to silence Ferrand.

XIII. You'll find her too, at different dates, With men of peace on platforms many, Denouncing loans to foreign states Whereof they could not raise a penny. In short, to end the catalogue, There's hardly any son of Edom Who, in his character of rogue, Won't tell you that he worships Freedom.

XIV. Yet hold—one sample more—the last, Ere of this theme we make a clearance; One little month is barely past Since London saw her grand appearance, In one of those enormous hats, Short leggings and peculiar jerkins, Which men assume who tend the vats Of Barclay and his partner Perkins.

XV. To that great factory of beer, Unconscious wholly of his danger, Nor dreaming that a foe was near, There came, one day, an aged stranger. He was a soldier, and had fought In other lands 'gainst revolution; And done his utmost—so he thought— To save his country's constitution.

XVI. But saving states, like other things Is not in highest vogue at present; And those who stand by laws and kings Must look for recompense unpleasant. Fair Freedom, brooding o'er the drink That makes the Briton strong and hearty, Began to sneeze upon the brink As though she scented Bonaparte.

XVII. "Ah, ha!" she cried, and cried again— At every word her voice grew louder— "I smell an Austrian or a Dane, I smell a minion of gunpowder! Some servant of a kingly race My independent nostril vexes! Say—shall he dare to show his face, Within this hall of triple X's?

XVIII. "'Tis true—he is unarmed, alone, A stranger, weak, and old, and hoary— Yet—on, my children! heave the stone! The less the risk, the more the glory!" She ceased: and round the startled man, As round the Indian crowds the cayman, From vat, and vault, and desk, and van, Thronged brewer, maltster, clerk, and drayman.

XIX. "A precious lark!" the foremost cried; "Come—twig him, Tom! come—pin him, Roger!" "Who is it?" Then a sage replied— "He's some infernal foreign sodger! He looks as how he'd scored ere now Some shoulders black and blue with lashes So pitch him here into the beer— And, lads—we'll pull off his moustaches!"

XX. They did—what brutal natures scorn. What savages would shrink to do— What none but basest cowards born, And the most abject and most few, Would offer to an old man's head! O shame—O shame to Englishmen! If the old spirit be not dead, 'Tis time it showed itself again!

XXI. What! in this land which shelter gave To all, whatever their degree, Or were they faint, or were they brave, Or were they slaves, or were they free— In this Asylum of the Earth— The noblest name it ever won— Shall deeds like these pollute our hearth, Shall open shame like this be done?

XXII. O most ignoble end of all Our boasted order and renown! The robber in the tribune's hall— The maltster in the Judge's gown! The hospitable roof profaned; Old age by ruffian force opprest, And English hands most vilely stained With blood of an unconscious guest!

XXIII. O Freedom! if thou wouldst maintain Thy empire on the British shore, Wash from thy robes that coward stain, Resume thy ancient garb once more. In virgin whiteness walk abroad, Maintain thy might from sea to sea, And, as the dearest gift of God, So men shall live and die for thee!