Pickwick Abroad: or, The Tour in France — page 302: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ee ee ~~ OC ee ee Oe PICKWICK ABROAD. The spacious parks, from whence th’. horizon blue Beyond the verdant foliage meets the view ; Where Superstition still her walk will take, And where soft music echoes o’er the Lake-— The transient modesty of maids undone— The qualms of jadges whom small brib’ry won— The dread of children, trembling as they play— The bliss of monarchs potent in their sway— The note of war—the deadly culverin, . That shakes the fortress with unholy din— The serri’d legions rushing to the fight— The city full of pleasure and delight— And ali that human-kind can form or know To have existence on this earth below— With gold—the prize for which ten thousands bait A subtle hook, that ever, as they wait, Catches a weed, and drags them to their fate :-— Such were the dainties on that table spread, Such were the meats whereby those guests were fed! A hundred slaves around the chamber stood, And serv'd each one with all he thought was good ; While day and night fell Destiny prepar’d The sumptuous banquet thus so largely shar’d ! And that each guest might learn to suit his taste, Beside his chair was Conscience ever placed ; For Conscience’ piercing eyes could well detect The dainty morsel, and the bad reject, Although that self-same Conscience oft be blind, When doom’d to stand a monarch’s throne behind! Oh! at tnat table there be all the great, The proud, the mighty—majesty and state :— Dread Bacchanalian revel! yet how grand, Thus to allure the natives of each land! Yes—for long shouts of laughter echo roand— And mirth—and joy—and revelry abound ; The bowl flows freely—and the wine is bright— And ev’ry eve-ball glistens with delight. But, ah—great God !—While yet your Hebés pour Forth in the cups the liquors ye adore— While yet, fair guests ! the bowl is richly stor’d, And while fresh dainties reek upon the board— And while th’ orchestra lifts unto the sky, To tuneful harps, the voice of melody— "Tis now—O Madness !—reckless of the bliss That gleams around—in such an hour as this— — An awful footstep mounts the echoing stair— A horrid sound proclaims intruders there— A heavy tramp that bids all mirth be done— Nearer—more near—who is the dreaded One? Close not the door !—With haste, and deep-drawn breath The stranger enters—and that stranger’s Death ! With him comes Exile, cluth’d in foreign guise, And both with fury flashing.trom their eyes. (COLMCE JOO .S (GO)