Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 6.djvu/37

Rh The blood of monarchs with his prophecies,

Or be alive again—again all hoar

With time and trials, and those helpless eyes,

And heartless daughters—worn—and pale —and poor;

Would he adore a sultan? he obey

The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh?

XII.

Cold-blooded, smooth-faced, placid miscreant!

Dabbling its sleek young hands in Erin's gore,

And thus for wider carnage taught to pant,

Transferred to gorge upon a sister shore,

The vulgarest tool that Tyranny could want,

With just enough of talent, and no more,

To lengthen fetters by another fixed,

And offer poison long already mixed.

XIII.

An orator of such set trash of phrase

Ineffably—legitimately vile,

That even its grossest flatterers dare not praise,

Nor foes—all nations—condescend to smile,—

Nor even a sprightly blunder's spark can blaze

From that Ixion grindstone's ceaseless toil,