Thither the lame, on wings of paper,
May come to nothing, like a vapour;
Thither may all the world repair—
A word, a wish, will waft you there;
And, oh, so smooth and steep the track,
'Tis worth your life to venture back.
Easy the step to Coopers' Hall,-
As headlong from a cliff to fall;
Hard to recover from the shock,
As broken-limb'd to climb a rock.

There, built by legislative hands,
Our country's shame, an altar stands:
Not votive brass, nor hallow'd stone,
Humbly inscribed—" To God unknown;"
Though sure, if earth afford a space
For such an altar, here's the place : —
Not breathing incense in a shrine,
Where human art appeal's divine,
And man by his own skill hath wrought
So bright an image of his thought,
That nations, barbarous or refined,
Might worship there the immortal mind,
That gave their ravish'd eyes to see
A meteor glimpse of Deity;
A ray of Nature's purest light
Shot through the gulf of Pagan night,
Dazzling, but leaving darkness more
Profoundly blinding than before.—
Ah! no such power of genius calls
Sublime devotion to these walls;
No pomp of art, surpassing praise,
Britannia's altar here displays;
A Money-changer's table,—spread
With hieroglyphics, black and red,
Exhibits, on deceitful scrolls,
"The price of tickets"—and of souls:

• Where the State Lottery was drawn for many yeara

For thus are souls to market brought,
Barter'd for vanity,—for nought;
Till the poor venders find the cost,—
Time to eternal ages lost!

No sculptured idol decks the place,
Of such excelling form and face,
That Grecian pride might feign its birth
A statue fallen from heaven to earth:
The goddess here is best design'd—
A flimsy harlot bold and blind;
Invisible to standers-by,
And yet in everybody's eye!
Fortune her name—a gay deceiver,
Cheat as she may, the crowd believe her;
And she, abuse her as they will,
Showers on the crowd her favours still:
For 'tis the bliss of both to be
Themselves unseen, and not to see:
Had she discernment, pride would scout
The homage of her motley route;
Were she reveal'd, the poorest slave
Would blush to be her luckiest knave.

Not good old Fortune here we scorn,
In classic fable heavenly born;
She who/or nothing deigns to deal
Her blanks and prizes from one Wheel;
And who, like Justice, wisely blind,
Scatters her bounties on mankind
With such a broad impartial aim,
If none will praise her, none should blame,
For were ten thousand fancies tried
Wealth more discreetly to divide
Among the craving race of man,
Wit could not frame a happier plan.

Here 'tis her counterfeit, who reigns
O'er haunted heads and moonstruck brains;
A two-wheeVd jade, admired by sots,
Who flings, for cash in hand, her lots

To those, who, fain "their luck to try,"

Sell hope, and disappointment buy.

The wily sorceress here reveals,

With proud parade, her mystic Wheels;—

Those Wheels, on which the nation runs

Over the morals of its sons;

Those Wheels, at which the nation draws,

Through shouting streets, its broken laws!

Engines of plotting Fortune's skill

To lure, entangle, torture, kill.

Behold her, in imperial pride,

King, Lords, and Commons at her side,

Arm'd with authority of state

The public peace to violate:

More might be told,—but not by me

Must this "eternal blazon" be.

Between her Wheels the Phantom stands,

With syren voice and harpy hands:

She turns the enchanted axle round—

Forth leaps the "twenty Thousand Pound I

That "twenty thousand" one has got;—

But twenty thousand more have not.

These curse her to the face, deplore

Their loss, then—take her word once more;

Once more deceived, they rise like men

Bravely resolved—to try again;

Again they fail—again trepann'd,

She mocks them with her slight of hand;

Still fired with rage, with avarice steel'd,

Perish they may, but never yield;

They woo her till their latest breath,

Then snatch their prize—a blank in death!

The priests that in her temple wait
Her minor ministers of fate,
Like Dian's silversmiths of old,
True to the craft that brings them gold,
Lungs, limbs, and pens, unwearied ply,
To puff their goddess to the sky:

O that their puflFs could fix her there,
Who builds such castles in the air,
And, in the malice of her mirth,
Lets them to simpletons on earth!—
Who steals the rainbow's peaceful form,
But is the demon of the storm;
Assumes a star's benignant mien,
But wears a comet's tail unseen;
Who smiles a Juno to the crowd,
But all that win her catch a cloud,
And, doom'd Ixion's fate to feel,
Are whirl'd upon a giddier wheel.—
O that her priests could fix her there,
Whose breath and being are but air
Yet not for this their spells they try;
They bawl to keep her from the sky.
A harmless meteor in that sphere;
A baleful Ignis fatuus here,
With wandering and bewildering light,
To cheer, and then confound, the sight.
Guide the lorn traveller, then betray,
Where death in ambush lurks for prey.

Fierce, but familiar, at their call,
The veriest fiend of Satan's fall;—
The fiend that tempted him to stake
Heaven's bliss against the burning lake
The fiend that tempted him again
To burst the darkness of his den,
And risk whate'er of wrath untried
Eternal justice yet could hide,
For one transcendent chance, by sin,
Man and his new-made world to win ;-
That fiend, while Satan play'd his part
At Eve's fond ear, assail'd her heart,
And tempted her to hazard more
Than fallen angels lost before;
They ruin'd but themselves—her crime
Brought death on all the race of Time:

That fiend comes forth, like iEtna's flame—

The Spirit of Gambling call his name;

So flush'd and terrible in power,

The priests themselves he would devour;

But straight, by Act of Parliament,

Loose through the land his plagues are sent,

The Polypus himself divides,

A legion issues from his sides;

Ten thousand shapes he wears at will,

In every shape a devil still;

Eager and restless to be known

By any mark except his own;

In airy, earthly, heavenly guise,

No matter,—if it strike the eyes;

Yet ever, at the clink of pelf,

He starts, and shrinks into himself:—

A traitor now, with face of truth,

He dupes the innocence of youth;

A shrewd pretender, smooth and sage,

He tempts the avarice of age;

A wizard, versed in damned arts,

He trammels uncorrupted hearts;

He lulls Suspicion, Sense waylays,

Honour and Honesty betrays,

Finds Virtue sleeping, and by stealth

Beguiles her with a dream of wealth;

Till rich and poor, till fools and wise,

Haste to the headlong sacrifice,

Gaze till they slip into the snare—

Angels might weep to see them there;

Then to the Lottery Wheels away,

The Spirit of Gambling drags his prey.

Hail to the fiery bigot's rack!
Hail Juggernaut's destructive track
Hail to the warrior's iron car!
But oh, be Lottery Wheels afar!
I'll die by torture, war, disease,
I'll die—by any Wheels but these <