In the mean time, we beg to subjoin a few lines, suggested by the
circumstance of Burdett taking the chair at Rous's feast, which strongly
remind us of Byron's Vision of Belshazzar.
Burdett was in the chair--
The Tories throng'd the hall--
A thousand lamps were there,
O'er that mad festival.
His crystal cup contain'd
The grape-blood of the Rhine;
Draught after draught he drain'd,
To drown his thoughts in wine.
In that same hour and hall
A shade like "Glory" came,
And wrote upon the wall
The records of his shame.
And at its fingers traced
The words, as with a wand,
The traitorous and debased
Upraised his palsied hand.
And in his chair he shook,
And could no more rejoice;
All bloodless wax'd his look,
And tremulous his voice.
"What words are those appear,
To mar my fancied mirth!
What bringeth 'Glory' here
To tell of faded worth?"
"False renegade! thy name
Was once the star which led
The free; but, oh! what shame
Encircles now thine head!
Thou'rt in the balance weigh'd,
And worthless found at last.
All! all! thou hast betray'd!"--
And so the spirit pass'd.
* * * * *
PUNCH'S PENCILLINGS.--No. VI.
[Illustration:
ANIMAL MAGNETISM:
SIR RHUBARB PILL MESMERISING THE BRITISH LION.]
* * * * *
SUPREME COURT OF THE LORD HIGH INQUISITOR PUNCH.
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