Thoughts On Mischief.

BY LORD STANLEY.     (HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)             "Evil, be thou my good."             --MILTON.     How various are the inspirations     Of different men in different nations!     As genius prompts to good or evil,     Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.     Old Socrates, that pink of sages,     Kept a pet demon on board wages     To go about with him incog.,     And sometimes give his wits a jog.     So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know,     Keeps fresh relays of imps below,     To forward from that nameless spot;     His inspirations, hot and hot.     But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings--     Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings--     Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,     I'd show you mischief prettier still;     Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks     With age's sourest politics;     The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,     Both duly mixt, and matchless all;     A compound naught in history reaches     But Machiavel, when first in breeches!     Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,     Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm,     Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee--     No livelier lackey could they find thee.     And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,     So mischief's done, you care not where,     I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle     In Paddyland to play the Pickle;     Having got credit for inventing     A new, brisk method of tormenting--     A way they call the Stanley fashion,     Which puts all Ireland in a passion;     So neat it hits the mixture due     Of injury and insult too;     So legibly it bears upon't     The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.     Ireland, we're told, means the land of Ire;     And why she's so, none need inquire,     Who sees her millions, martial, manly,     Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley.     Already in the breeze I scent     The whiff of coming devilment;     Of strife, to me more stirring far     Than the Opium or the Sulphur war,     Or any such drug ferments are.     Yes--sweeter to this Tory soul     Than all such pests, from pole to pole,     Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got     By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"     And thanks to practice on that land     I stir it with a master-hand.     Again thou'lt see, when forth have gone     The War-Church-cry, "On, Stanley, on!"     How Caravats and Shanavests     Shall swarm from out their mountain nests,     With all their merry moonlight brothers,     To whom the Church (step-dame to others)     Hath been the best of nursing mothers.     Again o'er Erin's rich domain     Shall Rockites and right reverends reign;     And both, exempt from vulgar toil,     Between them share that titheful soil;     Puzzling ambition which to climb at,     The post of Captain, or of Primate.     And so, long life to Church and Co.--     Hurrah for mischief!--here we go.