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CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
Gift of
Samuel B. Bird '21
Cornell University Library PR 4795.A4 1882
The poetical works of Thomas Hood; reprin
3 1924 013 483 684
gg \4 Cornell University
flstSlf I.J T -1
f Library
The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library.
There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text.
http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013483684
THE POETICAL WORKS
THOMAS HOOD.
PUBLISHERS' PREFACE.
The present Edition of Hood's Poems is a complete reprint of all his Poems out of Copyright to the present time, and contains considerably more than any other Non-copyright Edition yet published.
Bedford Street, Strand.
CONTENTS.
ODES AND ADDRESSES.
PAGE
Ode to Mr. Graham, the Aeronaut i
Ode to Mr. M'Adam 7
A Friendly Address to Mrs. Fry 1 1
Ode to Richard Martin, Esq., M.P. for Galway ij
Ode to the Great Unknown 17
Address to Mr. Dymoke, the Champion of England 34
Ode to Joseph Grimaldi, Senior 27
Address to Sylvanus Urban, Esq., Editor of the " Gentleman's
Magazine" . , 30
An Address to the Steam Washing Company 32
Letter of Remonstrance from Bridget Jones, to the Noblemen
and Gentlemen forming the Washing Committee 35
Ode to Captain Parry 38
Address to R. W. EUiston, Esq., the great Lessee 44
Ode to W. Kitchener, M.D 47
An Address to the Very Reverend John Ireland, D.D S3
Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq., Secretary to the Society for the Sup- pression of Mendicity '. . > 57
WHIMS AND ODDITIES.
Jirst Serhs.
Moral Reflections on the Cross of St. Paul's 60
A Valentine 62
Love • - ... 6a
viii CONTENTS.
TAGS
" Please to Ring the Belle" 64
A Recipe — For Civilization 65
The Last Man 69
-Faithless Sally Brown 75
Backing the Favourite , , , . . ^^
The Mermaid of Margate 79
As it Fell upon a Day ....•• 83
A Fairy Tale 83
The Fall of the Deer , . 86
December and May 87
A Winter Nosegay 88
'Equestrian Courtship 89
She is Far from the Land go
The Stag- Eyed Lady . 92
Remonstratory Ode, from the Elephant at Exeter-Change, to
Mr. Mathews, at the English Opera-House 96
The Irish Schoolmaster 100
'■The Sea-Spell • ■ ; 108
Faithless Nelly Gray 112
Bianca's Dream 115
Mary's Ghost 123
The Progress of Art 125
A Legend of Navarre 129
The Demon Ship 124.
A True Story 1^7
Tim Turpin ij^2
The Monkey Martyr j ^^g
Death's Ramble i co
Craniology icj
A Parthian Glance ic^
A Sailor's Apology for Bow-legs ^rj
Jack Hall jcg
The Wee Man jgg
A Butcher j7q
" Don't you smell Fire P' lyj
CONTENTS. ' ut
PAGB
The Volunteer .,.,.. 173
The Widow . « . . 176
John Trot 1 .,,*,. 180
Ode to the Cameleopard ' ....••••>•>••. 183
" The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies ....<«.«., 185 '
Hero and Leander , , . , 222
Lycus, the Centaur 248
The Two Peacocks of Bedfont .....>...... 259
MINOK. POEMS.
Fair Ines 267
The Departure of Summer 268
Song . 272
The Farewell 273
Ode 274
Ballad 275
Hymn to the Sun • 276
To a Cold Beauty 27;
Autumn > 278
Ruth 279
The Sea of Death 279
Ballad 280
I remember, I remember 281
Ballad .282
The Water Lady 284
The Exile 284
, To an Absentee "285
Song 2S6
Ode to the Moon . . ,. 286
To 289
The Forsaken 290
Autumn 290
Ode to Melancholy 291
The Dream of Eugene Aram 294
Ballad 300
CONTENTS.
SONNETS.
PAGS
On Mistress Nicely, a Pattern for Housekeepers 302
Written in a Volume of Shakspeare 302
To Fancy 303
To An Enthusiast 303
It is not death, that sometimes in a sigh 304
By eVry sweet tradition of true hearts ^ ... 304
On receiving a Gift 305
The curse of Adam, the old curse of all . . 305
Love, dearest lady, such as I would speak 306
Silence 306
To a Decayed Seaman 412
On Steam 412
To a Scotch Girl, Washing Linen after her Country Fashion . 413
Allegory 413
COMIC POEMS.
A Retrospective Review 307
Epping Hunt 310
Number One 326
Those Evening Bells 328
The Drowning Ducks 329
A True Story . j^i
The Carelesse Nurse Mayd 334
Ode to St. Swithin iM.
The Schoolmaster's Motto 336
The Supper Superstition 338
A Storm at Hastings, and the Little Unknown 341
Lines to a Lady, on her Departure for India 347
To Fanny 348
The Angler's Farewell 350
Sea Song 352
The Kangaroos. A Fable 353
Ode to the Advocates for the Removal of Smithfield Market . 355
CONTENTS. xi
PAGE
A Good Direction , , 357
Conveyancing 358
Epicurean Reminiscences of a Sentimentalist 360
I'm not a Single Man 362
The Burning of the Love-Letter 366
The Sub-Marine __.... 366
Pain in a Pleasure Boat 369
Literary and Literal 371
Ode to Madame Hengler, Firework-maker to Vauxhall .... 375
A Report from Below 378
Ode to M. Brunei 380
Ode for St. Cecilia's Eve 381
A, Blow-up - . . . . 386
Symptoms of Ossification 390
Domestic Asides ; or, Truths in Parenthese 392
French and English '. . ■ 393
The Duel 394
To a Bad Rider 396
My Son and Heir •- 397
Cockle V. Cackle 400
Ode. Imitated from Horace 404
Stanzas to Tom Woodgate, of Hastings 407
On a Picture of Hero and Leander 41 1
The Two Swans 415
To Hope 422
To Celia . 424
Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy 425
Address to Mr. Cross, of Exeter Change, on the Death of the
Elephant 428
Elegy on David Laing, Esq,, Blacksmith and Joiner (Without
Licence) at Gretna Green 431
, A Lament for the Decline of Chivalry 433
A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme . 436
A Noqturnal Sketch 437
John Day 438
The Fall 440
A, Singular Exhibition at Somerset House 441
I'm Going to Bombay 444
xii CONTENTS.
ttJSS.
The Ghost 4^6
■Rhyme and Reason , 448
The Double Knock 449
Bailey Ballads 45°
Our Village 4S4
Ode to Mr. Malthus 45^
The Compass, with Variations 459
There's no Romance in that 4^5
Shooting Pains 4^8
The Boy at the Nore ^7°
The Broken Dish 472
Ode to Peace . 473 '
Huggins and Duggins 474
A Few Lines on Completing Forty-seven 477
To Mary Housemaid, on Valentine's Day 477
The Undying One 478
Ode for the Ninth of November ' 480
Lines to a Friend at Cobham 484
Ode to Percival Spencer, Esq., M.P 485
A Happy New Year 486
A Charity Sermon 489
Ode to Admiral Lord Gambier, G.C.B 491
A Public Dinner 493
The Cigar 498
Sonnet, Time was I sat upon a lofty stool 500
Sonnet, to Lord Wharncliffe, on his Game Bill 500
Rondeau 501
On the Death of Sir Walter Scott. 1833 501
The China-Mender .... 502
A Lay of Real Life 504
The Sweep's Complaint 505
I Cannot Bear a Gun 509
Trimmer's Exercise ^ 512
Ode to J. S. Buckingham, Esq., M.P 514
The United Family 524
The Comet, an Astronomical Anecdote 529
The Lament of Toby, the Learned Pig 532
John Jones. A Pathetic Ballad 534
PREFATORY MEMOIR.
Thomas Hood has a strong hold on the sympathies of English- men. His memory is cherished with fondness by his countrymen, probably because he possessed in a high degree that peculiar at- tribute of the national character — humour. A French satirist once said of the English that Funch and Richard the Third repre- sented their genius. There is a grain of truth in the assertion. The humour which is susceptible of the ludicrous, when possessed by a man of genius, is also extremely sensitive to the pathetic and tragical ; and it is this power of seeing both the laughable and the sorrowful side of human actions that gives humour a superiority over wit, which is of the imagination purely, while humour " in- TOlves the heart, sentiment, and character." " Men of humour," says Coleridge, " are in some degree men of genius ; wits are rarely so, although a man of genius may, amongst other gifts, possess wit— as Sttiakspeare." And we may add Hood — for wit mingled assuredly with his humour.
This great humorist was born in London in 1799, and was the son of a bookseller of the firm of Vemor and Hood. " The best incident of Hood's boyhood," says Lord Houghton, " was his in- struction by a schoolmaster who appreciated his talents, and, as he says, ' made him feel it impossible not to take an interest in learning while he seemed so interested in teaching.' Under the care of this ' decayed dominie,' whom he has so affectionately re- corded, he earned a few guineas — his first literary fee — by revising for the press a new edition of ' Paul and Virginia.' "
His mother was a Miss Sands, the daughter of Mr. Sands, the engraver. She was much beloved by her gifted son, who grieved ^dly for her when death removed her from his love and care.
xiv PREFATORY MEMOIR.
Hood's father was a man of cultivated literarj' tastes, and was the author of two novels which attained some popularity. He died suddenly, leaving his family not very well provided for ; and Thomas (the second son), to relieve his mother of his support, accepted an offer of his uncle, Mr. Sands, and was articled to an engraver. Subsequently he was employed by one of the Le Reux. Of the filial piety of Hood, his accomplished daughter speaks most highly in her charming " Memorials." In the occupation to which his family affection guided him. Hood acquired a skill which after^ wards largely aided in the expression of his humour : his pencil became as ready as his pen.
In consequence of his delicate health, he was transferred to the care of a relation at Dundee, where he remained for two years, and made his first appearance in print in the Dundee papers. He became, while there, an earnest reader ; and we are told by Lord Houghton — who was numbered among the personal friends of the poet, and followed him to the tomb — that " as a proof of the seriousness with which he regarded the literary voca- tion, it may be mentioned that he used to write out his poems in printed characters, believing that that process best enabled him to understand his own peculiarities and faults, and probably un- conscious that Coleridge had recommended some such method of criticism when he said he thought ' print settles it.' "
He returned to his former occupation in London in 182 1. In that year, an opening which turned his thoughts to literature as a profession occurred. The editor of the London Magazine, Mr. John Scott, was killed in a duel, and the magazine passing into the hands of the liberal publishers who befriended Keats, Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, Mr. Hood was engaged by them to assist the editor in correcting the press, and reading contribu- tions offered to their excellent magazine. His -first original poem appeared in it July, 182 1 — "To Hope." In the same year appeared -also in this periodical, " Ode to Dr. Kitchener," " The Departure of Summer," and a " Sentimental Journey from Islington to Waterloo Bridge/' In the next year, some of his very best cOmic poems were published ; they were of the most
I'REFATORy MEMOIR. xv
original cast. In July, xSzz, the really fine poem of " Lycus the Centaur" appeared, together with several smaller poems.
This period must have been one of great enjoyment to the young poet, for the position he held, and his own talents, intro- duced him to most of the literary celebrities of the day. On the staff of the London, or at least frequent contributors to it, were Proctor (Barry Cornwall), Lamb, Talfoiurd, Hartley Coleridge, &c. His connexion with the writers in the London still more deeply affected his after-life, for in 1824 he married a relative of one of the contributors, Jane Reynolds, sister of John Hamilton Reynolds ; a poet himself of no little power, though, strangely enough, his productions have been allowed to sink into oblivion- He was the friend of Keats, and in the "Life and Letters of Keats," Lord Houghton thus speaks, of him : — " It is to be lamented that Mr. Reynolds' own remarkable verse is not better known. Lord Bjaon speaks with praise of several pieces, and attributes some to Moore. ' The Fancy,' published under the name of Peter Corcoran, and ' The Garden of Florence,' under that of John Hamilton, are full of merit ; especially the former, to which is prefixed one of the liveliest specimens of fictitious biography I know." Jane Reynolds was a sharer in her brother's literary tastes and talent, and was in all truth a helpmeet to her gifted husband.
About this time, and conjointly with Reynolds, Hood published the " Odes and Addresses to Great People," which was a perfect success, and caused no little wonder and speculation. Coleridge ascribed it to Lamb. In 1826 appeared the first series of " Whims and Oddities,'' which had a capital sale. A second edition soon followed, and in 1827 a second Series, dedicated to Sir Walter Scott.
In 1827 the " Plea of the Midsummer Fairies" ought to have shown the British Public that a Poet of great originality had risen up amongst them : but they failed to appreciate the deli- cate beauty of the poem, and it remained partially imsold. Our readers will, we think, marvel at the want of taste fifty years ago, when they have read it. It is possible, however, that its
xvi PRE FA TOR Y MEMOIR.
want of human interest was the cause of its not winning the popularity it deserved ; for, in truth, it seems to need the genius of a Shakspeare to make these graceful fancies acceptable to the unimaginative.
In 1829 Hood became for that year the editor of an Annual called the Gem, to which he contributed one of his master-pieces, " Eugene Aram.'' This wonderful poem was afterwards reprinted in a separate form, with beautiful little engravings by Harvey. In it the tragic power of the humorist was as conspicuous as m any of his later works.
While in town, Hood and his family lived in Robert Street, Adelphi; but in 1829 he left London, and settled in a pretty cottage at Winchmore Hill, to which he became much attached. The poet's health appears to have been often failing. After a rheumatic fever he went to Brighton, and frequently afterwards to Hastings. He has commemorated his Jaoating excursions there in the Unes to Tom Woodgate, an old boatman with whom he frequently went out for a sail.
At Winchmore, in 1830, was bom his daughter, Frances Freeling Hood (Mrs. Broderip), who was, we suppose, named after her father's friend. Sir Francis Freeling, Secretary to the Postmaster- General.
In the same year the poet commenced his series of Comic Annuals, which for several years delighted the public, and lit up with glee the hearths of Christmas. Soon after, he supplied the Duke of Devonshire (at the request of the latter) with the well- known List of Titles for the Library door at Chatsworth in
themselves a perfect epitome of wit. For example, among them we find " Lamb on the Death of Wolfe;" " Tadpoles, or Tales out of my own Head;" " On cutting off Heirs with a Shilling ;" "■plurality of Livings with regard to the Commissariat ;" " Boyle on Steam," &c. &c.
Hood wrote the libretto for a little English opera, and helped his brother-in-law, Mr. Reynolds, to dramatize " Gil Bias."
In 1832 he moved to Lake House, Wanstead, and here he wrote his novel " Tylney Hall," which, with the exception of his
PREFATORY MEMOIR. xvij
"National Tales," is, we believe, the only prose fiction from hit pen. The " National Tales'' are admirable, both in subject and finish. We recollect how fearftilly one of them — the " Spanish Tragedy" — used to haunt our childish imagination, and for how very long a time we thought of a journey in Spain with actual horror ; nothing so sensational have we seen since.
At Wanstead Hood also wrote the " Epping Hunt," which has lose something of its point since the time of its production, though still redolent of humour which we can appreciate.
The failure of a firm, in 1834, and other pecuniary misfortunes, threw the poet into difficulties. Like Scott, he honourably re- fused to become a bankrupt, but resolved rather to pay his debts by extra labour and economy. With this object he disposed of his effects, and started for the Continent as soon as his wife had partially recovered from a serious illness which followed the birth of his son Tom — the late Editor of Fun.
Hood's voyage was a boisterous one ; for when he crossed to Rotterdam the great storm of 1835 occurred, and besides the peril to which it exposed him, caused him much fatigue, anxiety, and exhaustion.
His memories of his Subsequent "Voyage up the Rhine" are embodied in his book so called, which was certainly one of his best works ; it is to be regretted that it is (Mrs. Broderip informs us) no longer in print.
A severe illness prostrated Hood at Coblentz ; nevertheless his letters from that place are admirable, full of wit and good nature.
During this time the " Comic Annual" came out yearly ; and here we must observe that both in that and previously in Whims and Oddities, the pencil as well as the pen of the poet lent admirable aid to the expression of his " merry and witty conceits."
From Coblentz the Hoods moved to Ostend, and from thence, in 1840, the poet went to England on a visit to Dr. Elliot, at Stratford. Here he was seized with a severe attack of spitting blood, and Mrs. Hood came over and joined him.
The life of Hood seems from 1835 to have been a period of
h
xviii PREFATORY MEMOIR.
suffering and anxiety, which it needed great fortitude to bear. But through all, his joyous spirit and the unfailing play of his earnest kindly humour bore him victoriously.
About this time Mr. Hood had to enter actions against his pub- , lishers, ^hich ruined the sale of the second edition of " Up the Rhine" for that season, as it could not be sold till the actions were decided.
By the advice of his kind friend and physician, Dr. Elliot, Hood now decided on living in England ; and finally the family settled at Camberwell. The poet was delicate and ailing, but he was com- pelled to work unusually hard, having been engaged by Mr. Colburn to write articles for the New Monthly, which were finally to be col- lected in a volume. Mrs. Broderip draws a touching picture of her father's life at this time : — " He had reasonably calculated," she says, " that a work,* on which he had bestowed the labour of so many painful hours, would have relieved his expenses, and enabled him to go on easily enough. Instead of this, his health had been still further reduced by a dangerous illness, aggra- vated by anxiety and mental toil ; and a tedious lawsuit, for the fruits of his hardly earned labours (as he truly observed, often attested literally with his blood) was commenced, and. fated to drag on its attendant care and harass to the end of his short life, and then remained unfinished."
Very terrible is this picture, and very sad it is to think that such cruel wrong should have blighted that gentle life. In the New Monthly Magazine Hood wrote the " Rhymes for the Times," and that awful poem, tragic, and yet humorous, " JNliss Kilmansegg." On the death of Hook, the editor of the New Monthly, Mr. Colburn offered the editorship to Hood. Soon after he removed to the Elm Tree Road, St. John's Wood.
In the Christmas number of Punch for 1844 appeared the famous poem, " The Song of the Shirt." Of this celebrated song Mrs. Hood had, her daughter tells us, prophesied the success. It is said to have done more to benefit the distressed needlewomen than
• "Up the Rhine."
PREFATORY MEMOIR. xix
anything hitherto urged or done in their behalf. Hood had a most kind and tender heart. * His purse and pen were at the service of any one who needed help. The case-of Gififord White, a labourer, who in the spring of 1844 was sentenced to transportation foi life, for writing a threatening letter to the farmers of Blunti- sham, Huntingdonshire, roused all the generous indignation of Hood. He wrote a most eloquent appeal in the culprit's behalf, which unhappily was of no avail. The panic at the time amongst the farmers, and the obduracy of the Home Secretary, proved in- superable obstacles to the effect of his benevolent efforts ; but to this incident we owe the " Lay of the Labourer,* in the November number of Hood's Magazine, 1844, which made its first appearance this year. Hood had worked very hard at this periodical, his daughter tells us j and it proved a well-merited success. It ranked in the list of its contributors Barry Cornwall, Lord Lytlon, Lord Houghton, Dickens, Browning, Moir, Mrs. Norton, James, the Howitts, &c. &c. Mrs. S. C. Hall volunteered to write without payment in the Magazine "as a tribute of veneration to the author of the ' Song of the Shirt.' "
The Hoods had now removed to Devonshire Lodge, Finchley Road, where the poet finally died.
At about this period the failing health of the great humorist, who was suffering from organic disease of the heart— increased of course, by toil and anxiety — induced his friends to lay before the Government his claims, as a literary man, to the grant of a pension. Sir Robert Peel, who admired and appreciated his genius, gladly consented to lay his claims before the Queen ; and in consideration of his uncertain hold on life the pension was granted to his beloved wife.
Hood owed this pension only to his great literary merits, for lie was, as he says in his delightful letter to Sir Robert Peel,t " Wholly unconnected with party politics" .... his " favourite
* It is to be regretted that both this Poem and the Song of the Shirt, being" CopJ^right, cannot be included in this collection.
+ "Memorials of Hood," vol. ii. p. 240.
XX PREFATORY MEMOIR.
theory of government was ' an angel from heaven and a des- potism.'"
A noble re-assurance was returned by Sir Robert Peel : — " You may," he says, " write on with the consciousness of independence as free and unfettered as if no communication had ever passed between us."
The remainder of this story is almost too sad to repeat; it has been told with exquisite pathos and tenderness by his gifted daughter* and son. The sufferings of the poet daily increased, but from his dying bed he still supplied the chapters of " Our Family" to his Magazine — drawing and writing in the midst of agony with an endurance which was heroic.
The public, hearing of his danger through the Magazine, truly sympathized with the sorrow of his family. The announcement stated that " His sufferings, which have lately undergone a terrible increase, have been throughout sustained with manly fortitude ' and Christian resignation. He is perfectly aware of his condi- tion ; and we have no longer any reason or any right to speak ambiguously of a now too certain loss — the loss of a Great Writer — great in the splendour of his copious imagery; in his rare faculty of terse incisive language ; in his powerful pregnancy of thought ; and in his almost Shaksperian versatility of genius — ^great in the few but noble works he leaves behind— greater still, perhaps, in those he will carry unwritten to his early tomb."
We cannot help thinking that this last sentence contained a great truth. The genius of Hood had grown yearly ; it was not of the firework class, which blazes but once brightly ; it rose gradually, as the sun does — alas ! vanishing before it had quite reached the blaze of noonday.
The last words which his wife heard, as she bent over his dying bed, were — "O Lord! say Arise, take up thy cross and follow me !" — Dying — dying !" He then sank into a deep slumber, in which his gentle spirit passed to its rest. He was buried in Kensal Green Cemetery. Eighteen months afterwards his widow, the
* See " Memorials of Thomas Hood "
PREFATORY MEMOIR. xxi
faithful partner of his life, — his friend, companion, and helpmate, — followed him to their eternal home. Hood was an excellent and tender husband and father, enduring all things for the sake of his family ; in this as in his genius, being a typical Englishman.
In 1852 a too tardy recognition of the honour due to Hood was made, in consequence of the publication of the following lines by Eliza Cook : —
What gorgeous cenotaphs arise
Of Parian shrine and granite vault. With blazoned claims on purer skies.
That shut out earthly flaw and fault !
Who lies below yon splendid tomb, That stretches out so broad and tall ?
The worms will surely ne'er exhume A sleeper locked within such wall.
And see that other stately pile
Of chiselled glory — staring out. Come, sexton, leave your work awhile,
And tell us what we ask about
So ! one belongs to him who held
A score of trained and tortured steeds ;
Great circus hero — unexcelled.
Oh what strange stuff Ambition feeds !
The other guards the last repose Of one who shone by juggUng craft.
Methinks when such a temple rose How Esculapius must have laughed.
And see that tomb beneath yon tree !
But sexton, tell Us where to find The grave of him we came to see —
Is it not here, or are we blind ?
xxij PREFATORY MEMOIR.
We mean poor Hood's — the man who made That song about the " Bridge of Sighs,"
You know the song ; well, leave your spade, And please to show us where he lies.
What ! — there ! without a single mark — Without a stone — without a line !
Does watchfire Genius leave no spark To note its ashes as divine ?
Must strangers come to woo his shade, Scanning rare beauties as they pass ;
And when they pause where he is laid, Stop at a trodden mound of grass ?
And is it thus ? — ^Vell, we suppose England is far too poor to spare
A slab of white, where Truth might v/rite The title of her Poet Heir.
Let us adorn our city walls With senate form and soldier chief ~
Carve toga folds and laurel stalks, — Ixt marble shine in robe and leaf.
But Hood; " poor Hood 1"— the Poet fool Who sung of Women's woes and wrongS;
Who taught his Master's Golden Rule^ Give him no statue for his songs !
Give him the dust beneath his head. Give him a grave — a grave alone —
In Life he dearly won his bread : — In Death he was not worth a stone.
Perhaps we rightly think that he
Who flung God's light round lowly things.
Can soar above in Memory's love, Supported by his own strong wings.
PREFATORY MEMOIR. xxiii
Our Shakspeare can be only met Within a narrow Playhouse Porch ;
So, Hood, thy spirit need not fret ; But hold its own immortal torch.
" Poor Hood !" for whom a people wreathes The heart-born flowers that never die.
" Poor Hood !" for whom a requiem breathes In every human Toil-wrung sigh.
Let the Horse-tamer's bed be known
By the rich mausoleum-shrine ; Give the bold Quack his charnel throne —
Their works were worthier far than thine.
And let thy Soul serenely sleep
While pilgrims stand as I have stood ;
To worship, at a nameless heap, And fondly, sadly say, " Poor Hood i"
The public at once subscribed for a monument befitting the genius of the man thus tenderly mourned ; and the present exquisite one was erected, designed, and executed by Mr. Noble.
On the 1 8th of July, 1852, it was unveiled, and'Lord Houghton (then Mr. Monckton Milnes) made an eloquent oration in praise of the poet. We advise all our readers to go and see the tomb — to make a pilgrimage to the spot hallowed as the resting-place of genius, and there to think tenderly of the gentle, true, and tender Thomas Hood.
Hood's son and daughter survive him ; and it is from the " Memorial" which their filial love has given to the public, that the incidents of this life of the poet are in part taken. They have both inherited a portion of the paternal genius, and are well known in the literary world, on whose sympathies they have also a claim for their father's sake.
-JI-IIJ
THE POETICAL WORKS
OF
THOMAS HOOD.
ODES AND ADDRESSES.
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
THE AERONAUT.
" Up with me !
-up with me into the sky ! "
WORDSV/ORTH-
■on a Lark!
Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud.
Their meaner flights pursue, Let us cast off the foolish ties That bind us to the earth, and rise
And take a bird's-eye view ! —
A few more whiffs of my cigar And then, in Fancy's airy car.
Have with thee for the skies : — How oft this fragrant smoke upcurled Hath borne me from this little world,
And all that in it Ijes ! —
Away ! — away ! — the bubble fills — • Fai'ewell to earth and all its hills !—
We seem to cut the wind ! — So high we mount, so swift we go, The chimney tops are far below, The Eagle's left beliind !—
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
Ah me ! my brain begins to swim ! — The world is growing rather dim j
The steeples and the trees — My wife is getting very small ! I cannot see my babe at all ! —
The DoUond, if you please !
Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, Lord ! what a Lilliput it is,
That little world of Mogg's ! — Are those the London Docks? — that channel, The mighty Thames ? — a proper kennel
For that small Isle of Dogs ! —
What is that seeming tea-urn there ? That fairy dome, St. Paul's ! — I swear
Wren must have been a Wren ! — And that small stripe ? — jt cannot be The City Road ! — Good lack ! to see
The little ways of men !
Little, indeed ! — my eyeballs ache To find a turnpike. — I must take
Their tolls upon my trust ! — And where is mortal labour gone ? Look, Graham, for a little stone
Mac Adamized to dust !
Look at the horses ! — less than flies ! — Oh, what a waste it was of sighs
To wish to be a Mayor ! What is the honour ? — none at all, One's honour must be very small
For such a civic chair ! —
And there's Guildhall ! — 'tis far aloof — Methinks, I fancy through the roof
Its little guardian Gogs, Like penny dolls — a tiny show ! — Well — I must say they're ruled below
By very little Logs !— .
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
Oh, Graham ! how the upper air Alters the standards of compare ;
One of our silken flags Would cover London all about— ^ Nay, then — let's even empty out
Another brace of bags !
Now for a glass of bright Champagne Above the clpuds ! — Come, let us drain
A bumper as we go ! — But hold ! — for God's sake do not cant The cork away — unless yoii want
To brain your friends below.
Think ! what a mob of little men Are crawling just within our ken,
Like mites upon a cheese ! — Pshaw ! — how the foolish sight rebukes Ambitious .thoughts ! — can there be Dukes
Of Gloster such as these ! —
Oh ! what is glory ? — what is fame ? Hark to the. little mob's acclaim,
'Tis nothing but a hum ! — A few near gnats would trump as loud As all the shouting of a crowd
That has so far to come ! —
Well — they are wise that choose the near, A few small buzzards in the ear.
To organs ages hence ! — Ah me ! how distance touches all ; It makes the true look rather small,
But murders poor pretence.
" The world recedes — it disappears 1 Heaven opens on my eyes — my ears
With buzzing noises ring !" — A fig for Southey's Laureate-lore !— What's Rogers here ? — ^Who cares for Moore
That hears the Angels sing ! — •
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
A fig f9r earth, and all its minions ! — We are above the world's opinions,
Graham ! we'll have qur own 1 — Look what a vantage height' we've got — Now do you think Sir Walter Scott
Is such a Great Unknown ?
Speak up ! — or hath he hid his name To crawl thro' " subwa,ys" unto fame,
Like Williams of Cornhill ? — Speak up, my lad ! — ^when men run small We'll show what's little in them all.
Receive it how they will ! —
Think now of Irving ! — shall he preach The princes down — shall hejmpeach
The potent and the rich, Merely on ethic stilts — and I Not moralize at two miles high —
The true didactic pitch !
Come : — what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? Is Gifford such a Gulliver
In Lilliput's Review, That like Colossus he should stride Certain small brazen inches wide
For poets to pass through ?
Look down ! the world is but a spot. Now say — Is Blackwood's low or not,
For all the Scottish tone ? It shall not weigh us here — not where The sandy burden's lost in air —
Our lading — ^where is't flown ?
Now — like you Crol/s verse indeed — ■ In heaven — where one cannot read
The " Warren" on a wall ? What think you here of that man's fame ? Tho' Jerdan magnified his name,
To me 'tis very small !
ODE TV MR. GRAHAM.
And, truly, is there such a spell In those three letters, L. E. L.,
To witch a world with song? On clouds the Byron did not sit, Yet dared on Shakspeare's head to spit,
And say the world was wrong !
And shall not we ? Let's think aloud ! Thus being couched upon a cloud,
Graham, we'll have our eyes ! We felt the great when we were less, But we'll retort on littleness
Now we are in the skies.
0 Graham, Graham ! how I blame The bastard blush — the petty shame
That used to fret me quite — The little sores I covered then. No sores on earth, nor sorrows when
The world is out of sight !
My name is Tims.— I am the man That North's unseen, diminished clan So scurvily abused !
1 am the very P. A. Z.
The London Lion's small pin's head So often hath refused !
Campbell — (you cannot see him here) — Hath scorned my lays .-—do his appear
Such great eggs from the sky ? — And Longman, and his lengthy Co. Long, only, in a little Row,
Have thrust my poems by !
What else ? — I'm poor, and much beset With damned small duns— that is— in debt
Some grains of golden dust ! But only worth, above, is worth. — What's all the credit of the earth ?
An inch of cloth on trust 1
t
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM.
What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man ! Nay, worlds of wealth? — Oh, if you can
Spy out — the Golden Ball 1 Sure as we rose, all money sank : What's gold or silver now ? — the Bank
Is gone — the 'Change and all !
What's all the ground-reftt of the globe ?— Oh, Graham, it would worry Job
To hear its landlords prate ! But after this survey, I think I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink
From men Of large estate !
And less, still less, will I submit To poor mean acres' worth of wit —
I that have heaven's span — I that like Shakspeare's self may dream Beyond the very clouds,> and seem
An Universal Man !
Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds I Like Birds of Paradise the clouds
Are winging on the wind ! But what is grander than their range ? More lovely than their sun-set change? —
The free creative mind !
Well ! the Adults' School's in the air ! The greatest men are lessoned there
As well as the Lessee ! Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small Behold the greatest stage of all.
How humbled they would be !
" Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em, To see themselves as others see 'em,"
'T would much abate their fuss ! If they could think that from the skies They are as little in our eyes
As they can think of us !
ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.
Of us ? are We gone out of sight ? Lessened ! diminished ! vanished quite !
Lost to the tiny town ! Bfiyond the Eagle's ken — the grope Of DoUond's longest telescope !
Graham ! we're going down !
Ah me ! I've touched a string that opes The airy valve ! — the gas elopes —
Down goes our bright -balloon ! — Farewell the skies ! the clouds ! I smell The lower world ! Graham, farewell,
Man of the silken moon !
The earth is close ! the City nears — Like a burnt paper it appears.
Studded with tiny sparks ! Methinks I hear the distant rout ' Of coaches rumbling all about —
We're close above the Parks !
I hear the watchmen on their beats, Hawking the hour about the streets.
Lord ! what a cruel jar It is upon the earth to light ! Well — there's the finish of our flight!
I've smoked my last cigar !
ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.
" Let us take to the road." — Beggar's Opera.
M'Adam, hail ! Hail, Roadian ! hail. Colossus ! who dost stand Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land !
Oh universal Leveller ! all hail ! To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,
The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going — To thee — how much for thy commodious plan, Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing ! The Bristol mail, ,
ODE TO MR. M'ADAJIf.
Gliding o'er ways hitherto deemed invincible.
When carrying Patriots now shall never fail Those of the most " unshaken public principle." Hail to thee, Scot of Scots !
Thou northern light, amid those heavy men ! Foe to Stonehenge,. yet friend to all beside, Thou scatterest flints and favours far and wide, From palaces to cots ; —
Dispenser of coagulated good !
Distributor of granite and of food ! Long may thy fame its even path march on
E'en when thy sons are dead ! Best benefactor ! though thou giv'st a stone
To those who ask for bread !
Thy first great trial in this mighty town Was, if I rightly recollect, upon That gentle hill which goeth Down from " the County" to the Palace gate,
And,' like a river, thanks to thee, now floweth Past the Old Horticultural Society — The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and JameSi Where ladies play high shawl and satin games —
A little Hell of lace ! ^
And past the Athenaeum, made of late,
Severs a sweet variety Of milliners and booksellers who grace
Waterloo Place, Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's. Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac ! and shaved the road From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode So well, that paviours threw their rammers by. Let down their tucked shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh Prepared themselves, poor souls, to chip or die !
Next, from the palace to the prison, thou Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat- Preventing though the rattling in the street, Yet kicking up a row
Upon the stones — ah ! truly watchman-like,
Encouraging thy victims all to strike,
ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.
To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily ; — Thou hast smoothed, alas, the path to the Old Bailey ! And to the stony bowers Of Newgate, to encourage the approach, By caravan or coach — Hast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers.
Who shall dispute thy name ! Insculpt in stone in every street.
We soon shall greet Thy trodden down, yet all unconquered fame ! Where'er we take, even at this time, our way. Nought see we, but mankind in open air, Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare : —
And with a patient care Chipping thy immortality all day ! Demosthenes of old — that rare old man — Prophetically ^//tfa/i?;/, Mac ! thy plan :-^
For he, we know,
(History says so,) Vu\.J>ebbles in his mouth when he would speak
The smoothest Greek I
It is " impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath. Besides the turnpike, many another path
Trod, to arrive at popularity, O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only ; mighty Mac ! And 'faith I'd swear, when on that wingfed hack. Thou hast observed the highways in the sky ! Is the path up Parnassus rough and steep,
And "hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say? Dost think it best for Sons of Song to keep
The noiseless tenor of their way ? (see Gray.) What line of road should poets take to bring
Themselves unto those waters, loved the first ! — Those w§,ters which can wet a man to sing !
Which, like thy fame, " from granite basins burst.
Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst ?"
That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might Vouchsafe ; — and Mr. Cadell may, God wot,
^.ddl I*
ODE TO MR. M'ADAM.
Have paid thee many a pound' for many a blot — Cadell's a wayward wight ! Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, " And I can throw, I think, a little light Upon some works thou hast written for the town — And published, like a Lilliput Unknown !
" Highways and Byeways," is thy book, no doubt, (One whole edition's out,^ And next, for it is fair That Fame, Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em : — " Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair" —
(Blair is a Scottish name,) What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam ?
O ! indefatigable labourer In the paths of men ! when thou ghalt die, 'twill be A mark of thy surpassing industry,
That of the monument, which men shall rear Over thy most inestimable bone. Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone ! — Of a right ancient line thou comest — through Each crook and turn we trace the unbroken clue, Until we see thy sire before our eyes-~ RoUing his gravel'walks in Paradise ! But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne'er
Have our walks since been fair ! Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, For ever varying, through his varying range,
Time maketh all things even ! In this strange world, turning beneath high heaven ! He hath redeemed the Adams, and contrived —
(How are Time's wonders hived !) In pity to mankind and to befriend 'em —
(Time is above all praise) That he, who first did make our evjl ways, . ^
Re-bom in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em !
A FRIENDLY ADD:^ESS
TO MRS. FRY, IN NEWGATE.
" Sermons in stones." — As You Like It. " Out ! out ! damned spot'^—MacdeiA.
I LIKE you, Mrs, Fry ! I like your name !
It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing In daily act round Charity's great flame —
I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing. Good Mrs. Fry ! I like the placid claim
You make to Christianity— ^professing Love, and good woris — of course you buy of Barton, Beside the yowig fry's booksellers, Friend Darton !
I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute— ^ Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport —
I should have said, that wear, the sober suit
Shaped like a court dress — but for heaven's court,
I like your sisters too — sweet Rachel's fruits- Protestant nuns ! I like their stiff support
Of virtue — ^and I like to see them clad
With such a difference — just like good from bad !
I like the sober colours — not the wet ;
Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow — Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet —
In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go — The others are a chaste, severer set.
In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go — They're moral standards, to know Christians by — In short, they are your colours, Mrs. Fry !
As for the naughty tinges of the prism —
Crimson's the cruel uniform of war — Blue — hue of brimstone ! minds no catechism ;
And green is young and gay — not' noted for Goodness, or gravity, or quietism.
Till it is saddened down to tea-green, or Olive — and purple's given to wine, I guess j And yellow is a convict by its dress !
12 A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY.
They're all the devil's Hveries, that men And women wear in servitude to sin —
But how will they come off, poor motleys, when Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in
The Evil Presence? You and I know, then How all the party colours will begin,
To part — the PitirAt hues will sadden there,
Whereas the FoxAz shades will all show fair !
Witness their goodly labours one by one !
Russet makes garments for the needy poor — Dove-colour preaches love to all — and dun
Calls every day at Charity's street-door — Brown studies Scriptures, and bids women shun
All gaudy furnishing — olive doth pour Oil into wounds : and drab and slate supply Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry !
Well ! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour ! When all persuasions in your praises blend —
The Methodist's creed and cry are. Fry for ever I No — I will be your friend — and, like a friend,
Point out your very worst defect — Nay, never Start at that word ! But I must ask you why You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry?
Too well I know the price our mother Eve
Paid for her schooling : but must all her daughters
Commit a petty larceny, and thieve —
Pay down a crime for " entrance" to your " quarters ¥'
Your classes may increase, but I must grieve Over your pupils at their bread and waters !
Oh, though it cost you rent — (and rooms run high) —
Keep your school otd of Neivgate, Mrs. Fry !
O save the vulgar soul before it's spoiled !
Set up your mounted sign without the gate— And there inform the mind before 'tis soiled !
'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate ! Nay, if you would not have your labours foiled.
Take it inclining towards a virtuous state. Not prostrate and laid flat — else, woman meek The upright pencil will but hop and shriek 1
A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY. 13
Ah, who can tell Jiow hard it is to drain The evil spirit from the heart it preys in —
To bring sobriety to life again,
Choked with the vile Anacreontic raisin —
To wash Black Betty when her black's ingrain — To stick a moral lacquer on Moll Brazen,
Of Suky Tawdr/s habits to deprive her ;
To tame the wild-fowl ways of Jenny Diver !
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw —
To make long Sal sew up the endless breach
She made in manners — to write heaven's own law
On hearts of granite. — Nay, how hard to preach, In cells, that are not memory's — to draw
The moral thread, through the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry !
In vain you teach them baby-work within :
'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime ; 'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin —
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time — I*- is too late for scouring to begin
When virtue's ravelled out, when all the prime Is worn away,' and nothing sound remains ; You'll fret the fabric out before the stains !
I like your chocolate, good Mrs. Fry !
I like your cookery in every way ; I like your shrove-tide service and supply ;
I like to hear your sweet Pandeans play ; I like the pity in your full-brimmed eye ;
I like your carriage and your silken gray. Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching ; But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.
Come out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! Repair Abroad, and find your pupils in the streets.
O; come abroad into the wholesome air. And take your moral place, before Sin seats
Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. Suppose some morals raw ! the true receipt's
To dress them in the pan, but do not try
To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry !
+
1 4 A 'FKIENDL Y AITDRESS TO MRS. FR Y.
Put "on your decent bonnet, and come out !
Good lack ! the ancients did not set up schools In jail — ^but at the Porch I hinting, no doubt.
That Vice should have a lesson in the rules - Before 'twas whipt by law. — O come about,
Good Mrs. Fry ! and set up forms and stools All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate-street, But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat !
Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour ;
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue Ruin- of blue, or any other colour ;
Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue.
Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar ;
Teach her -that "flooring Charleys" is a game
Unworthy one that bears a Christian name.
O come and teach our children — that am't ours — That heaven's straight pathway is a narrow way,
Not Broad St. Giles's, where fierce Sin devours Children, like Time — or rather they both prey
On j'outh together — meanwhile^Newgate low'rs Even like a black cloud at the close' of day.
To shut them out from any more blue sky :
Think of these helpless wretches, Mrs. Fry !
You are not nice — go into their retreats,
And make them Quakers, if you will. — 'Twere best
They wore straight collars, and their shirts i3x& pleats ; That they had hats with brims — that they were drest
In garbs without lappels — than shame the streets With so much raggedness. — You may invest
Much cash this way — but it will cost itS' price.
To give a good, round, real cheque to Vice !
In brief — Oh teach the child its moral rote, Not in the way from which 'twill not depart— t
But Old — out — out ! Oh, bid it walk remote ! And if the skies are closed against the smart,
Even let him wear the singled-breasted coat, For that ensureth singleness of heart, —
Do what you will, his every want supply.
Keep him — but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry !
^5
ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQUIRE,
M.P. FOR GALWAY.* "'Matiin, in thiSj lias proved himself a very good Man !" — Boxiana.
How many sing of wars.
Of Greek and Trojan jars —
The butcheries of men ! The Muse hath a " Perpetual Ruby Pen !" Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill ;-
But no one sings the man
That,' like a pelican, , Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill!
Thou Wilberforce Of hacks!
Of whites as well as blacks,
Piebald and dapple gray. Chestnut, and -bay — No poet's eulogy thy name adorns !
But oken, from the fens
Sheep — in their pens. Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns ! Thou art sung on brutal pipes !
Drovers niay curse thee.
Knackers -asperse thee. And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes;
But the old horse neighs thee.
And zebras praise thee. Asses, I mean — that have as many stripes !
Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear, In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ — Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air ! Bullocks don't wear Oxide of iron ! The cruel Jarvy thou hast summoned oft. Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo. That thought his horse the courser of tlEie two — Whilst Swift smiled down aloft i —
* The author, of the Act of Parliament for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. He was member for Galway in the first Parliament after the union lof Great Britain and Ireland. Died, 1834.
i6 uDE TO RICHARD MARTIN, USQ.
0 worthy pair ! for this, when ye inhabit Bodies of birds — (if so the spirit shifts From flesh to feather) — ^when the clown uplifts His hands against the sparrow's nest, to grab it — . He shall not "harm the Martins and the Swifts I
Ah ! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanced The horse ! — and humbled biped man like Plato ! But now he's dead, the charger is mischanced — Gone backward in the world — and not advanced —
Remember Cato ! Swift was the horse's champion — not the King's
Whom Southey sings, Mounted on Pegasus — would he were thrown ! He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone. Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things ! Ah well-a-day ! the ancients did not use Their steeds so cruelly ! — let it debar men From wonted rowelling and whip's abuse — Look at the ancients' Muse t
Look at their Carmen .'
O, Martin ! how thine eye — That one would think had put aside its lashes —
That can't bear gashes Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane — For there's a nag the crows have picked for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein — Gods ! is there no Horse-spiial ! That such raw shows must sicken the humane ! Sure Mr. Whittle Loves thee but little. To let that poor horse linger in his pane!
O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses ! O wipe away the national reproach — And find a decent Vulture for their corses ! And in thy funeral track Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach !
Steeds that confess " the luxury of woe !" True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, And many a wretched hack
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
Shall sorrow for thee—sore with kick and blow And bloody gash — it is the Indian knack — (Save that the savage is his own tormentor) — Banting shall weep too in^his sable scarf — The biped woe the quadruped shall enter,
And Man and Horse go half and half, As if their griefs met in a common Centaur I
7t
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. " O breathe not his name !" — Moore.
Thou Great Unknown ! I do not mean Eternity, nor Death,
That vast incog ! For I suppose thou hast a living breath, Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown,
Thou man of fog ! Parent of many children — child of none !
Nobody's son ! Nobody's daughter^ — but a parent still ! Still but an ostrich parent of a batch Of orphan eggs — left to the world to hatch.
Superlative Nil ! A vox and nothing more — yet not Vauxhall ; A. head in papers, yet without a curl !
Not the Invisible Girl ! No hand — ^but a handwriting on a wall —
A popular nonentity, Still called the same — without identity !
A lark, heard out of sight — A nothing shined upon — invisibly bright,
" Dark with excess of light !" Constable's literary John-a-nokes — The real Scottish wizard — and not witch.
Nobody — in a niche ;
Every one's hoax !v--:-
Maybe Sir Walter Scott —
Perhaps not ! Why dost thou so conceal and plizzle curious folks ?
2 .
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
Thou — ^whom the second-sighted never saw, The Master Fiction of fictitious history !
Chief Nong tong paw ! No mister in the world— and yet all mystery ! The " tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock Lane— A novel Junius puzzling the world's brain — A man of magic — ^yet no talisrnan ! A man of clair obscure — not he o' the moon !
A star — at noon. A non-descriptus in a caravan, A private— of no corps — a northern light In a dark lantern — Bogie in a crape — A figure — but no shape ; A vizor — and no knight ; The real abstract hero of the age ; The staple Stranger of the stage, ; A Some One made in every man's presumption, _ Frankenstein's monster — but instinct with gumption j Another strange state captive in the north, Constable-guarded in an iron mask — Still let me ask. Hast thou no silver-platter, No door-plate, or no card — or some such matter, To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth ?
Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger Of Curiosity with airy gammon !
Thou mystery-monger. Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon. That people buy and can't make head or tail of it ; (Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it ;) Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical, That lay their proper bodies on the shelf — Keeping thysefr so truly to thyself.
Thou Zimmerman made practical ! Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style.
That, like the Nile, Hideth its source wherever it is bred.
But still keeps disemboguing
(Not disembroguing) "Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head ! Thou disembodied author — not yet dead —
■i^lPBaaK
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWtT. tg
The whole world's literary Absentee !
Ah ! wherefore hast thou fled, Thou learned Nemo — wise to a degree, Anonymous LL.D. !
Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang That do — and inquests cannot say who did it !
Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang ? Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch — or hid it ? Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber ? Heaven forbid it !
I should be very loth to see thee hang ! I hope thou hast an alibi well planned, An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand.
Tho' thou hast newly turned thy private bolt on The curiosity of all invaders —
I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, Who knows a little of the Holy Land,
Writing thy next new novel — The Crusaders !
Perhaps thou wert even bom To be Unknown. — Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, At Captain Coram's charitable wicket,
Pinned to a ticket ' That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing The future great unmentionable being.^
Perhaps thou hast ridden A scholar poor on St. Augustine's Back, Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack
Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden ; A little hoard of clever simulation.
That took the town — and Constable has bidden Some hundred pounds for a continuation — To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.
I liked thy Waverley — ^first ofthy breeding ;
I liked its modest " sixty years ago," As if it was not meant for ages' reading.
I don't like Ivanhoe, Tho' Dymoke does — it makes him think of clattering
In iron overalls before the king. Secure from battering, to ladies flattering, Tuning his challenge to the gauntlet's ring —
20 ODE TO THE CREAT UNKNOWN.
' Oh better far than all that anvil clang
It was to hear thee touch the famous string Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang, Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, Like Sagittarian Pan !
I like Guy Mannering — but not that sham son Of Brown. — I like that literary Sampson, Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson
That slew the Gauger ; And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender,
That Scottish Witch of Endor, That doomed thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, To tell a great man's fortune — or to make it !
I hke thy Antiquary. With his fit on, He makes me think of Mr. Britton, Who has— or had — ^within his garden wall, A miniature Stone Henge, so very small
The sparrows find it difficult to sit on ; And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor ; And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar,
Painted so cleverly, I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly ! I like thy Barber — ^him that fired the Beacon— But that's a tender subject now to speak on !
t I like long-armed Rob Roy. — His very charms
Fashioned him for renown \ — In sad sincerity,
The man that robs or writes must have long arms, If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity ! Witness Miss Biffin's posthuiiaous prosperity. Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)
Bearing the name she bore, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy ! ' But Roys can never die — why else, in verity, Is Paris echoing with " Vive le Roy /"
Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di Vernon, of course, shall often live again — Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain. Who can pass by
mMi.-iJi I I- I .m
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 21
Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand ? There be Old Bailey Jarvys on the stand !
I like thyLandlord's Tales ! — I like that Idol Of love and Lammermoor — the blue-eyed maid That led to church the mounted cavalcade,
And then pulled up with sucli a bloody bridal ! Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches — I like the family (not silver) branches That hold the tapers
To light the serious legend of Montrose. — I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours, As if he could not walk or talk alone. Without the Devil — or the Great Unknown —
Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows ! I like St. Leonard's Lily — drenched with dew ! I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew. I like the battle lost and won ; The hurly burly's bravely done. The warlike gallops and the warlike canters ! I like that girded chieftain of the ranters. Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple, With one eye on his sword And one upon the Word — How he would cram the Caledonian Chapel ! I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dapple
His raven steed with blood of many a corse — I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels
Her texts of Scripture on a trotting horse — She is so Uke Rae Wilson when he travels !
I like thy Kenilworth — but I'm not going
To take a Retrospective Re-Review Of all thy dainty novels — merely showing
The old familiar faces of a few, The question to renew. How thou canst leave such deeds without a name. Forego the unclaimed dividends of fame, Eorego the smiles of literary houris — Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, And all the Carse of Gowrie's,
23 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.
When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromart)-—
Or see thy image on Itahan trays, Betwixt Queen CaroHne and Buonaparte,
Be painted by the Titian of R. A.'s, Or vie in sign-boards with the Royal Guelph !
P'rhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, P'rhaps send our plaster proxies of thyself
To other Englands with Australian, roamers— Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee Displace the native wooden gods, or be The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf !
It is not modesty that bids thee hide — She never wastes her blushes out of sight : It is not to invite
The world's decision, for thy fame is tried —
And thy fair deeds are scattered far and wide, Even royal heads are with thy readers reckoned —
From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars In crimson collars, And learned sergeants in the Forty-Second ! Whither by land or sea art thou not beckoned ? Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, Defying distance and its dim control ;
Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckoned worth A brace of Miltons for capacious soul —
Perhaps studied in the whalers, fur'ther north, And set above ten Shakspeares near the pole !
Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp, With such a giant genius at command,
For ever at thy stamp. To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land, When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter,
Tho' princes sought her. And lead her in procession hymeneal. Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal ! Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Wharf, Enveloped in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs ? Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, Some hopeless Imp, like Riquet with the Tuft,
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 23
Fescruig, for all thy wit, to be rebuffed, Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs ?
What in this mascjuing age Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy ? '
What but the critic's page ? One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye ; Another hath a wen — he wont show where ;
A third has sandy hair, A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, Things for a vile reviewer to espy ! Another has a mangel-wurzel nose —
Finally, this is dimpled, Like a pale crumpef face, or that is pimpled, Things for a monthly critic to expose — Nay, what is thy own case — that being small. Thou chooses to be nobody at all !
Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones — . E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf, That shadowy revelation of thyself — To build thee a small hut of haunted stones — For certainly the first pernicious man That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee In some vUe literary caravan- Shown for a shilling Would be thy killing, Think of Grachami's miserable span . No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in
Than there it fell in — But when she felt herself a show, she tried To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf ! and died !
O since it was thy fortune to be born A dwarf on some Scotch Inch, and then to flinch From all the Gog-like jostle of great men.
Still with thy small crow pen Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn — Still Scottish story daintily adorn.
Be still a shade — and when this age has fled. When we poor sons and daughters of reality Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead,
24 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE.
And Time destroys our mottoes of morality — The lithographic hand of Old Mortality Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, '
A featureless death's head, And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown !
ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE,
THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND.* "Anna Virumque cano !"— ViRGlL.
Mr. Dymoke ! Sir Knight ! if I may be so bold— (I'm a poor simple gentleman just come to town,)
Is your armour put by, like the sheep in a fold ? —
Is your gauntlet ta'en up, which you lately flung down ?
Are you — ^who that day rode so mailed and admired,
Now sitting at ease in a library chair? Have you sent back to Astley the war-horse you hired,
With a cheque upon Chambers to settle the fare ?
* The office of Champion of England ceased in the person of this gentle- man, who defied all gainsayers of the Sovereign's right to the throne for the last time at the coronation of George IV., \%2\, At the coronation of William IV. and Victoria the Great Banquet and the Champion were omitted. Mr. Dymoke was created a Baronet, 1841, by Lord Melbbume, in recompense (says the editor of "Men of the Times") for the loss of the Championship. Sir Henry Dymoke was the son of the Rev. John Dymoke, of Scrivelsby, Lincolnshire.
The following verses appeared in the London Magazine of September, 1812, p. 236. The "Duke and Marquis" were Wellington and Anglesey.
THE CHAMPION'S FAREWELL.
OTIUM CUM DIGNITATE. Here ! bring me my breeches, my armour is over ;
Farewell for some time to my tin pantaloons ; iiouble-milled kerseymere is a kind df leg clover,
Good luck to broad cloth for a score or two moons ! Here ! hang up my helmet, and reach me my beaver,
This avoirdupois weight of glory must fall ; I think on my life that again 1 shall never
Take my head in a sauoe-pan to Westminster Hall. Oh, -why was my family born to be martial ?
'Tis a mercy this grand show-off-fight-day is up !
ADDRESS TO MR: DYMOKE. 2j
What's become of the cup ? Great tin-plate worker? say?
Cup and ball is a game whicrh some people deem fun ! Oh ! three golden balls haven't lured you to play
Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one?
How defunct is the show that was chivalry's mimic !
The breastplate^the feathers— the gallant array ! So fades, so grows dim, and so dies, Mr. Dymoke !
The day of brass breeches ! as Wordsworth would say !
Perchance in some village remote, with a cot. And a cow, and a pig, and a barn-door, and all ; —
You show to the parish that peace is. your lot. And plenty — tho' absent from Westminster Hall I
And of course you turn every accoutrement now
To its separate use, that your wants may be well met; —
You toss in your breastplate your pancakes, and grow A salad of mustard and cress in your helmet.
And you delve the fresh earth with your falchion, less bright Since hung up in sloth from its Westminster task ; —
And you bake your own bread in your tin ; and. Sir KJnight, Instead of your brow, put your beer in the casque !
I do not think Cato was much over-partial »
To back through the dishes, with me and my cup.
By the blood of the Dymokes, I'll sit in my lodgings, And the gauntlet resign for "neat gentleman's doe ;"
If I ride I will ride, and no longer be dodging '
My horse's own tail 'twixt Duke, Marquis & Co.
No more at my horsemanship folks shall make merry,
For I'll ship man and horse, and " show off" not on shore ;
No funnies for me ! I vitII ride in a wherry ; They feathered my skull, but I'll feather my oar.
So,' Thomas, take Cato and put on his halter, And give him some beans, since I now am at peace ;
If a Champion is wanted, pray go to Sir Walter, And he'll let you out Marmions at sovereigns apiece.
The ladies admired the piebald nag vastly,
And clapped his old sober-sides into the street ;
Here's a cheque upon Child, so, my man, go to Astley, Pay the charge of a charger, and lake a receipt.
26 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE.
How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas,
With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutched, And chat of the blood that had deluged the Pleas,
And drenched the King's Bench — if the glove had been touched?
If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions, Had snatched your " best doe," — he'd have flooded the floor;—
Nor would even the best of his earthly inventions, " Life Preservers," have floated him out of«his gore !
Oh, you and your horse ! what a couple was there !
The man and his backer — to win a great fight ! Though the trumpet was loud — you'd an undisturbed air !
And the nag snuffed the feast and the fray sans affright !
Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall ;
For though his departure was at the front door, Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall.
He went — and' 'twould- puzzle historians to say. When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your mail—'
Whether caution or courage inspired him that day, For, though he retreated, he never turned tail.
By my life, he's a wonderful charger !— the best !
Though not for a Parthian corps ! — ^yet for you ! — Distinguished alike at a fray and a feast,
What a Horse for a grand Retrospective Review !
What a creature to keep a hot warrior cool
When the sun's in the face, and the shade's far aloof! —
What a tail-piece for Bewick ! — or piebald for Poole To bear him in safety from EUiston's hoof !
Well ; hail to Old Cato ! the hero of scenes !
May Astley or age ne'er his comforts abridge ; — Oh, long may he munch Amphitheatre beans, '
Well "pent up in Utica" over the Bridge !
And to you, Mr. Dymoke, Cribb's rival, I keep
Wishing all country pleasures, the bravest and best !
And oh ! when yoti come to the Hummums to sleep. May you lie " like a warrior taking his rest.!"
27
ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR*
" This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit.!' — Twelfth Night,
Joseph ! they say thou'st left the stage,
To toddle down the hill of life, And taste the flannelled ease of age.
Apart from pantomimic strife— ." Retired — (for Young would call it so) — The world shut out"-^in Pleasant Row !
And hast thou really washed at last From each white cheek the red half moon ?
And all thy public Clownship cast, To play the Private Pantaloon ?
All youth — all ages — yet to be.
Shall have a heavy miss of thee !
' Thou didst not preach to make us wise — Thou hadst no finger in our schooling — Thou didst not " lure us to the skies" —
Thy simple, simple trade was — Fooling ! And yet. Heaven knows ! we could — ^we can Much " better spare a better man !"
Oh, had it pleased the gout to take - The reverend Croly from the stage. Or Southey, for our quiet's sake. Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage.
Or, d e ! namby pamby Poole —
Or any other clown or fool !
Go, Dibdin — all that bear the name.
Go, ]35rway Highway man ! go ! go ! Go, Skeffy — man of painted fame,
But leave thy partner, painted Joe ! I could bear Kirby on the wane. Or Signor Paulo with a sprain !
* The celebrated clown, who took leave of the St^e in 1 828, at Dr'ury Lane Theatre, He was born in 1779 and died 1837.
28 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI.
Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made His gray hair scarce in private peace —
Had Waithman sought a rural shade — 0r Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease
Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill —
I think I could be cheerful still !
Had Medwin left off, to his praise,
Dead lion kicking, like — a friend ! — Had long, long Irving gone his ways,
To muse on death at Pander's End- Ox Lady Morgan taken leave Of Letters — still I might not grieve !
But, Joseph — everybody's Jo !
Is gone — and grieve I will arjd must I As Hamlet did for Yorick, so
Will I for thee, (tho' not yet dust,) And talk as he did when he missed The kissing-crust that he had kissed !
Ah, where is'now thy rolling head !
Thy winking, reeling, drunken eyes, (As old Catullus would have said,)
Thy oven-mouth, that swallowed pies — Enormous hunger — monstrous drouth I Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth !
Ah, where thy ears, so often cuffed ! — Thy funny, flapping, filching hands ! —
Thy partridge body, always stuffed
With waifs and strays, and contrabands ! —
Thy foot — like Berkele/s Fooie — for why ?
'Twas often made to wipe an eye !
Ah, where thy legs — that witty pair — For " great wits jump" — and so did they !
Lord ! how they leaped in lamp-light air ! Capered — and bounced— and strode away !-
That years should tame the legs — alack I
I've seen spring thro' an Almanack !
. ODE TO JOSEPH GRtMALbh 8^
But bounds will have their bound — the shocks
Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes ; And those that frisked in silken clocks
May look to limp in fleecy hoSe — One only (Champion of the ring) Could ever make his Winter — Spring !
And gout, that owns no odds between .
The toe of Czar and toe of Clown, Will visit — ^but I did not meaii
To moralize, though I am gro^Ti Thus sad^-7;Thy going seemed to beat A muffled drum for Fun's retreat !
And, may be — 'tis no time to smother A sigh, when two prime wags of London,
Are gone — thou, Joseph, one — the other A Joe ! — "sic transit gloria MundenI"
A third departure some insist on —
Stage-apoplexy threatens Listen ! —
Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep
With ancient " Dozey" to the dregs — Let Mother Goose wear mourning deep,
And, put a hatchment o'er her eggs ! Let Farly weep — for Magic's man Is gone — his Christmas Caliban !
Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As tho' they walked behind thy bier — For since thou wilt not play again,
What matters — if in heaven or here ! Or in thy grave, or in thy bed ! — There's Quick,* might just as well be dead !
Oh, how will thy departure cloud
The lamp-light of the little breast ! The Christmas child will grieve aloud
To miss his broadest friend and best — Poor urchin ! what avails to him The cold New Monthly's Ghost of Grimm I
* One of the old actors of " Rapid."
30 ADDRESS TO SYLVANVS URBAN, ESQ,
For who like thee. could ever stride Some dozen paces to the mile! —
The motley, medley coach provide — Or like Joe Frankenstein compile
The vegetable w«(7« complete ! —
A proper Covent Garden feat !
Oh, who like thee could ever drink,
Or eat — swill — swallow — bolt — and choke !
Nod, w^ep, and hiccup — sneeze arid wink?— Thy very yawn was quite a 'joke !
The' Joseph Junior acts no ill,
" There's no Fool like the old Fool" still !
Joseph, farewell ! dear funny Joe !
We met with mirth — we part in pain ! For many a long, long year must go,
Ere Fun can see thy like again — For Nature does not keep great stores Of perfect Clowns — that are yxoi Boors/
ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN,* ESQ.,
EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. "Dost thou not suspect my years ?" — Much Ado about Nothing,
Oh ! Mr. Urban ! never must thou lurch A sober age made serious drunk by thee ;
Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church, And nurse thy little bald Biography.
Oh, my Sylvanus ! what a heart is thine !
And what a page attends thee ! Long may I Hang in demure confusion o'er each line
That asks thy little questions with a sigh !
* The nom de plunte, used by all editors of this magazine, which was first published by Edward Gave in 1731,
ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS- URBAN, ESQ. 31
Old tottering years have nodded to their falls, Like pensioners that creep about and die ; —
But thou, Old Parr Of periodicals, Livest in monthly immortality !
How sweet ! — as Byron of his infant said — " Knowledge of objects" in thine eye to trace ;
To see the mild no-meanings of thy head. Taking a quiet nap upon thy face !
How dear through thy Obituary to roam,
And not a name of any name to catch ! To meet thy Criticism walking home,
Averse from rows, and never calling "Watch !"
Rich is thy page in soporific things —
Composing compositions — lulling men — Faded old posies of unburied rings —
Confessions dozing from an opiate pen : —
Lives of Right Reverends that have never lived — Deaths of good people that have really died —
Parishioners — hatched — husbanded — and wived, .Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side !
The sacred query — the remote response— The march of serious minds, extremely slo,w —
The graver's cut at some right aged sconce, Famous for nothing many years ago !
B. asks of C. if Milton e'ef did write
" Comus," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid ; — And C, next month, an answer doth indite.
Informing B. that Mr. Milton did !
X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea.
Caught up-on Martin Luther years agone ; And Mr. Parkes of Shrewsbury, draws a bee,
Long dead, that gathered honey for King John.
There is no end of thee— there is no end,
Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits ! Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend.
And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets !
,32 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY
Go on, Sylvanus ! — Bear a wary eye, The churches cannot yet be quite run out !
Some parishes yet must have been passed by — There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt !
Go on — and close the eyes of distant ages !
Nourish the names of the undoubted- dead ! So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,
Heavy and hvely, though but seldom red.
Go on ! and thrive ! Demurest of odd fellows !
Bottling up dulness in an ancient bin ! Still live ! still prose ! continue still to tell us
Old truths ! no strangers, though we take them in !
AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
"Archer. How many are there, Scrub? Scrub. Five and forty, sir." — Beaiix Stratagem.
" For shame — let the linen alone." —
Merry Wives of Windsor.
Mr. Scrub — Mr. Slop — or whoever you be !
The Cock of Steam Laundries — the head Patentee
Of Associate Cleansers — Chief founder and prime
Of the firm for the wholesale distilling of grime —
Copartners and dealers inlinen's propriety —
That make washing public — and wash in society —
O lend me your ear ! if that ear can forego.
For a moment, the music that bubbles below —
From your new Surrey Geysers all foaming and hot —
That soft " simmer' ssan^' so endeared to the Scot —
If your hands may stand still, or your steam, vnthout danger^
If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger,
Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub —
O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub —
And lend me your ear — ^let me modestly plead
For a race that your labours may soon supersede —
For a race that, now washing no living affords —
Like Grimaldi, must leave their aquatic old boards.
Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease.
Not with bread in the funds — or investments of cheese —
to THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 33
feut to droop like sad willows that lived by a stream,
Which the sun has sucked up into vapour and steam.
Ah, look at the Laundress, before you begrudge
Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge —
When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins,
She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens,
And beginneth her toil while the morn is still gray,
As if she was washing the night into day —
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora
Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her ;
Not Venus that rose from the billows so early,
Looked down on the foam with a forehead more pearly —
Her head is involved in an aerial mist,
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist ;
Her visage glows warm with the ardour of duty ;
, She's Industry's moral — she's all moral beauty ! Growing brighter and brighter at every rub — Would any man ruin her ? — No, Mr. Scrub ! No man that is manly would work her mishap — No man that is manly would covet her cap — Nor her apron — her hose — nor her gown made of stuff — Nor her gin — nor her tea — nor her wet pinch of snuff ! Alas ! so she thought — but that slippery hope Has betrayed her, as tho' she had trod on her soap ! And she — whose support — like the fishes that fly, Was to have her fins wet, must now drop from her sky — She whose living it was, and a part of her fare, To be damped once a day, like the great white sea bear. With her hands like a sponge, and her head like a mop — Quite a living absorbent that revelled in slop — She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand. And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land !
Lo, then, the poor Laundress, all wretched she stands. Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands ! All haggard and pinched, going down in life's vale. With no faggot for burning, like AUan-a-dale ! No smoke from her flue, and no steam from her pane, There once she watched heaven, fearing God and the rain — Or gazed o'er her bleach-field so fairly engrossed, Till the lines wandered idle from pillar to post ! Ah, where are the playful young pinners — ah, where The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air —
-■ 3
54 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
The brisk waltzing stockings — the white and the black,
That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack —
The light sylph-like garments so tenderly pinned.
That blew into shape, and embodied the wind !
There was white on the grass — there was white on the spray —
Her garden — it looked like a garden of May !
But now all is dark — not a shirt's on a shrub —
You've ruined her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub !
You've ruined her custom — now families drop her —
From her silver reduced — nay, reduced from her copper !
The last of her washing is done at her eye.
One poor little kerchief that never gets drj' !
From mere lack of linen she can't lay a cloth,
And boils neither barley nor alkaline broth —
But her children come round her as victuals grow scant,
And recall, with foul faces, the source of their want —
When she thinks of their poor little rriouths to be fed,
And then thinks of her trade that is utterly dead,
And even its pearlashes laid in the grave —
Whilst her tub is a dry rotting, stave after stave,
And the greatest of Coopers, ev'n he that they dub
Sir Astley, can't bind up her heart or her tub — ^^
Need you wonder she curses your bones, Mr. Scrub ?
Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of bread,
If she prays that the evil may visit your head —
Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee^-
If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the city —
In short, not to mention all plagues without number.
If she wishes you all in the Wash at the Humber !
Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drouth and despair, When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare — When the sum of her suds might be summed in a bowl, And the rusty cold iron quite entered her soul — When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye Had caught " the Cock Laundresses' Coach" going by. Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather. And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together, In a lather of passion that frothed as it rose, Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose. On her sheet — if a sheet were still left her — to write. Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light' —
35
LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE FROM BRIDGET JONES
TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE.
It's a shame, so it is — men can't Let alone
Jobs as is Woman's right to do — and go about there Own^^
Theirs Reforms enuff Aheddy without your new schools
For washing to sit Up — and push the Old Tubs from their stools !
But your just like the Raddicals — for upsetting of the Sudds
■yVhen the world wagged well enuff — and Women washed your old
dirty duds, I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steam Indians,
that's Flat — But I warrant your Four Fathers went a^ Tidy and gentlemanny
for all that — I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very considerable
period back when I were little. And they Said it went with Steem — But that was a'joke !; For I never see none come of it — that's out of it — but only sun
Smoak — And for All youj Power of Horses about your Indians you never
had but Two In my time to draW you About to Fairs — and hangyou, you know'
that's true ! And for All your fine Perspectuses — howsomever you bewhich
H •'^""' Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at
' Mitchum,
Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one an- other to Do —
It ant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could take a Birdshigh view !
But Thats your look out — I've not much to do with that — But pleas God to hold up fine,
Id show you caps and pitiners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever crosst the Line,
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place,
And Thats more than you Can— and 111 say it behind your face—
36 TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you to Speak — As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak ! Thinks I, when I heard it— Well, there's a pretty go ! That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the marks,
and Huddling 'em up so ! Till Their friends comes and owns them, like drownded corpeses
in a Vault, But may Hap you havint Larned to spel— and That ant your
Fault, Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larned^— For if it warnt for Washing — and whare Bills is ccncarned What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Headication, And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays — fit for any Citya-
tion.
Well, what I says is This — when every Kittle has its spout, Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steem about ! To be sure its very Well, when Their ant enuff Wind For blowing up Boats with — but not to hurt human kind , Like that Pearkins with his Blunderbush, that's loaded with hot
water, Thof a X Sherrif might know Better, than make things for
slaughtter, As if War warnt Cruel enuff — wherever it befalls. Without shooting poor sogers, with sich scalding hot balls — ' But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scrubbs As joi/ns their Sopes together, and sits up Steem rubbing Clubs, For washing Dirt Cheap — and eating other Peple's grubs ! Which is all verry Fine for you and your Patent Tea, But I wonders How Poor Wommen is to get Their Beau-He ! They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there will
be!) And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their Goods, When you and your Steem has ruined (G— d forgive mee) their
lively Hoods, Poor Wommen as was born to Washing in their youth ! And now must go and Larn other Buisnesses Four Sooth ! But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to go at — They won't do for Angell's — nor any Trade like That, Nor we cant Sow Babby Work — for that's all Bespoke — For the Queakers in Bridle ! and a vast of the confined folk
■ : — : -■»= ■ .
TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 37
Do their own of Themselves— even the bettermost of em — aye,
and evn them of middling degrees — Why Lauk help you Babby Linen ant Bread and Cheese ! Nor we can't go a hammering the roads into Dust, But we must all go and be Bankers — like Mr. Marshes and Mr.
Chamberses — and that's what we must ! God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, When you nose you have sucked us and hanged round our
Mutherly necks. And remembers what you Owes to Wommen Besides washing — You ant, blame you ! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers And prettily j eared At you great Horse God Meril things, ant you
now by your next door naybors — Lawk I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp, Arid for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round, They'll scrunch your Bones some day — I'll be bound, And no more nor be a gudgement — for it cant come to good To sit up agin Providirice, which your a doing — nor not fit It
should. For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of the Creation — And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot
Nation. Ah, I wish our Minister would take one of your Tubbs And preach a Sermon in it, and give you some good rubs — But I warrants you reads (for you cant spel we nose) nythex
Bybills or good Tracks, Or youd no better than Taking the close off one's Backs — And let your neighbors oxin and Asses alone — And every Thing thats herii — and give every one their Hone !
Well, its God for us Al, and every Washer Wommen for herself, And so you might, without shoving any of us off the shelf, But if you warnt Noddis you Let wommen abe And pull of Your Pattins — and leave the 'washing to we That nose what's what — Or mark what I say, Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day — When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs, and their ant nun at all, And Cris mass cum — ^and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall,
38 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY, '•
Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare
Till has rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his
Harm-Chare — Besides Miss-Matching Lamed Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not
to wash (for you dont wash) but to stew And make Peples Stockins yeller as oght to be Blew, With a vast more like That — and all aloftg of Steam, Which warnt meand by Natar for any sich skeam — But thats your Losses, and youl have to make It Good, And I cant say I'm Sorry afore God if you shoud. For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways Without taking ourn — aye, and Moor to your Prays Vou might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adams milky
ways — that's what you might, Or bete Carpets — or get into Parleamint — or drive Crabrolays from
morning to, night. Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, and slepe upon a
poste ! (Which is an od way of sleping, I must say — and a very hard.
pillow at most,) Or you might be any trade, as we are not on that I'm awares. Or be Watermen now, (not Water-wommen,) and roe peple up
and down Hungerford stares. Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a dry sifting Dirt ! But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt !
Yourn with Anymocity,
Bridget Jones.
ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY.*
" By the North Pole, I do challenge thee \"— Love's Labour's Lost.
Parry, my man ! has thy brave leg Yet struck its foot against the peg On which the world is spvm ?
* The Arctic Navigator, Sir ■William Parry, was born 179P, died 1855. He made four voyages to the North Pole, This ode was written on his third voyage.
ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY.' . 39
Or hast thou found No Thoroughfare Writ by the hand of Nature there Where man has never run !
Hast thou yet traced the Great Unknown Of channels in the Frozen Zone,
Or held at Icy Bay, Hast thou still missed the proper track For homeward Indiamen that lack
A bracing by the way ?
Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble On nothing but the North-9ea Bubble
Of geographic scholar ? Orfound nev? ways for ships to shape, Instead of winding round the Cape, A short cut thro' the collar !
Hast found the way that sighs were sent to* The Pole^tho' God knows whom they went to !
That track revealed to Pope-^ Or if the Arctic waters sally, Or terminate in some bhnd alley,
A chilly path to grope ?
Alas ! tho' Ross, in love with snows, Has painted them coideur de rose,
It is a. dismal doom. As Claudio saith, to winter thrice, " In regions of thick-ribbfed ice" —
All bright — ^and yet all gloom !
'Tis "well for Gheber souls that sit Before the fire and worship it
With pecks of Wallsend coals. With feet upon the fender's front, Roasting their corns — like Mr. Hunt —
To speculate on poles.
' And waft a sigh from Indus to the '2o\s''—Eloisa to Abelard.
40 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY,
'Tis easy for our Naval Board — 'Tis easy for our Civic Lord , Of London and of ease, That lies in ninety feet of down, With fur on his nocturnal gown, To talk of Frozen Seas !
'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, And prate about the mundane spit.
And babble of Cook's track — He'd roast the leather off his toes, Ere he would trudge thro' polar snows,
To plant a British yack !
Oh, not the proud licentious great, That travel on a carpet skate.
Can value toils like thine ! What 'tis to take a Hecla range. Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange,
And alpine lumps of brine !
But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme, Can tell how hard it is to climb
The lofty slippery steep. Ah ! there are more Snow Hills than that Which doth black Newgate, like a hat,
Upon its forehead keep.
Perchance thou'rt now — while I am writing — Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting
About thy frozen spine ! Or thou thyself art eating whale, Oily, and underdone, and stale.
That, haply, crossed thy line !
But I'll not dream such dreams of ill — Rather will I believe thee still
Safe cellared in the snow — Reciting many a gallant story, Of British kings and British glory,
To crony Esquimaux —
ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 41
Cheering that dismal game where Night Makes one slow move from black to white
Thro' all the tedious year — Or smitten by some fond frost fair, That combed out crystals from her hair,
Wooing a seal-skin Deaf 1
So much a long communion tends, As Byron says, to make us friends
With what we daily view — God knows the daintiest taste may come To love a nose that's like a plum,
In marble, cold and blue !
To dote on air, an oily fleece !
As tho' it hung from Helen o' Greece—
They say that love prevails Ev'n in the veriest polar land — And surely she may steal thy hand
That used to steal thy nails !
But ah, ere thou art fixt to marry, And take a polar Mrs. Parry,
Think of a six months' gloom — Think of the wintry waste, and hers. Each furnished with a dozen furs.
Think of thine icy dome I
Think of the children born to blubber ! Ah me ! hast thou an Indian rubber
Inside ! — to hold a meal For months — about a stone and half Of whale, and part of a sea calf —
A fillet of salt veal ! —
Some walrus ham — no trifle but A decent steak — a solid cut
Of seal — no wafer slice ! A reindeer's tongue and drink beside ! Gallons of Sperm — not rectified 1
And pails of water-ice !
-I— rr
42 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY.
Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus ? Still come away, and teach to us
Those blessfed alternations — To-day to run our dinners fine. To feed on air and then to dine
With Civic Corporations^
To save th' Old Bailey's daily shilling, And then to take a half-year's filling
In P. N.'s pious Row — When asked to Hock and haunch o' ven'son. Thro' soniething we have worn our pens on
For Longman and his Co.
O come and tell us what the Pole is — Whether it singular and sole is —
Or straight, or crooked bent — If very thick or very thin — Made of what wood — and if akin
To those there be in Kent.
There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, Have talked of polls — yet, after all,
What has the public learned ? And Hunt's account must still defer — He sought the poll at Westminster —
And is not yet returned!
Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul,
Is played in s^ow-storms near the Pole,
And how the fur-man deals ? And Eldon doubts if it be true. That icy Chancellors really do
Exist upon the seals J
Barrow, by well-fed office grates. Talks of his own bechristened Straits ;
And longs that he were there ; And Croker,. in his cabriolet, , Sighs o'er his brown horse, at his Bay,
And pants to cross the merl
ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 43
O come away, and set us right, And, haply, throw a northern light
On questions such as these : — Whether, when this drowned world was lost, The surflux waves were locked in frost,
And turned to Icy Seas !
Is Ursa Major white or black? Or do the Polar tribes attack
Their neighbours — and what for? Whether they ever play at cuffs, And then, if they take off their muffs
In pugiHstic war?
Tell us, is Winter champion there, As in our milder fighting air?
Say, what are Chilly loans ? VvThat cures they have for rheums beside, And if their hearts get ossified
From eating bread of bones?
Whether they are such dwarfs — the quicker To circulate the vital liquor* —
And then, from head to heel — How short the Methodist must choose Their dumpy envoys not to lose
Their toes in spite of zeal ?
WhSther 'twill soften or sublime it To preach of Hell in such a cJimdte —
Whether may Wesley hope To win their souls — or that old function Of seals — with the extreme of uncti6n —
Bespeaks them for the Pope ?
Whether the lamps will e'er be " learnbd" Where six months' " midnight oil" is burnM,
Or letters must defer With people that have never conned An A, B, C, but jive beyond
The Sound of Lancaster I
* Buffon,
44 TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE^
O come away at any rate —
Well hast thou earned a downier state —
With all thy hardy peers — Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, And rub thy feet with opodeldock,
After such frosty years.
Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, Smit by the perils thou hast passed,
However coy before, Shall bid thee now set up thy- rest In that Brest Harbour, Woman's breast,
And tempt the Fates no more.
ADDRESS TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE,
THE GREAT LESSEE !*
" Do you know, you villain, that I am at this moment the greatest man Mvmgf'—WUd Oats.
Oh ! Great Lessee ! Great Manager ! Great Man 1 Oh, Lord High EUiston ! Immortal Pan Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane ! Macready's master ! Westminster's high Dane ! (As Galway Martin, in the House's walls, Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls !) Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring 1 Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring ! Drury's Aladdin ! Whipper-in of Actors ! Kicker of rebel-preface-malefactors ! Glass-blowers' corrector ! King of the cheque-taker ! At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker ! Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and Cakes ! In silken hose the most reformed of Rakes ! Oh, Lord High Elliston ! lend me an ear ! (Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear)
* .Of Drury Lane Theatre. He was bom 1774 ; died 1831.
TO M. W. ELLISTON, ESQUIRE. 45
While I, in little slips of prose, not verge,
Thy splendid course, as pattern-work, rehearse !
Bright was thy youth — thy manhood brighter still —
The greatest Romeo upon Holborn Hill —
Lightest comedian of the pleasant day,
When Jordan threw her sunshine o'er a play !
When fair Thalia" held a merry reign.
And Wit was at her Court in Drury Lane !
Before the day when Authors wrote, of course,
The " Entertainment not for Man but Horse."
Yet these, though happy, were but subject times,
And no man cares for bottom-steps that climbs —
Far from my wish it is to stifle down
The hours that saw thee snatch the Surrey crown :
Tho' now thy hand a mightier sceptre wields.
Fair was thy reign in sweet St. George's Fields.
Dibdin was Premier — and a golden age
For a short time enriched the subject stage.
Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace-atd-plenty ;
Ours but one Bench could boast, whilst thou hadst twenty ;
-But the times changed — and Booth-acting no more
Drew Rulers' shillings to the gallery door.
Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence,
Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens !
Next, the Olympic Games were tried,' each feat Practised, the most bewitching in Wych Street.
Rochester there in dirty ways again
Revelled — and lived once more in Drury Lane :
But thou, R. W. ! kept'st thy moral ways,
Pit-lecturing 'twixt the farces and the plays,
A lamplight Irving to the butcher boys
That soiled the benches and that made a noise : —
Rebuking — Half a. Robert, Haifa Charles —
The well-billed Man that called for promised Carles ;
" Sir ! — Have you yet to know ! Hush — hear me out !
A man — pray silence ! — may be down with gout,
Or want — or. Sir — aw ! — listen ! — may be fated,
Being, in debt, to be incarcerated !
4(5 TO R. W. ELLtSTON, ESQUIRE.
You — in the back ! — can scarcely hear a line !
Down from those benches — ^butchers — they are mine /"
Lastly — and thou wert built for it by nature ! —
Crowned was thy head in Drury I^ane^Theatre !
Gentle George Robins saw that it was'good, "
And Renters clucked around thee in a brood.
King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean !
Of many a lady and of many a Quean !
With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun —
But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun,
Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt,
"And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out !
Oh, worthy of the house ! the King's commission !
Isn't thy condition " a most blessed condition ?"
Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all,
The very lofty and the very small —
Showest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick—
Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick —
Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments.
Without the danger of newspaper comments —
Tellest Macready, as none dared before,
Thine open mind from the half-open door ! —
(Alas ! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown,
"To be a Boniface in Buxton town !) —
Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know,
And callest to them, to a moment — " Go !"
Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing — •
Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing —
(To prove, no doubt, the endless free list ended,
And all, except the public press, suspeiided,)
Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot — and kissed
The pearly whiteness of a Stephens' wrist —
Kissing and pitying — tender and humane !
" By Heaven she loves me ! Oh, it is too plain !"
A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips,
Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips !
Go on, Lessee ! Go on, and prosper well ! Fear not, though forty Glass-blowers should rebel — Show them how thou hast long befriended them, And teach Dubois their treason to condemn !
6DE TO W. KITCHENER, M.b. 4I
Go on ! addressing pits in prose and worse ! Be long, be slow, be anything but terse — Kiss to the gallery the hand that's gloved — Make Bunh the Great, and Winston the Beloved, Ask the two shilling Gods for leave to dun With words the cheaper Deities in the One I Kick Mr. Poole unseen from scene to scene, Cane Williams still, and stick to Mr. Kean, Warn from the benches all the rabble rout ; Say, those are mine — " In parliament, or out !" Swing cats — for in thy house there's surely space — O Beasley, for such pastime, planned the place ! Do anything ! — Thy fame, thy fortune, nourish ! Laugh and grow fat ! be eloquent, and flourish ! Go on — and but in this reverse the thing, Walk backward with wax lights before the King — Go on ! Spring ever in thine eye ! Go on ! Hope's favourite child ! ethereal EUiston !
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.*
AUTHOR OF THE COOK's ORACLE — OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC— THE ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE — PRACTICAL OBSERVA- TIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES— THE HOUSE- 'KEEPER's LEDGER — AND THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL.
"I rule the roast, as Milton says !" — Calet Quotent.
Oh ! multifarious man ! Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton :
JBorn to enlighten The laws of Optics, Peptics, MusicJ Cookings- Master of the Piano — and the Pan — As busy with the kitchen as the skies !
Now looking . > At some rich stew thro' Galileo's eyes — Or boiling eggs — timed to a metronome —
Bom 177s, died 1827.
ODE T& W. kiTCHENER, M.r>.
As. much at home In spectacles as in mere isinglass — In the art of frying brown — as .a digression On music and poetical expression — Whereas, how few of all our cooks, alas ! Could tell Calliope from " Callipee !"
How few there be Could leave the lowest for the highest stories,
(Observatories,) And turn, Uke thee, Diana's calculator. However cook's synonymous with Katerl*
Alas ! still let me say, How few could lay The carving-knife beside the tuning-fork, Like the proverbial yack ready for any work !
Oh, to behold thy features in thy book ! Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate,
How it would look ! With one raised eye watching the' dial's date, And one upon the roast, gently cast down —
Thy chops — done nicely brown — The garnished brow — with " a few leaves of bay" —
The hair — " done Wiggy's way !" And still one studious finger near thy brains.
As if thou wert just come
From editing some New soup — or hashing Dibdin's cold remains ! Or, Orpheus-like — fresh from thy dying strains Of music — Epping luxuries of sound,
As Milton says, " in many a bout
Of linked sweetness long drawn out,'' Whilst all thy tame stuffed leopards listened round !
Oh, rather thy whole length reveal. Standing like Fortune — on the jack — thy wheel. (Thou art, like Fortune, full of chops and changes,- Thou hast a fillet too before thine eye 1)
Captain Kater, tlie Moon's Surveyor.
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 49
Scanning our kitchen and our vocal ranges, As tho' it were the same to sing or fry — Nay, so it is — hear how Miss Paton's throat
Makes " fritters " of a note ! And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer bom By name and nature) oh ! how night and morn
He for the nicest public taste doth dish up The good things from that Pan of music, Bishop ! And is not reading near akin to feeding, Or why should Oxford Sausages be fit
Receptacles for wit ? Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart. Minced brains into a Tart 1 Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts.
Book-treats, Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her — Receipts to be devoured, as well as read, The Culinary Art in gingerbread — The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar !
Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page — Ay, very pleasant in its chatty vein — So— in a kitchen — would have talked Montaigne, That merry Gascon — humourist, and sage ! Let slender minds with single themes engage,
Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope — Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon — or
Hume on " Twice three make four," Or Lovelass lipon wills — Thou goest on Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson !
Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, Stuffed with a brilliant medley of odd bits.
And ever shifting on from change to change. Saucepans — old Songs — Pills — Spectacles — and Spits !
Thy range is wider than a Rumford Range ! Thy grasp a miracle ! — till I recall Th' indubitable cause of thy variety — Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all That spying— frying — singing — mixed Society- Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet Welsh Rabbits— and thyself — in Warren Street !
50 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.
Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni,* Where learned visitors discoursed — and fed?
There came Belzoni, Fresh from the ashes of Egyptian dead —
And gentle Poki — and that Royal Pair, Of whom thou didst declare — " Thanks to the greatest Cooke we ever read — They were — what Sandwiches should be — ^half bredP' There famed M'Adam from his manual toil Relaxed— and freely owned he took thy hints
On " making Broth with Flints"— There Parry came and showed thee polar oil For melted butter — Combe with his medullary
Notions about the Skullery, And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil — There witty Rogers came, that punning elf!
Who used to swear thy book Would really look A Delphic " Oracle," if laid on £>elf— There, once a month, came Campbell and discussed His own— and thy own— "Magazine of Taste" —
There Wilberforce the Just
Came in his old black suit, till once he traced
Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks,
That " do not break thtir yolks," — Which huffed him. home, in grave disgust and haste !
There came John Clare, the poet, nor- forbore Thy Fatties — thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, Who called thee "Kitchen Addison" — for why? Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills, Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills, " Teaching us how to live and how to die I" There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry — There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on
His sine Quay non — There Martin would drop in on Monday eves. Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 'Gainst cattle days and death —
* Dr. Kitchener's conversazioni were the resort of all the wits and celebrities of the day.
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 51
<
Answered 'by Mellish, feeder of fat beeves, Who swore that Frenchmen never could be eager For fighting on soup meagre — " And yet (as thou wouldst add) the French have seen A Marshall Tureen I"
Great was thy Evening Cluster ! — often graced
With DoUond — Burgess — and Sir Humphry Davy !
'Twas there M'Dermot first inclined to Taste —
There Colburn learned the art of making paste
For puffs — and Accum analysed a gravy,
Colman — the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said
Came there — and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head,
(His claim to letters) — Kater, too, the Moon's
Crony — and Graham, lofty on balloons —
There Croly stalked with- holy humour heated,
Who wrote a light horse play, which Yates completed —
And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ. And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons — Madame Valbrfeque thrice honoured thee, and came With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle — The Dibdins — Tom, Charles, Frognall — came with tuns Of poor old books, old puns ! And even Irving spared a night from fame — And talked — till thou dids,t stop him in the middle, To serve round Tewah-diddie*
Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye !
So let them ; — thou thyself art still a Host ! Dibdin — Cornaro — Newton — Mrs. Fry ! Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec ! — Lovelass — and Weber, Mathews in Quot'em — Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber —
Thrice-worthy Worthy, seem by thee engrossed ! "
Howbeit the Peptic Cook still rules the roast,
Potent to hush all ventriloquial snarling —
And ease the bosom pangs of indigestion ! Thou art, sans question.
The Corporation's love-^its Doc'ior Darlinq t
Look at the Civic Palate — nay, the bed
The Doctor's composition for a night-cap.
52 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.
Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying " lUustrations of Lying /" Ninety square feet of down from heel to head
It measured, and I dread Was haunted by that terrible night Mare, A monstrous -burthen on the corporation ! Look at the Bill of Fare, for one day's share, Sea-turtles by the score — ^^Oxen by droves. Geese, turkeys, by the flock — fishes and loaves
Countless, as when the liUiputian nation Was making up the huge man-mountain's ration !
Oh ! worthy Doctor ! surely thou hast driven
The squatting' Demon from great Garratt's breast —
(His honour seemed to rest ! — ) And what is thy reward ? — Hath London given Thee public thanks for thy important service ?
Alas ! not even The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis ! — Yet could I speak as Orators should speak Before the worshipful the Common Council, (Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,) Thou shouldst not miss thy Freedom, for a week, Richly engrossed on vellum : — Reason urges That he who rules our cookery — that he •; Who edits soups and gravies, -ought to be A Citizen, where sauce can make a Burgess I*
* The London Magazine for October, 1821, contains a review of Dr. Kit- chener's Coolis Oracle, supposed to be written Ijy Hood ; and in the November number of tlie same journal is the follovfing ode : —
ODE TO DR. KITCHENER.
Ye Muses nine inspire,
And stir up my poetic fire ;
Teach my burning soul to speak
With a bubble and a squeak ! Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing, Till pots, - and pans, and mighty kettles ring.
O culinai-y Sage ! (I do not mean the hei'b in use, That alw.iys goes along with goose),
How have I feasted on thy page 1
S3
AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND JOHN IRELAND, D.D.
THE DEAN AND CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER.
CHARLES FYNES CLINTON, LL.D.
THOMAS CAUSTON, D.D.
HOWEL HOLLAND EDWARDS, M.A.
JOSEPH ALLEN, M.A.
LORD HENRY FITZROY, M.A.
THE "BISHOP OF EXETER.
W. M. H. EDWARD BENTINCK. JAMES WEBBER, B.D. WILLIAM SHORT, D.D. JAMES TOURNAY, D.D. ANDREW BELL, D.D. GEORGE HOLCOMBE, D.D.
' Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough. "
Citizen of the World,
Oh, very reverend Dean and Chapter,
Exhibitors of giant men, Hail to each surplice-backed Adapter
Of England's dead, in her Stone den ! Ye teach us properly to prize
Two-shilling Grays, and Gays, and Handels, And, to throw light upon our eyes
Deal in Wax Queens like old wax candles.
" When like a lobster boiled, the mom From black to red began to turn," Till midnight, when I went to bed, And clapped my tewah-diddle on my head.
Who is there cannot tell Thou lead'st a life of living well ? " What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire. Lives half so well as a holy Fiy-er ?" In doing well thou must be reckon'd The first, and Mrs. Fry tlie second ; And twice ajob — for in thy feverish toils Thou wast all over roasts, as well as boils.
Thou wast indeed no dunce. To treat thy subjects and thyself at once. Many a hungry poet eats
His brains like thfee,
But few there be Could live so long on their receipts. What living soul or sinner Would slight thy invitation to a dinner.
54 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER
Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file.
Call in your shillings, two and two ; March with them up the middle aisle,
And cloister tliem from public view. Yours surely are the dusty dead.
Gladly ye look firom bust to bust, Setting a price on each great head,
To make it come down with the dust.
Oh, as I see you walk along
In ample sleeves and ample back A pursy and well-ordered throng.
Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black ! In vain I strive me to be dumb —
You keep each bard Hke fatted kid. Grind bones for bread like Fee faw fum !
And drink from skulls as Byron did !
Ought with the Dana'ides to dwell,
Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear Forever in his ear
The pleasant tinkling of thy dinner bell.
Immortal Kitchener ! thy fame
Shall keep itself when Time makes game Of other men's. Yea, it shall keep all weathers, And thou shalt be upheld by the pen-feathers. Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly,
Thy name shall perish never,
But be magnified forever, By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly
Yea, till the world is done
To a turn, and Time puts out the Sun,
Shall live the endless echo of thy name.
But as for thy more fleshy frame,
Oh, Death's carnivorous teeth will tittle
Thee out of breath, and eat it for cold victual.
But still thy fame shall be among the nations
Preserved to the last course of generations.
Ah, me ! my soul is touched with sorrow
To think how flesh must pass away ;
So mutton that is warm to-day
Is cold and turned to hashes on the morrow !
Farewell ; I would say more, but I
Have other fish to fi-y.
"OF^ WESTMINSTER.^ 55 '
The profitable Abbey is
A. sacred 'Change for stony stock, Not that a speculation 'tis — ■
The profit's founded on a rock^ Death, Dean, and Doctors, in each nave
Bony investments have inurned ! And hard 'twould be to find a grave
From which "no money is returned !"
Here many a pensive pilgrim, brought
By reverence for those learned bones, Shall often come and walk your short
Two-shilling* fare upon the stones. — Ye have that taUsman of Wealth,
Which puddling chemists sought of old. Till ruined out of hope and health ; —
The Tomb's the stone that turns to gold !
Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat
Your dinners from your ovm dead race, Think Gray, preserved, a " funeral meat,"
And Dryden, deviled, after grace, A reUsh ; — and you take your meal
From Rare Ben Jonson underdone, Or, whet your holy knives on Steele,
To cut away at Addison !
0 say, of all this famous age.
Whose learned bones your hopes expect, Oh have ye numbered Rydal's sage.
Or Moore among your Ghosts elect? Lord Byron was not doomed to make
You richer by his final sleep- Why don't ye warn the Great to take
Their ashes to no other heap ?
^Z 'wML"utch^^eS'& n.bg: to^mbsi/fallmg- (Note by the author.)
56 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER.
Southey's reversion have ye got ?
With Coleridge, for his body, made A bargain ? — has Sir Walter Scott,
Like Peter Schlemihl, sold his shade ? Has Rogers haggled hard, or sold
His features for your marble shows, Or Campbell bartered, ere he's cold.
All interest in his " bone repose?"
Rare is your show, ye righteous men !
■ Priestly Politos — rare, I ween ; But should ye not outside the Den
Paint up what in -it may be seen ? A long green Shakspeare, with a deer
Grasped in the many folds it died in — A Butler stuffed from ear to ear.
Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dry-den !
Paint Garrick up like Mr. Papp,
A Giant of some inches high ; Paint Handel up, that organ chap,
With you, as grinders, itf his eye ; Depict some plaintive antique thing,
And say th' original may be seen ; — Bhnd Milton with a dog and string
May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green !
Put up in Poet's Corner, near
The little door, a platform small ; Get there a monkey — never fear,
You'll catch the gapers one and all ! Stand each of ye a Body Guard,
A Trumpet under either fin. And yell away in Palace Yard
" All dead ! All dead ! Walk in ! Walk in 1"
(But when the people are inside, Their money paid — I pray you, bid
The keepers not to mount and ride A race around each coffin lid. —
Poor Mrs. Bodkin thought last year. That it was hard — the woman clacks —
ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQUIRE. 57
To have so little in her ear — And be so hurried through the Wax \ — )
" Walk in ! two shillings only ! come !
Be not by country grumblers funked ! — Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb !
The Cheapest House for the defunct !" Write up, 'twill breed some just reflection.
And every rude surmise 'twill stop — Write up, .that you have no connection
(In large) — with any other shop !
And still, to catch the Clowns the more,
With samples of your shows in Wax, Set some old Harry near the door
To answer queries with his axe. — Put up some general begging-tfunk —
Since the last broke by some mishap. You've all a bit of General Monk,
From the respect you bore his Cap !
ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQUIRE,
SECRETARY TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION OF MENDICITY*
"This is your charge — you shall comprehend all vagrom men."
Much Ado About Nothing,
Hail, King of Shreds and Patches, hail,
Disperser of the Poor ! Thou Dog in office, set to bark
All beggars from the door !
* The Society for the Suppression of Mendicity was instituted in 1813. Mr. Bodkin made himself notorious by his active prosecution of beggars and vaga- bonds.
58 ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQUIRE.
Great overseer of overseers, And Dealer in old rags !
Thy public duty never fails, Thy ardour never flags !
Oh, when I take my walks abroad. How many Poor I miss I
Had Doctor Watts walked now-a-days He would have written this !
So well thy Vagrant catchers prowl, So clear thy caution keeps
The path — O, Bodkin, sure thou hast The eye that never sleeps !
No Belisarius pleads for alms,
No Benbow lacketh legs ; The pious man in black is now
The only man that begs !
Street-Handels are disorganized, Disbanded every band ! —
The silent scraper at the door Is scarce allowed to stand !
The Sweeper brushes with his broom, The Carstairs with his chalk
Retires — the Cripple leaves his stand, But cannot sell his walk.
The old Wall-blind resigns the wall, The Camels hide their humps.
The Witherington without a leg Mayn't beg upon his stumps !
Poor Jack is gone, that used to doff
His battered tattered hat, And show his dangling sleeve, alas !
There seemed no arm in that 1
ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQUIRE. 59
Oh ! it was such a sm to air
His true blue naval rags, Glor/s own trophy, like St. Paul,
Hung round with holy flags !
Thou knowest best. I meditate,
My Bodkin, no offence ! Let us, henceforth, but guard our pounds.
Thou dost protect our pence !
Well art thou pointed 'gainst 'the Poor,
For, when the Beggar Crew Bring their petitions, thou art paid.
Of course, to " run them through."
Doubtless thou art what Hamlet meant
To wretches the last friend : What ills can mortals have, they can't
"With a bare Bodkin" end?
WHIMS AND ODDITIES.
" O Cicero ! Cicero ! if to pun be a crime, 'tis a crime I have learned of thee. O Bias ! Bias ! if to pun be a.crime, by tliy example I was biassed."
SCRIBLERUS.
TO THE 'REVIEWERS.
What is a modern Poefsfate ? To write his thoughts upon a slate ;- The Critic spits on what is done, — Gives it a wipe, — and all is gone.
MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S.
The man that pays his pence, and goes
Up to thy lofty cross, St. Paul, Looks over London's naked nose, Women and men : The world is all beneath his ken.
He sits above the Ball. He seems on Mount Olympus' top, Among the Gods, by Jupiter ! and lets drop
His eyes from the empyreal clouds
On mortal crowds.
II. Seen from these skies. How small those emmets in our eyes ! Some carry little sticks — and one His eggs — to warm them in the sun :
REFLECTIONS ON THE CROSS OF ST. PAUL'S. Cl
Dear ! what a hustle,
And bustle ! And there's my aunt. I know her by her waist,
So long and thin,
And so pinched in, Just in the pismire taste.
III.
Oh ! what are men ? — Beings so small,
That, should I fall
Upon their little heads, I must Crush them by hundreds into dust !
IV.
And what is life ? and all its ages —
There's seven stages ! Tumham Green ! Chelsea ! Putney ! Fulham ! Brentford ! and Kew ! And Tooting, too ! And oh ! what very little nags to pull 'em. Yet each would seem a horse indeed.
If here at Paul's tip-top we'd got 'em ; Although, like Cinderella's breed.
They're mice at bottom. Then let me not despise a horse. Though he looks small from Paul's high cross 5 Since he would be, — as near the sky, — Fourteen hands high.
What is this world with Loudon in its lap ?
Mogg's Map. The Thames that ebbs and flows in its broad channel?
A iidy kennel. The bridges stretching from its banks ?
' Stone planks. Oh me ! hence could I read an admonition
To mad Ambition ! But that he would not listen to my call, Though I should stand upon the cross, and l-a///
62
A VALENTINE.
Oh ! cruel heart ! ere these posthumous papers Have met thine eyes, I shall be out of breath ;
Those cruel eyes, like two funereal tapers, Have only lighted me the way to death.
Perchance, thou wilt extinguish them in vapours, When I am gone, and green grass covereth
Thy lover, lost ; but it will be in vain —
It will not bring the vital spark again,
II.
Ah ! when those eyes, like tapers, burned so blue, It seemed an omen that we rhust expect
The sprites of lovers : and it boded true. For I am half a sprite — a ghost elect ;
Wherefore I write to thee this last adieu. With my last pen — before that I effect
My exit from the stage ; just stopped before
The tombstone steps that lead us to death's door.
III.
Full soon these living eyes, now liquid bright, Will turn dead dull, and wear no radiance, save
They shed a dreary and inhuman light,
Illumed within by glow-worms of the grave ;
These ruddy cheeks, so pleasant to the sight, These lusty legs, and all the limbs I have.
Will keep Death's carnival, and, foul or fresh,
Must bid farewell, a long farewell, to flesh !
IV.
Yea, and this very heart, that dies for thee, As broken victuals to the worms will go ;
And all the world will dine again but me — For I shall have no stomach ; — and I know.
A VALENTINE. 63
When I am ghostly, thou wilt sprightly be
As now thou art ; but will not tears of woe Water thy spirits, with remorse adjunct. When thou dost pause, and think of the defunct?
V.
And when thy soul is buried in a sleep, In midnight solitude, and little dreaming
Of such a spectre — what, if I should creep Within thy presence in such dismal seeming ?
Thine eyes will stare themselves awake, and weep. And thou wilt cross thyself with treble screaming,
And pray, with mingled penitence and dread
That I were less alive — or not so dead.
VI.
Then will thy heart confess thee, and reprove This wilful homicide which thou hast done :
And the sad epitaph of so much love Will eat into thy heart, as if in stone :
And all the lovers that.around thee move. Will read my fate, and tremble for their own ;
And strike upon their heartless breasts, and sigh, .
" Man, born of woman, must of woman die 1"
VII.
Mine eyes grow dropsical— I can no more — And what is written thou may'st scorn to read,
Shutting thy tearless eyes. — 'Tis done — 'tis o'er — My hand is destined for another deed.
But one last word wrung from its aching core. And my lone heart in silentness will bleed ;
Alas ! it ought to take a life to tell
That one last word — that fare — ^fare — fare thee well!
64
LOVE.
O Love ! what art thou, Love ? the ace of hearts, Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits j
A player, masquerading many parts
In life's odd carnival ; — A boy that shoots,
From ladies' eyes, such mortal woundy darts ; A gardener, pulling heart's-ease up by the roots ;
The Puck of Passion — partly false — part real —
A marriageable maiden's " beau-ideal."
O.Love, what art thou. Love ? a wicked thing. Making green misses spoil their work at school ;
A melancholy man, cross-gartering ?
Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool ?
A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring ? A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool ?
A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel,
Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ?
O Love ! what art thou, Love ? one that is bad With palpitations of the heart — like mine —
A poor bewildered maid, making so sad A necklace of her garters — fell design !
A poet, gone unreasonably mad.
Ending his sonnets with a hempen line ?
O Love ! — but whither now ? forgive me, pray ;
I'm not the first that Love hath led astray.
" PLEASE TO RING THE BELLE."
I.
I'll tell you a story that's not in Tom Moore : — • Young I^ove likes to knock at a pretty girl's door s So he call'd upon Lucy — 'twas just ten o'clock — Like a ssruce single man, with a smart double kuoek.
A RECIPE— FOR CIVILIZATION. <J^
Now, a handmaid, whatever her fingers be at, Will run like a puss when she hears a rat-tdX : So Lucy ran up — and in two seconds more Had questioned the stranger and answered the door.
III.
The meeting was bliss ; but the parting was woe ; For the moment will come when such corners must go : So she kissed him, and whispered — poor innocent thing— " The next time you come, love, pray come with a ring."
A RECIPE— FOR CIVILIZATION.
The following Poem— is from the Pen of DOCTOR KITCHENER !— the
most heterogeneous of Authors, but at the same time — in the Sporting
Latin of Mr. Egan, — a real 'Romo-genius, or a Genius of a Man ! in the
Poem, his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual, toils over! and
i malces it seem written, as he describes himself (see The Cook's Oracle) —
s with the Spit in one hand ! — and the Frying-Pan in the other, — While in
the style of the rhymes it is Hudibrastic, as if in the ingredients of
Versification, he had been assisted by his BUTLER !
As a Head Cook, Optician — Physician, Music Master — -Domestic Economist and Death -bed Attorney ! — I have celebrated The Author elsewhere with
approbation : — And cannot now place him upon the Table as a Poet,
without sti-ll being his LAUDER, a phrase which those persons whose course of classical reading recalls the INFAMOUS FORGERY on The Immortal Bard of Avon ! will find easy to understand.
Surely, those sages err who teach That man is known from brutes by speech, Which hardly severs man from wSman, But not th' inhuman from the human, — Or else might parrots claim affinity. And dogs be doctors by latinity, — Not t' insist, (as might be shown,) That beasts have gibberish of their own, Which once was no dead tongue, th&ugh we Since ^sop's days have lost the key ; Nor yet to hint dumb men, — and, still, not Beasts that could gossip though they will not,
5
66 A RECIPE— FOR CIVILIZATION.
But play at dummy like the monkeys,
For fear mankind should make them flunkies
Neither can man be known by feature
Or form, because so like a creature,
That some grave men could never shape
Which is the aped and which the ape,
Nor by his gait, nor by his height.
Nor yet because he's black or white,
But rational, — for so we call
The only Cooking Animal !
The only one who brings his bit
Of dinner to the pot or spit,
For Where's the lion e'er was hasty,
To put his ven'son in a pasty ?
Ergo, by logic, we repute.
That he that cooks is not a brute, —
But Equus brutum est, which means,
If a horse had sense he'd boil his beans,
Nay, no one but a horse would forage
On naked oats instead of porridge,
Which proves if brutes and Scotchmen' vary,
The difference is culinary.
Further, as man is known by feeding
From brutes, — so men from men, in breedings
Are still distinguished as they eat.
And raw in manners raw in meat, —
Look at the pohshed nations hight
The civilized — the most polite
Is that which bears the praise of nations
For dressing eggs two hundred fashions,
Whereas, at savage feeders look, —
The less refined the less they cook ;
From Tartar grooms that merely straddle
Across a steak and warm their saddle,
Down to the Abyssinian squaw.
That bolts her chops and coUops raw,
And, like a wild beast, cares as little
To dress her person as her victual, —
For gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets,
Are beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets,
And not by shamble bodies put on.
But those who roast and boil their mutton ;
A RECIPE—FOR CIVILIZATION. 6 J
So Eve and Adam wore no dresses
Because they lived on -Watercresses,
And till they learried to cook their crudities,
Went blind as beetles to their nudities.
For niceness comes from th' inner side,
(As an ox is drest before his hide,)
And when the entrail loathes vulgarity
The outward man will soon cull rarity,
Por 'tis th' effect of what we eat
To make a man look like his meat,
As insects show their food's complexions ;
Thus fopling's clothes are like confections :
But who, to feed a jaunty coxcomb.
Would have an Abyssinian ox come ?—
Or serve a dish bi fricassees,
To clodpoles in a coat of frieze ?
Whereas a black would call for buffalo
Alive — and, no doubt, eat the offal too.
Now (this premised) it follows then
That certain culinary men
Should first go forth with pans and spits
To bring the heathens to their wits,
(For all wise Scotchmen of our century
Know that first steps are alimentary ;
And, as we have proved, flesh pots and saucepans
Must pave the way for Wilberforce plans ;)
But Bunyan erred to think the near gate
To take man's soul, was battering Ear gate.
When reason should have worked her course
As men of war do — when their force
Can't take a town by open courage,
They steal an entry with its forage.
What reverend bishop, for example,
Could preach horned Apis from his temple ?
Whereas a cook would soon unseat him.
And make his own churchwardens eat him.
Not Irving could convert those vermin,
Th' Anthropophages, by. a sermon ;
Whereas your Osborne,* in a trice.
Would " take a shin oif beef and spice," —
* Cook to the late Sir Joseph Banks.
68 A RECIPE— FOR CIVILIZATION.
And raise them such a savoury smother,
No Negro would devour his brother,
But turn his stomach round as loth .
As Persians, to the old black broth, —
For knowledge oftenest makes an entry,
As well as true love, through the pantry.
Where beaux that came at first for feeding
Grow gallant men and get good breeding ; —
Exempli gratia — in the West,
Ship-traders say there swims a nest
Lined with black natives, like a rookery,
But coarse as carrion crows at cookery. —
This race, though now call'd O. Y. E. men,
(To show they are more than A. B. C. men,)
Was once so ignorant of our knacks
They laid their mats upon their backs,
And grew their quartern loaves for luncheon
On trees that baked them in the sunshine.
As for their bodies, they were coated,
(For painted things are so denoted ;)
But, the naked truth is stark primevals,
That said their prayers to timber devils,
Allowe J polygamy — dwelt in wigwams, —
And, when they meant a feast, ate big yams,—
And why ? — because their savage nook
Had ne'er been visited by Cook, —
And so they fared till our great chief,
Brought them, not Methodists, but beef
In tubs, — and taught them how to live,
Knowing it was too soon to give.
Just then, a homily on their sins,
(For cooking ends ere grace begins,)
Or hand his tracts to the untractable
Tin they could keep a more exajct table—
For nature has her proper courses.
And wild men must be backed like horses,
Which, jockeys know, are neyer fit
For riding till they've had a bit
F the mouth ; but then, with proper tackle,
You may trot them to a tabernacle.
Ergo (I say) he first made changes
In the heathen modes, by kitchen ranges,
1
THE LAST MAN. 6g
And taught the king's cook, by convincing Process, that chewing was not mincing. And .in her black fist thrust a bundle Of tracts abridged from Glasse and Rundell, Where, ere she had read beyond Welsh rabbits, She saw the spareness of her habits, And round her loins put on a striped Towel, where fingers might be wiped, And then her breast clothed like her ribs, (For aprons lead of course to bibs,) And, by the time she had got a meat- Screen, veiled her back, too, from the heat- As for her gravies and her sauces, (Though they reformed the royal fauces,) Her forcemeats and ragouts, — I praise not, Because the legend further says not, Except, she kept each Christian high-day. And once upon a fat good Fry-day Ran short of logs, and told the Pagan That turn'd the spit, to chop up Dagon !
THE LAST MAN.
'TwAS in the year two thousand and one,
A pleasant morning of May,
I sat on the gallows-tree all alone,
A chaunting a merry lay, —
To think how the pest had spared my life,
To sing with the larks that day !
When up the heath came a jolly knave, Like a scarecrow, all in rags : It made me crow to see his old duds All abroad in the wind, like flags : — So up he came to the timber's foot And pitched down his greasy bags.
Good Lord! how blithe the old beggar was! At pulling out his scraps, — The ,very sight of his broken orts Made a work in his wrinkled chaps :
jo THE LAST MAN.
" Come down," says he, " you Newgate bird, And have a. taste of my snaps !"
Then down the rope, like a tax from the mast,
I slided, and by him stood j
But I wished myself on the gallows again
When I smelt that beggar's food,
A foul beef-bone and a mouldy crust ;
" Oh \" quoth he, " the heavens are good !"
Then after this grace he cast him down :
Says I, " You'll get sweeter air
A pace or two off, on the windward ^ide,"
For the felons' bones lay there.
But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls,
And offer'd them part of his fare.
" I never harm'd f^efn, and they wont harm me :
Let the proud and the rich be cravens !"
I did not like that strange beggar man,
He looked so up a:t the heavens.
Anon he shook out his empty old poke ;
" There's the crumbs," saith he, " for the ravens !"
It made me angry to see his face, i
It had such a jesting look ;
But while I made up my mind to speak,
A small case-bottle he took :
Quoth he, " Though I gather the green watercress,
My drink is not of the brook !"
Full manners-like he tendered the dram ;
Oh, it came of a dainty cask !
But whenever it came to his turn to pull,
" Your leave, good sir, I must ask ;
But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve,
When a hangman sups at my flask !"
And then he laughed so loudly and long.
The churl was quite out of breath ;
I thought the very Old One was come
To mock me before my death,
And wished I had buried the dead men's boaes
That were lying about the heath !
THE LAST MAN. yi
But the beggar gave me a jolly clap — " Come, let us pledge each other, For all the wide world is dead beside, 'And we are brother and brother — I've a yearning for thee in my heart, As if we had come of one mother.
" I've a yearning for thee in my heart Thdt almost makes me weep. For as I passed from town to town The folks were all stone-asleep, — But when I saw thee sitting aloft. It made me both laugh and leap !" '
Now a curse (I thought) be on his love,
And a curse upon his mirth, —
An' if it were not for that beggar man
I'd be the King of the earth, —
But I promised myself an hour should come
To make him rue his birth —
So down we sat and boused again
Till the sun was in mid-sky.
When, just when the gentle west-wind came,
We hearkened a dismal cry ;
" Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man,
" Till these horrible dogs go by !"
And lo ! from the forest's far-off skirts,
They came all yelling for gore,
A hundred hounds pursuing at once.
And a panting hart before.
Till he sunk down at the gallows' foot.
And there his haunches they tore I
His haunches they tore, without a horn To tell when the chase was done ; And there was not a single scarlet coat To flaunt it in the sun ! — I turned, and looked at the beggar man, And his tears dropt one by one !
72 . THE LAST MAN
And with curses sore he chid at the hounds,
Till the last dropt out of sight ;
Anon, saith he, " Let's down again.
And ramble for our delight.
For the world's all free, and we may choose
A right cozy bam for to-night !"
With that, he set up his staff on end, And it fell with the point due West ; So we fared that way to a city great, Where the folks had died of the pest- It was fine to enter in house and hall, Wherever it liked me best ; —
For the porters all were stiff and cold,
And could not lift their heads ;
And when we came where their masters lay.
The rats leapt out of the beds :
The grandest palaces in the land
Were as free as workhouse sheds.
But the beggar man made a mumping face,
And knocked at every gate :
It made me curse to hear how he whined,
So our fellowship turned to hate,
And I bade him walk the world by himself.
For I scorned so humble a mate !
So he turned right, and / turned left,
As if we had never met ;
And I chose a fair stone house for myself,
For the city was all to let ;
And for three brave holidays drank my fill
Of the choicest that I could get.
And because my jerkin was coarse and worn,
I got me a proper vest ;
It was purple velvet, stitched o'er with gold,
And a shining star at the breast ! —
'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave
To see me so purely drest !
THE LAST MAN. . 73
But Joan was dead and under the mould,
And every buxom lass ;
In vain I watched, at the window pane,
For a Christian soul to pass !
But sheep and kine wandered up the street.
And browsed on the new-come grass.
When lo ! I spied the old beggar man,
And lustily he did sing ! —
His rags were lapped in a scarlet cloak,
And a crown he had like a King ;
So he stepped right up before my gate
And danced me a saucy fling !
Heaven mend us all ! — but, within my mind, I had killed him then and there ; To see him lording so braggart-like That was bom to his beggar's fare. And how he had stolen the royal crown His betters were meant to wear.
But God forbid that a thief should die
Without his share of the laws !
So I nimbly whipt my tackle out.
And soon tied up his claws, —
I was judge, myself, and jury, and all.
And solemnly tried the cause.
But the beggar man would not plead, but cried
Like a babe without its corals.
For he knew how hard it is apt to go
When the law and a thief have quarrels, —
There was not a Christian soul alive
To speak a word for his morals.
Oh, how gaily I doffed my costly gear.
And put on- my work-day clothes ;
I was tired of such a long Sunday life, —
And never was one of the sloths ;
But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal.
And made many crooked mouths.
74 THE LAST MAN.
So I hauled him oflf to the gallows' foot,
And blinded him in his bags ;
'Twas a weary job to heave him up,
For a doomed man always lags ;
But by ten of the clock he was off his legs
In the wind, and airing his rags !
So there he hung, and there I stood,
The LAST MAN left alive.
To have my own will of all the earth ;
Quoth I, now I shall thrive !
But when was ever honey made
With one bee in a hive ?
My conscience began to gnaiw my heart.
Before the day was done.
For other men's lives had all gone out,
Like candles in the sun ! —
But it seemed as if I had broke, at last,
A thousand necks in one !
So I went and cut his body down
To bury it decentlie ; —
God send there were any good soul alive
To do the like by me !
But the wild dogs came with terrible speed,
And bade me up the tree !
My sight was like a drunkard's sight, And my head began to swim, To see their jaws all white with foam, Like the ravenous ocean brim : — But when the wild dogs trotted away Their jaws were bloody and grim !
Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord !
But the beggar man, where was he ? —
There was naught of him but some ribbons of rags
Below the gallows' tree.
I know the Devil, when I am dead,
Will send his hounds for me ! —
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.
I've buried my babies one by one, And dug the deep hole for Joan, And covered the faces of kith and kin, And felt the old churchyard stone Go cold to my heart, full many a time, But I never felt so lone !
For the lion and Adam were company, And the tiger- him beguiled : But the simple kine are foes to my life, And the household brutes are wild. If the veriest cur would lick my hand, I could love it like a child !
And the beggar man's ghost besets my dream
At night, to make me madder, —
And my wretched conscience within my breast
Is like a stinging- adder ;
I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot.
And look at the rope and ladder ! — ■
For hanging looks sweet, — ^but, alas ! in vain
My desperate fancy begs, —
I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up,
And drink it to the dregs, —
For there is not another man alive,
In the world, to pull my legs !
75
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.
AN OLD BALLAD.
Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade ; And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetched a walk one day. They met a press-gang crew ;
And Sally she did faint away. Whilst Ben he was brought to.
76 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.
The Boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint, That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.
" Come, girl," said he, " hold up your head, He'll be as good as me ; For when your swain is in our boat, A boatswain he will be."
So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf, ■She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.
" And is he gone, and is he gone ?'* She cried, and wept outright :
" Then I will to the water side, And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her, " Now, young woman," said he,
" If you weep on so, you will make Eye-water in the sea."
" Alas ! they've taken my beau Ben To sail with old Benbow ;"
And her woe began to run afresh, As if she'd said Gee woe !
Says he, " They've only taken him To the Tender ship, you see ;"
" The Tender ship," cried Sally Brown; " What a hard-ship that must be !
" Oh ! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him ; But oh ! — I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.
" Alas ! I was not bom beneath The Virgin and the Scales,
So I must curse my cruel stars, And walk about in Wales."
BACKING THE FAVOURITE. 77
Now Ben had sailed to many a place ■
Thaf s underneath the world ; But in two years the ship came home,
And all her sails were furled.
But when he called on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on, He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
" O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so ? I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow."
Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a bitter sigh, And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing " All's Well,"
But could not though he tried ; His head was turned, and so he chewed
His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell : They went and told the sexton, and
The sextor toll'd the bell.
BACKING THE FAVOURITE.
Om a pistol, or a knife ! For I'm weary of my life, —
My cup has nothing sweet left to flavour it; My estate is out at nurse, And my heart is like my purse, —
And all through backing of the Favourite 1
j8 BACKING THE FAVOURITE.
At dear O'Neil's first start, I sported all my heart, —
Oh, Becher, he never marred a braver hit ! For he crossed her in her race, And made her lose her place,
And there was an end of that Favourite !
Anon, to mend my chance, For the Goddess of the Dance*
I pined, and told my enslaver it ! — But she wedded in a canter, And made me a Levanter,
In foreign lands to sigh for the Favourite !
Then next Miss M. A. Tree I adored, so sweetly she
Could warble like a nightingale and quaver it, — But she left that course of life To be Mr. Bradshaw's wife,
And all the world lost on the Favourite !
But out of sorrow's surf Soon I leaped upon the turf.
Where fortune loves to wanton it and waver it ; — But standing on the pet, " O my bonny, bonny Bet !"
Black and yellow pulled short up with the Favourite !
Thus flung by all the crack, I resolved to cut the pack, —
The second-raters seemed then a safer hit ! So I laid my little odds Against Memnon ! O ye Gods 1
Am I always to be floored by the Favourite !
* The late favourite of the King's Theatre who left the pas seul of life for a perpetual Ball. Is not that her effigy now commonly borne about by the Italian . image vendors — an ethereal form holding a wreath with both hands above her head — and her husband, in emblem, beneath her foot ?
79
THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.
"Alas ! what perils do environ That man who meddles with a siren !" — Hubibras.
On Margate beach, where the sick one roams,
And the sentimental reads ; Where the maiden flirts, and the widow comes
Like the ocean — to cast her weeds ; —
Where urchins wander to pick up shells,
And the Cit to spy at the ships, — Like the water gala at Sadler's Wells, —
And the Chandler for watery dips ; —
There's a maiden sits by the ocean brim, . As lovely and fair as sin ! But woe, deep water and woe to him, That she snareth Uke Peter Fin !
Her head is crowned with pretty sea-wares, And her locks are golden and loose.
And seek to her feet, like other folks' heirs. To stand, of course, in her shoes 1
And all day long she combeth them well.
With a sea-shark's prickly jaw ; And her mouth is just hke a rose-lipped shell.
The fairest that man e'er saw !
And the Fishmonger, humble as love may be,
Hath planted his seat by her side ; " Good even, fair maid ! Is thy lover at sea,
To make thee so watch the tide ?"
She turned about with her pearly brows,
And clasped him by the hand ; " Qome, love, with me ; I've a bonny house
On the golden Goodwin Sand."
And then she gave him a siren kiss,
No honeycomb e'er^ was sweeter ; Poor wretch ! how little he dreamt for this
That Peter should be salt-Peter :
8o THE MERMAID OF MARGATE.
And away with her prize to the wave she leapt,
Not walking, as damsels do, With toe and heel, as she ought to have stept,
But she hopt like a Kangaroo ;
One plunge, and then the victim was blind. Whilst they gallopped across the tide ;
At last, on the bank he waked in his mind, , And the Beauty was by his side.
One half on the sand, and half in the sea.
But his hair began to stiffen ; For when he looked where her feet should be,
She had no more feet than Miss Biffen 1
But a scaly tail, of a dolphin's growth, In the dabbling brine did soak :
At last she opened her pearly mouth, Like an oyster, and thus she spoke :
" You crimpt my father, who was a skate,— And my sister you sold— ^a maid ;
So here remain for a fish'ry fate. For lost you are, and betrayed !"
And away she went, with a seagull's scream,
And A splash of her saucy tail ; In a moment he lost the silvery gleam
That shone on her gplendid mail !
The sun went down with a blood-red flame, And the sky grew cloudy and black.
And the tumbling billows like leap-frog came. Each over the other's back !
Ah me ! it had been a beautiful scene. With the safe terra-firma round^;
But the green water-hillocks all seem'd to him Like those in a churchyard ground ;
And Christians love in the turf to lie,
Not in watery graves to be ; Nay, the very fishes will sooner die
On the land than in the sea.
THE MERMAID OF MARGATE. 8l
And whilst he stood, the watery strife
Encroached on every hand, And the ground decreased, — his moments of life
Seemed measured, like Time's, by sand ;
And still the waters foamed in, like ale.
In front, and on either flank. He knew that Goodwin and Co. must fail,
There was such a run on the bank.
A little more, and a little more,
The surges came tumbling in. He sang the evening hymn twice o'er,
And thought of every sin !
Each flounder and plaice lay cold at his heart.
As cold as his marble slab ; 'And he thought he felt, in every part,
The pincers of scalded crab.
The squealing lobsters that he had boiled,
And the little potted shrimps. All the horny prawns he had ever spoUed,
Gnawed into his soul, like imps !
And the billows were wandering to and fro,
And the glorious sun was sunk, . And Day, getting black in the face, as though
Of the night-shade sli£ had drunk !
Had there been but a smuggler's cargo adrift.
One tub, or keg, to be seen, It might have given his spirits a lift
Or an anker where Hope might lean !
But there was not a box or a beam afloat.
To raft him from that sad place ; Not a skiff, not a yawl, or a mackerel boat.
Nor a smack upon Neptune's face.
At last, his lingering hopes to buoy,
He saw a sail and a mast. And called " Ahoy !" — but it was not a boy,
And so the vessel went past. .
82 AS IT FELL UPON A DAY.
And with saucy wing that flapped in his face.
The wild bird about him flew, With a shrilly scream, that twitted his case,
" Why, thou art a sea-gull too !"
And lo ! the tide was over his feet ;
Oh ! his heart began to freeze. And slowly to pulse : — ^in another beat
The wave was up to his knees !
He was deafened amidst the mountain top^ And the salt spray blinded his eyes,
And washed away the other salt drops That grief had caused to arise : —
But just as his body was all afloat, And the surges above him broke,
He was saved from the hungry deep by a boat Of Deal— (but builded of oak.)
The skipper gave him a dram, as he lay, And chafed his shivering skiti j
And the Angel returned that was flying away With the spirit of Peter Fin !
AS IT FELL UPON A DAY.
Oh ! what's befallen !Bessy Brown, She stands so squalling in the street j
She's let her pitcher tumble down, And all the water's at her feet !
The little schoolboys stood about,
And laughed to see her pumping, puiiiping j Now with a curtsey to the spout.
And then upon her tiptoes jumpifig.
Long time she waited for her neighbours To have their turns : — but she must lose
The watery wages of her labours,''^ Except a little in her shoes 1
A Pairy tale. ^3
Without a voice to tell her tale,
And ugly transport in her face ; All like a jugless nightingale,
She thinks of her bereaved case.
At last she sobs — she cries — she screams !-^
And pours her flood of sorrows out, From Eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,
Just like the lion on the spout
For well poor Bessy knows her mother
Must lose her tea, for water's lack, That Sukey burns — and baby-brother
Must be dry-rubbed with huck-a-back !
A FAIRY TALE.
On Hounslow Heath — and close beside the road. As western-travellers may oft have seen, — A little house some years ago there stood,
A miniken abode ; And built like Mr. Birkbeck's all of wood : The walls of white, the window-shutters green, — Four wheels it hath at North, South, East, and West,
(Though now at rest) On which it used to wander to and fro, Because its master ne'er maintain'd a. rider,
Like those who trade in Paternoster Row; But made his business travel for itself.
Till he had made his pelf. And then retired — if one may call it so,
Of a roadsider.
Perchance, the very race and constant riot Of stages, long and short, which thereby ran, Made him more relish the repose and quiet
Of his now sedentary caravan ;• ,
Perchance, he loved the 'ground because 'twas common,
And so he might impale a strip of soil That furnished, by his toil, Some dusty greens, for him and his old woman j^^
84 A FAIRY TALE.
And five tall hollyhocks, m dingy flower, Howbeit, the thoroughfare did no ways spoil His peace, unless, in some unlucky hour, A stray horse came, and gobbled up his bow'r.
But tired of always looking at the coaches.
The same to come, — when they had seen them one day!
And, used to brisker life, both man and wife Began to suffer N U E's approaches, And feel retirement like a long wet Sunday, — So, having had some quarters of school breeding. They turned themselves, like other folks, to reading ; But setting out where others nigh have done, And being ripened in the seventh stage,
The childhood of old age, Began, as other children have begun, — Not with the pastorals of Mr. Pope,
Or Bard of Hope, Or Paley ethical, or learned Porson, — But spelt, on Sabbaths, in St. Mark, or John, And then- relax'd' themselves with Whittington,
Or Valentine and Orson — But chiefly fairy tales they loved to con, And being easily melted- in their (Jotage,
Slobber' d, — and kept
Reading, — and wept Over the white Cat, in their wooden cottage.
Thus reading on — the longer They read, of course, their childish faith grew stronger In Gnomes, and Hags, and Elves, and Giants grim, — If talking Trees and Birds revealed to him. She saw the flight of Fairyland's fly-waggons,
And magic fishes swim In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons, — Both were quite dnmk from the enchanted flagons ; When as it fell upon a summer's day,
As the old man sat a feeding On the old babe-reading. Beside his open streef-and-parlour door,
A hideous roar Proclaimed a drove of beasts was coming by the way.
A FAIRY TALE. 85
Long-horned, and short, of many a different breed, Tall, tawny brutes, from famous Lincoln-levels
Or Durham feed ; With some of those unquiet black dwarf devils
From nether side of Tweed,
Or Firth of Forth ; Looking half wild with joy to leave the North, — With dusty hides, all mobbing on together, — When, — ^whether from a fly's malicious comment Upon his tender flank, from which he shrank ;
Or whether Only in some enthusiastic moment, — However, one brown monster, in a frisk, Giving his tail a perpendicular whisk, Kicked out a passage through the beastly rabble ; And after a pas seul, — or, if you will, a Horn-pipe before the Basket-maker's villa.
Leapt o'er the tiny pale, — Backed his beefsteaks against the wooden gable, And thrust his brawny bell-rope of a tail
Right o'er the page.
Wherein the sage . Just then was spelling some romantic fable.
The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce.
Could not peruse, — who could ? — two tales at once ;
And being huffed At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft ;
Banged-to the door. But most unluckily enclosed a morsel Of the intruding tail, and all the tassel : —
The monster gave a roar. And bolting off with speed increased by pain, The little house became a coach once more, And, hke Macheath, " took to the road" again!
Just then, by fortune's whimsical decree, The ancient woman stooping with her crupper Towards sweet home, or where sweet home should be, Was getting up some household herbs for supper ; Thoughtful of Cinderella, in the tale, And quaintly wondering if magic shifts
86 THE FALL OF THE DEER.
Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, To turn it to a coach jr— what pretty gifts ' Might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail. Nor turned, till home had turned a comer, quite Gone out of sight !
At last, conceive her, rising from the ground, Weary of sitting on her russet clothing And looking round Where rest was to be found. There was no house — no villa there — no nothing ! No liouse ! The change was quite amazing ; It made her senses stagger for a minute, The riddle's explication seemed to harden ; But soon her superannuated fious Explain'd the horrid mystery ; — and raising Her hand to heaven, with the cabbage in it.
On which she meant to sup, — " Well ! this is Fairy Work ! I'll bet a farden, Little Prince Silverwings has ketch'd me up. And set me down in some one else's garden 1"
THE FALL OF THE DEER.
[From an old MS.]
Now the loud Crye is up, and harke ! The barkye Trees give back the Bark ; The House Wife heares the merrie rout. And runnes, — and lets the beere run out, Leaving her Babes to weepe, — for why ? She likes to heare the Deer Dogges crye, And see the wild Stag how he stretches The naturall Buck-skin of his Breeches, Running like one of Human kind Dogged by fleet Bailiffes close behind — As if he had not payde his Bill For Ven'son, or was owing stijl
DECEMBER AND MAY. 87
For his two Hornes, and soe did get Over his Head and Ears in Debt ; — Wherefore he strives to paye his Waye With his long Legges the while he maye :— But he is chased, like Silver Dish, As well as anye Hart may wish Except that one whose Heart doth beat So faste it hasteneth his Feet ; — And ninninge soe he holdeth Death Four Feet from him, — till his Breath Faileth, and slacking Pace at last, From runninge slow he standeth faste, With hornie Bayonettes at baye To baying Dogges around, and they Pushing him sore, he pusheth sore. And goreth them that seek his Gore, — Whatever Dogge his Home doth rive Is dead — as sure as he's alive ! Soe that courageous Hart doth fight With Fate, and calleth up his might. And standeth stout that he may fall Bravelye, and be avenged of all. Nor like a Craven yeeld his Breath Under the Jawes of Dogges and Death !
DECEMBER AND MAY,
" Crabbed Age and Youth cannot live together."
Shakspeare,
Said Nestor, to his pretty wife, quite sorrowful one day, " Why, dearest, will you shed in pearls those lovely eyes away, You ought to be more fortified." " Ah, brute, be quiet, do, I know I'm not so fortyfied, nor fiftyfied, as you 1
" Oh, men are vile deceivers all, as I have ever heard, You'd die for me you swore, and I — I took you at your word. I was a tradesman's widow then — a pretty change I've madej To live and, die the wife of ooe, a widower by trade 1"
jA*»|M*g-g«^JJJj
88 A WINTER NOSEGAY.
" Come, come, ray dear, these flighty airs declare, in sober truth, You want as much in age, indeed, as I can want in youth ; Besides, you said you liked old men, though now at me you huff." " Why, yes," she said, " and so I do— but you're not old enoughl"
" Come, come, my dear, let's make it up, and have a quiet hive ;
I'll be the best of men — I mean, I'll be the best alive I
Your grieving so will kill me, for it cuts me to the core.''
" I thank ye, sir, for telling. me — for now Pll grieve the morel"'
A WINTER NOSEGAY,
Oh, withered winter blossoms, " Dowager-flowers, — the December vanity,
In antiquated visages and bosoms.
What are ye planned for,
Unless to stand for Emblems, and peevish morals of humanity ?
There is my Quaker Aunt, A Paper-Flower,— -with a formal border
No breeze could e'er disorder. Pouting at that old beau — the Winter Cherry,
A puckered berry ; And Box, like a tough-lived annuitant, —
V"erdant alway — From quarter-day even to quarter-day; And poor old Honesty, as thin as want,
Well named^God- wot; Under the baptism of the water-pot. The very apparition of a plant ;
And why. Dost hold thy head so high.
Old Winter-Daisy ; Because thy virtue never was infirm,
Howe'er thy stalk be crazy ? That never wanton fly, or blighting worm. Made holes in thy most perfect indentation ?
'Tis likely that sour leaf,
To garden thief,
EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP. ?p
Forcepped or winged, was never a temptation ; —
Well, — still uphold thy wintry-reputation ;
Still shalt thou frown upon all lovers' trial :
And when, like Grecian maids, young maids of ours
Converse with fiow'rs, Then thou shalt be the token of denial.
Away ! dull weeds, Bom without beneficial use or needs ! Fit only to deck but cold winding sheets ; And then not. for the milkmaid's funeral-bloom,
Or fair Fidele's tomb
To tantaUze, — vile cheats ! Some prodigal bee, with hope of after-sweets,
Frigid and rigid.
As if ye never knew
One drop of de^, Or the warm sun resplendent ; Indifferent of culture and of care. Giving no sweets back to the fostering air, Churlishly independent^-
I hate ye, of all breeds ; Yea, all that live so selfishly — to self, And not by interchange of kindly deeds —
Hence ! — from my shelf !
EQUESTRIAN COURTSHIP.
It was a young maiden went forth to ride, And there was a wooer to pace by her side ; His horse was so little, and hers so high, He thought his Angel was up in the sky.
His love was great, though his wit was small ; He bade her ride easy — and that was all. The very horses began to neigh, — Because their betters had nought to say.
They rode by elm, and they rode by oak, , They rode by a churchyard, and then he spoke : " My pretty maiden, if you'll agree, You shall always amble through life with ine."
90 SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
The damsel answered him never a word,
But kicked the grey mare, and away she spurred.
The wooer still followed behind the jade,
And enjoyed— like a wooer — the dust she made.
They rode thro' moss, and they rode thro' more, —
The gallant behind and the lass before ; —
At last they came to a miry place.
And there the sad wooer gave up the chase.
Quoth he, " If my nag was better to ride,
I'd follow her over the world so wide.
Oh, it is not my love that begins to fail,
But I've lost the last glimpse*of the grey mare's tail !"
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.
Gables entangling her, Shipspars for mangling her, Ropes, sure of strangling her; Blocks over-dangling her ; Tiller to batter her, Topmast to shatter her, Tobacco to spatter her ; Boreas blustering. Boatswain quite flustering, Thunder-clouds mustering To blast her with sulphur — If the deep don't engulf her,; Sometimes fear's scrutiny Pries out a mutiny. Sniffs conflagration. Or hints at starvation :— All the sea-dangers, Buccaneers, rangers, Pirates and Salle-men, Algerine galleymen, Tornadoes and iyphons, And horrible syphons, And submarine travels Thro' roaring sea-navels.
SHE^IS FAR FROM THE LAND. gi
Everything wrong enough, Long-boat not long enough, Vessel not strong enough ; Pitch marring frippery, The deck very slippery. And the cabin— built sloping, The Captain a-toping, And the mate a blasphemer, That names his Redeemer, With inward uneasiness ; The cook known, by greasiness, The victuals beslubber'd. Her bed — in a cupboard ; Things of strange christening, gnatched in her Ustening, Blue lights and red lights And mention of dead-lights, And shrouds made a theme of, Things horrid to dream of, — And buoys in the water To fear all exhort her ; Her friend no Leander, Herself no sea-gander. And ne'er a cork jacket On board of the packet ; The breeze still a-stiffening, The trumpet quite deafening ; Thoughts of repentance, And doomsday and sentence ; Everything sinister, Not a church minister,-— Pilot a blunderer. Coral reefs under her. Ready to sunder her; Trunks tipsy-topsy, The ship in a dropsy ; Waves oversurging her. Sirens a-dirgeing her ; Sharks all expecting her, Swordfish dissecting her, Crabs with their hand-vices Punishing land vices j
ga THE STAG-EYED LADY.
Sea-dogs and unicorns, Things with no puny horns, Mermen carnivorous — " Good Lord deliver us 1"
THE STAG-EYED LADY.
A MOORISH TALE. Scheherazade immediately began the following stoiy.
Ali Ben Ali (did you never read
His wondrous acts that chronicles relate, —
How there was one in pity might exceed • The sack of Troy ?) magnificent he sate
Upon the throne of greatness — great indeed. For those that he had under him were great —
The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,
Was a Bashaw — Bashaws have horses' tails.
Ali was cruel — a most cruel one !
'Tis rumoured he had strangled his own mother — Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done,
'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother And sister too — but happily that none
Did live within harm's length of one another. Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze To endless night,, and shorten'd the Moon's days.
Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit.
And makes a bad man — absolutely bad. Made Ali wicked — to a fault : — 'tis fit
Monarchs should have some check-strings ; but he had No curb upon his will — no, not a bit —
Wherefore he did not reign well — and full glad His slaves had been to hang him — but they faltered, And let him live unhanged — and still unaltered,
Until he got a sage bush of a beard, Wherein an Attic owl might roost — a trail
THE_ STAG-E YED LAD V. g^
Of bristly hair — that, honoured and unsheared, Grew downward like old women and cow's tail,
Being a sign of age— some grey appeared,
Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale ;
But yet not so poetic as when Time
Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.
Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex
His royal bosom that he had no son,. No living child of the more noble sex,
To stand in his Morocco shoes — not one To make a negro-pollard — or tread necks
When he was gone — doomed, when his days were done, To leave the very city of his fame Without an Ali to keep up his name.
Therefore he chose a lady for his love, Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear ;
So called, because her lustrous eyes, above All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear ;
Then, through his Muftis piously he strove, And drummed with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear,
Knowing a boy for certain must come of it.
Or else he was not praying to his Profit.
Beer will grow molkery, and ladies fair Will grow like beer : so did that stag-eyed dame :
Ben Ali hoping for a son and heir,
Boyed up his hopes, and even chose a name
Of mighty hero that his child should bear ; He made so certain ere his chicken came :
But oh ! all worldly wit is little worth.
Nor knofveth what to-morrow will bring forth.
To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun
A little daughter to this world of sins, — j^/jj-fortunes never come alone — so one
■Brought on another, like a pair of twins ! Twins ! female twins !- — it was enough to stun
Their little wits and scare them from their skins To hear their father stamp, and curse and swear, Pulling his beard because he had no heir,
94 THE STAG-EYED LADV.
Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down This his paternal rage, and thus addrest :
" O ! most Serene ! why dost thou stamp and frown, And box the compass of the royal chest ?
Ah ! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own I love- to gaze on ! — Pr'ythee, thou hadst best
Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin
Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin !"
But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack
The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew ; He called his slaves to bring' an a;mple sack Wherein a woman might \iQ poked — z. few Dark grimly men felt pity and looked black . At this sad order ; but their slaveships knew When any dared demur, his sword so bending Cut off the " head and front of their offending."
For Ali had a sword, much like himself,- ^ A crooked blade, guilty of human gore —
The trophies it had lopped from many, an elf Were stuck at his head-o^zx'itTS, by the score —
Nor yet in peace he laid it on the shelf, But jested with it, and his wit cut sore ;
So that (as they of Public Houses speak)
He often did his dozen butts a week.
Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fear, Came with the sack the lady to enclose ; ,
In vain froni her stag-eyes " the big round tears Coursed one another down her innocent nose ;''
In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears ; Though there were some felt willing to oppose.
Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute,
Though 'twas a piteous case, they put her in it.
And when the sack was tied, some two or three Of these black undertakers slowly brought her
To a kind of Moorish Serpentine ; for she Was doom'd to have a winding sheet of water.
Then farewell, earth — farewell to the green tree — Farewell, the sun— the moon— each litde daughter 1
THE STAG-EYED LADY.
She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, Like a bag of Wall's End from a coalman's back.
The waters oped, and the wide sack full-filled All that the waters oped, as down it fell ;
Then closed the wave, and then the surface rilled A ring above her, like a water-knell ;
A moment more, and all its face was stiUed, And not a guilty heave was left to tell
That underneath its calm and blue transparence
A dame lay drownfed in her sack, like Clarence,
But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore,
The moon in black eclipse deceased that night. Like Desdemona smothered by the MoOr,
The lady's natal star with pale affiight Fainted and fell — and what were stars before, . Turned comets as the tale was brought to light : And all looked downward on the fatal wave. And made their own reflections on her grave.
Next night a head — a little lady head.
Pushed through the waters a most glassy face,
With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, Combed by live ivory, to show the space
Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace
Over their sleepy lids — and so she raised
Her aqucDivae: nose above the stream, and gazed.
She oped her lips — lips of a gentle blush,
So pale it seemed near drowned to a white,--—
She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush Of music bubbling through the surface light ;
The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush To listen to the air — and through the night
There come these words of a most plaintive ditty,
Sobbing as it would break all hearts with pity :
THE WATER PERl'S SONG.
Farewell, farewell, to my mothers own daughter, The child that she wet-nursed is lapped in the wave J
The Mussulman coming to fish in this water,.
Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her giave.
9S
96 REMONSTRATORY ODE.
This sack is her coffin, this water's hgr bier, This greyish bath cloak is her funeral pall ;
And, stranger, O stranger ! this song that you hear Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all !
Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,
My mother's own daughter— the last of her race-;r-
She's a corpse, the poor body ! and lies in this basin, And sleeps in the water that washes her face.
REMONSTRATORY ODE, '
FROM THE ELEPHANT" AT EXETER 'CHANGE, TO MR. MATHEWS, AT THE ENGLISH OPERA-HOUSE.
" See with what courteous action He becl<ons you to a more removed ground." — Hamlet,
[WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.]
Oh, Mr. Mathews ! Sir ! (If a plain elephant may speak his mind, And that I have a mind to speak I find
By my inward stir) I long have thought, and wished to say, that we Mar our well-merited prosperity
By being such near neighbours ; My keeper now hath lent me pen and ink, Shoved in my truss of lunch, and tub of drink,
And left me to my labours. The whole menagerie is in repose, The Coatamundi is in his Sunday clothes, Watching the Lynx's most unnatural doze ; The Panther is asleep and the Macaw ; The Lion is engaged on something raw ;
The white bear cools his chin
'Gainst the wet tin ; And the confined old Monke/s in the straw.
REMONS TRA TOR V ODE. gj
All the nine little Lionets are lying Slumbering in milk, and sighing ;
Miss Cross is sipping ox-tail soup,
In her front coop, So here's the happy mid-day moment ; — yes, I seize it, Mr. Mathews, to address
A word or two To you On the subject of the ruin which must come By both being in the Strand, and both at home On the same nights ; two treats
So very near each other,
As, oh my brother ! To play old gooseberry with both receipts.
11.
When you begin Your summer fun, three times a week, at eight, And carriages roll up, and cits roll in, I feel a change in Exeter 'Change's change. And, dash ftiy trunk, I hate To ring my bell, when you ring yours, and go With a diminished glory through my show !
It is most strange ; But crowds that meant to see me eat a stack, And sip a water-butt or so, and crack A root of mangel-wurzel with my foot, Eat little children's fruit.
Pick from the floor small coins. And then tiurn slowlyround andshow my India-rubber loins:
'Tis strange — most strange, but true. That these same crowds seek you I Pass my abode, and pay at your next door ! It makes me roar
With anguish when I think of this ; I go With sad severity my nightly rounds Before one poor front row, My fatal funny foe I And when I stoop, as duty bids, I sigh And feel that, while poor elephantine I
Pick up a sixpence, you pick up the pounds ! . . 7
9§ REMONSTRATdkY ODE.
in.
Could you not go ? Could you not take the Coburg or the Surrey 3 Or Sadler's Wells, — (I am not in a hurry, I never am !) for the next season ? — oh !
Woe ! woe ! woe ! To both of us, if we remain ; for not In silence will I bear my altered lot, To have you merry, sir, at my expense ;
No man of any sense. No true great person (and we both are great In our own ways) would tempt another's fate. I would myself depart In Mr. Cross's cart ;
But, like Othello, " am not easily moved." There's a nice house in Tottenham Court, they say, Fit for a single gentleman's small play ;
And more conveniently near your home :
You'll easily go and come. Or get a room in the City — in some street — Coachmaker's Hall, or the Paul's Head,
Cateaton Street ; Any large place, in short, in which to get your bread;
But do not stay, and get
Me into the Gazette !
IV.
Ah ! The Gazette ; I press my forehead with my trunk, and wet My tender cheek vnXh elephantine tears,
Shed of a walnut size
From my wise eyes. To think of ruin after prosperous years.
What a dread case would be
For me — large me ! To meet at Basinghall Street, the first and seventh
And the eleventh ! To undergo (D n !)
My last examination 1 To cringe, and to surrender, . Lilce a criminal offender,
kEMONSTRA TOR V ODE. 9^
All my effects — my bell-pull, and my bell, My bolt, my stock of hay, my new deal cell.
To post my ivory, sir ! And have some curious commissioner Very irreverently search my trunk ;
'Sdeath ! I should die With rage, to find a tiger in possession
Of my abode ; up to his yellow knees In my old straw j and my profound profession Entrusted to two beasts of assignees !
V.
The truth is simply this, — if you will stay
Under my very nose,
Filling your rows Just at my feeding time,, to see your play,
My mind's made up.
No more at nine I sup. Except on Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Fridays, Sundays,
From eight to .eleven.
As I hope for heaven, On Thursdays, and on Saturdays, and Mondays, FU squeak and roar, and grunt without cessation, And utterly confound your recitation. And, mark me ! all my friends of the furry snout
Shall join a chorus shout. We will be heard — we'll spoil Your wicked "ruination toil.
Insolvency must ensue
To you, sir, you ; Unless you move your opposition shop,
And let me stop.
VI.
I have no more to say :— I do not write In anger, but in sorrow ; I must look However to my interests every night,
And they detest your "Memorandum-book," if we could join our forces — I should like it j You do the dialogue, and I the songs. A voice to me belongs ;
loo THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
(The Editors of the Globe and Traveller ring With praises of it, when I hourly sing
God save the King.) If such a bargain could be schemed I'd strike it 1 I think, too, I could do the Welsh old man In the Youthful Days, if dressed upon your plan ; And the attorney in your Paris trip, —
I'm large about the hip ! Now think of this ! — for we cannot go on
As next door rivals, that my mind declares. I must be penniless, or you be gone ! We must live separate, or else have shares. I am a friend or foe As you take this ; Let me your profitable hubbub miss, Or be it " Mathews, Elephant, and Co. !"
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
1.
Alack ! 'tis melancholy theme to think How Learning doth in rugged states abide, And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink, In pensive glooms and comers, scarcely spied ; Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride. Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,. But with one lonely priest compelled to hide. In midst of foggy moors and mosses green. In that, clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen !
11.
This College looketh South and West alsoe. Because it hath a cast in windows twain ; Crazy and cracked they be, and wind doth blow Thorough transparent holes in every pane. Which Dan, with many paines, makes whole again With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach. To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain Stormeth, he puts, " once more unto the breach," Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. lor
III. And in the midst a little door there is, Whereon a board that doth congratulate With painted letters, red as blood I wis, Thus written,
" CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE :" And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate. Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak, And moans of infants that bemoan their fate. In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek, Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak.
IV.
For some are meant to right illegal wrongs, And some for Doctors of Divinitie, Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues, And so win academical degree ; But some are bred for service of the sea, Howbeit, their store of learning is but small. For mickle waste he counteth it would be To stock a head with bookish wares at all. Only to be knocked off by ruthless cannon ball.
V.
Six babes he sways,-^some little and some big, Divided into classes six ; — alsoe, He keeps a parlour boarder of a pig, That in the College fareth to and fro, And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below, — ■ And eke the learned rudiments they scan. And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know, — Hereafter to be shown in caravan. And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.
VI.
Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls. Whereof, above his head, some two or three Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls. But on the branches of no living tree. And overlook the learned family ;
103 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch, Drops feather on the nose of Dominie, Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge — now a birch,
VII.
No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue, Such as would magisterial hams imbed, But sitteth lowly on a beechen log. Secure in high authority and dread : Large, as a dome for learning, seemed his head, And like Apollo's, all beset with rays. Because his locks are so unkempt and red, And stand abroad in many several ways : — No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize,
viir.
And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue. That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue ; His nose, — it is a coral to the view; Well nourished with Pierian Potheen, — For much he loves his native mountain dew j — But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.
IX.
As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short As Spenser had, ere he composed his Tales ; But underneath he hath no vest, nor aught, So that the wind his airy breast assails ; Below, he wears the nether garb of males, Of crimson plush, but non-plushed at the knee ; — Thence further down the native red prevails, Of his own naked fleecy hosiery : — Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pee.
Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap His function in a magisterial gown.
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. . 103
That shows more countries in it than a map, — Blue tinct, and red, and green, and russet brown, Besides some blots, standing for country town ; And eke some rents, for streams and rivers wide ; But, sometimes, bashful when he looks a^own, He turns the garment of the other side, Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied !
XI.
And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, That lopk for shady or for sunny noon, Within his visage, like an almanack, — His quiet smile foretelling gracious boon : But when his mouth droops down, like rainy moon, With horrid chill each little heart unwarms, Knowing that infant show'rs will follow soon. And with forebodings of near wrath and storms They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms.
XII.
Ah ! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat « Corduroy Colloquy,"— or « Ki, Kse, Kod,"— Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat More sodden, though already made of sod. For Dan shall whip him with the word of God, — Severe by rule, and not by nature mild. He never spoils the child and spares the rod, But spoils the rod and never spares the child, And see with holy rule deems he is reconciled.
XIII.
But, surely, the just sky will never wink At men who take delight in childish throe. And stripe the nether-urchin like a pink Or tender hyacinth, inscribed with woe ; Such bloody Pedagogues, when they shall know. By useless birches, that forlorn recess. Which is no holiday, in Pit below. Will hell not seem designed for their jdistreSs, — A njelancholy place^ that is all bottonjlesse ?
104 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
XIV.
Yet would the Muse not chide the wholesome use Of needful discipline, in due degree. Devoid of sway, what wrongs will time produce, Whene'er the twig untrained grows up a tree. This shall a Carder, that a Whiteboy be, Ferocious leaders of atrocious bands. And Learning's help be used for infamie. By lawless clerks, that, with their bloody hands. In murdered English write Rock's murderous commands.
XV.
But ah ! what shrilly cry doth now alarm The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam, AH sudden fluttering from the brandished arm, And. cackling chorus with the human scream; Meanwhile, the scourge plies that unkindly seam, In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin. Like traitor cap in warlike fort, I deem, That falsely lets the fierce besieger in. Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other course to win.
XVI.
No parent dear he hath to heed his cries ; —
Alas ! his parent dear is far aloof, "
And deep his Seven-Dial cellar lies.
Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof ;
Or climbeth, catwise, on some London ro(Jf,
Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle,
Or, whilst he labours, weaves a fancy-woof.
Dreaming he sees his home,— his Phelim smile ;
Ah me ! that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while 1
XVII.
Ah ! who can paint that hard and heavy time. When first the scholar lists in learning's train. And mounts her rugged steep, enforced to climb, Like sooty imp, by sharp posterior pain. From bloody twig, and eke that Indian cane,
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. loj
Wherein, alas ! no sugared juices dwell, For this, the while one stripling's sluices drain Another weepeth over chilblains fell, Always upon the heel, yet never to be well 1
XVIII.
Anon a third, for his delicious root. Late ravished from his tooth by elder chit, So soon is human violence afoot. So hardly is the harmless biter bit ! Meanwhile, the tyrant, with untimely wit And mouthing face, derides the small one's moan, Who, all lamenting for his loss, doth sit. Alack, — mischance comes seldomtimes alone. But aye the worried dog must rue more curs than one.
XIX.
For lo ! the Pedagogue, with sudden drub, Smites his scald head, that is already sore, — Superfluous wound, — such is misfortune's rub ! Who straight makes answer with redoubled roar, And sheds salt tears twice faster than before, . That still with backward fist he strives to dry ; Washing, with brackish moisture, o'er and o'er. His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby, Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky.
XX.
So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, And with his natural untender knack. By new distress, bids former grievance cease, Like tears dried up with rugged huckaback. That sets the mournful visage all awrack ; Yet soon the childish countenance will shine Even as thorough storms the soonest slack. For grief and beef in adverse ways incline. This keeps, and that decays, when duly soaked in brine.
XXI.
Now all is hushed, and with a look profound, The Dominie lays ope the learned page ;
io6 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
(So be it called) although he doth expound Without a book both Greek and Latin sage ; Now telleth he of Rome's rude infant age, How Romulus was bred in savage wood By wet-nurse wolf, devoid of wolfish rage ; And laid foundation-stone of walls of mud, But watered it, alas ! with warm fraternal blood,
XXII.
Anon, he turns to that Homeric war. How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town ; And stout Achilles at his jaunting-car Dragged mighty Hector with a bloody crown : And eke the bard, that sung of their renown. In garb of Greece most beggar-like and torn. He paints, with colly, wand'rihg up and down. Because, at once, in seven cities born ; And so, of parish rights, was all his days forlorn-.
XXIII.
Anon, through old Mythology he goes, Of gods defunct, and all their pedigrees, But shuns their scandalous amours, and shows How Plato wise, and clear-eyed Socrates, Confessed not to those heathen hes and shes ; But through the clouds of the Olympic cope Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys. And owned their love was naught, and bowed to Pope, Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope.
XXIV.
From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside. To new philosophies, that still are green. And shows what railroads have been track'd to guide The wheels of great political machine ; If English corn should go abroad, I ween. And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet ; How many pigs be bom to each spalpeen ; And, ah ! how man shall thrive beyond his meat, — With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat !
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER, 107
XXV.
Here, he makes end \ and all the fry of youth, That stood around with serious look intense, Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth, Which they had opened to his eloquence, As if their hearing were a threefold sense ; But now the current of his words is done, And whether any fruits shall spring from thence, In future time, with any mother's son. It is a thing, God wot ! that can be told by none.
XXVI.
Now by the creeping shadows of the noon. The hour is come to lay aside their lore ; The cheerful Pedagogue perceives it soon, And cries, " Begone !" unto the imps,^ — and four Snatch their two hats, and struggle for the door. Like ardent spirits vented" from a cask. All blithe and boisterous, — but leave two more, , With Reading made Uneasy for a task. To weep, whilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask,
XXVII.
Like sportive Elfins, on the verdant sod. With tender moss so sleekly overgrown. That doth not hurt, but kiss, the sole unshod. So soothly kind is Erin to her own ! And one, at Hare and Hound, plays all alone, — Por Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow ; Ah ! Phelim's step-dame is a cankered crone ! Whilst other twain play at an Irish row. And,' with shillelah small, break one another's brow 1
XXVIII.
But careful Dominie, with ceaseless thrift, Now changeth ferula for rural hoe ; But, first of all, with tender hand doth shift His college gown, because of solar glow.
io8 THE SEA-SPELL.
And hangs it on a bush, to scare the crow : Meanwhile he plants in earth the dappled bean, Or trains the young potatoes all a-row, Or plucks the fragrant leek for pottage green, With that crisp curly herb called Kale in Aberdeen,
XXIX.
And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, Linked each to each by labour, like a bee ; Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs ; Would there were many more siich wights as he, To sway each capital academic Of Cam and Isis, for, alack ! at each There dwells, I wot, some dronish Dominie ; That does no garden work, nor yet doth teach, But wears a floury head, and talks in flow'ry speech !
THE SEA-SPELL.
" Cauld, cauld, hp lies beneath the deep."
Old Scotch Ballad.
It was a jolly mariner !
The tallest man of three, —
He loosed his sail against the wind,
And turned his boat to sea :
The ink-black sky told every eye
A storm was soon to be !
II.
But still that jolly mariner
Took in no reef at all.
For, in his pouch, confidingly
He wore a baby's caul ;
A thing, as gossip-nurses know,
That always brings a squall !
THE SEA-SPELL. 109
III.
His hat was new, or iiewly glazed. Shone brightly in the sun ; His jacket, like a mariner's, True blue, as e'er was spun ; His ample trousers, like St. Paul, Bore forty stripes save one.
IV.
And now the fretting foaming tide
He steered away to cross ;
The bounding pinnace played a game
Of dreary pitch and toss ;
A -game that, on the good dry land.
Is apt to bring a loss !
V.
Good Heaven befriend that little boat,
And guide her on her way !
A boat, they say, has canvas wings,
But cannot fly away !
Though like a merry singing bird,
She sits upon the spray !
VI.
Still east by south the little boat.
With tawny sail kept beating :
Now out of sight, between two waves,
Now o'er th' horizon fleeting :
Like greedy swine that feed on mast, —
The waves her mast seemed eating !
vir.
The sullen sky grew black above. The wave as black beneath ; Each roaring billow showed full soon A white and foamy wreath ;, Like angry dogs that snarl at first, And then display their teeth.
J L.t«.'-1JIJUJUL,
tio THE SEA-SPELL.
viir.
The boatman looked against the wind,
The mast began to creak,
The wave, per saltum,'came and dried,
In salt upon his cheek !
The pointed wave against him reared.
As if it owned a pique !
IX.
Nor rushing wind, nor gushing wave,
That boatman could alarn*,-
But still he stood away to sea,
And trusted in his charm ;
He thought by purchase he was safe.
And armed against all harm !
X.
Now thick and fast and far aslant^ The stormy rain came pouring, He "heard upon the sandy bank The distant breakers roaring, — A groaning intermitting sound, Like Gog and Magog snoring !
XI.
The seafowl shrieked around the mast,
Ahead the grampus tumbled,
And far off, from a copper cloud,
The hollow thunder rumbled ;
It would have quailed another heart.
But his was never humbled.
XII.
For why ? he had that infant's caul ; • And wherefore should he dread ? Alas ! alas ! he little thought, Before the ebb-tide sped, That like that infant he should die, And with a watery head !
ftJE SEA-SPELL. nt
XIII.
The rushing brine flowed in apace j
His boat had ne'er a deck ;
Fate seemed to call him on, and he
Attended to her beck ;
And so he went, still trusting on,
Though reckless — to his; wreck 1
XIV.
For as he left his helm, to heave
The ballast bags a-weather,
Three monstrous seas came roaring on,
Like Hons leagued together.
The two first waves the little boat
Swam over like a feather,
XV.
The two first waves were past and gone, And sinking in her wake ; The hugest still came leaping on, And hissing like a snake. Now helm a-lee ! for through the midst ' The monster he must take I
XVI.
Ah me ! it was a dreary mount ! Its base as black as night, Its top of pale and livid green. Its crest of awful white, Like Neptune with a leprosy, — And so it reared upright !
XVII.
With quaking sails the little boat Climbed up the foaming heap ; With quaking sails it paused awhile. At balance on the steep : Then rushing down the nether slope, Plunged with a dizzy sweep ! '
1 1 2 FAITHLESS NELL Y GRA Y.
XVIII.
Look, how a horse, made mad with fear,
Disdains his careful guide ;
So now the headlong headstrong boat,
Unmanaged, turns aside,
And straight presents her reeling flank
Against the swelling tide !
XIX.
The gusty wind assaults the sail ;
Her ballast lies a-lee !
The sheets to windward, taunt and stiff!
Oh ! the Lively — where is she ?
IJer capsized keel is in the foam.
Her pennon's in the sea !
XX.
The wild gull, sailing overhead, ' Three times beheld emerge The head of that bold mariner. And then she screamed his dirge ! For he had sunk within his grave, Lapped in a shroud of surge !
XXI.
The ensuing wave, with horrid foam, Rushed o'er and covered all, — The jolly boatman's drowning scream Was smothered by the squall ; Heaven never heard his cry, nor did The ocean heed his caul.
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
Ben Battle was a soldier bold. And used to war's alarms :
But a cannon-ball took off his legs, So he laid down his arms !
FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 113
Now as they bore him off the field,
Said he, " Let others shoot, For here I leave my second leg.
And the Forty-second Foot!"
The army-surgeons made him limbs :
Said he, — " They're only pegs : But there's as wooden members quite
As represent my legs !"
Now Ben he loved a pretty maid,
Her name was Nelly Gray ; So he went to pay her his devours
When he'd devoured his pay !
But when he called on Nelly Gray,
She made him quite a scoff; And when she saw his wooden legs,
Began to take them off !
" O Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray !
Is this your love so warm ? The love that loves a scarlet coat,
Should be more uniform I"
Said she, " I loved a soldier once,
For he was blithe and brave ; But I will never have a man
With both legs in the grave !
" Before you had those timber toes,
Your love I did allow. But then, you know, you stand upon
Another footing now !"
«P Nelly Gray ! O Nelly Gray !
For all your jeering speeches. At duty's call I left my legs
In Badajos's breaches !"
" Why, then," said she, "you've lost the feet
Of legs in war's alarms, And now you cannot wear your shoes
Upon your feats of arms !"
8
114 FAITHLESS NELLY. GRA Y.
" O, false and fickle Nelly Gray;
I know why you refuse : — Though I've no feet — some other man
Is standing in my shoes !
" I wish I ne'er had seen your face ;
But, now, a long farewell J For you will be my death ; — alas !
You will not be my JVelll"
Now when he went from Nelly Gray, His heart so heavy got —
And life was such a burthen grown, It made him take a knot 1
So round his melancholy neck
A rope he did entwine, And, for his second time in life,
Enlisted in the Line !
One end he tied around a beam, And then removed his pegs,
And, as his legs were off, — of course, He soon was off his legs !
And there he hung till he was dead . As any nail in town, — ■ For though distress had cut him up, It could not cut him down 1
A dozen men sat on his corpse. To find out why he died —
And they buried Ben in four cross-roads, With a stake in his inside !
Swffttlr 3txm,
BIANCA'S DREAM.
A VENETIAN STORY. I.
BlANCA ! — ^fair Bianca Ir-who could dwell With safety on her dark and hazel gaze,
Nor find there lurked in it a witching spell, Fatal to balmy nights and blessfed days ?
The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell, She turned to gas, and set it in a blaze ;
Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it,
That he could light his link at in a minute.
So that, wherever in her charms she shone, A thousand breasts were kindled into flame ;
Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their o-wti, And beaux were turned to flambeaux where she came ;
All hearts indeed were conquered but her own, Which none could ever temper down or tame :
In short, to take our haberdasher's hints.
She might have written over it — " from Flints."
III.
She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex, - At least in Venice — where with eyes of brown,
Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex
An amorous gentle with a needless frown ;
Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks,
And Love at casements climbeth up and down,
Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind.
Some have considered a Venetian blind.
Ii6 BIANCA'S DREAM.
IV.
Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught, Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailor,
To hapless Julio— all in vain he sought
With each new moon his hatter and his tailor ;
In vain the richest padusoy he bought,
And went in bran new beaver to assail her —
As if to show tliat Love had made him stnart
All over — and not merely round his heart.
V.
In vain he laboured thro' the sylvan park Bianca haunted in — that where she came,
Her learnM eyes in wandering might mark The twisted cipher of her maiden name,
Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark ; No one was touched or troubled by his flame,
Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow
In trees — like wooden dolls in embryo.
VI.
In vain complaining elegies he writ,
And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve,
And sang in quavers how his heart was split. Constant beneath her lattice with each eve ;
She mocked his wooing with her wicked wit,
And slashed his suit so that it matched his sleeve,
Till he grew silent at the vesper star,
And quite despairing, hamstringed his guitar.
VII.
Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er
With snows unmelting — an eternal sheet ;
But his was red within him, like the core Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat ;
And oft he' longed internally to pour
His flames and glowing lava at her feet ;
But when his burnings he began to spout.
She stopped his mouth, and put the crater out.
BIANCA'S DREAM. 1 1 7
VIII.
Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men, So thin, he seemed a sort of skeleton-key •
Suspended at Death's door — so pale — and then He turned as nervous as an aspen tree ;
The life of man is threescore years and ten, But he was perishing at twenty-three.
For people truly said, as grief grew stronger,
" It could hot shorten his poor life— much longer."
IX.
For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed, Nor relished any kind of mirth below ;
Fire in his heart, and frenzy in his head. Love had become his universal foe.
Salt in his sugar — nightmare in his bed ; At last, no wonder wretched Julio,
A sorrow-ridden thing, in utter dearth
Of hope. — made up his mind to cut her girth !
For hapless lovers always died of old. Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud ;
So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood ;
And so poor Sappho, when her boy was cold, -Drowned her salt tear-drops in a Salter flood.
Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past,
For those old suitors lived beyond their last.
XI.
So Julio went to drown — when life was dull, But took his corks, and merely had a bath ;
And ance, he pulled a trigger at his skull. But merely broke a window in his wrath ;
And once, his hopeless being to annul, He tied a packthread to a beam of lath,
A line so ample, 'twas a query whether
'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether.
Ii8 BIANCA'S DREAM.
XII.
Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust His sorrows thro' — 'tis horrible to die !
And come down with our little all of dust, That dun of all the duns to satisfy :
To leave life's pleasant city as we must,
In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie,
Where even all our personals must go
To pay the debt of Nature that we owe !
XIII,
So Julio lived : — 'twas nothing but a pet
He took at life — a momentary spite ; Besides, he hoped that time would some day get
The better of love's flame, however bright ; A thing that time has never compassed yet.
For love, we know, is an immortal light; Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt. Was always in — for none have found it out.
XIV.
Meanwhile, Bianca dreamed — 'twas once when Night Along the darkened plain began to creep.
Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep :
The flowers had shut their eyes— the zephyr light Was gone, for it had rocked the leaves to sleep ;
And all the little birds had laid their heads
Under, their wings^gleeping in feather beds.
XV.
Lone in her chamber sat the dark-eyed maid. By easy stages jaunting thro' her prayers,
But list'ning sidelong to a serenade,
That robbed the saints a little of their shares :
For Julio underneath the lattice played His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs.
Born only underneath Italian skies,
Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs.
BIANCA'S DREAM. 119 ,
XVI.
Sweet was the tune-^the words were even sweeter — Praising her eyes, her hps, her nose, her hair,
With all the common tropes wherewith in metre The hackney poets overcharge their fair.
Her shape was like Diana's, but completer ; Her brow with Grecian Helen's might compare :
Cupid, alas ! was cruel Sagittarius,
Julio — the weeping water-man Aquarius.
XVII.
Now, after listing to such laudings rare,
'Twas very natural indeed to go — What if she did postpone one little prayer-—
To ask her mirror, " if it was not so ?" 'Twas a large mirror, none the worse for wear,
Reflecting her at once from top to toe : And there, she gazed upon that glossy track, That showed her front face tho' it " gave her back."
XVIII.
And long her lovely eyes were held in thrall. By that dear page -where first the woman reads :
That Julio was no flatterer, none at all.
She told herself — and then she told her beads ;
Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall Two curtains fairer than the lily breeds ;
For Sleep had crept and kissed her unawares,
Just at the half-way milestone of her prayers.
XIX.
Then like a drooping rose so bended she, Till her bowed head upon her hand reposed j
But still she plainly saw, or seemed to see, That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were closed,
A beautyrbright as it was wont to be, A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed :
'Tis very natural, some people .say, • To dream of what we dwell on in the day.
BIANCA'S DREAM.
XX.
Still shone her face-^yet not, alas ! the same,
But 'gan some dreary touches to assume, And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came —
Her eyes resigned their light, her lips their bloom, Her teeth fell out, her tresses did the same.
Her cheeks were tinged with bile, her eyes with rheum : There was a throbbing at her heart within. For oh ! there was a shooting in her chin.
XXI.
Aild lo ! upon her sad desponding brow,
The cruel trenches of besieging age. With seams, but most unseemly, 'gan to show
Her place was booking for the seventh stage ; And where her raven traces used to flow.
Some locks that Time had left her in his rage, And some mock ringlets, made her forehead shady, A compound (like our Psalms) of tete and braidy.
XXII.
Then for her shape — alas ! how Saturn wrecks. And bends, and corkscrews all the frame about,
Doubles the hams, and crooks the straightest necks. Draws in the nape, and pushes forth the snout.
Makes backs and stomachs concave or convex ; Witness those pensioners called In and Out,
Who all day watching first and second rater.
Quaintly unbend themselves — but grow no straighten
XXIII.
So Time vtith fair Bianca dealt, and made
Her shape a bow, that once was like an arrow ;
His iron hand upon her spine he laid.
And twisted all awry her " winsome marrow,"
In truth it was a change ! — she had obeyed The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow.
But spectacles and palsy seemed to make her
Something between a Glassite and a Quaker.
BIANCA'S DREAM. 121
XXIV.
Her grief arid gall meanwhile were quite extreme, And she had ample reason for her trouble ;
For what sad maiden can endure to seem Set in for singleness, tho' growing double.
The fancy maddened her ; but now the dream, Grown thiii by getting bigger, like a bubble.
Burst, — but still left some fragments of its size.
That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes. '•' >
XXV.
And here — ^just here — as she began to heed The real world, her clock chimed out its score \
A clock it was of the Venetian breed,
That cried the hour from one to twenty-four ;
The works moreover standing in some need Of workmanship, it struck some dozens more ;
A warning voice that clenched Bianca's fears.
Such strokes referring doubtless to her years,
XXVI.
At fifteen chimes she was but half a nun, By twenty she had quite renounced the veil ;
She thought of Julio just at twenty-one. And thirty made her very sad and pale,
To paint that ruin where her charms would run ; At forty all the maid began to fail,
And thought no higher, as the late dream crossed her,
Of single blessedness, than single Gloster.
XXVII.
And so Biarica chahged ; — the next sweet even.
With Julio in a black Venetian bark, Rowed slow and stealthily — the hour, eleven,
Just sounding from the tower of old St. Mark. She sat with eyes turned quietly to heav'n,
Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark That veiled her blushing cheek — for Julio brought her, Of course — to break the ice upon the water.
122 jBIANCA'S DREAM.
xxvm.
But what a puzzle is one's serious mind To open ; — oysters, when the ice is thick,
Are not so difficult and disinclined ; And Julio felt the declaration stick
About his throat in a most awful kind ; However, he contrived by bits to pick
His trouble forth — much like a rotten cork
Groped, from a long-neck'd bottle with a fork.
XXIX.
But love is still the quickest of all readers ;
And Julio spent besides those signs profuse That English telegraphs and foreign pleaders,
In help of language, are' so apt to use ; Arms, shoulders, fingers, all were interceders,
Nods, shrugs, and bends — Bianca could not choose But soften to his suit with more facility, He told his story with so much agihty.
XXX.
" Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear, (So he began at last to speak or quote j)
Be thou my bark, and I thy gondolier, (For passion takes this figurative note ;)
Be thou my light, and I thy chandelier ; Be thou my dove, and I will be thy cote :
My lily be, and I will be thy river ;
Be thou my life — and I will be thy liver."
XXXI.
This, with more tender logic of the kind, He poured into her small and shell-like ear,
That timidly against his lids inclined ;
Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere
That even now began to steal behind A dewy vapour, which was lingering near.
Wherein the dull moon crept all dim and pale,
Just like a virgin putting on the veil :
MARY'S GHOST. 123
XXXII.
Bidding adieu to all her sparks — the stars,'
That erst had wooed and worshipped in her train,
Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant Mars — Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again.
Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, Bianca did not watch these signs in vain,
But turned to Julio at the dark eclipse,
With wordSj like verbal kisses, on her lips.
XXXIII.
He took the hint full speedily, and, backed
By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness,
Bestowed a something on her cheek that smacked (Tho' quite in silence) of air(brosial sweetness,
That made her think all other kisses lacked.
Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness :
Being used but sisterly salutes to feel.
Insipid things — hke sandwiches of veal.
XXXIV.
He took her hand, and soon she felt him wring
The pretty fingers all instead of one ; Anon his stealthy arm began to cling
About her -vyaist that had been clasped by none ; Their dear confessions I forbear to sing,
Since cold description would but be outrun : For bliss and Irish watches have the pow'r, In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour !
MARY'S GHOST.
A PATHETIC BALLAD. I.
'TwAS in the middle of the night. To sleep young WilUam tried ;
When Mary's ghost came stealing in, And stood at his bed-side.
124 MARY'S GHOST.
II. O William dear ! O William dear !
My rest eternal ceases ; Alas ! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.
I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute ;
But tho' I went to my long home, I didn't stay long in it.
The body-snatchers they have come,
And made a snatch at me ; It's very hard them kind of men
Wont let a body be !
V.
You thought that I was buried deep, Quite decent like and chary,
But from her grave in Mary-bone, They've come and boned your Mary
VI.
The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Dr. Vyse ; And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy's.
VII.
I vowed that you should have my hand,
But fate gives us denial ; You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's,
In spirits and a phial.
VIII.
As for my feet, the litde feet
You used to call so pretty, There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The t'other's in the City.
KPfBTBSWi-VUiU.i.l
'XHE PROGRESS OF ART. 125
IX.
I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can ; As for my trunk, it's all packed up
To go by Pickford's van.
I wish you'd go to Mr. P.
And save me such a ride ; I don't half like the outside place,
They've took for my inside.
XI.
The cock it crows — I must be gone !
My William, we must part ! But I'll be yours in death, altho'
Sir Astley has my heart.
XII,
Don't go to weep upon my grave. And think that there 1 be ;
They haven't left an atom the're Of my^natomie.j
THE PROGRESS OF ART.
O HAPfy time ! — Art's early days !
When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise,
Narcissus-like I hung ! When great Rembrandt but little seemed. And such Old Masters all were deemed
As nothing to the young !
II. Some scratchy strokes — abrupt and few, So easily and swift, I drew,
Sufficed for my design ; My sketchy, superficial hand -Drew solids at a dash — and spanned
A surface with a line.
126 THE PROGRESS OF ART.
III.
Not long my eye was thus content, But grew more critical — my beiit
Essayed a higher walk ; I copied leaden eyes in lead — Rheumatic hands in white and red,
And gouty feet — ^in chalk.
IV.
Anon my studious art for days Kept making faces — happy phrase.
For faces such as mine i Accomplished in the details then, I left the minor parts of men,
And drew the form divine.
V.
Old Gods and Heroes — Trojan— Greek, Figures— long after the antique,
Great Ajax justly feared ; Hectors, of whom at night I learnt, And Nestor, fringed enough to tempt
Bird-nesters to his beard.
VI.
A Bacchus, leering on a bowl, A Pallas that out-stared her owl,
A Vulcan — very lame ; A Dian stuck about with stars. With my right hand I murdered Mars^
(One Williams did the same.)
VII.
But tired of this dry work at last, Crayon and chalk aside I cast,
And gave my brush a drink ! Dipping — " as when a painter dips In gloom of earthquake and eclipse," —
That is — ^m Indiap ink
THE PROGRESS OF ART. 127
VIII.
Oh then, what black Mont Blancs arose, Crested with soot, and not with snows :
What clouds of dingy hue ! In spite of what the .bard has penned, I fear the distance did not " lend
Enchantment to the view."
IX.
Not Radclifife's brush did e'er design Black Forests half so black as mine,
Or lakes so like a pall j The Chinese cake dispersed a ray Of darkness, like the light of Day
And Martin over all.
X.
Yet urchin pride sustained me still, I gazed on all with right good will.
And spread the dingy tint ; " No holy Luke helped me to paint, . The devil surely, not a Saint,
Had any finger in't !"
XI.
But colours came ! — like morning light. With gorgeous hues, displacing night.
Or Spring's enlivened scene : At once the sable shades withdrew j My skies got very, very blue ;
My trees extremely green.
XII.
And washed by my cosmetic brush, How Beauty's cheek began to blush ;
With lock of auburn stain — (Not Goldsmith's Aubum)-^nut-brown hair, That made her loveliest of the fair ;
Not " loveliest of the plain !"
128 THE PROGRESS OF ART.
XIII.
Her lips were ctf vermilion hue ; Love in her eyes, and Prussian blue,
Set all my heart in flame ! A young Pygmalion, I adored The maids I made — but time was stored
With evil — and it came !
XIV.
Perspective dawned— ^nd soon I saw My houses stand against its law ;
And " keeping" all unkept ! My beauties were no longer things For love and fond irriaginings';
But horrors to be wept !
XV,
Ah ! why did knowledge ope my eyes ? Why did I get more artist wise ?
It only serves to hint, What grave defects and wants are mine } That I'm no Hilton in design —
In nature no De Wint !
XVI.
TJirice happy time ! — Art's early days ! When o'er each deed, with sweet self-praise.
Narcissus-like^ I hung ! When great Rembrandt but little seemed, And such Old Masters all were deemed
As nothing to the young '
129
A LEGEND OF NAVARRE.
'TwAs in the reign of Lewis, called the Great, As one may read on his triumphal arches,
The thing befell I'm going to relate,
In course of one of those " pomposo'' marches
He loved to make, like any gorgeous Persian,
Partly for war, and partly for diversion.
Some wag had put it in the royal brain
To drop a visit at an old chateau, Quite unexpected, with his courtly train ;
The monarch liked it — but it happened so. That Death had got before them by a post, And they were "reckoning without their host"
III.
Who died exactly as a child should die. Without one groan or a convulsive breath,
Closing without one pang his quiet eye, Sliding composedly from sleep — to death ;
A corpse so placid ne'er adorned a bed.
He seemed not ^jjuite — but only rather dead.
All night the widowed Baroness contrived To shed a widow's tears ; but on the morrow
Some news of such unusual sort arrived. There came strange alteration in her sorrow ;
From mouth to mouth it passed, one common hum,ming
Throughout the house — the King ! the King is coming 1
The Baroness, with all her soul and heart, A loyal woman, (now called ultra-loyal,)
Soon thrust all funeral concerns apart, And only thought about a banquet-royal ;
In short, by aid of earnest preparation.
The visit quite dismissed the visitation.
I30 A LEGEND OF NA VARRE.
VI.
And, spite of all her grief for the ex-mate,
There was a secret hope she could not smother.
That some one, early, might replace " the late," It was too soon to think about another ;
Yet let her minutes of despair be reckoned
Against her hope, which was but for a second.
' VII.
She almost thought that being thus bereft
Just then, was one of Time's propitious touches ;
A thread in such a nick so nicked, it left Free opportunity to be a duchess ;
Thus all her care was only to look pleasant,
But as for tears — she dropped them — for the present,
VIII.
Her household, as good servants ought to try,
Looked like their lady — anything but sad, And giggled even that they might not cry,
To damp fine company ; in truth they had No time to mourn, thro' choking turkeys' tjirottles, Scouring old laces, and reviewing bottles.
IX.
Oh'what a hubbub for the house of woe J
All, resolute to one irresolution. Kept tearing, swedring, plunging to and fro,
Just like another French mob-revolution. There lay the corpse that could not stir a muscle, But all the rest seemed Chaos in a bustle.
X. I
The Monarch came : oh ! who could ever guess
The Baroness had been so late a weeper ! The kingly grace and more than graciousness,
Buried the poor defunct some fathoms-deeper,- Could he have had a glance — alas, poor being ! Seeing would certainly have led to D — ing.
A LEGEND OF NA VARRE. 1 3 1
XI.
For casting round about her eyes to find Some one to whom her chattels to endorse,
The comfortable dame at last inclined To choose the cheerful Master of the Horse ;
He was so gay: — so tender — the complete
Nice mail — the sweetest of the monarch's suite.
XII.
He saw at once and entered in the lists — Glan.ce unto glance made amorous replies ;
They talked together like two egotists, In conversation all made up of eyes :
No couple ever got so right consort-ish
Within two hours — a courtship rather shortish.
XIII.
At last, some sleepy, some by wine opprest. The courtly company began " nid noddin ;"
The King first sought his chamber, and the rest Instanter followed by the course he trod in.
I shall not please the scandalous by shoiring ,
The order, or disorder of their going.
XIV.
The old chateau, before that night, had never
Held half so many underneath its roof; It tasked the Baroness's best endeavour.
And put her best contrivance to the proof. To give them chambers up and down the stairs, In twos and threes, by singles, and by pairs.
XV.
She had just lodging for the whole — yet barely ;
And some, that .were both broad of back and tall, Lay on spare beds that served them very sparely;
However, there were beds enough for all ; But living bodies occupied so many. She Gould not let the dead one take up any !
132 A LEGEND OF NAVARRE.
XVI.
The act was certainly not over decent :
Some small respect, e'en after death she owed hiiM, Considering his death had been so recent ;
However, by command, her servants stowed him, (I am ashamed to think how he was slubbered,) Stuck bolt upright within a corner cupboard !
XVII.
And there he slept as soundly as a post, With no more pillow than an oaken shelf:
Just like a kind accommodating 'host. Taking all inconvenience on himself;
None else slept in that room, except a stranger,
A decent man, a sort of Forest Ranger :
XVIII.
Who, whether he had gone too soon to bed.
Or dreamt himself into an appetite, Howbeit, he took a longing to be fed,
About the hungry niiddle of the night ; So getting forth, he sought some scrap to eat. Hopeful of some stray pasty or cold meat.
XIX.
The casual glances of the midnight moon, Bright'ning some antique ornaments of brass.
Guided his gropings to that corner soon. Just where it stood, the coffin-safe, alas !
He tried the door — then shook it — and in course
Of time it opened to a little force.
,xx.
He put one hand in, and began to grope ;
The place was very deep and quite as dark as The middle night ; — when lo ! beyond his hope,
He felt a something cold,, in fact, the carcase ; Right overjoyed, he laughed, and blest his luck At finding, as he thought, this haunch of buck !
•mIb
A LEGEND OF NA VARRE.
XXI.
133
Then striding back for his couteau-de-chasse.
Determined on a little midnight lunching, He came again and probed about the mass,
As if to find the fattest bit for munching ; Not meaning wastefuUy to cut it all up, But only to abstract a little coUop.
XXII.
But just as he had struck one greedy stroke, His hand fell down quite powerless and weak ;
For when he cut the haunch it plainly spoke As haunch of ven'son never ought to speak ;
No wonder that his hand could go no further —
Whose could?— to carve cold meat that bellowed, "Murther!"
XXIII.
Down came the Body with a bounce, and down
The Ranger sprang, a staircase at a spring, And bawled enough to waken up a town ;
Some thought that they were murdered, some, the Kingj And, like- Macduff, did nothing for a season. But stand upon the spot and bellow, " Treason !"
XXI v.
A hundred nightcaps gathered in a mob.
Torches drew torches, swords brought swords together, It seemed so dark and perilous a job ;
The Baroness came trembling like a feather Just in the rear, as pallid as a corse, Leaning against the Master of the Horse.
XXV.
A dozen of the bravest up the stair,
Well lighted and well watched, began to clamber ; They sought the door — they found it — they were there —
A dozen heads went poking in the chamber ; And lo ! with one hand planted on his hurt. There stood the Body bleeding thro' his shirt, —
-BP
134 THE DEMON SHIP.
XXVI.
No passive corse — but like a duellist
Just smarting from a scratch — in fierce position, One hand advanced, and ready to resist ;
In fact, the Baron doffed the apparition, Swearing those oaths the French delight in most, And for the second time " gave up the ghost !"
XXVII.
A living miracle ! — for why ? — the knife
That cuts so many off from grave gray hairs,
Had only carved him kindly irito life : How soon it changed the posture of affairs 1
The difference one person more or less .
Will make in families, is past all guess. ■ .
XXVIII.
There stood the Baroness — no widow yet : Here stood the Baron — " in the body" still :
There stood the Horses' Master in a pet, Choking with disappointment's bitter pill.
To see the hope of his reversion fail.
Like that of riding on a donkey's tail
xxix;
The Baron lived — 'twas nothing but a trance : The lady died — 'twas nothing but a death :
The cupboard-cut served only to enhance This postscript to the old Baronial breath :
He soon forgave, for the revival's sake,
A little choji intended for a steak I
THE DEMON SHIP.
TwAS off the Wash — the sun went down — the sea looked black
and grim. For stormy clouds, with murky fleece, were mustering at the brim ; Titanic shades ! enormous gloom ! — as if the solid night Of Erebus rose suddenly to seize upon the light !
THE DEMON SHIP, ijj
It was a time for mariners to bear a wary eye,
With such a dark conspiracy between the sea and sky !
Down went my helm — close reefed — the tack held freely in my
. hand — With ballast snug — I put about, and scudded for the land. ~Loud hissed the sea beneath her lea — my little boat flew fast, But faster still the rushing storm came borne upon the blast. Lord ! what a roaring hurricane beset the straining sail ! What furious sleet, with level drift, and fierce assaults of hail ! What darksome caverns yawned before ! what jagged steeps behind I Like battle-steeds, with foamy manes, wild tossing in the wind. Each after each sank down astern, exhausted in the chase. But where it sank another rose and galloped in its place ; As black as night-7-they turned to white, and cast against the cloud A snowy sheet, as if each surge upturned a sailor's shroud : Still flew my boat ; alas ! alas ! her course was nearly run ! Behold yon fatal billow rise — ten billows heaped in one ! With fearful speed the dreary mass came rolling, rolling, fast, As if the scooping sea contained one only wave at last ! Still on it came, with horrid roar, a swift pursuing grave ; It seemed as though some cloud had turned its hugeness to a wave ! Its briny sleet began to beat beforehand in my face — I felt the rearward keel begin to climb its swelling base ! I saw its alpine hoary head impending over mine ! Another pulse — ^and down it rushed — an avalanche of brine ! Brief pause had I, on God to cry, or think of wife and honie ; The waters closed — and when I shrieked, I shrieked below the
foam ! Beyond that rush I have no hint of any after deed — For I was tossing on the waste, as senseless as a weed.
" Where am I ? — in the breathing world, or in the world of death ?" With sharp and sudden pang I drew another birth of breath ; My eyes drank in a doubtful light, my ears a doubtful sound — And was that ship a real ship whose tackle seemed around ? A moon, as if the earthly moon, was shining up aloft ; But were those beams the very beams that I had seen so oft ? A face, that mocked the human face, before me watched alone ; But were those eyes the eyes of man that looked agamst my own?
136 THE DEMON SHIP.
Oh, never may the moon again disclose me such a sight_ As met my gaze, when first I looked, on that accursfed night ! I've seen a thousand horrid shapes begot of fierce extremes Of fever ;' and most frightful things have haunted in my dreams- Hyenas — cats — ^blood-loving bats — and apes with hateful stare — Pernicious snakes, and shaggy bulls — the lion, and she-bear — Strong enemies, with Judas looks, of treacli^ry and spite — Detested features, hardly dimmed and banished by the light ! Pale-sheeted ghosts, with gory locks, upstarting from their tombs — All phantasies and images that flit in midnight glooms — Hags, goblins, demons, lemufes, have made me all aghast, — But nothing like that Grimly One who stood beside the mast !
His cheek was black — his brow was black — ^his eyes and hair as
dark : His hand was black, and where it touched, it left a sable mark ; His throat was black, his vest the same, and when I looked
beneath, His breast was black — all, all was black, except his grinning teeth. His sooty crew were like in hue, as black as Afric slaves ! Oh, horror ! e'en the ship was black that ploughed the inky waves !
" Alas !" I cried, " for love of truth and blessed mercy's sake ! Where am I ? in what dreadful ship ? upon what dreadful lake ? What shape is that, so very grim, and black as any coal ? It is Mahound, the Evil One, and he has gained my soul ! Oh, mother dear ! my tender nurse ! dear meadows that beguiled My happy days, when I was yet a little sinless child, — My mother dear — my native fields, I never more shall see : I'm sailing in the Devil's Ship, upon the Devil's Sea !"
Loud laughed that Sable Mariner, and loudly in return
His sooty crew sent forth a laugh that rang from stem to stem —
A dozen pair of grimly cheeks were crumpled on the nonce —
As many sets of grinning teeth came shining out at once :
A dozen gloomy shapes at once enjoyed the merry fit.
With shriek and yell, and oaths as well, like Demons of the Pit.
They crowed their fill, and then the" Chief made answer for the
whole ; — " Our skins," said he, " are black ye see, because we carry coal j STou'll find your mother sure enough, and see your native fields — For this here ship has picked you up — the Mary Ann of Shields !"
137
A TRUE STORY.
Of all our pains, since man was curst, I mean of body, not the mental, To name the worst, among the worst, The dental sure is transcendental ; Some bit ofmasticating bone, That ought to help to clear a shelf. But let its proper work alone, And only seems to gnaw itself; In fact, of any grave attack On victual there is little danger, 'Tis so like coming to the rack. As well as going to the manger.
Old Hunks — it seemed a fit retort
Of justice on his grinding ways —
Possessed a grinder of the. sort.
That troubled all his latter days.
The best of friends fall out, and so
His teeth had done some years ago.
Save some old stumps with ragged root,
And they took turn about to shoOt ;
If he drank any chilly liquor.
They made it quite a point to throb ;
But if he warmed it on the hob.
Why then they only twitched the quicker.
One tooth — I wonder such a tooth
Had never killed him in his youth — '
One tooth he had with many fangs.
That shot at once as many pangs.
It had a universal sting ;
One touch of that ecstatic stump
Could jerk his limbs and make him jump,
Just like a puppet on a string ;
And what was worse than all, it had.
A way of making others bad.
There is, as many know, a knack.
With certain farming undertakers,
And this same tooth pursued their track,
By adding achers still to achers I
138 A TRUE STORY.
One way there is, that has been judged
A certain cure, but Hunks was loth
To pay the fee, and quite begrudged
To lose his tooth and money both j
In fact, a dentist and the wheel
Of Fortune are a kindred cast,
For after all is drawn, you feel
It's paying for a blank at last ;
So Hunks went on from week to week,
And kept his torment in his cheek ;
Oh ! how it sometimes set him rocking,
With that perpetual gnaw — gnaw — gnaw,
His moans and groans were truly shocking,
And loud, — altho' he held his jaw.
Many a tug he gave his gum
And tooth, but still it would not come,
Tho' tied by string to some firm thing,
He could not draw it, do his best.
By draw'rs, altho' he tried a chest.
At last, but after much debating.
He joined a score of mouths in waiting,
Like his, to have their troubles out.
Sad sight it was to look about
At twenty faces making faces,
With many a rampant trick and antic,
For all were very horrid cases.
And made .their owners nearly frantic.
A little wicket now and then
Took one of these unhappy men.
And out again the victim rushed,
While eyes and mouth together gushed ;
At last arrived our hero's turn,
Who plunged his hands in both his pockets,
And down he sat, prepared to learn
How teeth are charmed to quit their sockets.
Those who have felt such operations, Alone can guess the sort of ache, When his old tooth began to break The thread of old associations ; It touched a string in every part, It had "so many tender ties;
A TRUE STOR^ ' ■ 13s
One chord seemed wrenching at his heart, And two were tugging at his eyes ; " Bone of his bone," he felt of course, As husbands do in such divorce ; At last the fangs gave way a little, Hunks gave his head a backward jerk, And lo ! the cause of all this work. Went — ^where it used to send his victual !
The monstrous pain of this proceeding
Had not so numbed his miser wit.
But in this slip he saw a hit
To save, at least, his purse from bleeding j
So when the dentist sought his fees,
Quoth Hunks, " Let's finish, if you please."
" How, finish ! why, it's out !"— " Oh ! no—
'Tis you are out, to argue so ;
I'm none of your before-hand tippers.
My tooth is in my head no doubt, :
But, as you say you pulled it out.
Of course it's there — between your nippers."
" Zounds, sir ! d'ye think I'd sell the truth
To get a fee ? no, wretch, I scorn it !"
But Hunks still asked to see the tooth.
And swore by gum ! he had not drawn it.
His end obtained, he took his leave,
A secret chuckle in his sleeve ;
The joke was worthy to produce one, \
To think, by favour of his wit,
How well a dentist had been bit
By one old stump, and that a loose one !
The thing was worth a laugh, but mirth
Is still the frailest thing on earth :
Alas ! how often when a joke
Seems in our sleeve, and safe enough,
There comes some unexpected stroke.
And hangs a weeper on the cuff !
Hunks had not whistled half a mile. When, planted right agaifist a stile. There stood his foeraan,'Mike Mahoney,
I40 A TRUE STORY.
A vagrant reaper, Irish born, That helped to reap our miser's corn, But had not helped to reap his money, A fact that Hunks remembered quickly ; His .whistle all at once was quelled. And when he saw how Michael held His sickle, he felt rather sickly.
Nine souls in ten, with half his fright. Would soon have paid the bill at sight, But misers (let observers watch it) Will never part with their delight TillVell demanded by a hatchet — They live hard — and they die to match it. Thus Hunks prepared for Mike's attacking, Resolved not yet to pay the debt. But let him take it out in hacking ; However, Mike began to stickle In words before he used the sickle ; But mercy was not long attendant : From words at last he took to blows, And aimed a cut at Hunks's hose, That made it what some folks are not — A member very independent.
Heaven knows how far this cruel trick
Might still have led, but for a tramper
That came in danger's very nick.
To put Mahoney to the scamper.
But still compassion met a damper j
There lay the severed nose, alas I
Beside the daisies on the grass,
" Wee, crimson-tipt" as well as they,
According to the poet's lay :
And there stood Hunks, no sight for laughter.
Away went Hodge to get assistance.
With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after,
But somewhat at unusual distance.
In many a little country place
It is a very common case
To have but one residing doctor.
Whose practice rather seems to be
No practice, but a rule of three,
A TRUE STORY. 14I
Physician — surgeon — drag-decoctorj
Thus Hunks was forced to go once mord
Whej-e he had ta'en his tooth before.
His mere name made the learned man hot, —
" What ! Hunks again within my door !
I'll pull his nose ;" quoth Hunks, " You cannot."
The doctor looked and saw the case Plain as the nose not on his face. ,.J , " Oh ! hum — ha — yes — I understand."
^ But then arose a long demur,
For not a finger would he stir Till he was paid his fee in hand ; That matter settled, there they were. With Hunks well strapped upon his chair.
The opening of a surgeon's job —
His tools, a chestful or a drawerful —
Are always something very awful,
And give the heart the strangest throb ;
But never patient in his funks
Looked half so like a ghost as Hunks,
Or surgeon half so like a devil
Prepared for some infernal revel :
His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling,
Just like a bolus in a box :
His fury seemed above controlling,
He bellowed like a hunted ox :
" Now, swindling wretch, I'll show thee how
We treat such cheating knaves as thou ;
Oh ! sweet is this revenge to sup ;
I have thee by the nose — it's now
My turn — and I will turn it up."
Guess how the miser liked the scurvy And cruel way of venting passion ; The snubbing folks in this new fashion Seemed quite to turn him topsy-turvy ; He uttered prayers, and groans, and curses, For things had often gone amiss And wrong with him before, but this Would be the worst of all reverses !
142 TIM TURPIN.
In fancy he beheld his snout Turned upward like a pitcher's spout j There was another grievance yet, And fancy did not fail to show it, That he must throw a summerset Or stand upon his head to blow it.
And was there then no argument
To change the doctor's vile intent,
And move his pity ? — yes, in truth.
And that was — paying for the tooth.
" Zounds ! pay for such a stump ! I'd rather——"
But here the menace went no farther,
For with his other ways of pinching,
Hunks had a miser's love of snuff,
A recollection strong enough
To cause a very serious flinching ;
In short, he paid and had the feature
Replaced as it was meant by nature ;
For tho' by this 'twas cold to handle,
(No corpse's could have felt more horrid,)
And white just like an end of candle.
The doctor deemed and proved it too,
That noses from the nose will do
As well as noses from the forehead ;
So, fixed by dint of rag and lint.
The part was bandaged up and muffled.
The chair unfastened, Hunks arose,
And shuffled out, for once unshuffled ;
And as he went, these words he snuffled-—
^' Well, this is ' paying thro' the nose.' "
TIM TURPIN.
A PATHETIC BALLAD. I.
Tim Turpin he was gravel-blind, And ne'er had seen the skies :
For Nature, when his head was made, Forgot to dot his eyes.
TIM TURPIN, 143
II.
So, like a Christmas pedagogue,
Poor Tim was forced to do — Look out for pupils ; for he had
A vacancy for two.
III.
There's some have specs to help their sight
Of objects dim and small : But Tim had specks within his eyes,
And could not see at all.
IV.
Now Tim he wooed a servant maid,
And took her to his arms ; For he, like Pyramus, had cast
A wall-eye on her charms.
By, day she led him up and down, Where'er he wished to jog,
A happy wife, altho' sheled The life of any dog.
VI.
But just when Tim had lived a month
In honey with his wife, A surgeon ope'd his Milton eyes,
Like oysters, with a knife.
VII.
But when his eyes were opened thus, He wished them dark again :
For when h& looked upon his wife, He saw her very .plain.
VIII.
Her face was bad, her figure worse.
He couldn't bear to eat : For she was anything but like
A grace, before his meat.
144 ^^^ TURPIN.
IX.
Now Tim he was a feeling man : For when his sight was thick
It made him feel for everything-— But that was with a stick.
X.
So, with a cudgel in his hand
It was, not light or slim — He knocked at his wife's head until
It opened unto him.
XI.
And when the corpse was stiff and cold, He took his slaughtered spouse,
And laid her in a heap with all The ashes of her house.
XII.
But like a wicked murderer,
He lived in constant fear From day to day, and so he cut
His throat from ear to ear,
XIII.
The neighbours fetched a doctor in : Said he, " This wound I dread
Can hardly be sewed up — his life Is hanging on a thread."
XIV.
But when another week was gone, He gave him stronger hope —
Instead of hanging on a thread, Of hanging on a rope.
XV.
Ah ! when he hid his bloody work
In ashes round about, How little he supposed the truth
Would soon be sifted out.
TIM TURPIN. 145
XVI.
But when the parish dustman came,
His rubbish to withdraw, He found more. dust within the heap
Than he contracted for !
XVII.
A dozen men to try the fact
Were sworn that very day ; But though they all were jurors, yet
No conjurors were they.
xviix.
Said Tim unto those jurymen.
You need not waste your breath, For I confess myself at once
The author of her death.
XIX.
And, oh ! when I reflect upon
The blood that I have spilt. Just like a button is my soul,
Inscribed with double ^?7i?/
XX.
Then turning round his head again.
He saw before his eyes, A great judge, and a little judge.
The judges of a-size ! ^
XXI.
The great judge took his judgment cap.
And put it on his head, And sentenced Tim by law to hang
Till he was three times dead.
XXII.
So he was tried, and he was hung
(Fit punishment for such) On Horsham-drop, and none can say
It was a drop too much.
^ . xo
146 THE MONKEY-MARTYR.
A FABLE.
" God help thee, said I. but I'll let thee out, cost what it,will : so I turned about the cage to get to the door." — Sterne.
'Tis strange, what awkward figures and odd capers Folks cut, who seek their doctrine from the papers ; But there are many shallow politicians, Who take their bias froiii bewildered journals —
Turn State physicians. And make themselves fools'-caps of the diumals.
One of this kind, not human, but a monkey, Had read himself at last to this sour creed — That he was nothing but Oppression's flunkey, And man a tyrant over all his breed.
He could not read Of niggers whipt, or over-trampled weavers, But he applied their wrongs to his own seed, And nourished thoughts that threw hitn into fevers. His very dreams were full of martial beavers, And drilling Pugs, for liberty pugnacious,
To sever chains vexatious. In fact, he thought that all his injured line Should take up pikes in hand, and never drop 'em Till they had cleared a road to Freedom's shrine. Unless perchance the turnpike men should stop 'em.
Full of this rancour, Pacing one day beside St. Clement Danes,
It came into his brains To give a look in at the Crown and Anchor; Where certain solemn sages of the nation Were at that moment in deliberation How to relieve the wide world of its chains,
Pluck despots down.
And thereby crown Arhitee- as well as blackee-man-cipation. Pug heard the speeches with great approbation. And gazed with pride upon the Liberators ;
THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 147
To see mere coalheavers
Such perfect Bolivars — Waiters of inns sublimed to innovators— And slaters dignified as legislators — Small nuWicans demanding (such their high sense Of liberty) an universal licence — And patten-makers easing Freedom's clogs —
The whole thing seemed
So fine, he deemed The smallest demagogues as great as Gogs !
Pug, with some curious notions in his noddle, Walked out at last, and turned into the Strand,
To the left hand, Conning some portions of the previous twaddle, And striding with a step that seemed designed To represent the mighty March of Mind,
Instead of that slow waddle Of thought, to which our ancestors inclined. No wonder, then, that he should quickly find He stood in front of that intrusive pile.
Where Cross keeps many a kind
Of bird confined. And free-born animal, in durance vile — , A thought that stirred up all the monkey-bile.
The window stood ajar —
It was not far. Nor, like Parnassus, very hard to climb — The hour was verging on the supper-time, And many a growl was sent through many a bar. Meanwhile Pug scrambled upward like a tar,
And soon crept in,
Unnoticed in the din Of tuneless throats, that made the attics ring With all the harshest notes that they could bring;
For, like the Jews,
Wild beasts refuse In midst of their captivity^- to sing.
Lord ! how it made him chafe, Full of his new emancipating zeal^
148 THE MONKEY-MARTYR.,
To look around upon this brute-bastile, And see the king of creatures in — a safe ! The desert's denizen in one small den, Swallowing slavery's most bitter pills — A bear in bars unbearable. And then The fretful porcupine, with all its quills • Imprisoned in a pen !
A tiger limited to four feet ten,
And, still worse lot,
A leopard to one spot !
An elephant enlarged,
But not discharged, (It was before the elephant was shot ;) A doleful wanderod, that wandered not ; An ounce much disproportioned to his pound.
Pug's wrath waxed hot To gaze upon these captive creatures round ; Whose claws— all scratching — gave him full assurance They found their durance vile of vile endurance.
He went above — a solitary mounter ' ■■' *
Up gloomy stairs — and saw a pensive group
Of hapless fowls —
Cranes, vultures, owls ; In fact, it was a sort of Poultry Compter, Where feathered prisoners were doomed to droop : Here sat an eagle, forced to make a stoop, Not from the skies, but his impending roof;
And there aloof, A pining ostrich, moping in a coop ; With other samples of the bird creation, All caged against their powers and their wills ; And cramped in such a space, the longest bills Were plainly bills of least accommodation. In truth, it was a very ugly scene To fall to any liberator's share. To see those wingfed fowls, that once had been Free as the wind, no freer than fixed air.
His temper little mended. Pug from .this Bird-cage Walk at last descended
THE MONKEY-MARTYR. 149
Unto the lion and the elephant,
His bosom in a pant To see all nature's Free List thus suspended, And beasts deprived of what she had intended.
They could not even prey
In their own way — A hard^iip always reckoned quite prodigious.
Thus he revolved,
And soon resolved To give them freedom, civil ^nd religious.
That night there were no country cousins, raw From Wales, to view the lion and his kin : The keeper's eyes were fixed upon a baw ; The saw was fixed upon a bullock's shin : Meanwhile with stealthy paw. Pug' hastened to withdraw The bolt that kept the king of brutes within. Now', monarch of the forest ! thou shalt win Precious enfranchisement^thy bolts are undone ; Thou art no longer a degraded creature. But loose to roam with liberty and nature. And free of all the' jungles about London — All Hampstead's heathy desert hes before thee ! Methinks I see thee bound from Cross's ark, Full of the native instinct that comes o'er thee,
■ And turn a ranger Of Hounslow Forest and the. Regent's Park — Thin Rhodes's cows — the mail-coach steeds endanger, And gobble parish watchmen after dark. Methinks I see thee, with the early lark, Stealing to MerUn's cave {thy cave). Alas, That such bright visions should not come to pass ! Alas, for freedom, and for freedom's hero !
Alas, for liberty of life and limb ! For Pug had only half unbolted Nero,
When Nero bolted him I
ISO
DEATH'S RAMBLE.
One day the dreary old King of Death Inclined for some sport with the carnal^
So he tied a pack of darts on his back, And quietly stole from his charuel.
His head was bald of flesh and of hair,
His body was lean and lank, His joints at each stir made a crack, and the. cur
Took a gnaw, by the way, at his shank.
And what did he do wi^th his deadly darts,
This goblin of grisly bone ? He dabbled and spilled man's blood, and he killed
Like a butcher that kills his own. .
The first he slaughtered it made him laugh, ■
(For the man was a coffin-maker). To think how the mutes, and men in black suits,
Would mourn for an undertaker.
Death saw two Quakers sitting at church.
Quoth he, " We shall not differ." And he let them alone, like figures of stone,
For he could not maker them stiffer.
He saw two duellists going to fight.
In fear they could not smother ; And he shot one through at once — for he knew
They never would shoot each other.
He saw a watchman fast in his box.
And he gave a snore infernal ; Said Death, " He may keep his breath, for his sleep
Can never be more eternal."
He met a coachman driving his coach,
So slow, that his fare grew sick ; But he let him stray on his tedious way.
For Death only wars on the quick.
CRANIOLOGY. 131
Death saw a toll-man taking a toll,
In the spirit of his fraternity ; But he knew that sort of man would extort
Though summoned to all eternity.
He found an author writing his life,
But he let him write no further ; For Death, who strikes whenever he likes.
Is jealous of all self-murther !
Death saw a patient that pulled out his purse,
And a doctor that took the sum ; But he let them be — for he knew that the " fee"
Was a prelude to " faw" and " fum."
He met a dustman ringing a bell,
And he,gave him a mortal thrust ; For himself, by law, since Adam's flaw,
Is contractor for all our dust.
He saw a sailor mixing his grog, And he marked him out for slaughter ;
For on water he scarcely had cared for Death, And never on rum-and-water.
Death saw two players playing at cards.
But the game wasn't worth 3. dump. For he quickly laid them flat with a spade,
To Wait for the final trump !
CRANIOLOGY,
'Tis strange how like a very dunce, Man — ^with his bumps upon his sconce, Has lived so long, and yet no knowledge he Has had, till lately, of Phrenology — A science that by simple dint of Head-combing he should find a hint of, When scratching o'er those little poll-hills, The faculties throw up like mole- hills ;
152 CRANIOLOGY.
A science that, in very spite
Of all his teeth, ne'er came to light,
For though he knew his skull had grinders,
Still there turned up no organ finders,
Still sages wrote, and ages fled,
And no man's head came in his head —
Not even the pate of Erra Pater,
Knew aught about its pia mater.
At last great Dr. Gall bestirs him —
I don't know but it might be Spurzheim —
Tho' native of a dull and slow land.
And makes partition of our Poll-land ;
At our Acquisitiveness guesses,
And all those necessary nesses
Indicative of human habits,
All burrowing in the head like rabbits.
Thus Veneration, he rhade known,
Had got a lodging at the Crown :
And Music (see Deville's example)
A set of chambers in the Temple ;
That Language taught the tongues close by,
And took in pupils thro' the eye,
Close by his neighbour Computation,
Who taught the eyebrows numeration.
The science thus — to speak in fit Terms — having struggled from its nit. Was seized on by a swarm of Scotchmen, ' Those scientifical hotch-potch men.
Who have at least a penny dip, And wallop in all doctorship. Just as in making broth they smatter By bobbing twenty things in water : These men, I say, made quick appliance And close, to phrenologic science ; For of all learnfed themes whatever, That schools and colleges deliver. There's none they love so near the bodies, As analysing their own noddles ; Thus in a trice each northern blockhead Had got his fingers in his shock head,
CRANIOLOGY. 153
And of his bumps was babbling yet worse Than pooi' Miss Capulet's dry wet-nurse ; Till having been sufficient rangers Of their own heads, they took to strangers', And found in Presbyterians' polls The things they hated in their souls ; ' For Presbyterians hear with passion Of organs joined with veneration. No kind there was of human pumpkin But at its bumps it had a bumpkin ; Down to the very lowest guUion, And oiUest skull of oily scullion. No great man died but this they did do, They begged his cranium of his widow : No murderer died by law disaster, But they took off his sconce in plaster ; For thereon they could show depending, " The head and front of his offending :" How that his philanthropic bump Was mastered by a baser lump ; For every bump (these wags insist) Has its direct antagonist, Each striving stoutly to prevail, Like horses knotted tail to tail ! And many a stiff" and sturdy battle Occurs between these adverse cattle, The secret cause, beyond all question, Of aches ascribed to indigestion, — Whereas 'tis but two knobby rivals Tugging together like sheer devils. Till one gets mastery, good or sinister, And comes in like a new prime-minister.
Each bias in some master node is : — What takes M'Adam where a road is, To hammer little pebbles less ? His organ of Destructiveness. What makes great Joseph so encumber Debate ? a lumping lump of Number : Or Malthus rail at babies so ? The smallness of his Philopro —
1S4 ^ PARTHIAN GLANCE.
What severs man and wife ? a simple Defect of the Adhesive pimple ; ' Or makes weak women go astray ? Their bumps are more in fault than they.
These facts being found and set in order By grave M.D.s beyond the Border, To make them for some months eternal, Were entered monthly in a journal, That many a northern sage still writes in. And throws his httle Northern Lights in, And proves and proves about the phrenos, A, great deal more than I or he knows : How Music suffers, par exemple. By wearing tight hats round the temple ; What ills great boxers have to fear From blisters put behind the ear ; And how a porter's Veneration Is hurt by porters' occupation ; Whether shillelaghs in reality May deaden Individuality ; Or tongs and poker be creative Of alterations in th'"Amative ; If falls from scafifolds make us less Inchned to all Constructiveness : With more such matters, all applying To heads — and therefore ^i?a!^fying.
A PARTHIAN GLANCE.
" Sweet Memory, wafted by thy gentle gale,
Oft up the stream of time I turn my sail." — ROGERS.
Come, my Crony, let's think upon far-away days,
And lift up a little Oblivion's veil ; Let's consider the past with a lingering gaze.
Like a peacock, whose eyes are inclined to his tail.
A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 155
II. Ay, come, let us turn our attention behind.
Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear, That they cannot keep up with the march of the mind,
And so turn face about for reviewing the rear.
III.
Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail. Oh ! what ages and pages there are to revise !
And as farther our back-searchi;ig glances prevail. Like the emmets, " how little we are in our eyes i"
IV.
What a sweet pretty innocent, half a yard long,
On a dimity lap of true nursery make ! I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song
That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake.
v.
Methinks I still suffer the infantine throes, When my flesh was a cushion for any long pin —
Whilst they patted my body to comfort my woes.
Oh ! how little they dreamt they were driving them in 1
VI.
Infant sorrows are strong — infant pleasures as weak — But no grief was allowed to indulge in its note ;
Did you ever attempt a small " bubble and squeak," Thro' the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat ?
VII.
Did you ever go up to the roof with a bounce ?
Did you ever come down to the floor with the same ? Oh ! I. can't but agree with both ends, and pronounce
" Head or tails" with a child, an unpleasantish game !
VIII.
Then an urchin — I see myself urchin, indeed. With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight ;
IS6 A PARTHIAN GLANCE.
Why should weeks have an end? — I am sure there was need Of a Sabbath to follow each Saturday-night,
IX.
Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to scrub ?
Have you ever felt huckaback softened with sand ? Had you ever your nose towelled up to a snub,
And your eyes knuckled, out with the back of the hand?
X.
Then a schoolboy — my tailor was nothing in fault, For an urchin will grow to a lad by degrees, —
But how well I remember that " pepper and salt," That was down to the elbows, and up to the knees I
XI.
What a figure it cut when as Nerval I spoke !
With a lanky right leg duly planted before ; Whilst I told of the chief that was killed by my stroke,
And extended my arms as "the arms that he wore 1"
XII.
Next a Lover — Oh ! say, were you ever in love ?
With a lady too cold — and your bosom too hot ! Have you bowed to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove ?
Like a beau that desired to be tied in a knot ?
XIII.
With the Bride all in white, and your body in blue. Did you walk up the aisle — the genteelest of men?
When I think of that beautiful vision anew. Oh ! I seem but the Mijin of what I was then !
XIV.
I am withered and worn by a premature care. And my wrinkles confess the decline of my days ;
Old Time's busy hand has made free with my hair, And I'm seeking to hide it — by writing for bays.
157
A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.
There's some is born with their legs straight by natur— •
And some is born with bow-legs from the first — ■
And some that should have growed a good deal straighter,
But they were badly nursed, And set, you see, like Bacchus, with their pegs
Astride of casks and kegs. I've got myself a sort of bow to larboard
And starboard, '
And this is what it was that warped my legs :
'Twas all along of Poll, as I may say. That fouled my cable when I ought to slip ;
But on the tenth of May,
When I gets under weigh, Down there in Hartfordshire, to join my ship,
I sees the mail
Get under sail. The only one there was to make the trip.
Well, I gives chase,
But as she run
Two knots to one. There warn't no use in keeping on the race !
Well, casting round about, what next to try on.
And how to spin, I spies an ensign with a Bloody Lion, And bears away to leeward for the inn,
Beats round the gable, And fetches up before the coach-horse stable. Well, there they stand, four kickers in a row,
And so I just makes free to cut a brown 'un's cable. But riding isn't in a seaman's natur ; So I whips out a toughish end of yarn. And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter
To spUce me, heel to heel,
Under the she-mare's keel. And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-starn !
1S8 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS.
My eyes ! how she did pitch ! And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, Tho' I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, But always making lee-way to the ditch, And yawed her head about all sorts of ways.
The devil sink the craft ! And wasn't she tremendous slack in stays ! We couldn't, no how, keep the inn abaft !
Well, I suppose We hadn't run a knot — or much beyond — (What will you have on it ?) — but off she goes, Up to her bends in a fresh-water pond !
There I am ! all a-back ! So I looks forward for her bridle-gears, To heave her head round on the t'other tack ;
But when I 'starts.
The leather parts, And goes away right over by the ears 1
What could a fellow do. Whose legs, like mine, you know, were in the bilboes, But trim myself upright for bringing-to. And square his yard-arms and brace up his elbows,
In rig all snug and clever. Just while his craft was taking in her water ? I didn't like my berth though, howsomdever, Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter. Says I — I wish this job was rayther shorter !
The chase had gained a mile A-head, and still the she-mare stood a-drinking ;
Now, all the while Her body didn't take, of course, to shrinking. Says I, she's letting out her reefs, I'm thinking ;
And so she swelled and swelled,
And yet the tackle held. Till both my legs began to bend like winkin. My eyes ! but she took in enough to founder ! And there's my timbers straining every bit,
Ready n> split. And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder !
^ACH HALL. 159
Well, there — off Hartford Ness, We lay both lashed and water-logged together,
And can't contrive a signal of distress. Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather, The' sick of riding out, and nothing less ; When, looking round, I sees a man a-starn : " Hollo !" says I, " come underneath her quarter !" - And hands him out my knife to cut the yarn. So I gets off, and lands upon the road. And leaves the she-mare to her own consam,
A-standing. by the water. If I get on another, I'll be blowed ! And that's the way, you see, my legs got bowed !
JACK HALL,
'Tis very hard when men forsake This melancholy world, and make A bed of turf, they cannot take
A quiet doze, But certain rogues will come and break
Their " bone repose."
II.
'Tis hard we can't give up our breath, And to the earth our earth bequeath. Without Death Fetches after death.
Who thus exhume us ! And snatch us from our homes beneath,
And hearths posthumous.
III.
The tender lover comes to rear
The mournful urn, and shed his tear—'
" Her glorious dust," he cries, " is here 1"
Alack ! alack ! The while his Sacharissa dear
X's in a sack !
i6o JACK HALL.
IV.
'Tis hard one cannot lie amid The mould beneath a coffin-lid, But thus the Faculty will bid
Their rogues break thro' it ! If they don't want us there, why did
They send us to it ?
One of these sacrilegious knaves. Who crave as hungry vulture craves, Behaving as the ghoul behaves,
'Neath churchyard wall- Mayhap because he fed on graves.
Was named Jack Hall.
VI.
By day it was his trade to go Tending the black coach to and fro ; And sometimes at the door of woe,
With emblems suitable, ' He stood with brother Mute, to show
That life is mutable
VII.
But long before they passed the ferry. The dead that he had helped to bury He sacked — (he had a sack to carry
The bodies off in ;) In fact,' he let them have a very
Short fit of coffin.
VIII.
Night after night, with crow and spade. He drove this dead but thriving trade, Meanwhile his conscience never weighed
A single horsehair ; On corses of all kinds he preyed,
A perfect corsair !
yACIt HALL. i6i
IX.
At last — ^it may be, Death took spite, Or jesting, only meant to fright — He sought for Jack night after night
The churchyards round ; And soon they, met, the man and sprite,
In Pancras' ground.
Jack, by the glimpses of the moon, Perceived the bony knacker soon. An awful shape to meet at noon
Of night and lonely ; But Jack's tough courage did but swoon
A minute only.
XI.
Anon he gave his spade a swing
Aloft, and kept it brandishing.
Ready for what mishaps might spring _
From this conjunction ; Funking indeed was quite a thing
Beside his function.
XII.
" Hollo !" cried Death, " d'ye wish your sands Run out ? the stoutest never stands A chance with me, — to my commands
The strongest truckles ; But I'm your friend — so let's shake hands,
I should say — ^knuckles."
XIII.
Jack, glad to see th' old sprite so sprightly, And meaning nothing but uprightly. Shook hands at once, and bowing^ slightly,
His mull did proffer : But Death, who had no nose, politely
Declined the offer.
11
t62 JACK ItALV:
XIV.
Then sitting down upon a bank, Leg over leg, shank over shank, Like friends for conversation frank,
That had no check on : Quoth Jack unto the Lean and Lank,
" You're Death, I reckon."
XV.
The Jaw-bone grinned : — " I am that same, You've hit exactly on my name ; In truth it has some httle fame
Where burial sod is." Quoth Jack (and winked), " Of course ye came
Here after bodies."
XVI.
Death grinned again and shook his head : " I've little business with the dead ; When they are fairly sent to bed
I've done my turn : Whether or not the worms are fed
Is your concern.
XVII.
" My errand here, in meeting you. Is nothing but a how-d'ye-do ;' I've done what jobs I had — a few.
Along this way | If I can serve a crony too,
I beg you'll say."
xyiii.
Quoth Jack, " Your Honour's very kind : And now I call the thing to mind, This parish very strict I find ;
But in the next 'un There lives a very well-inclined
Old sort of sexton."
JACK HALL. i53
XIX.
Death took the hint, and gave a wink As well as eyelet-holes can blink ; Then stretching out his arm to hnk
The other's arm, — " Suppose," says he, " we have a drink
Of something warm."
XX.
Jack nothing loth, with friendly ease Spoke up at once : — " Why, what ye please ] Hard by there is the Cheshire Cheese,
A famous tap."
But this suggestion seemed to tease
The bony chap.
xxr.
" No, no ! — your mortal drinks are heady, And only make my hand unsteady ; I do not even care for Deady,
And loathe your rum ; But I've some glorious brewage ready,
My drink is — mum I"
xxn. And off they set, each right content — ' Who knows the dreary way they went ? But Jack felt rather faint and spent.
And out of breath; At last he saw, quite evident.
The Door of Death.
XXIII.
All other men had been unmanned To see a coffin on each hand. That- served a skeleton to stand
By way of sentry ; in fact. Death has a very grand
And awful entryi
t
i64 JACK HALL.
XXIV.
Throughout his dismal sign prevails, His name is writ in coffin nails ; The mortal darts make area rails ;
A skull that mocketh Grins on the gloomy gate, and quails
Whoever knocketh.
XXV.
And lo ! on either side, arise
Two monstrous pillars — bones of thighs ;
A monumental slab supplies
The step of stone, Where waiting for his master lies,
A dog of bone.
XXVI.
The dog leapt up, but gave no yell,
The wire was pulled, but woke no bell, -
The ghastly knocker rose and fell,
But caused no riot ; The ways of Death, we all know well,
Are very quiet.
XXVII.
Old Bones stepped in ; Jack stepped behind : Quoth Death, " I really hope you'll find The entertainment to your mind.
As I shall treat ye — A friend or two of goblin kind
I've asked to meet ye."
XXVIII.
And lo ! a crowd of spectres tall. Like jack-a-lantems on a wall, Were standing — every ghastly ball
An eager watcher. «'My friends," says Death— "friends, Mr. Hall,
The body-snatcher."
JACK HALL. 165
XXIX.
Lord ! what a tumult it produced, When Mr. Hall was introduced ! Jack even, who had long been used
To frightful things. Felt just as if his back was sluiced
With freezing springs !
XXX.
Each goblin face began to make
Some horrid mouth — ape — ^gorgon — snake ;
And then a spectre hag would shake
An airy thighbone ; And cried (or seemed to cry) I'll break
Your bone, with my bone 1
XXXI.
Some ground their teeth — some seemed to spit — (Nothing, but nothing came of it ;) A hundred awful brows were knit
In dreadful spite. Thought Jack — I'm sure I'd better quit,
Without good-night.
XXXII.
One skip and hop and he was clear. And running like a hunted deer, , As fleet as people run by fear
Well spurred and whipped, Death, ghosts, and all in that career
Were quite outstripped.
XXXIII.
But those who live by death must die ; Jack's soul at last prepared to fly ; And when his latter end drew nigh,
Oh ! what a swarm Of doctors came,'— but not to try
To keep him warm.
I66 :^ACK HALL.
XXXIV.
No ravens ever scented prey So early where a dead horse lay, Nor vultures sniifed so far away
A last convulse : A dozen " guests " day after day
Were " at bis pulse."
XXXV.
'Twas strange, altho' they got no fees. How still they watched by twos and threes : But Jack a very little ease
, Obtained from them ; In fact, he did not find M.D.s
Worth one D — M.
XXXVI.
The passing bell with hollow toll Was in his thought — the dreary hole ! Jack gave his eyes a horrid roll,
And then a cough. " There's something weighing on my soul
I wish was off;
XXXVII.
" All night it roves about my brains. All day it adds to all my pains ; It is concerning my remains
When I am dead." Twelve wigs and twelve gold-headed canes
Drew near his bed.
XXXVIII.
" Alas !" he sighed, " I'm sore afraid, A dozen pangs my heart invade ; But when I drove a certain trade
In flesh and bone. There was a little bargain made
About my own."
JACK HALL. 167
XXXIX.
Twelve suits of black began to close, Twelve pairs of sleek and sable hose, Twelve flowing cambric frills in rows,
At once drew round ; Twelve noses turned against his nose,
Twelve snubs profound.
XL.
" Ten guineas did not quite suffice, And so I sold my body twice ; Twice did not do — I sold it thrice :
Forgive my crimes I In short, I have received its price
A dozen times I "
XLI.
Twelve brows got very grkn and black. Twelve wishes stretched him on the rack, Twelve pairs of hands for fierce attack
Took up position, Ready to share the dying Jack
By long division.
XLII.
Twelve angry doctors wrangled so. That twelve had struck an hour ago. Before they had an eye to throw
On the departed ; Twelve heads turned round at once, and lo !
Twelve doctors started.
XLIII.
Whether some comrade of the dead.
Or Satan took it in his head.
To steal the corpse — the corpse had fled !
'Tis only written. That " there was nothing in the bed,
But twelve were bitten 1"
1 68 THE WEE MAN.
A ROMANCE.
It was a merry company,
And they were just afloat, When lo ! a man, of dwarfish span,
Came up and hailed the boat.
" Good morrow to ye, gentle folks,
And will you let me in ? A slender space will serve my case,
For I am small and thin."
They saw he was a dwarfish man.
And very small and thin y Not seven such would matter much,
And so they took him in.
They laughed to see his little hat,
With such a narrow brim ; They laughed to note his dapper coat.
With skirts so scant and trim.
But barely had they gone a mile,
When, gravely, one and all, At once began to think the man
Was not so very small :
His coat had got a broader skirt,
His hat a broader brim. His leg grew stout, and soon plumped out
A very proper limb.
Still on they went, and as they went. More rough the billows grew, —
And rose and fell, a greater swell. And he was swelling too !
THE WEE MAN. 169
And lo ! where room had been for seven,
For six there scarce was space ! For five ! — for four ! — for three ! — not more
Than tA\'o could find a place !
There was not even room for one !
They crowded by degrees — Ay — closer yet, till elbows met,
And knees were jogging knees.
" Good sir, you must not sit a-stem,
The wave will else come in !" Without a word he gravely stirred,
Another seat to win.
" Good sir, the boat has lost her trim,
You must not sit a-lee !" With smiling face, and courteous grace,
The jniddle seat took he.
But still, by constant quiet growth,'
His back became so wide. Each neighbour wight, to left and right,
Was thriist against the side.
Lord ! how they chided with themselves,
That they had let him in ; To see him grow so monstrous now.
That came so small and thin.
On every brow a dewdrop stood.
They grew so seared and hot, — " r the name of all that's great and tall,
Who are ye, sir, and what ?"
Loud laughed the Gogmagog, a laugh
As loud as gianf s roar — " When first I came, my proper name
Was Litde — now I'm Moore 1"
170
A BUTCHER.
Whoe'er has gone thro' London Street, Has seen a Butcher gazing at his meat,
And how he keeps
Gloating upon a sheep^s Or bullock's personals, as if his own ;
How he admires his halves
And quarters — and his calves. As if in truth upon his own legs grown ;
His fat ! his suet ! His kidneys peeping elegantly thro' it !
His thick flank !
And his thin ! His shank ! His shin ! Skin of his skin, and bone too of his bone !
With what an air He stands aloof, across the thoroughfare Gazing — and will not let a body by, Tho' buy ! buy ! buy ! be constantly his cry. Meanwhile with arms akimbo, and a pair Of Rhodian legs, he revels in a stare At his Joint Stock — for one may call it so,
Howbeit without a Co. The dotage of self-love was never fonder Than he of his brute bodies all a-row ; Narcissus in the wave did never ponder
With love so strong.
On his " portrait charmant," As our vain Butcher on his carcass yonder.
Look at his sleek round skull ! How bright his cheek, how rubicund his nose is !
His visage seems to be
Ripe for beef-tea; Of brutal juices the whole man is full. In fact, fulfiUing the metempsychosis, The Butcher is already half a Bull
171 "DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE?"
Run ! — ^run for St. Clement's engine !
For the Pawnbroker's all in a blaze, And the pledges are frying, and singeing —
Oh ! how the poor pawners will craze ! Now where can the turncock be drinking ?
Was there ever so thirsty an elf? But he still may tope on, for I'm thinking
That the plugs are as dry as himself.
II.
The engines ! I hear themjcome rumbling ;
There's the Phcenix ! the Globe ! and the Sun ! What a row there will be, and a grumbling,
When the water don't start for a run ! . See ! there they come racing and tearing.
All the street with loud voices is filled ; Oh ! it's only the firemen a-swearing
At a man they've run over and killed I
iii.
How sweetly the sparks fly away now,
And twinkle like stars in the sky. It's a wonder the engines don't play now ;
But I never saw water so shy ! Why, there isn't enough for a snipe,
And the fire it is fiercer, alas ! ■ Oh ! instead of the New River pipe.
They have gone — that they have — to the gas !
IV.
Only look at the poor little P 's
On the roof Is there anything sadder?
My dears, keep fast hold, if you please, And they wont be an hom: with the ladder !
172 "DON'T YOU SMELL FIRE I"
But if anyone's hot in their feet,
And in very great haste to be saved,
Here's a nice easy bit in the street, That M'Adam has lately unpaved !
There is some one — I see a dark shape
At that window, the hottest of all, — My good woman, why don't you escape ?
Never think of your bonnet and shawl : If your dress isn't perfect, what is it
For once in a way to your hurt ? When your husband is paying a visit
There, at Number Fourteen, in his shirt 1 I
VI.
Only see how she throws out her chaney I
Her basins, and teapots, and all The most brittle of her goods — or any,
But they all break in breaking their fall : Such things are not surely the best
From a two-storey window to throw — She might save a good iron-bound chest,
For there's plenty of people below I
VII.
O dear ! what a beautiful flash !
How it shone through the windo* and door I We shall soon hear a scream and a crash.
When the woman falls thro' with the floor 1 There ! there ! what a volley of flame.
And then, suddenly all is obscured ! — Well — I'm glad in my heart that I came ; , But I hope the poor man is insured !
i?3
THE VOLUNTEER.
" The clashing of my armour in my ears Sounds like a passing bell ; my buckler puts me In mind of a bier ; this, my broadsword, a pickaxe To dig my grave." — The Lover's Progress.
'TwAS in that memorable year France threatened to put off in Flat-Tjottomed boats, intending each To be a British coffin, To make sad widows of our wives. And every babe an orphan : —
II.
When coats were made of scarlet cloaks,
And heads Were dredged with flour,
I 'listed in the Lawyers' Corps,
Against the battle hour ;
A perfect Volunteer — ^for why ?
I brought my "will and pow'r."
III.
One dreary day — a day of dread,
Like Cato's, over-cast —
About the hour of six, (the morn
And I were breaking fast,)
There came a loud and sudden sound.
That struck me all aghast !
IV.
A dismal sort of morning roll, That was not to be eaten : Although it was no skin of mine. But parchment that was beaten, I felt tattooed through all my flesh, Like any Otaheitan.
174 THE VOLUNTEER.
My jaws with utter dread enclosed
The morsel I' was munching, '
And terror locked them up so tight,
My very teeth went crunching
All through my bread and tongue at once,
Like sandwich made at lunching.
VI. ■:p"-'i-
My hand that held the teapot fast,
Stiffened, but yet unsteady,
Kept pouring, pouririg, pouring o'er
The cup in one long eddy,
Till both my hose were majked with tea,
As they were marked already.
VII.
I felt my visage turn from red To white — from cold to hot ; But it was nothing wonderful My colour changed, I wot. For, like some variable silks, I felt that I was shot.
vili.
And looking forth with anxious ^ye,
From my snug upper storey,
I saw our melancholy corps
Going to beds all gory ;
The pioneers seemed very loth
To axe their way to glory.
jx.
the captain marched 4s mdurners march, The ensign too seemed lagging. And mahyihore, although they were No ensigns, took to flagging — Like corpses in the Serpentine, Methought they wanted dragging.
The volunteer. ryj
. But while I watched, the thought of death Came like a chilly gust, And lo ! I shut the window down, With very little lust To join so many marching men, That soon might be March, dusL
XI.
Quoth I, " Since Fate ordains it so.
Our foe the coast must land on ;"
I felt so warm beside tlie fire
I cared not to abandon ;
Our hearths and homes are always things
That patriots make a stand on.
XII.
" The fools that fight abroad for home," Thought I, " may get a wrong one ; Let those that have no home, at all Go battle for a long one." The mirror here confirmed me this Reflection, by a strong one :
XIII.
For there, where I was wont to shave,
And deck me like Adonis,
There stood the leader of our foes,
With vultures for his cronies —
No Corsican, but Death himself,
The Bony of all Bonies. ,
XIV.
A horrid sight it was, and sad. To see the grisly chap Put on my crimson livery. And then begin to clap My helmet on — ah me ! it felt Like any felon's cap.
176 THE WIDOW.
XV.
My plume seemed borrowed from a hearse,
An undertaker's crest ;
My epaulettes like coffin-plates ;
My belt so heavy pressed,
Four pipeclay cross-roads seemed to lie
At once upon my breast.
XVI.
My brazen breastplate only lacked
A little heap of salt,
To make me like a corpse full dressed,
Preparing for the vault —
To set up what the Poet calls
My everlasting halt.
XVII.
This funeral show inclined me quite
To peace : — -and here I am !
Whilst better lions go to war,
Enjoying with the lamb
A lengthened life, that might have been
A martial epigram.
THE WIDOW.
One widow at a grave will sob A little while, and weep, and sigh ! If two should meet on such a job, They'll have a gossip by-and-by. If three should come together — why, Three widows are good company ! If four should meet by any chance. Four is a number very nice, To have a rubber in a trice — But five will up and have a dance !
THE WIDOW. 177
Poor Mrs. C (why should I not
Declare her name ? — her name was Cross) Was one of those the " common lot" E[ad left to weep " no common loss ;" For she had lately buried then A man, the " very best of men," A lingering truth, discovered first Whenever men " jire at the worst." To take the measure of her woe, It was some dozen inches deep — I mean in crape, and hung so low, It hid the drops she did not weep : In fact, what human life appears, It was a peifect " veil of tears." Though ever since she lost " her prop And stay" — alas ! he wouldn't stay — She never had a tear to mop, Except one Uttle angry drop From Passion's eye, as Moore would say Because, when Mister Cross took flight, It looked so very like a spite- He died upon a washing-day !
Still Widow Cross went twice a week,
As if " to wet a widow's cheek,"
And soothe his grave with sorrow's gravy—
'Twas nothing but a make-believe,
She might as well have hoped to grieve
Enough of brine to float a navy ;
And yet she often seemed to raise
A Cambric kerchief to her eye —
A duster ought to be the phrase.
Its work was all so very dry. -
The springs were locked that ought to flow —
In England or in widow-woman —
As those that watch the weather know.
Such " backward Springs" are not uncommon.
But why did Widow Cross take pains
To call upon the " dear remains" —
Remains that could not tell a jot
Whether she ever wept or not,
12
178 THE WIDOW.
Or how his relict took her losses ? Oh i my black ink turns red for shame- But still the naughty world must learn, There was a little German came To shed a tear in " Anna's Urn," At the next grave to Mr. Cross's ! For there an angel's virtues slept, " Too soon did Heaven assert its claim !" But still her painted face he kept, *' Encompassed in an angel's frame."
He looked quite sad and quite deprived, His head was nothing but a hat-band j He looked so lone, and so WKwived, That soon the Widow Cross contrived To fall in love with even that band ; And all at oijce the brackish juices Came gushing out thro' sorrow's sluices- Tear after tear too fast to wipe, Tho' sopped, and sopped, and sopped agaia- No leak in sorrow's private pipe, But like a bursting on the main ! Whoe'er has watched the window-pane — I mean to say in showery weather- Has seen two little drops of rain, Like lovers very fond and fain. At one another creeping, creeping, Till both, at last, embrace together : So fared it with that couple's weeping ! The principle was quite as active —
Tear unto tear
Kept drawing near, Their very blacks became attractive. To cut a shortish story shorter, Conceive them sitting iete-drtUe — Two cups — hot muffins on a plate — With "Anna's Urn" to hold hot water 1 The brazen vessel for awhile Had lectured in an easy song. Like Abernethy — on the bile — 'The sca,lded herb was getting strong j
THE WIDOW. 179
All seemed as smooth as smooth could be, To have a cozy cup of tea. Alas ! ho* often human sippers With unexpected bitters meet, And buds, the sweetest of the sweet, Like sugar, only meet the nippers !
The Widow Cross, I should have told, Had seenj:hree husbands to the mould : She never sought an Indian pyre, Like Hindoo wives that lose their loves j But, with a proper sense of fire, Put up, instead, with - three removes." Thus, when with any tender, words Or tears she spoke about her loss, The dear departed Mr. Cross Came in for nothing but his thirds ; For, as all widows love too well, She liked upon the list to dwell, And oft ripped, up the old disasters. She might, indeed, have been supposed A great ship owner ; for she prosed Eternally of her Three Masters !
Thus, foolish woman ! while she nursed
Her mild souchong, she talked and reckoned
What had been left her by her first.
And by her last, and by her second,
Alas ! not all her annual rents
Could then entice the little German —
Not Mr. Cross's Three per Cents,
Or Consols, ever make him her man.
He liked her cash, he liked her houses,
But not that dismal bit of land
She always settled on her spouses.
So taking up. his hat and band, .
Said he, " You'll think my conduct odd— •
But here my hopes no more may linger ;
I thought you had a wedding-finger,
But oh !^t is a curtain-rod !"
i8o JOHN TROT.
A BALLAD. I.
John Trot he was as tall a lad
As York did ever rear — As his dear Granny used to say.
He'd make a grenadier.
II.
A sergeant soon came down to York,
With ribbons and a frill ; My lads, said he, let broadcast be,
And come away to drill.
III.
But when he wanted John to 'list,
In war he saw no fun, Where what is called a raw recruit
Gets often over-done.
IV.
Let others carry guns, said he,
And go to war's alarms, But I have got a shoulder-knot
Imposed upon my arms.
For John he had a footman's place
To wait on Lady Wye — She was a dumpy woman, tho'
Her family was high.
VI.
Now when two years had passed away,
Her lord took very ill, And left her to her widowhood.
Of course more dumpy still.
JOHN TROT. l8i
VII.
Said John, I am a proper man,
And very tall to see ; Who knows, but now her lord is low,
She may look up to me ?
VIII.
A cunning woman told me once, Such fortune would turn up ;
She was a kind of sorceress, But studied in a cup !
IX.
So he walked up to Lady Wye, And took her quite amazed, —
She thought, tho' John was tall enough, He wanted to be raised.
X.
But John — for why ? she was a dame
Of such a dwarfish sort — Had only come to bid her make
Her mourning very short.
XI.
Said he, your lord is dead and cold,
You only cry in vain ; Not all the cries of London now
Could call him back again !
XII.
You'll soon have many a noble beau.
To dry your noble tears — But just consider this, that I
Have followed you for years.
XIII.
And tho' you are above me fan
What matters high degree, When you are only four foot ninev
And I am six foot three !
mmmmmeimmm.
l§2 yOHM TROT.
XIV,
For tho' you are of lofty race,
And I'm a low-born elf ; Yet none among your friends could say,
You matched beneath yourself.
XV.
Said she, such insolence as this Can be no common case ; -
Tho' you are in my service, sir, Your love is out of place.
XVI.
0 lady Wye ! O Lady Wye !
Consider what you do ; How can you be so short with me,
I am not so with you !
XVII.
Then ringing for her serving men. They showed him to the door :
Said they, you turn out better now, Why didn't you before ?
XVIII.
They stripped his coat, and gave him kicks
For all his wages due ; And off, instead of green and gold. He went in black and blue.
XIX.
No family would take him in.
Because of his discharge ; So he made up his mind to serve
The country all at large.
XX.
Huzza ! the sergeant cried, and put
The money in his hand, And with a shilling cut him off
From his paternal land.
ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD. tSj
XXI.
For when his regiment went to fight
At Saragossa town, A Frenchman thought he looked too tall
And so he cut him down !
ODE 16 THE CAMELEOPARD.
Welcome to Freedom's birthplace — and a den !
Great Anti-climax, hail ! So very lofty in thy front — but then,
So dwindling at the tail ! In truth, thou hast the most unequal legs ! x
Has one pair galloped, whilst the other trotted, Along with other brethren, leopard-spotted. O'er Afric sand, where ostriches lay eggs ? Sure thou wert caught in some hard uphill chase, Those hinder heels still keeping thee in check !
And yet thou seem'st prepared in any case,
Tho' they had lost the race, To win it — ^by a neck 1
That lengthy neck — ^how like a crane's it looks ! Art thou the overseer of air the brutes ? Or .dost thou browze on tip-top leaves or fruits— Or go a bird-nesting amongst the rooks ? How kindly nature caters for all wants ; Thus giving unto thee a neck that stretches,
And high food fetches — To some a long nose, like the elephant's !
Oh ! had'st thou any organ to thy bellows, To turn thy breath to speech in human style,
What secrets thou might'st tell us. Where now our scientific guesses fail ;
For instance of the Nile, Whether those Seven Mouths have any tail
Mayhap thy luck too, From that high head, as from a lofty hill, Has let thee see the marvellous Timbuctoo — Or drink of Niger at its infant rill ;
i84 ODE TO THE CAMELEOPARD.
What were the travels of our Major Denham,
Or Clapperton, to thine
In that same line, If thou could'st only squat thee down and pen 'em !
Strange sights, indeed, thou must have overlooked, With eyes held ever in such vantage-stations ! Hast seen, perchance, unhappy white folks cooked, And then made free of negro corporations? Poor wretches saved from castaway three-deckers —
By sooty wreckers — From hungry waves to have a loss still drearier, To far exceed the utmost aim of Park — And find themselves, alas ! beyond the mark, In the insides of Africa's interior ! Live on. Giraffe ! genteelest of raff kind ! — Admired by noble and by royal tongues !
May no pernicious wind, Or English fog, blight thy exotic lungs !
Live on in happy peace, altho' a rarity. Nor envy thy poor cousin's more outrageous
Parisian popularity — Whose very leopard-rash is grown contagious, And worn on gloves and ribbons all about,
Alas ! they'll wear him out ! — So thou shalt take thy sweet diurnal feeds — When he is stuffed with undigested straw, Sad food that never visited his jaw ! And staring round him with a brace of beads i
POEMS.
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. To Charles Lamb, Esq,
My dear Friend, — I thank my literary fortune that ■! am not reduced, like many better wits, to barter dedications, for the hope or "promise of patronage, with some nominally great man; but that where true affection points, and honest respect, I am free to gratify my head and heart by a sincere inscription. An intimacy ^nd dearness, worthy, of a much earlier date than our acquaintance can refer to, direct me at once to your name : and with this acknowledgment of your ever kind feeling towards me, I desire to record a respect and admiration for you as a writer, which no one acquainted with our Kterature, save Elia himself, will think dispro- portionate or misplaced. If I had not these better reasons to govern me, I should be guided to the same selection by your intense yet critical relish for the works of our great Dramatist, and for that favourite play in particular which has furnished the subject of my verses.
It is my design, in the foUowipg poem, to celebrate, by an allegory, that immortality which Shakspeare has conferred on the fairy mythology by his " Midsummer Night's Dream." But for him, those pretty children of our childhood would leave barely their names to our maturer years ; they belong, as the mites upon the plum, to the bloom of fancy, a thing generally too frail and beaiitiful to withstand the rude handling of time : but the Poet has made this most perishable part of the mind's creation equal to the most enduring; he has so intertwined the elfins with human sympathies, and Hnked them by so many delightful asso- ciations with the productions of nature, that they are as real to the mind's eye as their green magical circles to the outer sense.
It would have been a pity for such a race to go extinct, even though they were but as the butterflies that hover about the leaves and blossoms of the visible world.
I am, my dear Friend, yours most truly,
T. Hood,
t85 the plea of the MIDSUMMER EAlRtES.
'TwAs in that mellow season of the year,
When the hot sun singes the yellow leaves
Till they be gold, — and with a broader sphere
The Moon looks down on Ceres and her sheaves ;
When more abundantly the spider weaves,
And the cold wind breathes from a chillier clime ;
That forth I fared, on one of those still eves,
Touched with the dewy sadness of the time,
To think how the bright months had spent their prime.
II.
So that, wherever I addressed my way,
I seemed to track the melancholy feet
Of him that is the Father of Decay,
And spoils at once the sour weed and the sweet 5
Wherefore regretfully I made retreat
To some unwanted regions of my brain,
Charmed with the light of summer and the heat,
And bade that bounteous season bloom again,
And sprout fresh flowers in my own domain.
III.
It was a shady and sequestered scene. Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio, Planted with his own laurels evergreen, And roses that for endless summer blow ; And there were fountain springs to overflow Their marble basins, — and cool green arcades Of tall o'erarching sycamores, to throw Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades, — With timid conies cropping the green blades.
IV.
And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish, Argent and gold ; and some of Tyrian skin. Some crimson-barred ; — and ever at a wish They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin
I
THE PLEA OF THE MWSUMMER FAIRIES. 187
As glass upon their backs, and then dived in, Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom ;. . Whilst others with fresh hue^ rowed forth to win My changeable regard, for so we doom Tj'hings born of thought to vanish or to bloom.
And there were many birds of many dyes, From tree to tree still faring to and fro. And stately peacocks with their splendid eyes. And gorgeous pheasants with their golden glow, Like Iris just bedabbled in her bow. Besides some vocalists, without a name, That oft on fairy errands come and go. With accents magical ; — -and all were tame, And peckled at my hand where'er I came.
VI,
And for my sylvan company, in lieu Of Pampinea with her lively peers, Sat Queen Titania with her pretty crew. All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears, For she was gracious to my childish years, And made m^ free of her enchanted round ; Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears, And plants her court upon a verdant mound, Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound.
VII.
" Ah me," she cries, " was ever moonlight seen So clear and tender for our midnight trips ? Go some one forth, and with a trump convene My lieges all !" — Away the goblin skips A pace or two apart, and deftly strips The ruddy skin from a sweet rose's cheek, Then blows the shuddering leaf between his lips, Making it utter forth a shrill 'small shriek. Like a frayed bird in the grey owlfet's beak,
' i88 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
VIII.
And lo ! upon my fixed delighted ken ^
Appeared the loyal Fays. — Some by degrees Crept from the primrose buds that opened then, And some from bell-shaped blossoms like the bees, Some from the dewy meads, and rushy leas, Flew up like chafers when the rustics pass ; Some from the rivers, others from tall trees Dropped, like shed blossoms, silent to the grass. Spirits and elfins small, of every class.
IX.
Peri and Pixy, and quaint Puck the Antic, Brought Robin Goodfellow, that merry swain ; And stealthy Mab, queen of old realms romantic, Came too, from distance, in her tiny wain; Fresh dripping from a cloud — some bloomy rain, Then circling the bright Moon, had washed her car. And still bedewed it with a various stain : Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, Who bears all fairy embassies afar.
X.
But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled.
Was absent, whether some distempered spleen
Kept him and his fair mate unreconciled.
Or warfare with the Gnome (whose race had been
Sometime obnoxious) kept him from his queen,
And made her now peruse the starry skies
Prophetical with such an absent mien ;
Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eyes,
And oft the Moon was incensed with her sighs —
XI.
Which made the elves sport drearily, and soon Their hushing dances languished to a stand. Like midnight leaves when, as the Zephyrs swoOn, All on their drooping stems they sink unfanned> —
1
THE FLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 189
So into silence drooped the fairy band, To see their empress dear so pale and still, Crowding her softly round on either haind, As pale as frosty snowdrops, and as chill, To whom the sceptred dame reveals her ill.
XII.
"Alas," quoth she, "ye know our fairy lives Are leased upon the fickle fdth of men ; Not measured out against fate's mortal knives, Like human gossamers, we perish when We fade, and are forgot in worldly ken, — Though poesy has thus prolonged our date. Thanks be to the sweet Bard's auspicious pen That rescued us so long ! — howbeit of late I feel some dark misgivings of our fate.
XIII.
" And this dull day my melancholy sleep Hath been so thronged with images of woe, That even now I cannot choose but weep To think this was some sad prophetic show Of future horror to befall us so, — Of mortal wreck and uttermost distress, — Yea, our poor empire's fall and overthrow, — For this was my long vision's dreadful stress, And when I waked my trouble was not less.
XIV.
"Whenever to the clouds I tried to seek, Such leaden weight dragged these Icarian wings, My faithless wand was wavering and weak, And slimy toads had trespassed in our rings — The birds refused to sing for me — all things ,j
Disowned their old allegiance to our spells ; . ^
The rude bees pricked me with their rebel stings ; '' And, when I passed, the valley-lily's bells Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells.
t -
190 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES,
XV.
"And ever on the faint and flagging air A doleful spirit with a dreary note Cried in my fearful ear, ' Prepare ! prepare !' Which soon I knew came from a raven's throat, Perched on a cypress bough not far remote, — A cursed bird, too crafty to be shot, . That alway cometh with his soot-black coat To make hearts dreary : — for he is a blot Upon the book of life, as well ye wot !
XVI.
" Wherefore some while I bribed him to be mute,
With bitter acorns stuffing his foul maw,
"Which barely I appeased, when some fresh bruit
Startled me all aheap ! — and soon I saw
The horridest shape that ever raised my awe, —
A monstrous giant, very huge and tall,
Such as in elder times, devoid of law,
With wicked might grieved the primeval ball,
And this was sure the deadliest of them all !
XVII.
" Gaunt was he as a wolf of Languedoc,
With bloody jaws, and frost upon his crown ;
So from his barren poll one hoary lock
Over his wrinkled front fell far adown,
Well nigh to where his frosty brows did frown
Like jagged icicles at cottage eaves ;
And for his coronal he wore some brown
And bristled ears gathered from Ceres' sheaves.
Entwined with certain sere and russet leaves.
XVIII.
" And lo ! upon a mast reared far aloft, He bore a very bright and crescent blade, The which he waved so dreadfully^ and oft. In meditative spite, that, sore dismayed,
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES, 191
I crept into an acorn-cup for shade ; Meanwhile the horrid effigy went by : I trow his look was xkeadful, for it made The trembling birds betake them to the sky, Tor every leaf was lifted by his sigh.
*xix.
" And ever as he sighed, his foggy breath Blurred out the landscape like a flight of smoke : Thence knew I this was either dreary Death Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroke. Ah wretched me ! " — Here, even as she spoke, The melancholy Shape came gliding in, And leaned his back against an antique oak, Folding his wings, that were so fine and thin, They scarce were seen against the Dryad's skin.
Then what a fear seized all the little rout ! Look how a flock of panicked sheep will stare— ' •And huddle close— and start — and wheel about, Watching the roaming mongrel here and there,— So did that sudden Apparition scare All close aheap those small affnghted things j Nor soughb they now the safety of the air, As if some leaden spell withheld their wings ; But who can fly that ancientest of Kings?
XXI.
Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear And previous sigh, beginneth to entreat, Bidding him spare, for love, her lieges dear : " Alas ! " quoth she, " is there no nodding wheat Ripe for thy crooked weapon, and more meet, — Or withered leaves- to ravish from the tree, — Or crumbling battlements for thy defeat ? Think but what vaunting monuments there be Builded in spite and mockery of thee.
192 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
XXII.
" O fret away the fabric walls of Fame, And grind down marble Caesars with the dust : Make tombs inscriptionless — raze each high name, And waste old armours of renown with rust : Do all of this, and thy revenge is just : Make such decays the trophies of thy prime, And check Ambition's overweening lust, That dares exterminating war with Time,— But we are guiltless of that lofty crime.
XXIII.
" Frail feeble sprites ! — the children of a dream !
Leased on the sufferance of fickle men.
Like motes dependent on the sunny beam.
Living but in the sun's indulgent ken.
And when that light withdraws, withdrawing then y —
So do we flatter in the glance of youth
And fervid fancy, — and so perish when
The eye of faith grows aged ; — in sad truth.
Feeling thy sway, O Time ! though not thy tooth I
XXIV.
" Where be those old divinities forlorn, That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream ? Alas ! their memories are dimmed and torn. Like the remaining tatters of a dream : So will it fare with our poor thrones, I deem ;— For us the same dark trench Oblivion delves. That holds the wastes of every human scheme. O spare us then, — and these our pretty elves. We soon, alas ! shall perish of ourselves !"
XXV. .'
Now as she ended, with a sigh, to name Those old Olympians, scattered by the whirl Of fortune's giddy wheel and brought to shame, Methought a scornful and malignant curl
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 193
Showed on the lips of that malicious churl, To think what noble havocs he had made ; So that I feared he all at once would hurl The harmless fairies into endless shade,— Howbeit he stopped awhile to whet his blade.
XXVI.
Pity it was to hear the elfins' wail, Rjse up in concert from their mingled dread ; Pity it was to see them, all so pale, . Gaze on the grass as for a dying bed ; But Puck was seated on a spider's thread, That hung between two branches of a briar, And 'gan to swing and gambol heels o'er head, Like any Southwark tumbler on a wire, For him no present grief could long inspire.
XXVII.
Meanwhile the Queen with many piteous drops, Falling like tiny sparks full fast and free. Bedews a pathway from her throne ; and stops Before the foot of her arch enemy, And with her little arms enfolds his knee. That shows more grisly from that fair embrace ; But she will ne'er depart. " Alas !" quoth she, " My painful fingers I wiU here enlace Till I have gained your pity for oiy race.
XXVIII.
" What have we ever done to earn this grudge, , And hate — (if not too humble for thy hating ?) — Look o'er our labours and our lives, and judge" If there be any ills of our creating : For we are very kindly creatures, dating With nature's charities still sweet and bland : O think this murder worthy of debating !" Herewith she makes a signal with her hand, To beckon some one from the Fairy band.
13
194 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
XXIX. ■•
Anon I saw one of those elfin things
Clad all in white like any chorister,
Come fluttering forth on his melodious wings,
That made soft music at each little stir,
But something louder than a bee's demur
Before he lights upon a bunch of broom,
And thus 'gan he with Saturn to confer, —
And O his voice was sweet, touched with the gloom
Of that sad theme that argued of his doom !
XXX.
Quoth he, " We make all melodies our care, That no false discords may offend the Sun, Music's great master — tuning everywhere All pastoral sounds and melodies, each one Duly to place and season, so that none May harshly interfere. We rouse at morn The shrill sweet lark ; and when the day is done, Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn. That singeth with her breast against a thorn,
XXXI.
" We gather in loud choirs the twittering race, That make a chorus with their single note ; And tend on new-fledged birds in every place, That duly they may get their tunes by rote ; And oft, like echoes, answering remote. We hide in thickets from the feathered throng, And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat, Singing in shrill responses all day long, Whilst the glad truant listens, to our song.
XXXII.
" Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love The raining music from a morning cloud. When vanished larks are carolling above, To wake Apollo with their pipings loud ;
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 155
If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell, Show thy sweet iftercy on this Httle crowd, And we will muffle up the sheepfeld bell Whene'er thou listenest to Philomel."
XXXIII.
Then Saturn thus :— " Sweet is the merry lark, That carols in man's ear so clear and strong ; And youth must love to listen in the dark That tuneful elegy of Tereus' wrong ; But I have heard that ancient strain too long, For sweet is sweet but when a little strange. And I grow weary for some newer song ; For wherefore had I wings, unless to tange Through all things mutable from change to change ?
XXXIV.
" But wouldst thou hear the melodies of Time, Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll Over hushed cities, and the midnight chime Sounds from their hundred clocks, and deep bells toll Like a last knell over the dead world's soul. Saying, Time shall be final of all things, Whose late, last voice must elegize the whole, — O tlien I clap aloft my brave broad wings. And make the wide air tremble while it rings !"
XXXV.
Then next a fair Eve-Fay made meek address, Saying, " We be the handmaids of the Spring, In sign whereof, May, the quaint broideress. Hath wrought her samplers on our gauzy wing. We tend upon buds' birth and blossoming. And count the leafy tributes that they owe^ As, 50 much to the earth — so much to fling In showers to the brook — so much to go In whirlwinds to the clouds that made them grow
196 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
XXXVI.
" The pastoral cowslips are our little pets, And daisy stars, whose firmament is green ; Pansies, and those veiled nuns, meek violets, Sighing to that warm world from which they screen ; And golden daffodils, plucked for May's Queen ; And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath ; And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen, Whose tuneful voice, turned fragrance in his breath. Kissed by sad Zephyr, guilty of his death.
xxxvii.
" The widowed primrose weeping to the moon, And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright y*
A cool libation hoarded for the noon Is kept — and she that purifies the light, The virgin lily, faithful to her white, ' Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame ;
And the most dainty rose, Aurora's spright, ''-
Our very godchild, by whatever rime — Spare us our lives, for we did r^urse the same !"
XXXVIII.
Then that old Mower stamped his heel, and struck His hurtful scythe against the harmless ground, Saying, " Ye fooUsh imps, when am I stuck With gaudy buds, or like a wooer crowned With flow'ry chaplets, save when they are found Withered ?— Whenever have I plucked a rose, Except to scatter its vain leaves around ? For so all gloss of beauty I oppose. And bring decay on every flower that blows.
XXXIX.
" Or when am I so wroth as when I view The wanton pride of Summer ;— how she decks The birthday world with blossoms ever new, As if Time had not lived, and heaped great wrecks
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 197
Of years on years ? — O then I bravely vex And catch the gay months in their gaudy plight, And slay them with the wreaths about their necks, Like foolish heifers in the holy rite, And raise great trophies to my ancient might."
XL.
Then saith another, " We are kindly things. And like her offspring nestle with the dove, — Witness these hearts embroidered on our wings. To show our constant patronage of love : — We sit at even, in sweet bowers above Lovers, and shake rich odours on the air, To mingle with their sighs ; and still remove The startling owl, and bid the bat forbear Their privacy, and haunt some other where.
XLI.
" And we are near the mother when she sits Beside her infant in its wicker bed ; And we are in the fairy scene that flits Across its tender brain ; sweet dreams we shed. And whilst, the tender little soul is fled Away, to sport with our young elves, the while We touch the dimpled cheek with roses red. And tickle the soft lips until they smile. So that their careful parents they beguile.
XLII.
" O then, if ever thou hast breathed a vow At Love's dear portal, or at pale moon-rise Crushed the dear curl on a regardful brow That did not frown thee from thy honey prize — If ever thy sweet son sat on thy thighs, And wooed thee from thy careful thoughts within To watch the harmless beauty of his eyes. Or glad thy fingers on his smooth soft skin, For Love's dear sake, let us thy pity win !"
198 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES,
XLIII.
Then Saturn fiercely thus : — ""What joy have I In tender babes, that have devoured mine own, Whenever to the hght I heard them cry, Till foolish Rhea cheated me with stone ? Whereon, till now, is my great hunger shown, In monstrous dints of my enormous tooth ; And, — ^but the peopled world is too full grown For hunger's edge — I would consume all youth At one great meal, without delay or ruth !
XLIV.
" For I am well nigh crazed and wild to hear How boastful fathers taunt me with their breed, Saying, We shall not die nor disappear. But in these other selves ourselves succeed, Even as ripe flowers pass into their seed Only to be renewed from prime to prime, All of which boastings I am forced to read, Besides a thousand challenges to Time Which bragging lovers have compiled in rhyme.
XLV.
" Wherefore, when they are sweetly met o' nights, There will I steal, and with my hurried hand Startle them suddenly from their delights Before the next encounter hath been planned, Ravishing hours in little minutes spanned ; But when they say farewell, and grieve apart. Then like a leaden statue I will stand, Meanwhile their many tears encrust my dart, And with a ragged edge cut heart from heart."
x^vi.
Then next a merry Woodsman, clad in green, Stept vanward from his mates, that idly stood Each at his proper ease, as they had been Nursed in the liberty of old Shdrwood,
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 199
And wore the livery of Robin Hood, Who wont in forest shades to dine and sup, — So came this chief right frankly, and made good His haunch against his axe, and thus spoke up, Doffing his cap, which was an acorn's cup :—
XLVII.
" We be small foresters and gay, who tend On trees, and all their furniture of green. Training the young boughs airily to bend, And show blue snatches of the sky between ; Or knit more close intricacies, to screen Birds' crafty dwellings as may hide them best. But most the timid blackbird's-^she, that seen, Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest. Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast
XLVIII.
" We bend each tree in proper attitude, And founting willows train in silvery falls ; We frame all shady roofs and arches rude. And verdant aisles leading to Dryads' halls, Or deep recesses where the Echo calls ; — We shape all plumy trees against the sky, And carve tall elms' Corinthian capitals, — When sometimes, as our tiny hatchets ply, Men say the tapping woodpecker is nigh.
XLIX.
" Sometimes we scoop the squirrel's hollow cell.
And sometimes carve quaint letters on trees' rind'
That haply some lone musing wight may spell
Dainty Aminta, — Gentle Rosalind, —
Or chastest Laura, — sweetly called to mind
In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down ;
And sometimes we enrich grey stems with twined
And vagrant ivy, — or rich moss, whose brown
Burns into gold as the warm sun goes down.
200 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
"And, lastly, for mirth's sake and Christmas cheer, We bear the seedling berries, for increase, To graft the Druid oaks, from year to year. Careful that mistletoe may never cease ; Wherefore, if thou dost prize the shady peace Of sombre forests, or to see light break Through sylvan cloisters, and in spring release Thy spirit amongst leaves from careful ake. Spare us our lives for the Green Dryad's sake."
LI.
Then Saturn, with a frown : — " Go forth, and fell
Oak for your coffins, and thenceforth lay by
Your axes for the rust, and bid farewell
To all sweet birds, and the blue peeps of sky
Through tangled branches, for ye shall not spy,
The next green generation of the tree ;
But hence with the dead leaves, whene'er they fly,—.
Which in the bleak air I would rather see,
Than flights of tlie most tuneful birds that be.
LII,
"For I dislike all prime and verdant pets,
Ivy except, that on the aged wall
Preys with its worm-like roots, and daily frets
The crumbled tower it seems to league withal.
King-like, worn down by its own coronal :
Neither in forest haunts love I to won,
Before the golden plumage 'gins to fall,
And leaves the brown bleak limbs with few leaves on,
Or bare — like Nature in her skeleton.
LIII.
" For then sit I amongst the crooked boughs. Wooing dull Memory with kindred sighs ; And there in rustling nuptials we espouse, Smit by the sadness in each other's eyes ;
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 201
But Hope must have green bowers and blue skies, And must be courted with the gauds of spring ; Whilst Youth leans god-like on her lap, and cries, What shall we always do, but love and sing ? — And Time is reckoned a discarded thing."
LIV.
Here in my dream it made me fret to see How Puck, the antic, all this dreary while Had blithely jested with calamity. With mistimed mirth mocking the doleful style Of his sad comrades, till it raised my bile To see him so reflect their grief aside, Turning their solemn looks to half a smile — Like a straight stick shown crooked in the tide ; But soon a novel advocate I spied.
LV.
Quoth he — " We teach all natures to fulfil Their fore-appointed crafts, and instincts meet, — The bee's sweet alchemy, — the spider's skill, — The pismire's care to gamer up his wheat, — And rustic masonry to swallows fleet, — The lapwing's cunning to preserve her nest, — But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet And shrilly ruddock, with its bleeding breast, Its tender pity of poor babes distrest.
LVI.
" Sometimes we cast our shapes, and in sleek skins Delve with the timid mole, that aptly delves From our example ; so the spider spins. And eke the silkworm, patterned by ourselves : Sometimes we travail on the summer shelves Of early bees, and busy toils commence, Watched of wise men, that know not w^e are elves, But gaze and marvel at our stretch of sense. And praise our human-like intelligence.
302 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
LVII.
"Wherefore, by thy delight in that old tale, And plaintive dirges the late robins sing, What time the leaves are scattered by the gale. Mindful of that old forest burying ; As thou dost love to watch each tiny thing, For whom our craft most curiously contrives, If thou hast caught a bee upon the wing, To take his honey-bag, — spare us our lives, And we will pay the ransom in full hives."
LVIII.
" Now by my glass," quoth Time, " ye do offend In teaching the brown bees that careful lore, And frugal ants, whose millions -would have end, But they lay up for need a timely store. And travail with the seasons evermore ; Whereas Great Mammoth long hath passed away, And none but I can tell what hide he wore ; Whilst purblind men, the creatures of a day, In riddling wonder his great bones survey."
LIX.
Then came an elf, right beauteous to behold, Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun Hath all embroidered with its crooked gold. It was so quaintly wrought, and overrun With spangled traceries, — ^most meet for one That was a warden of the pearly streams ; And as he stept out of the shadows dun. His jewels sparkled in the pale moon's gleams, And shot into the air their pointed beams.
LX.
Quoth he, — "We bear the cold arid silver keys Of bubbling springs and fountains, that below Course thro' the veiny earth, — which when they freeze Into hard chrysolites, we bid to flov/.
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 203
Creeping like subtle snakes, when as they go, We guide their windings to melodious falls, At whose soft murmurings, so sweet and low, Poets have turned their smoothest madrigals, To sing to ladies in their banquet halls.
LXI.
" And when the hot sun with his steadfast heat
Parches the river god, — whose dusty urn
Drips miserly, till soon his crystal feet
Against his pebbly floor wax faint and burn,
And languid fish, unpoised, grow sick and yearn,—
Then scoop we hollows in some sandy nook.
And little channels dig, wherein we turn
The thread-worn rivulet, that all forsook
The Naiad-lily, pining for her brooL
LXII.
" Wherefore, by thy delight in cool green meads,
With living sapphires daintily inlaid, — ■
In all soft songs of waters and their reeds, —
And all reflections in a streamlet made,
Haply of thy own love, that, disarrayed,
Kills the fair lily with a livelier white, —
By silver trouts upspringing from green shade,
And winking stars reduplicate at night,
Spare us, poor ministers to such delight."
LXIIIi
Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks
Moved not the spiteful Shade ; — Quoth he, " Your taste
Shoots wide of mine, for I despise the brooks
And slavish rivulets that run to waste
In noontide sweats, or, like poor vassals, haste
To swell the vast dominion of the sea,
In whose great presence I am held disgraced,
And neighboured with a king that rivals me
In ancient might and hoary majesty.
204 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES,
LXIV.
" Whereas I ruled in Chaos, and still keep
The awful secrets of that ancient dearth,
Before the briny fountains of the deep
Brimmed up the hollow cavities of earth ;
I saw each trickling Sea-God at his birth,
Each pearly Naiad with her oozy locks,
And infant Titans of enormous girth.
Whose huge young feet yet stumbled on the rocks,
Stunning the early world with frequent shocks.
LXV.
" Where now is Titan, with his cumbrous brood. That scared the world ? — By this sharp scythe they fell, And half the sky was curdled with their blood : So have all primal giants sighed farewell. No Wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell. No pearly Naiads. All their days are done That strove with Time, untimely, to excel ; Wherefore I razed their progenies, and none But my great shadow intercepts the sun !"
LXVI.
Then saith the timid Fay — " O mighty Time ! Well hast thou wrought the cruel Titans' fall. For they were stained with many a bloody crime : Great giants work great wrongs — but we are small, For love goes lowly ; — but Oppression's tall. And with surpassing strides goes foremost still Where love indeed can hardly reach at all ; Like a poor dwarf o'erburdened with goodwill, That labours to efface the tracks of ill.
LXVII.
" Man even strives with Man, but we eschew The guilty feud, and all fierce strifes abhor ; Nay, we are gentle as sweet heaven's dew. Beside the red and horrid drops of war,
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 205
Weeping the cruel hates men battle for,
Which worldly bosoms nourish in our spite ;
For in the gentle breast we ne'er withdraw,
But only when all love hath taken flight,
And youth's warm gracious heart is hardened quit&
LXVIII.
" So are our gentle natures intertwined With sweet humanities, and closely knit In kindly sympathy with human kind. . Witness how we befriend, with elfin wit, All hopeless maids and lovers — nor omit Magical succours unto hearts forlorn : We charm man's life, and do not perish it ; So judge us by the helps we showed this mom. To one who held his wretched days in scorn.
LXIX.
" 'Twas nigh sweet Amwell ; — for the Queen had tasked Our skill to-day amidst the silver Lea, Whereon the noontide sun had not yet basked ; Wherefore some patient man we thought to see, Planted in mossgrown rushes to the knee, Beside the cloudy margin cold and dim ; Howbeit no patient fisherman was he That cast his sudden shadow from the brim, Making us leave our toils to gaze on him.
LXX.
" His face was ashy pale, and leaden care Had sunk the levelled arches of his brow. Once bridges for his joyous thoughts to fare' Over those melancholy springs and slow. That from his piteous eyes began to flow, And fell anon into the chilly stream ; Which, as his mimicked image showed below. Wrinkled his face with many a needless seam, Making grief sadder in its own esteem.
2o6 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAiUlES.
LXXI,
" And lo ! upon the air we saw him stretch His passionate arms ; and, in a wa)rward strain, He 'gan to elegize that, fellow wretch That with mute gestures answered him again, Saying, ' Poor slave, how long wilt thou remain Life's sad weak captive in a prison strong," Hoping with tears to rust away thy chain, In bitter servitude to worldly wrong ? Thou wear'st that mortal livery too long !'
LXXII.
" This, with more spleenful speeches and some tears.
When he had spent upon the imaged wave,
Speedily I convened my elfin peers
Under the lily-cups, that we might save
This woeful mortal from a wilful grave
By shrewd diversions of his mind's regret,
Seeing he was mere melancholy's slave,
That sank wherever a dark cloud he met,
And straight was tangled in her secret net.
LXXIII.
" Therefore, as still he watched the water's flow, Daintily we transformed, and with bright fins Came glancing through the gloom ; some from below Rose like dim fancies when a dream begins. Snatching the light upon their purple skins ; Then under the broad leaves made slow retire : One like a golden galley bravely wins Its radiant course — another glows like fire — Making that wayward man our pranks admire.
LXXIV.
" And so he banished thought, and quite forgot All contemplation of that wretched face ; And so we wiled him from that lonely spot Along the river's brink ; till by heaven' j grace,
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 207
He met a gentle haunter of the place,
Full of sweet wisdom gathered from the brooks,
Who there discussed his melancholy case ,
With wholesome texts learned from kind nature's books,
Meanwhile he newly trimmed his lines and hooks."
LXXV.
Herewith the Fairy ceased. Quoth Ariel now— " Let me remember how I saved a man. Whose fatal noose was fastened on a bough, Intended to abridge his sad life's span ; For haply I was by when he began His stern soliloquy in life's dispraise, And overheard his melancholy plan, How he had made a vow to end his days, And therefore followed him in all his ways.
LXXVI.
" Through brake and tangled copse, for much he loathed
All populous haunts, and roamed in forests rude.
To hide himself from man. But I had clothed
My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pijrsued.
Where only foxes and wild cats intrude.
Till we were come beside an ancient tree
Late blasted by a storm. Here he renewed
His loud complaints — choosing that spot to be
The scene of his last horrid tragedy.
LXXVII.
"^It was a wild and melancholy glen. Made gloomy by tall firs and cypress dark. Whose roots, like any bones of buried men. Pushed through the rotten sod for fear's remark ; A hundred horrid stems, jagged and stark, Wrestled with crooked arms in hideous fray. Besides sleek ashes with their dappled bark, Like crafty serpents climbing for a prey, With many blasted oaks liiossgrown and grey.
2o8 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
LXXVIII.
"But here upon his final desperate clause
Suddenly I pronounced so sweet a strain,
Like a panged nightingale, it made him pause,
Till half the frenzy of his grief was slain.
The sad remainder oozing from his brain
In timely ecstasies of healing tears.
Which through his ardent eyes began to drain —
Meanwhile the deadly Fates unclosed their shears :
So pity me and all my fated peers !"
LXXIX.
Thus Ariel ended, and was some time hushed :
When with the hoary Shape a fresh tongue pleads,
And red as rose the gentle Faiiy blushed
To read the record of her own good deeds : —
" It chanced," quoth she, " in seeking through the meads
For honeyed cowslips, sweetest in the morn,.
Whilst yet the buds were hung with dewy beads,
And Echo answered to the huntsman's horn.
We found a babe left in the swarths forlorn.
LXXX.
" A little, sorrowful, deserted thing, Begot of love, and yet no love begetting ; Guiltless of shame, and yet for shame to wring ; And too soon banished from a mother's petting, To churUsh nurture and the wide world's fretting, For alien pity and unnatural care ; Alas ! to see how the cold dew kept wetting His childish coats, and dabbled all his hair, Like gossamers across his forehead fair.
LXXXI.
" His pretty pouting mouth, witless of speech, Lay half-way open like a rose-lipped shell ; And his young, cheek was softer than a peach, Whereofi his tears, for roundness, could not dwell,
rtlE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 209
But quickly rolled themselves to pearls, and fell, Some on the grass, and some against his hand. Or haply wandered to the dimpled well. Which love beside his mouth had sweetly planned, Yet not for tears, but mirth and smilings bland.
LXXXII.
" Pity it was to see those frequent tears Falling regardless from his friendless eyes ; There was such beauty in those twin blue spheres, As any mother's heart might leap to prize ; Blue were they, like the zenith of the skies Softened betwixt two clouds, both clear and mild j Just touched with thought, and yet not over wise, They showed the gentle spirit of a child. Not yet by care or any craft defiled.
LXXXIIl.
" Pity it was to see the ardent sun Scorching his helpless limbs — it shone so warm j For kindly shade or shelter he had none. Nor mother's gentle breast, come fair or storm. Meanwhile I bade my pitying mates transform Like grasshoppers, and then, with shrilly cries. All round the infant noisily we swarm. Haply some passing rustic to advise-;- Whilst providential Heaven our care espies,
LXXXIV.
" And sends full soon a tender-hearted hind. Who, wondering at our loud unusual note, Strays curiously aside, and so doth find The orphan child laid in the grass remote. And laps the foundling in his russet coat, Who thence was nurtured in his kindly~cot : . But how he prospered let proud Loiidon quote, How wise, how rich, and how renowned he got. And chief of all her citizens, I wot. ^^
.iia THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
LXXXV.
"Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames, Whose holds were fraught with costly merchandize— Jewels from Ind, and pearls for courtly dames, And gorgeous silks that Samarcand supplies : Witness that Royal Bourse he bade arise. The mart of merchants from the East and West ; Whose slender summit, pointing to the skies, Still bears, in token of his grateful breast, The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest —
LXXXVI.
" The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest. That all the summer, with a tuneful wing. Makes merry chirpings in its grassy nest, Inspirited with dew to leap and sing : So let us also live, eternal King ! Partakers of the green and pleasant earth : Pity it is to slay the meanest thing, That, like a mote, shines in the smile of mirth : Enough there is of joy's decrease and dearth !
LXXXVII.
" Enough of pleasure, and delight, and beauty,
Perished and gone, and hasting. to decay;
Enough to sadden even thee, whose duty
Or spite it is to havoc and to slay :
Too many a lovely race razed quite away.
Hath left large gaps in life and human loving ;
Here then begin thy cruel war to stay.
And spare fresh sighs, and tears, and groans, reproving
Thy desolating hand for our removing."
LXXXVIII.
Now here I heard a shrill and sudden cry, And, looking up, I saw the antic Puck Grappling with Time, who clutched him like a fly Victim of his own sport, — the jester's luck !
TkE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 21 1
He, whilst his fellows grieved, poor wight, had stuck His freakish gauds upon the Ancient's brow, And now his ear, and now his beard, would pluck ; Whereas the angry churl had snatched him now, Crying, " Thou impish mischief, who art thou ?"
LXXXIX.
" Alas !" quoth Piick, " a little random elf. Born in the sport of nature, hke a weed. For simple sweet enjoyment of myself. But for no other purpose, worth, or need ; And yet withal of a most happy breed ; And there is Robin Goodfellow besides. My partner dear in many a prankish deed To make Dame Laughter hold her jolly sides, Like merry mummers twain on holy tides. -
xc.
" 'Tis we that bob the angler's idle cork,
■Till e'en the patient man breathes half a curse ;
We steal the morsel from the gossip's fork.
And curdHng looks with secret straws disperse.
Or stop the sneezing chanter at mid verse :
And when an infant's beauty prospers ill,
We change, some mothers say, the child at nurse ;
But any graver purpose to fulfil.
We have not wit enough, and scarce the will.
xci.
" We never let the canker melancholy
To gather on our faces like a rust.
But gloss our features with some change of folly.
Taking life's fabled miseries on trust.
But only sorrowing when sorrow must :
We ruminate no sage's solemn cud.
But own ourselves a pinch of lively dust
To frisk upon a wind, — ^whereas the flood
Of tears would turn us into heavy mud.
212 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
XCII.
Beshrew those sad interpreters of nature,
Who gloze her, lively universal law,
As if she had not formed our cheerful feature
To be so tickled with the slightest straw !
So let them vex their mumping mouths, and draw
The corners downward, like a wat'ry moon,
And deal in gusty sighs and rainy flaw —
We will not woo foul weather all too soon,
Or nurse November on the lap of June.
XCIII.
" For ours are winging sprites, like any bird, That shun all stagnant settlements of grief; And even in our rest our hearts are stirred. Like insects settled on a dancing leaf : This is our small philosophy in brief. Which thus to teach hath set me all agape : But dost thou relish it ? O hoary chief ! • Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape. And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape."
xciv.
Then Saturn thus ; — shaking his crooked blade O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash In all the fairies' eyes, dismally frayed ! His ensuing voice came like the thunder crash — Meanwhile the bolt shatters some pine or ash — ■ " Thou feeble, wanton, foolish, fickle thing ! Whom nought can frighten, sadden, or abash, — To hope my solemn countenance to wring To idiot smiles ! — but I will prune thy wing !
xcv.
" Lo ! this most awful handle of my scythe Stood once a Maypole, with a flowery crown, Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe, To wanton pipings ; — but I plucked it down.
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gbwn, Turning her buds to rosemary and rue ; And all their merry minstrelsy did drown, And laid each lusty leaper in the dew ; So thou shall fare — and every jovial crew !"
xcvi.
Here he Ifets go the struggling imp, to clutch His mortal engine with each grisly hand, Which frights the elfin progeny so much. They huddle in a heap, and trembling stand All round Titania, like the queen bee's band, With signs and tears and very shrieks of woe ! Meanwhile, some moving argument I planned, To make the stern Shade merciful, — ^when lo ! He drops his fatal scythe without a blow !
XCVII.
For, just at need, a timely Apparition* Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt ; Making him change his horrible position, To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt, That dares Time's irresistible affront, Whose strokes have scarred even the gods of old ; Whereas this seemed a mortal, at mere hmit For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold, Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold.
XCVIII.
Who, turning to the small assembled fays. Doffs to the lily queen his courteous cap, And holds her beauty for awhile in gaze, With bright eyes kindling at this pleasant hap ; And thence upon the fair moon's silver map. As if in question of this magic chance. Laid like a dream upon the green earth's lap j And then upon old Saturn turns askance. Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance : —
* Shakspeare.
213
214 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
XCIX.
" Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night 1 Stealthy companions of the downy moth — Diana's motes, that flit in her pale light, Shunners of sunbeams in diurnal sloth ; These be the feasters on night's silver cloth, — The gnat with shrilly trump is their .covener, Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth, With lulling tunes to charm the air serener, Or dance upon the grass to make it greener.
c.
" These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs,
Daintily fed with honey and pure dew —
Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaihing hours,
King Oberon, and all his merry crew.
The darling puppets of romance's view ;
Fairies, and sprites, and goblin elves we call them,
Famous for patronage of lovers true ;
No harm they act, neither shall harm befall them,
So do not thus with crabbed frowns appal them."
■• CI.
O what a cry was Saturn's then ! — it made
The fairies quake. " What care I for their pranks,
However they may lovers choose to aid, ■
Or dance their roundelays on flow'ry banks ?
Long must they dance before they earn my thanks,^
So step~ aside, to some far safer spot,
Whilst with my hungiy scythe I mow their ranks,
And leave them in the sun, like weeds to rot,
And with the next day's sun to be forgot."
CII.
Anon, he rais_ed afresh his weapon keen ; But still the gracious Shade disarmed his aim, Stepping with brave alacrity between, And made his sere arm powerless and tame.
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 215
His be perpetual glory, for the shame Of hoary Saturn in that ^and defeat ! But I must tell, how here Titania came With all her kneeling lieges, to entreat His kindly succour, in sad tones, but sweet.
cm.
Saying, " Thou seest a wretched queen before thee,
The fading power of a failing land,
Who for her kingdom kneeleth to implore thee,
Now menaced by this tjorant's spoiling hand ;
No one but thee can hopefully withstand
That crooked blade he longeth so to lift.
I pray thee blind him with his awn vile sand,
Which only times all ruins by its drift.
Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift.
CIV.
" Or take him by that sole and grizzled tuft. That hangs upon his bald and barren crown ; And we will sing to see him so rebuffed, - - • And lend our little mights to pull him dpwn. And make brave sport of his malicious frown, For all his boastful mockery o'er men ; For thou wast bom I know for this renown. By my most magical and inward ken, That readeth ev'n at Fate's forestalling pen.
cv.
" Nay, by the golden lustre of thine eye, And by thy brow's most fair and ample span, Thought's glorious palace, framed for fancies high, And by thy cheek thus passionately wan, I know the signs of an immortal man, — Nature's chief darling, and illustrious mate. Destined to foil old Death's oblivious plan. And shine untarnished by the fogs of Fate, Time's famous rival till the final date !
2i6 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES,
cvi.
" O shield us then from this usurping Time, And we will visit thee in moonlight dreams ; And teach thee tunes to wed unto thy rhyme, And dance about thee in all midnight gleams. Giving thee glimpses of our magic schemes, Such as no mortal's eye hath even seen : And, for thy love to us in our extremes. Will ever keep thy chaplet fresh and green. Such as no poet's wreath hath ever been I
cvir.
" And we'll distil thee aromatic dews.
To charm thy sense, when there shall be no flpw'rs ;
And flavoured syrups in thy drinks infuse,
And teach the nightingale to haunt thy bow'rs.
And with our games divert thy weariest hours.
With all that elfin wits can e'er devise.
And, this churl dead, there'll be no hasting hours
To rob thee of thy joys, as now joy flies :" —
Here she was stopped by Saturn's furious cries.
CVIII.
Whom, therefore, the kind Shade rebukes anew. Saying, " Thou haggard Sin, go forth, and scoop Thy hollow coffin in some churchyard yew, Or make th' autumnal flowers turn pale, and droop ; Or fell the bearded corn, till gleaners stoop Under fat sheaves — or blast the piny grove ; But here thou shalt not harm this pretty group. Whose lives are not so frail and feebly wove. But leased on Nature's lovehness and loV'e.
cix.
" 'Tis these that free the small entangled fly. Caught in the venomed spider's crafty snare ; These be the petty surgeons that apply The healing balsams to the wounded hare, ■
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES, 217'
Bedded in bloody fern, no creature's care ! These be providers for the orphan broody Whose tender mother hath been slain in air, Quitting with gaping' bill her darling's food, Hard by the verge of her domestic wood.
ex.
" 'Tis these befriend the timid trembling stag, When, with a bursting heart beset with fears. He feels his saving speed begin to flag ; For then they quench the fatal taint with tears. And prompt fresh shifts in his alarumed ears, So piteously they view all bloody morts ; Or if the gunner, with his arm, appears, Like noisy pies and jays, with harsh reports, They warn the wildfowl of his deadly sports.
CXI.
" For these are kindly ministers of nature. To soothe all covert hurts and dumb distress ; Pretty they be, and very small of stature — For mercy still consorts with littleness ; Wherefore the sum of good is still the less, And mischief grossest in this world of wrong ; So do these charitable dwarfs redress The tenfold ravages of giants strong. To whom great malice and great might belong.
CXII.
" Likewise to them are Poets much beholden For secret favours in the midnight glooms ; Brave Spenser quaffed out of their goblets golden, And saw their tables spread of prompt mushrooms And heard their horns of honeysuckle blooms Sounding upon the air most soothing soft. Like humming bees busy about the brooms — Arid glanced this fair queen's witchery full 0% And in her magic wain soared far aloft.
2i8 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
CXIII.
" Nay I myself, though mortal, once was nursed
By fairy gossips, friendly at my birth.
And in my childish ear glib Mab rehearsed
Her breezy travels round our planet's girth,
Telling me wonders of .the moon and earth ;
My gramarye at her grave lap I conned,
Where Puck hath been convened to make me mirth ;
I have had from Queen Titania tokens fond,
And toyed with Oberon's permitted wand.
cxiv.
" With figs and plums and Persian dates they fed me, And delicate cates after my sunset meal, And took me by my childish hand, and led me By craggy rocks crested with keeps of steel, Whose awful bases deep dark woods conceal. Staining some dead lake with their verdant dyes : And when the West sparkled at Phoebus' wheel, With fairy euphrasy they purged mine eyes, To let me see their cities in the skies.
cxv.
" 'Twas they first schooled my young imagination
To take its flights like any new-fledged bird,
And showed the'span of wingfed meditation
Stretched wider than things grossly seen or heard.
With sweet swift Ariel how I soared and stirred
The fragrant blooms of spiritual bow'rs !
'Twas they endeared what I have still preferred.
Nature's blest attributes and balmy pow'rs,
Her hills and vales and brooks, sweet birds and flow'rs !
cxvi.
"Wherefore with all true loyalty and duty Will I regard them in my honouring rhyme, With love for love, and homages to beauty, And magic thoughts gathered in night's cool clime,
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 219
With studious verse trancing the dragon Time,
Strong as old Merfin's riecromatic spells ,
So these dear monarchs of the summer's prime ,
Shall live unstartled by his dreadful yells,
Till shrill larks warn them to their flowery cells."
CXVII.
Look how a poisoned man turns livid black, Drugged with a cup of deadly hellebore, That sets his horrid features all at rack, — So seemed these words into the ear to pour Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar Of mortal pain and spite and utmost rage, Wherewith his grisly arm he raised once more, And bade the clustered sinews all engage, As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age.
CXVIII.
Whereas the Ijlade flashed on the dinted ground, Down through his steadfast foe, yet made no scar On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound ; But Time was long benumbed, and stood ajar, And then with baffled rage took flight afar. To weep his hurt in some Cimmerian gloom, . Or meaner fames (like mine) to mock and mar. Or sharp his scythe for royal strokes of doom. Whetting its edge on some old Csesar's tomb.
cxix.
Howbeit he vanished in the forest shade. Distantly heard as if some grambling pard. And, like Narcissus, to a sound decayed ; Meanwhile the fays clustered the gracious Bard, The darling centre of their dear regard : Besides of sundry dances on the green, Never was mortal man so brightly starred, Or won such pretty homages, I ween. " Nod to him. Elves !" cries the melodious queen.
220 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES.
cxx.
" Nod to him, Elves, and flutter round about him, And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd. And touch him lovingly, for that, without him. The silkworm now had spun our dreary shroud ; But he hath all dispersed death's tearful cloud, And Time's dread effigy scared quite away :1 Bow to him then, as though to me ye bowed, And his dear wishes prosper and obey Wherever love and wit can find a way !
cxxi.
" 'Noint him with fairy dews of magic savours, Shaken from orient buds still pearly wet, Roses and spicy pinks, — and, of all favours, Plant in his walks the purple violet. And meadow-sweet under the hedges set. To mingle breaths with dainty eglantine And honeysuckles sweet, — nor yet forget Some pastoral flowery chaplets to entwine. To vie the thoughts about his brow benign !
CXXII.
" Let no wild things astonish him or fear him, - But tell them all how mild he is of heart, Till e'en the timid hares go frankly near him, And eke the dappled does, yet never start ; Nor shall their fawns into the thickets dart. Nor wrens forsake their nests among the leaves, Nor speckled thrushes flutter far apart ; But bid the sacred swallow haunt his eaves, To guard his roof from lightning and from thieves.
CXXIII.
" Or when he goes the nimble squirrel's visitor. Let the brown hermit bring his hoarded nuts. For, tell him, this is Nature's kind Inquisitor, — Though man keeps cautious doors that conscience, shuts,
THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 221
For conscious wrong all curious quest rebuts ; Nor yet shall bees uncase their jealous stings, However he may watch their straw-built huts ; So let him learn the crafts of all small things, Which he will hint most aptly when he sings."
cxxiv.
Here she leaves off, and with a gracefiil hand Waves thrice three splendid circles round his head ; Which, though deserted by the radiant wand, Wears still the glory which her waving shed, Such as erst crowned the old Apostle's head, To show the thoughts there harboured were divine, And on immortal contemplations fed : Goodly it was to see that glory shine Around a brow so lofty and benign !
cxxv.
Goodly it was to see the elfin brood Contend for kisses of his gentle hand, That had their mortal enemy withstood, And stayed their lives, fast ebbing with the sand. Long while this strife engaged the pretty band ; But now bold Chanticleer, from farm to farm, Challenged the dawn creeping o'er eastern land, And well the fairies knew that shrill alarm. Which sounds the knell of every elfish charm.
cxxvi.
And soon the rolling mist, that 'gan arise From plashy mead and undiscovered stream, Earth's morning incense to the early skies, Crept o'er the failing landscape of my dream. Soon faded then the Phantom of my theme — A shapeless Shade, that fancy disavowed, And shrank-to nothing in the mist extreme. Then flew Titania, — and her little crowd. Like flocking linnets, vanished in a cloud.
222
HERO AND LEANDER.
To S. T. Coleridge, Esq
It is not with a hope my feeble praise
Can add one moment's honour to thine own,
That with thy mighty name I grace these lays ;
I seek to glorify myself alone :
For that same precious favour thou hast shown
To my en.deavour in a bygone time,
And by this token, I would have it known
Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme !
It is my dear ambition now to climb
Still higher in my thought — if my bold pen
May thrust on contemplations more sublime.
But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when
We gain applauses from the great in name,
We seem to be partakers of thtir fame.
Oh Bards of old ! what sorrows have ye sung. And tragic stories, chronicled in stone — Sad Philomel restored her ravished tongue. And transformed Niobe in dumbness shown; Sweet Sappho on her love for ever calls, And Hero on the drowned Leander falls !
Was it that spectacles of sadder plights. Should make our blisses relish the more high ? Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knights. Whose flourished fortunes prosper in Love's eye. Weep here, unto a tale of ancient grief. Traced from the course of an old bas-relief.
III.
There stands Abydos ! — here is Sestos' steep, Hard by the- gusty margin of the sea. Where sprinklipgwaves continually do leap ; And that is where those famous lovers be, A builded gloom shot up into the grey, As if the first tall watch-tow'r of the day.
HERO AND LEAiSfDER. 22 j
IV,
Lo ! how the lark soars upward and is gone ; Turning a spirit as he nears the sky, His voice is heard, though body there is none, And rain-like music scatters from on high ; But Love would follow with a falcon spite, To pluck the minstrel from his dewy height.
For Love hath framed a ditty of regrets, Tuned to the hollow sobbings on the shore, A vexing sense, that with like music frets, And chimes this dismal burthen o'er and o'er, Saying, Leander's joys are past and spent, Like stairs extinguished in the firmament.
VI.
For ere the golden crevices of morn
Let in those regaHuxuries of light.
Which all the variable east adorn,
And hang rich fringes on the skirts of night,
Leander, weaning from sweet Hero's side.
Must leave "a widow where he found a bride.
VII.
Hark ! how the billows beat upon the sand ! Like pawing steeds impatient of delay ; Meanwhile their rider, ling'ring on the land, DaUies with love, and holds farewell at bay A too short span. How tedious slow is grief ! But parting renders time both sad and brief.
VIII.
" Alas (he sighed), that this first glimpsing light, Which makes the wide world tenderly appear. Should be the burning signal for my flight, From all the world's best image,, which is here ; Whose very shadow, in my fond compare, Shines far more bright than Beauty's self elsewhere."
224 HERO AND LEANDER.
IX.
Their cheeks are white as biossoms of the dark, Whose leaves close up and show the outward pale, And those fair mirrors where their joys did spark, All dim, and tarnished with a dreary veil, No more to kindle till the night's return. Like stars replenished at Joy's golden urn.
X.
Ev'n thus they creep into the spectral grey. That cramps the landscape in its narrow brim, As when two shadows by old Lethe stray. He clasping her, and she entwining him ; Like trees wind-parted that embrace anon, True love so often goes before 'tis gone.
XI.
For what rich merchant but will pause in fear, To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss ? So Hero dotes upon her treasure here. And sums the loss with many an anxious kiss. Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head, Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread.
XII.
She thinks how many have been sunk and drowned, And spies their snow-white bones below the deep. Then calls huge congregated monsters round, And plants a rock wherever he would leap ; Anon she dwells on a fantastic dream. Which she interprets of that fatal stream.
XIII.
Saying, " That honeyed fly I saw was thee, Whichjighted on a water-lily's cup, Wheri,''lo ! the flow'r, ehamoiired of my bee, Closed on him suddenly and locked him up. And he was smothered in her drenching dew ; Therefore this day thy drowning I shall rue."
HERO AND LEANDER. 225
XIV.
But next, remembering her virgin fame,
She clips him in her arms and bids him go,
But seeing him break loose, repents her shame,
And plucks him back upon her bosom's snow ;
And tears unfix her iced resolve again,
As steadfast frosts are thawed by show'rs of rain.
XV.
O for a type of parting ! Love to love Is like the fond attraction of two spheres. Which needs a godlike effort to remove. And then sink down their sunny atmospheres, In rain and darkness on each ruined heart. Nor yet their melodies will sound impart.
XVI.
So brave I.eander sunders from his bride ;
The wrenching pang disparts his soul in twain ;
Half stays with her, half goes towards the tide —
And life must ache, until they join again.
Now wouldst thou know the wideness of the wound
Mete every step he takes upon the ground.
xvir.
And for the agony and bosom-throe.
Let it be measured by the wide vast air.
For that is infinite, and so is woe.
Since parted lovers breathe it everywhere.
Look how it heaves Leander's labouring chest,
Panting, at poise, upon a rocky crest !
XVIII.
From which he leaps into the scooping brine, That shocks his bosom with a double chill ; Because, all hours, till the slow sun's decline. That cold divorcer will betwixt them still ; Wherefore he likens it to Styx' foul tide. Where life grows death upon the other side.
15
2 26 HERO AND LEANDER.
XIX.
Then sadly he confronts his twofold toil Against rude waves and an unwilling mind. Wishing, alas ! with the stout rower's toil, That like a rower he might gaze behind. And watch that lonely statue he hath left . On her bleak summit, weeping and bereft !
XX.
Yet turning oft, he sees her troubled locks Pursue him still the furthest that they may ; Her marble arms that overstretch the rocks, And her pale passioned hands that seem to pray In dumb petition to the gods above ! Love prays devoutly when it prays Ibr love !
XXI.
Then with deep sighs he blows away the wave, That hangs superfluous tears upon his cheek, And bans his labour like a hopeless slave, That, chained in hostile galley, faint and weak, Plies on despairing through the restless foam. Thoughtful of his lost love and far-off home.
XXII.
The drowsy mist before him chill and dank, Like a dull lethargy o'erleans the sea. Where he rows on against the utter blank) Steering as if to dim eternity, — Like Love's frail ghost departing with the da^vn ; A failing shadow in the twilight drawn,
XXIII.
And soon is gone, — or nothing but a faint And failing image in the eye of thought, That mocks his model with an after-paint, And stains an atom like the shape she sought; Then with her earnest vows she hopes to fee, The old and hoary majesty of sea.
HERO AND LEANDER. 227
XXIV.
" 6 King of waves, and brother of high Jove, Preserve my sumless venture there afloat ; A woman's heart, and its whole wealth of love, Are all embarked upon that little boat ; Nay, but two loves, two lives, a double fate, A perilous voyage for so dear a freight.
XXV.
f ' If impious mariners be stained with crime. Shake not in awful rage thy hoary locks ; Lay by thy storms until another time. Lest my frail bark be dashed against the rocks : -Or rather smooth thy deeps, that he may fly Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky !
XXVI.
f~Let all thy herded monsters Sleep beneath.
Nor gore him with crooked tusks, or wreathfed honis ;
Let no fierce sharks destroy him with their teeth.
Nor spine-fish wound him with their venomed thorns ;
But if he faint, and timely succour lack.
Let ruthful dolphins rest him on their back.
XXVII.
Let no false dimpling whirlpools suck him in, Nor slimy quicksands smother his sweet breath 5 Let no jagged corals tear his tender skin. Nor mountain billows bury him in death." And with that thought forestalling her own fears, She drowned his painted image in her tears.
XXVIII.
By this, the climbing sun, with rest repaired. Looked through the gold embrasures of the sky^ And asked th^e' drowsy world how sli^ had fared j The drowsy world shone brightened in reply ; And smiling off her fogs, his slanting beam Spied young Leander in the middle stream.
228 HERO AND LEANDER.
XXIX.
His face was pallid, but the hectic mom Had hung a lying crimson on his cheeks, And slanderous sparkles in his eyes forlorn ; So death lies ambushed in consumptive streaks ; But inward grief was writhing o'er its task. As heart-sick jesters weep behind the mask.
XXX.
He thought of Hero and the lost delight, Her last embracings, and the space between ; He thought of Hero and the future night, Her speechless rapture and enamoured mien, When, lo ! before him, scarce two galleys' space, His thought's confronted with another face !
XXXI.
Her aspect's like a moon divinely fair. But makes the midnight darker that it lies on ; 'Tis so beclouded with her coal-black hair That densely skirts' her luminous horizon, Making her doubly fair, thus darkly set, As marble lies advantaged upon jet.
XXXII.
She's all too bright, too argent, and too pale,
To be a woman : — but a woman's double,
Reflected on the wave so faint and frail,
She tops the billows like an air-blown bubble ;
Or dim creation of a morning dream.
Fair as the wave-bleached lily of the stream.
XXXIII.
The very rumour strikes his seeing dead : Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense : He knows not if her lips be blue or red, Nor if her eyes can give true evidence : Like murder's witness swooning in the court. His sight falls senseless by its own report.
HERO AND LEANDER. 229
XXXIV.
Anon resuming, it declares her eyes Are tinct with azure, like two crystal wells, That drink the blue complexion of the skies, Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells : Her poUshed brow, it is an ample plain. To lodge vast contemplations of the main.
XXXV.
Her lips might corals seem, but corals near. Stray through her hair like blossoms on a bower j And o'er the weaker red still domineer. And make it pale by tribute to more power ; Her rounded cheeks are of still paler hue, Touched by the bloom of water, tender blue.
XXXVI.
Thus he beholds her rocking on the water, Under the glossy umbrage of her hair. Like pearly Amphitrite's fairest daughter Naiad, or Nereid — or Syren fair, Mislodging music in her pitiless breast, A nightingale within a falcon's nest.
XXXVII.
They say there be such maidens in the deep, Charming poor mariners, that all too near By mortal lullabies fall dead asleep, As drowsy men are poisoned through the ear ; Therefore Leander's fears begin to urge. This snowy swan is come to sing his dirge.
XXXVIII.
-At which he falls into a deadly chill, And strains his eyes upon her lips apart ; Fearing each breath to feel that prelude shrill. Pierce through his marrow, like a death-blown dart Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane. With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain.
230 HERO AND LEANDER.
XXXIX,
Here then, poor wretch, how he begins to crowd A thousand thoughts within a pulse's space ; There seemed so brief a pause of hfe allowed. His mind stretched universal, to embrace The whole wide world, in an extreme farewell — A moment's musing — ^but an age to tell.
XL.
For there stood Hero, widowed at a glance,
The foreseen sum of many a tedious fact.
Pale cheeks, dim eyes, and withered countenance,
A wasting ruin that no wasting lacked ;
Time's tragic consequents ere time began,
A world of sorrow in a tear-drop's span.
XLI.
A moment's thinking is an hour in words — An hour of words is little for some woes ; Too little breathing a long life affords, For love to paint itself by perfect shows ; Then let his love and grief unwronged lie dumb, Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come.
XLII.
As when the crew, hard by some jutty cape, Struck pale and panicked by the billows' roar, Lay by all timely measures of escape. And let their bark go driving on the shore ; So frayed Leander, drifting to his wreck, Gazing on Scylla, falls upon her neck.
XLIII.
For he hath all forgot the swimmer's art. The rower's cunning, and the pilot's skill, Letting his arms fall down in languid part, Swayed by the waves, and nothing by his will, Till soon he jars against that glossy skin, Solid like glass, though seemingly as th.in.
HERO AND LEANDER. 231
XLIV.
Lo ! how she startles at the warning shock, And straightway girds him to her radiant breast, More hke his safe smooth harbour than his rock ; Poor wretch, he is so faint and toil-opprest. He cannot loose him from his grappling foe, Whether for love or hate, she lets not go.
XLV.
His eyes are blinded with the sleety brine, His ears are deafened with the wildering noise ; He asks the purpose of her fell design. But foamy waves choke up his struggling voice ; Under the ponderous sea his body dips, And Hero's name dies bubbling on his lips.
XLVI.
Look how a man is lowered to his grave ; A yearning hollow in the green earth's lap ; So he is sunk into the yawning wave. The plunging sea fills up the watery gap j Anon he is all gone, and nothing seen. But likeness of green turf and hillocks green.
XLVII.
And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping. Over the veydant plain that makes his bed ; And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping. Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead ; The light in vain keeps looking for his face, Now screaming Seafowl settle in his place.
XLVIII.
Yet weep and watch for him though all in vain ! Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye wander ! Ye gazing sunbeams, look for him again ! Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander ! Ye did but spare him for more cruel rape. Sea-storm and ruia in a female shape I
232 HERO AND LEANDER.
XLIX.
She says 'tis love hath bribed her to this deed, The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her, O bootless theft ! unprofitable meed ! Love's treasury is sacked, but she no richer; The sparkles of his eyes are cold and dead, And all his golden looks are turned to lead !
She holds the casket, but her simple hand Hath spilled its dearest jewel by the way; She hath life's empty garment at command. But her own death lies covert in the prey ; As if a thief should steal a tainted vest, Some dead man's spoil, and sicken of his pest
LI.
Now she compels him to her deeps below, Hiding his face beneath her plenteous hair, Which jealously she shakes all round her brow, For dread of envy, though no eyes are there But seals', and all brute tenants of the deep, Which heedless through the wave their journeys keep.
LI I.
Down and still downwards through the dusky green
She bore him, murmuring with joyous haste
In too rash ignorance, as he had been
Born to the texture of that watery waste ;
That which she breathed and sighed, the emerald wave,
How could her pleasant home become his grave !
LIII.
Down and still downward through the dusky green She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh To mark how life was altered in its mien, Or how the light grew torpid in his eye, Or how his pearly breath unprisoned there, Flew up to join the universal air.
HERO AND LEANDER. 233
LIV.
She could not miss the throbbings of his heart, Whilst her own pulse so wantoned in its joy ; She could not guess he struggled to depart, And when he strove no more, the hapless boy ! She read his mortal stillness for content, Feeling no fear where only love was meant.
LV.-
Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor. And straight unyokes her arms from her fair prize : Then on his lovely face begins to pore, . As if to glut her soul ; — her hungry eyes Have grown so jealous of her arms' delight ; It seems, she hath no' other sense but sight.
LVI.
But O sad marvel ! O most bitter strange ! What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale. Why will he not embrace, — why not exchange ■ Her kindly kisses ; — ^wherefore not exhale Some odorous message from life's ruby gates, Where she his first sweet embassy awaits ?
LVII.
Her eyes, poor watchers, fixed upon his looks, Are grappled with a wonder near to grief, As one, who pores on uhdeciphered books. Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief; So she keeps gazing with a mazy thought. Framing a thousand doubts that end in naught.
LVIII.
Too stern inscription for a page so young, The dark translation of his look was death ! But death was written in an alien tongue, And learning was not "by to give it breath ; So one deep woe sleeps buried in its seal. Which Time, untimely, hasteth to reveal.
834 HERO AND LEANDER.
Lix;
Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap, Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there With heavy head lies pillowed in her lap, And elbows all unhinged : — his sleeking hair Creeps o'er her knees, and settles where his hand Leans with lax fingers crooked against the sand ;
LX.
And there lies spread in many an oozy trail. Like glossy weeds hung from a chalky base, That shows no whiter than his brow is pale ; So soon the wintry death had bleached his face Into cold marble, — with blue chilly shades, Showing wherein the freezy. blood pervades.
LXI.
And o'er his steadfast cheek a furrowed pain Hath set, and stiffened like a storm in ice. Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain Of mortal anguish ; — yet you might gaze twice Ere Death it seemed, and not his cousin. Sleep, That through those creviced lids did underpeep.
LXII.
But all that tender bloom about his eyes,
Is death's own vi'lets, which his utmost rite
It is to scatter when the red rose, dies ;
For blue is chilly, and akin to white :
Also he leaves some tinges on his lips.
Which he hath kissed with such cold frosty nips.
LXIII. '
" Surely," quoth she, " he sleeps, the senseless thing, Oppressed and faint with toiUng in the stream !" Therefore she will not mar his rest, but sing So low, her tune shall mingle with his dream ; Meanwhile, her lily fingers tasks to twine His uncrispt locks uncurling in the brine.
HERO AND LEANDER. 23J
LXIV.
" O lovely boy !" — thus she attuned her voice, — "Welcome, thrice welcome, to a sea-maid's home, My love-mate thou shalt be, and true heart's choice ; How have I longed such a twin-self should come, — A lonely thing,^ till this sweet chance befell. My heart kept sighing like a hollow shell.
LXV.
" Here thou shalt live, beneath this "secret dome, An ocean bower, defended by the shade Of quiet waters ; a cool emerald gloom To lap thee all about. Nay, be not frayed, Those are but shady fishes that sail by Like antic clouds across my liquid sky !
LXVI.
" Look how the sunbeam burns upon their scales, And shows rich glimpses of then- Tyrian skins. They flash small lightnings from their vigorous tails, And winking stars are kindled at their fins ; These shall divert thee in thy weariest mood. And seek thy hand for gamesomeness and food.
LXVII.
" Lo ! those green pretty leaves with tassel bells, My flowrets those, that never pine for drouth ; Myself did plant them in the dappled shells, That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth, — Pearls wouldst thou have beside ? crystals to shine ? I had such treasures once, — now they are thine.
LXVIII.
" Now, lay thine ear against this golden sand, And thou shalt hear the music of the sea. Those hollow tunes it plays against the land, — Is't not a rich and wondrous melody ? I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone I heard the languages of ages gone !
236 HERO AND LEANDER.
LXIX.
" I too can sing when it shall please thy choice, And breathe soft tunes through a melodious shell, Though heretofore I have but set my voice To some long sighs, grief harmonized, to tell How desolate I fared ; — but this sweet change Will add new notes of gladness to my range !
LXX.
" Or bid me speak and I will tell thee tales, Which I have framed out of the noise of waves ; Ere now I have communed with senseless gales, And held vain colloquies with barren caves ; But I could talk to thee whole days and days, Only to word my love a thousand ways.
LXXI.
" But if thy lips will bless me with their speech, Then ope, sweet oracles ! and I'll be mute ; I was born ignorant for thee to teach, Nay all love's lore to thy dear looks impute ; Then ope thine eyes, fair teachers, by whose light I saw o give away my heart aright !"
LXXII.
But cold and deaf the sullen creature lies. Over her knees, and with concealing clay, Like hoarding Avarice locks up his eyes, And leaves the world impoverished of day ; Then at his cruel lips she bends to plead, But there the door is closed against her need.
Lxxni.
Surely he sleeps — so her false wits infer ! Alas ! poor sluggard, ne'er to wake again! Surely he sleeps, yet without any stir • That might denote a vision in his brain ; Or if he does not sleep, he feigns too long, Twice she hath reached the ending of her song.
HERO AND LEANDER. 237
LXXIV.
Therefore 'tis time she tells him to uncover Those radiant jesters, and disperse her fears, . Whereby her April face is shaded over, Like rainy clouds just ripe for showering tears ; Nay, if he will not wake, so poor she gets. Herself must rob those locked up cabinets,
LXXV.
With that she stoops above his brow, and bids Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair, And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids, That she may gaze upon the jewels there, Like babes that pluck an early bud apart, To know the dainty colour of its heart.
LXXVI.
Now, picture one, soft creeping to a bed, Who slowly parts the fringe-hung canopies, And then starts back to find the sleeper dead ; So she looks in on his uncovered eyes. And seeing all within so drear and dark. Her own bright soul dies in her like a spark,
. LXXVII.
Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess.
Under the swoon of holy divination :
And what had all siu-passed her simple guess,
She now resolves in this dark revelation ;
Death's very mystery — oblivious death ;
Long sleep — deep night, and an entranced breath.
LXXVIII.
Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly slain, Merely obscured, and not extinguished, lies ; Her breath that stood at ebb,_soon flows again. Heaving her hollow breast with heavy sighs, And light comes in and kindles up the gloom, To light her spirit from its transient tomb.
238
HERO AND LEANDER.
LXXIX.
Then like the sun, awakened at new dawn, With pale bewildered face she peers about, And spies blurred images obscurely drawn, • Uncertain shadows in a haze of doubt ; But her true grief grows shapely by degrees, A perished creature lying on her knees.
LXXX.
And now she knows how that old Murder preys, Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain ; How he roams all abroad and grimly slays, ' Like a lean tiger in Love's own domain ; Parting from mates, — and oft in flowery lawns Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns
LXXXI.
O too dear knowledge ! O pernicious earning ! Foul curse engraven upon beauty's page ! EVn now the sorrow of that deadly learning Ploughs up her brow, like an untimely age, And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's truth, By canker blights upon the bud of youth !
LXXXII.
For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf. So her cheeks' rose is perished by her sighs. And withers in the sickly breath of grief ; Whilst unacquainted rheum bedims her eyes. Tears, virgin tears, the first that ever leapt From those young lids, now plentifully wept.
LXXXIII.
Whence being shed, the liquid crystalline Drc^s straightw;ay downj fefusing to partakp In gros^ admixture with the baser brine. But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque, Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears j So one maid's trophy is another's tears !
HERO AND LEANDER. 239
LXXXIV.
" 0 foul Arch'Shadow, thou old cloud of Night, (Thus in her frenzy she began to wail,) Thou blank oblivion — blotter out of light, Life's ruthless murderer, and dear love's bale ! Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete, Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet ?
LXXXV.
" Lo ! what a lovely ruin thou hast made, Alas ! alas ! thou hast no eyes to see, And bhndly slew'st hirn in misguided shade. Would I had lent my doting sense to thee ! But now I turn to thee, a willing mark, Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark !
LXXXVI.
" O doubly cruel ! — twice misdoing spite.
But I will guide thee with vs\-y helping eyes,
Or walk the wide world through, devoid of sight.
Yet thou shalt know me by my many sighs. /
Nay, then thou shouldst have spared my rose, false Death,
And known LoVe's flow'r by smelling his sweet breath;
LXXXVII.
" Or, when thy furious rage was round him dealing, Love should have grown from touching of his skin. But like cold marble thou art all unfeeling. And hast no ruddy springs of warmth within, And being biit a shape of freezing bone. Thy touching only turned my love to stone !
LXXXVIII.
" And here, alas ! he lies across my knees. With cheeks still colder than the stilly wave, The light .beneath his eyelids seems to freeze. Here then, since Love is dead and lacks a grave, O come and dig it in my sad heart's core — That wound will bring a balsam for its sore !
B40 HERO AND LEANDER.
LXXXIX.
" For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill Lies stingless, -like a sense benumbed with cold, Healing all hurts only with sleep's good will, So shall I slumber,- and perchance behold My living love in dreams— O happy night, That lets me company his banished spright !
xc.
" O poppy Death ! — sweet poisoner of sleep ! Where shall I seek for thee, oblivious drug. That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep Out of life's coil. Look, Idol ! how I hug Thy dainty image in this strict embrace, And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face I
xci.
" Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps, I do but read my sorrows by their shine, O come and quench them with thyoozy damps, And let my darkness intermix with thine ; Since love is blinded, wherefore should I see ? Now love is death — death will be love to me 1
XCII.
" Away, ay^y, this vain complaining breath, It does but stir the troubles that I weep. Let it be hushed and quieted, sweet Death, The wind must settle ere the wave can sleep — Since love is silent, I would fain be mute, O Death, be gracious to my dying suit !"
XCIII.
Thus far she pleads, but pleading nought avails her. For Death, her sullen burden, deigns no heed. Then with dumb craving arms, since darkness fails heij She prays to heav'n's fair light, as if her need Inspired her there were Gods to pity pain, Or end it — ^but she lifts her aims in vain ! /
HERO AND LEANDER. 241
xciv.
Poor gilded Grief ! the subtle light by this With mazy gold creeps through her watery mine, And, diving downward through the green abyss. Lights up her palace with an amber shine ; There, falling on her arms — the crystal skin Reveals the ruby tide that fares within.
XGV.
Look how the fulsome beam would hang a glory On her dark hair, but the dark hairs repel it ; Look how the perjured glow suborns a story On her pale lips, but lips refuse to tell it ; Grief will not swerve from grief, however told On coral lips, or charactered in gold ;
■ xcvi.
Or else, thou maid ! safe anchored on Love's neck, Listing the hapless doom of young Leander, Thou wouldst not shed a tear for that old wreck, Sitting secure where no wild surges wander ; Whereas the woe moves on with tragic pace, And shows its sad reflection in thy face.
XCVII.
Thus having travelled on, and tracked the tale, Like the true course of an old bas-relief, Where Tragedy pursues her progress pale, , Brood here awhile upon that sea-maid's grief, And take a deeper imprint from the frieze Of that young Fate, with Death upon her knees.
XCVIII.
Then whilst the melancholy muse withal Resumes her music in a sadder tone, Meanwhile the sunbeam strikes upon the wall, Conceive that lovely siren. to live on, EVn as Hope whispered, the Promethean light Would kindle up the dead Leander's sprite.
243 HERO AND LEANDER.
xcix.
• \
" 'Tis light," she says, " that feeds the glittermg stars, And those were stars set in his heavenly brow, But this salt cloud, this cold sea-vapour, mars Their radiant breathing, and obscures them now, Therefore I'll lay him in the clear blue air, And see how these dull orbs will kindle there."
Swiftly as dolphins glide, or swifter yet. With dead Leander in her fond arms' fold, She cleaves the meshes of that radiant net, The sun hath twined above of liquid gold. Nor slacks, till on the margin of the land. She lays his body on the glowing sand,
CI.
There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach Of foainy billows he lies cast. Just then, Some listless fishers, straying down the beach. Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men, Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake, And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache.
CII.
First she begins to chafe him till she faints, Then falls upon his mouth with kisses many. And sometimes pauses in her own complaints To hst his breathing, but there is not any,^ Then looks into his eyes where no light dwells, Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells,
cm.
The hot sun parches his discovered eyes,
The hot sun beats on his discoloured limbs,
The sand is oozy whereupon he lies,
Soihng his fairness ; then away she swims,
Meaning to gather him a daintier bed.
Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red.
I
HERO AND LEANDER. 243
Giv.
But, simple-witted thief, while she dives under. Another robs her of her amorous theft ; The ambushed fishermen creep forth to plunder, And steal the unwatched treasure she has left ; Only his void impression dints the sands. ! Leander is purloined by stealthy hands !
cv.
Lo ! how she shudders off the beaded wave ! Like Grief all over tears, and senseless falls. His void irnprint seems hollowed for her grave. Then, risiijg on her knees, looks round and calls On Hero ! Herb ! having learned this name Of his last breath, she calls him by the same.
cvi.
Then with her frantic hands she rends her hairs, And casts them forth, sad keepsakes to the wind. As if in plucking those she plucked her cares ; But grief lies deeper, and remains behind Like a barbed arrow, rankling in her brain. Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain.
CVII.
Anon her tangled locks are left alone, And down upon the sand she meekly sits, Hard by the foani as humble as a stone. Like an enchanted maid beside her wits. That ponders with a look serene and tragic, Stunned by the mighty mystery of magic.
CVIII,
Or think of Ariadne's utter trance,"
Crazed by the flight of that disloyal traitor, '
Who left her gazing on the green expanse
That swallowed up his track, — yet this would mate her,
Ev'n in the cloudy summit of her woe.
When o'er the far sea-brim she saw him go.
244 HERO AND LEANDER.
cix.
For even so she bows, and bends her gaze
O'er the eternal waste, as if to sum
Its waves by weary thousands all her days,
Dismally doomed ! meanwhile the billows come,
And coldly dabble with her quiet feet,^
Like any bleaching stones they wont to greet.
ex.
And thence into her lap have boldly sprung.
Washing her weedy tresses to and fro.
That round her crouching knees have darkly hung,
But she sits careless of waves' ebb and flow,
Like a lone beacon on a desert coast,
Showing where all her hope was wrecked and lost.
CXI.
Yet whether in the sea or vaulted sky.
She knoweth not her love's abrupt resort.
So like a shape of dreams he left her eye.
Winking with doubt. Meanwhile, the churl's report
Has thronged the beach with many a curious face,
That peeps upon her from its hiding place.
CXII.
And here a head, and there a brow half seen. Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands, A maiiner his crumpled cheeks doth lean Over a rugged crest. Another stands, , Holding his harmful arrow at the head. Still checked by human caution and strange dread.
CXIII.
One stops his ears, — another close beholder
Whispers unto the next his grave surmise ;
This crouches down, — and just above his shoulder,
A woman's pity saddens in her eyes,'
And prompts her to befriend that lonely grief.
With all sweet helps of sisterly relief.
HERO AND LEANSER. 243
cxtv.
And down the sunny beach she paces slowly, With many doubtful pauses by the way ; Grief hath an influence so hushed and holy — Making her twice attempt, ere she can lay Her hand upon that sea-maid's shoulder white, Which makes her startle up in wild affright.
cxv.
And, like a seal, she leaps into the wave That drowns the shrill remainder of her scream ; Anon the sea fills up the watery cave, And seals her exit with a foamy seam — Leaving those baffled gazers on the beach Turning in uncouth wonder each to each.
cxvi.
Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge, Where.ver a brown weed falls through the foam ; Seme point to white eruptions of the surge : But she is vanished to her shady home. Under the deep,> inscrutable — and there Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair.
cxvii.
Now here, the sighing winds, before unheard, Forth from their cloudy caves begin to blow. Till all the surface of the' deep is stirred, Like to the panting grief it hides below ; And heaven is covered with a stormy rack. Soiling the waters with its inky black.
CXVIII.
The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey, And labours shoreward with a bending wing. Rowing against the wind her toilsome way ; Meanwhile the curling billows chafe, and fling Their dewy frost still further on the stones. That answer to the wind with hollow groans.
246 HERO AND LEANDEJt.
CXIX.
And here and there a fisher's far-off bark Fhes with the sun's last ghmpse upon its sail, Like a bright flame amid the waters dark, Watched with the hope and fear of maidens pale ; And anxious rhothers that upturn their brows. Freighting the gusty wind with frequent vows,
GXX.
For that the horrid deep has no sure track , To guide love safe into his homely haven.
And lo ! the storm grows blacker in its wrath. O'er the dark billow brooding like a raven, That bodes of death and widow's sorrowing. Under the dusky covering of his wing.
cxxi.
And so day ended. But no vesper spark Hung forth its heavenly sign ; but sheets of flame Plp"ed round the savage features of the dark, IViaking night horrible. That night there came A weeping maiden to high Sestos' steep. And tore her hair and gazed upon 'the deep.
cxxii.
And waved aloft her bright and ruddy torch, Whose flame the boastful wind so rudely fanned. That oft it would tecoil, and basely scorch The tender covert of her sheltering hand ; Which yet, for love's dear sake, disdained retire, And, like a glorying martyr, braved the fire.
cxxiii.
For that was love's own sign and beacon guide Across the Hellespont's wide weary space, Wherein he nightly struggled with the tide ; Look what a red it forges on her face. As if she blushed at holding such a light. Even in the unseen presence of the night !
^HERO AND LEANDER. 247
cxxiv.
Whereas her tragic cheek is truly pale,
And colder than the rude and ruffian air
That howls into her ear a horrid tale
Of storm, and wreck, and uttermost despair,
Saying, " Leander floats amid the surge.
And those are dismal waves that sing his dirge."
cxxv.
And hark ! — a grieving voice, trembling and faint, Blends with the hollow sobbings of the sea ; Like the sad music of a siren's plaint, But shriller than Leander's voice should be. Unless the wintry death had changed its tone — Wherefore she thinks she hears his spirit moan.
cxxvi.
For now, upon each brief and breathless pause, Made by the raging winds, it plainly calls On Hero ! Hero ! — whereupon she draws Close to the dizzy brink, that ne'er appals Her brave and constant spirit to recoil, However the wild billows toss and toil.
cxxvii.
" Oh ! dost thou live under the deep deep sea ? I thought such love as thine could never die ; If thou hast gained an immortality, From the kind pitying sea-god, so will I ; And this false cruel tide that used to sever Our hearts, shall be our commori home for ever !
CXXVIII.
" There we will sit and sport upon one billow. And sing our ocean ditties all the day. And lie together on the same green pillow, That curls above us with its dewy spray ; And ever in one presence live and dwell. Like two twin pearls within the selfsame shell."
248 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR.
CXXIX.
One moment, then, upon the dizzy verge
She stands, with face upturned against the sky';
A moment more, upon the foamy surge
She gazes, with a calm despairing eye ;
Feehng that awful pause of blood and breath
Which life endures when it confronts with death ;
cxxx.
Then from the giddy steep she madly springs,
Grasping her maiden robes, that vamly kept
Panting abroad, like unavailing wings.
To save her from her death. — The sea-maid wept,
And in a crystal cave her corse enshrined.
No meaner sepulchre should Hero find !
LYCUS, THE CENTAUR.
FROM AN UNROLLED MANUSCRIPT OF APOLLONIUS CURIUS.
To J. H. Reynolds, Esq.
My DEAR Reynolds, — You will remember " Lycus." — It was written in the pleasant spring-time of our friendship, and I am glad to maintain that association by connecting your name with the poem. It will gratify me to find that you regard it with the old partiality for the writings of each other which prevailed in those days. For my own sake, I must regret that your pen goes now into far other records than those which used to delight me.
YOur true Friend and Brother,
T. Hood.
THE ARGUMENT.
Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion, is beloved by a Water Nymph, who, desiring to render him immortal, has recourse to the Sorceress. Circe gives her an incantation to pronounce, which should turn Lycus into a horse ; but the horrible effect of the charm causing her to break off in the midst, he becomes a (;entaur.
Who hath ever been lured and bound by a spell To wander, fore-doomed, in that circle of hell
LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 249
Where Witchery works with her will like a god,
Works more than the wonders of time at a nod, —
At a word, — at a touch, — at a flash of the eye.
But each form is a cheat, and each sound is a lie.
Things born of a wish — to endure for a thought.
Or last for long ages — tb vanish to nought,
Or put on new semblance ? O Jove, I had given
The throne of a kingdom to know if that heaven
And the earth and its streams were of Circe, or whether
They kept the world's birthday and-brightened together !
For I loved them in terror, and constantly dreaded
That the earth where 1 trod, and the cave where I bedded,
The face I might dote on, should live out the lease
Of the charm that created, and suddenly cease ;
And I gave me to slumber, as if from one dream
To another — each other — and drank of the stream
Like a first taste of blood, lest as water I quaffed
Swift poison, and never should breathe from the draught,^
Such drink as her own monarch husband drained up
When he pledged her, and Fate closed his eyes in the cup.
And I plucked of the fruit with held breath, and a fear
That the branch would start back and scream out in my ear ;
For once, at my suppering, I plucked in the dusk
An apple, juice-gushing and fragrant of musk ;
But by daylight my fingers were crimsoned with gore,
And the half-eaten fragment was flesh at the core ;
And once — only once — for the love of its blush,
I broke a bloom bough, but there came such a gush
On my hand, that it fainted away in weak fright.
While the lekf-hidden woodpecker shrieked at the sight;
And oh ! such an agony thrilled in that note.
That my soul, startling up, beat its wings in my throat,
As it longed to be free of a body whpse hand
Was doomed to work torments a Fury had planned !
There 1 stood without stir, yet how willing to flee, As if rooted and horror-turned into a tree, — Oh ! for innocent death, — and to suddenly win it, I drank of the stream, but no poison was in it; I plunged in its waters, but ere I could sink. Some invisible fate pulled me back to the brink ; -
250 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR.
I sprang from the rock, from its pinnacle height,
But fell on the grass, with a grasshopper's iiight ;
I ran at my fears — they were fears and no more,
For the bear would not mangle my limbs, nor the boar,
But moaned, — all their brutalized flesh could not smother,
The horrible truth,— we were kin to each other !
They were mournfully gentle, and grouped for reHef, All foes in their skin, but all friends in their grief: The leopard .was there,— Jaaby-mild in its feature; And the tiger, black barred, with the gaze of a creature That knew gentle pity ; the bristle-backed boar, His innocent tusks stained with mulberry gore ; And the laughing hyena — ^but laughing no more ; And the snake, not with magical orbs to devise Strange death, but with woman's attraction of eyes ; The tall ugly ape, that still bore a dim shine Through his hairy eclipse of a manhood divine ; And the elephant stately, with more than its reason. How thoughtful in sadness ! but this is no season To reckon them up from the lag-bellied toad To the mammoth, whose sobs shook his ponderous load. There were woes of all shapes, wretched forms, when I came, That hung down their heads with a human-like shame ; The elephant hid in the boughs, and the bear Shed over his eyes the dark veil of his hair ; And the womanly soul turning sick with disgust, Tried to vomit herself from her serpentine crust ; While all groaned their groans into one at their lot. As I brought them the image of what they were not.
Then rose a wild sound of the human voice choking Through vile brutal organs — low tremulous croaking ; Cries swallowed abruptly — deep animal tones Attuned to strange passion, and full-uttered groans ; All shuddering weaker, till hushed in a pause Of tongues in mute motion and wide-yearning jaws ; And I guessed that those horrors were meant to tell o'er The tale of their woes j but the silence told more That writhed on their tongues : and I knelt on the sod, And prayed with my voice to the cloud-stirring God, For the sad congregation of supplicants there, That upturned to his heaven brute faces of prayer ;
LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 2ji
And I ceased, and they uttered a moaning so deep, That I wept for my heart-ease, — but they could not weep. And gazed with red eyeballs, all wistfully dry, At the comfort of tears in a stag's human eye. Then I motioned them round, and, to soothe their distress, I caressed, and they bent them to meet my caress, Their necks to my arm, and their heads to my palm. And with poor grateful eyes suffered meekly and calm Those tokens of kindness, withheld by hard fate From returns that might chill the warm pity to hate ; So they passively bowed — save the serpent, that leapt To my breast like a sister, and pressingly crept In embrace of my neck, and with close kisses blistered My lips in rash love, — then drew backward, and glistered Her eyes in my face, and loud hissing affright, Dropt down, and swift started away from my sight !
This sorrow was theirs, but thrice wretched my lot, Turned brute in my soul, though my body was not When I fled from the sorrow of womanly faces. That shrouded their woe in the shade of lone places, A.nd dashed off bright tears, till their fingers were wet, And then wiped their lids with long tresses of jet : But I fled — though they stretched out their hands, all entangled With hair, and blood-stained of the breasts they had mangled — Though they called — and perchance but to ask, had I seen Their loves, or to tell the vile wrongs that had been • But I stayed not to hear, lest the story should hold Some hell-form of words, some enchantment once told. Might translate me in flesh to a brute ; and I dreaded ' To gaze on their charms, lest my faith should be wedded With some pity, — and love in that pity perchance — To a thing not all lovely ; for once at a glance Methought, where one sat, I descried a bright wonder That flowed like a long silver rivulet under The long fenny grass, with so lovely a breast, Could it be a snake-tail made the charm of the rest ?
So I roamed in that circle of horrors, and Fear Walked with me, by hills, and in valleys, and near Clustered trees for their gloom — not to shelter from heat But lest a bmte-shaidow should grow at my feet ;
252 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR.
And besides that full oft in the sunshiny place, Dark shadows would gather like clouds on its face, In the horrible likeness of demons, (that none Could see, like invisible flames in the sun ;) But grew to one monster that seized on the light, Like the dragon that strangles the moon in the night ; Fierce sphinxes, long serpents, and asps of the South ; Wild birds of huge beak, and all horrors that drouth Engenders of slime in the land of the pest, Vile shapes without shape, and foul bats of the West, Bringing Night on their wings ; and the bodies wherein Great Brahma imprisons the spirits of sin. Many-handed, that blent in one phantom fight Like a Titan, and threatfully warred with the light ; I have heard the wild shriek that gave signal to close, When they rushed on that shadowy Python of foes; That met with sharp beaks and wide gaping of jaws. With flapping of wings, and fierce grasping of claws. And whirls of long tails : — I have seen the quick flutter Of fragments dissevered, — and necks stretched to utter Long screamings of pain, — the swift motion of blows, And wrestling of arms — to the flight at the close, When the dust of the earth startled upward in rings. And flew on the whirlwind that followed their wings.
Thus they fled — not forgotten — but often to grow Like fears in my eyes, when I walked to and fro In the shadows, and felt from some beings unseen The warm touch of kisses, but clean or unclean I knew not, nor whether the love I had won Was of heaven or hell — till one day in the sun. In its very noon-blaze, I could fancy a thing Of beauty, but faint as the cloud-mirrors fling On the gaze of the shepherd that watches the sky, Half-seen and half-dreamed in the soul of his eye. And when in my musings I gazed on the stream. In motionless trances of thought, there would seem A face like that face, looking upward through mine ; With its eyes full of love, and the dim-drowned shine Of limbs and fair garments, like clouds in that blue Serene : — there I stood for long hours but to view
LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 253
Those fond earnest eyes that were ever uplifted Towards me, and winked as the water-weed, drifted Between ; but the fish knew that presence, and pHed Their long curvy tails, and swift darted aside.
There I gazed for lost time, and forgot all the things That once had been wonders — the fishes with wings, And the glimmer of magnified eyes that looked up From the glooms of the bottom like pearls in a cup, And the huge endless serpent of silvery gleam. Slow winding along like a tide in the stream. Some maid of the waters, some Naiad, methought Held me dear in the pearl of her eye — and I brought My wish to that fancy ; and often I dashed My limbs iti the water, and suddenly splashed The cool drops around me, yet clung to the brink, Chilled by watery fears, how that Beauty might sink With my life in her arms to her garden, and bind me With its long tangled grasses, or cruelly wind me In some eddy to hum out my life in her ear, Like a spider-caught bee, — and in aid of that fear Came the tardy remembrance — Oh falsest of men ! Why was not that beauty remembered till then ? My love, my safe love, whose glad life would have run Into mine — like a drop — that our fate might be one, • That now, even now, maybe, clasped in a dream. That form which I gave to some jilt of the stream. And gazed with fond eyes that her tears tried to smother On a mock of those eyes that I gave to another !
Then I rose from the stream, but the eyes of my mind, Still full of the tempter, kept gazing behind On her crystalline face, while I painfully leapt To the bank, and shook off the curst waters, and wept With my brow in "the reeds ; and the reeds to my ear Bowed, bent by no wind, and in whispers of fear, Growing small with large secrets, foretold me of one That loved me, — but oh ! to fly from her, and shun Her love like a pest — though her love was as true To mine as her stream to the heavenly blue,; For why should I love her with love that would bring All misfortune, like Hate, on so joyous a thing ?
254 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR.
Because of her rival,— even her whose witch-face
I had shghted, and therefore was doomed in that place
To roam, and had roamed, where all horrors grew rank.
Nine days ere I wept with my brow on that bank ;
Her name be not named, but her spite would not fail
To our love Hke a blight ; and they told me the tale
Of Scylla, and Picus, imprisoned to speak
His shrill-screaming woe through a woodpecker's beak.
Then they ceased— I had heard as the voice of my star That told me the truth of my fortunes — thus far I had read of my sorrow ; and lay in the hush Of deep meditation, — when lo ! a light crush Of the reeds, and I turned and looked round in the night Of new sunshine, and saw, as I sipped of the light Narrow-winking, the realized nymph of the stream. Rising up from the wave with the bend and the gleam Of a fountain, and o'er her white arms she kept throwing Bright torrents of hair, that went flowing and flowing In falls to her feet, and the blue waters rolled Down her limbs like a garment, in many a fold. Sun-spangled, gold-broidered, and fled far behind, Like an infinite train. So she came and reclined In the reeds, and I hungered to see her unseal The buds of her eyes that would ope and reveal The blue that was in them ; and they ope'd, and she raised Two orbs of pure crystal, and timidly gazed With her eyes on my eyes ; but their colour and shine Was of that which they looked on, and mostly of mine — For she loved me, — except wjien she blushed, and they sank, Shame-humbled, to number the stones on the bank. Or her play-idle fingers, while Usping she told me How she put on her veil, and in love to behold me, Would wing through the sun till she fainted away Like a mist, and then flew to her waters and lay In love-patience long hours, and sore dazzled her eyes In watching for mine 'gainst the midsummer skies. But now they were healed, — O my heart, it still dances When I \h\VL\ of the charm of her changeable glances. And my image how small when it sank in the deep Of her eyes where her soul was, — alas ! now they weep,
u
LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 253
And none knpweth where. In what stream do her eyes
Shed invisible tears ? Who beholds where her sighs
Flow in eddies, or sees the ascent of the leaf
She has plucked with her; tresses ? Who listens her grief
Like a far fall of waters, or hears where her feet
Grow emphatic, among the loose pebbles, and beat
Them together ? Ah ! surely her flowers float adown
To the sea unaccepted, and little ones drown
For need of her mercy, — even he whose twin-brother
Will miss him for ever ; and the sorrowful mother
Imploreth in vain for his body to kiss
And cling to, all dripping and cold as it is,
Because that soft pity is lost in hard pain !
We loved, — how we loved ! — for I thought not again.
Of the woes that were whispered like fears in that place
If I gave me to beauty. Her face was the face
Far away, and her eyes were the eyes that were drowned
For my absence, — her arms were the arms that sought round,
And clasped me to nought ; for I gazed and became
Only true to my falsehood, and had but one name
For two loves, and called ever on ^gle, sweet maid
Of the sky-loving waters, — and was not afraid
Of the sight of her skin ; — for it never could be,
Her beauty and love were misfortunes to me !
Thus our bliss had endured for a time-shortened space, Like a day made of three, and the smile of her face Had been with me for joy, — when she told me indeed Her love was self-tasked with a work that would need Some short hours, for in truth 'twas the veriest pity Our love should not last, and then sang me a ditty. Of one with warm lips that should love her, and love her When suns were burnt dim and long ages past over. So she fled with her voice, and I patiently nested My limbs in the reeds, in still quiet, and rested Till my thoughts grew extinct, and I sank in a sleep Of dreams, — but their meaning was hidden too deep To be read what their woe was '; — but still it was woe That was writ on all faces that swam to and fro In that river of night j^and the gaze of their eyes Was sadj-'^nd-the bend of their brows, — ^and their cries
2j6 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR.
Were seen, but I heard not. The warm touch of tears
Travelled down my cold cheeks, and I shook till my fears
Awaked me, and lo ! I was couched in a bower.
The growth of long summers reared up in an hour !
Then I said, in the fear of iny dream, I will fly
From this magic, but could not, because that my eye
Grew love-idle among the rich blooms ; and the earth
Held me down with its coolness of touch, and the mirth
Of some bird was above me, — who, even in fear.
Would startle the thrush ? and methought there drew near
A form as of ^gle, — but it was not the face
Hope made, and I knew the witch-queen of that place^
Even Circe the Cruel, that came like a Death
Which I feared, and yet fled not, for want of my breath.
There was thought in her face, and her eyes were not raised
From the grass at her foot, but I saw, as I gazed.
Her spite — and her countenance changed with her mind
As she planned how to thrall me with beauty, and bind
My soul to her charms, — and her long tresses played
From shade into shine and from shine into shade.
Like a day in mid-autumn, — first fair, O how fair !
With long snaky locks of the adderblack hair
That clung round her neck, — those dark locks that I prize,
For the sake of a maid that once loved me with eyes
Of that fathomless hue, — but they changed as they rolled.
And brightened, and suddenly blazed into gold
That she combed into flames, and the locks that fell down
Turned dark as they fell, but I slighted their brown,
Nor loved, till I saw the light ringlets shed wild,
That innocence wears when she is but a child .;
And her eyes, — O I ne'er had been witched with their shine,
Had they been any other, my iEgle, than thine !
Then I gave me to magic, and gazed till I maddened In the full of their light, — ^but I saddened and saddened The deeper I looked, — till I sank on the snow Of her bosom, a thing made of terror and woe, And answered its throb with the shudder of fears. And hid my cold eyes from her eyes with my tears. And strained her white arms with the still languid weight Of a fainting distress. There she sat hke the Fate
LYCUS, THE CENTAUR. 257
That is nurse unto Death, and bent over in shame
To hide me from her — the true ^gle— that came
With the words on her lips the false witch had foregiven
To make me immortal — for now I was even
At the p.ortals of Death, who but waited the hush
Of world-sounds in my ear to cry welcome, and rush
With my_soul to the banks of his black -flowing river.
O would it had flown from my body for ever,
Ere I listened those words, when I felt with a start,
The life-blood rush back in one throb to my heart,
And saw the pale lips where the rest of that spell
Had perished in horror — and heard the farewell
Of that voice that was drowned in the dash of the stream !
How fain had I followed, and plunged with that scream
Into death, but my being indignantly lagged
Through the brutalized flesh that I painfully dragged
Behind me : — " O Circe ! O mother of Spite !
Speak the last of that curse ! and imprison me quite
In the husk of a brute,— that no pity may name
The man that I was, — that no kindred may claim
The monster I am ! Let me utterly be
Brute-buried, and Nature's dishonour with me
Uninscribed !" — But she listened my prayer, that was praise
To her malice, with smiles, and advised me to gaze
On the river for love, — and perchance she would make
In pity a maid without eyes for my sake.
And she left me like Scorn. Then I asked of the wave.
What monster I was, and it trembled and gave
The true shape of my grief, and I turned with my face
From all waters for ever, and fled through that place,
Till with horror more strong than all magic I passed
Its bounds, and the world was before me at last.
There I wandered in sorrow, and shunned the abodes Of men, that stood up in the likeness of Gods, But I saw from afar the warm shine of the sun On their cities, where man was a million, not one ; And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending, That showed where the hearts of the many were blending, And the wind in my face brought shrill voices that came From the trumpets that gathered whole. bands in one fame
ir
«j8 LYCUS, THE CENTAUR.
As a chorus of man, — and they streamed from the gates
Like a dusky libation poured out to the Fates.
But at times there were gentler processions of peace
That I watched with my soul in my eyes till their cease,
"There were women ! there men ! but to me a third sex
I saw them all dots — yet I loved them as specks :
And oft to assuage a sad yearning of eyes
I stole near the city, but stole covert-wise
Like a wild beast of love, and perchance to be smitten
By some hand that I rather had wept on than bitten !
Oh, I once had a haunt near a cot where a mother
Daily sat in the shade with her child, and would smother
Its eyelids in kisses, and then in its sleep
Sang dreams in its ear of its manhood, while deep
In a thicket of willows I gazed o'er the brooks
That murmured between us and kissed them with looks ;
But the willows unbosomed their secret, and never
I returned to the spot I had startled for ever,
Though I oft longed to know, but could ask it of none,
Was the mother still fair, and how big was her son ?
For the haunters of fields they all shunned me by flight, The men in their horror, the women in fright; None ever remained save a child once that sported Among the wild bluebells, and playfully courted The breeze ; and beside him a speckled snake lay Tight strangled, because it had hissed him away From the flower at his finger ; he rose and drew near Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear. But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright To grow to large manhood of merciful might. He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel. And questioned my face with wide eyes ; but when under My lids he saw tears, — for I wept at his wonder, He stroked me, and uttered such kindliness then. That the once love of women, the friendship of men In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came Jike a kiss On my heart in its desolate day such as this ! And I yearned at his cheeks in my love, and down bent, . And lifted him up in my arms with intent
THE TWO PEACOCKS OF SEDFONT. 259
To kiss him, — but he cruel-kindly, alas ! Held out to my lips a plucked handful of grass ! Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled The stone he indignantly hurled at my head, That dissevered my ear, — but I felt not, whose fate Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate !
Thus I wandered, companioned of grief and forlorn. Till I wished for that land where my being was born, But what was that land with its love, where my home Was self-shut against me ; for why should I come Like an after-distress to my grey-bearded father, With a blight to the last of his sight ? — let him rather Lament for me dead, and shed tears in the urn Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now Like Gods to my humbled estate ? — or how bear The steeds once the pride of eyes and the care Of my hands ? Then I turned me self-banished, and came Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same As myself. I have heard how they met by a stream In games, and were suddenly changed by a scream That made wretches of many, as she rolled her wild eyes Against heaven, and so vanished. — The gentle and wise" Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their iU In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still.
THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.
I.
Alas ! that breathing Vanity should go Where Pride is buried, — like its very ghost.
Uprisen from the naked bones below, In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast
Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro, Shedding its chilUng superstition most
On young and ignorant natures — as it wont
To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont 1
26o THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.
Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, Behold two maidens, up the quiet green
Shining, far distant, in the summer air
That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between
Their downy plumes, — saihng as if they were Two far-off ships,— until they brush between
The churchyard's humble walls, and watch and wait
On either side of the wide opened gate.
III.
And there they stand — with haughty necks bpfore God's holy house, that points towards the skies —
Frowning reluctant duty from the poor,
And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes :
And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs,
With pouting lips, — forgetful of the grace.
Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face ;
IV.
Because that Wealth, which has no bhss beside, May weanthe happiness of rich attire ;
And those two sisters, in their silly pride.
May change the soul's warm glances for the fire
Of lifeless diamonds ; — and for health denied, — With art, that blushes at itself, inspire
Their languid cheeks — and flourish in a glory
That has no life in life, nor after-story.
V.
The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair In meekest censuring, and turns his eye
Earthward in grief, and heavenward in prayer, And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by
Good-hearted man ! what sullen soul would wear Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly
Put on thy censure, that might win the praise
Of one so grey in goodness and in days ?
THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 261
VI.
Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame
Of this ungodly shine of human pride, And sadly blends his reverence and blame
In one grave bow, and passes with a stride Impatient : — many a red-hooded dame
Turns her pained head, but not her glance, aside From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again. That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain.
VII.
" I have a lily in the bloom at home,"
Quoth one, "and by the blessed Sabbath day
I'll pluck my lily in its pride, and come And read a lesson upon vain array ;
And when stiff silks are rustling up, and some Give place, I'll shake it in proud eyes and say —
Making my reverence, — 'Ladies, an' you please,
King Solomon's not half so fine as these.' "
viir.
Then her meek partner, who has nearly run
His earthly course, — " Nay, Goody, let your text
Grow in the garden. We have only one — Who knows that these dim eyes may see the next ?
Summer will come again, and summer sun. And lilies too,— but I were sorely vext
To mar my garden, and cut short the blow
Of the last lily I may live to grow."
IX.
"The last !" quoth she, "and though the last it were — Lo ! those two wantons, where they stand so proud
With waving plumes,. and jewels in their hair. And painted cheeks, like Dagons to be bowed
And curtseyed to ! — ^last Sabbath^after prayer, I heard the little Tomkins ask aloud
If they were angels — but I made him know
God's bright ones' better, with a bitter blow !"
s6t THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.
X.
So speaking, they pursue the pebbly walk , That leads to the white porch the Sunday throng,
Hand-coupled urchins in restrained talk, And anxious pedagogue that chastens wrong,
And posied churchwarden with solemn stalk, And gold-bedizened beadle flames along,
And gentle peasant clad in buff and green,
Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene ;
XI.
And blushing maiden — modestly arrayed
In spotless white, — still conscious of the glass ;
And she, the lonely widow, that hath, made A sable covenant with grief, — alas !
She veils her tears under the deep, deep shade, While the poor kindly-hearted, as they pass,
Bend to unclouded childhood, and caress
Her boy, — so rosy ! — and so fatherless !
XII.
Thus, as good Christians ought, they all drew near The fair white temple, to the timely call
Of pleasant bells that tremble in the ear.
Now the last frock, and scarlet hood, and shawl
Fade into dusk, in the dim atmosphere
Of the low porch, and heaven has won them all, — ■
Saving those two, that turn aside and pass
In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass.
XIII.
Ah me ! to see their silken manors trailed In purple luxuries — with restless gold, —
Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wailed In blotted black, — over the heapy mould
Panting wave-wantonly ! They never quailed How the warm vanity abused the cold ;
Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone
Sadly uplooking through transparent stone :
tHE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 26.3
XIV.
But swept their dwellings with unquiet light, Shocking the awful presence of the dead \
Where gracious natures would their eyes benight, ' Nor wear their being with a lip too red.
Nor move too rudely in the summer bright Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread, .
Meting it into steps, with inward breath,
In very pity to bereaved death.
XV.
Now in the church, time-sobered minds resign To solemn prayer, and the loud chaunted hymn, —
With glowing picturings of joys divine
Painting the mistlight where the roof is dim ;
But youth looks upward to the window shine. Warming with rose and purple and the swim
Of gold, as if thought-tinted by the stains
Of gorgeous light through many-coloured panes ;
XVI.
Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath Enrobed his angels, — and with absent eyes
Hearing of Heaven, and its directed path, Thoughtful of slippers, — and the glorious skies
Clouding with satin, — till the preacher's wrath Consumes his pity, and he glows and cries,
With a deep voice that trembles in its might,
And earnest eyes grown eloquent in light :
XVII.
" O that the vacant eye would learn to look
On very beauty, and the heart embrace True loveliness, and from this holy book
Drink the warm-breathing tenderness and grace Of love indeed ! O that the young soul took
Its virgin passion from the glorious face Of fair religion, and addressed its strife, To win the riches of eternal life !
a64 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.
XVIII.
" Doth the vain heart love glory that is none,
And the poor excellence of vain attire ? O go, and drown your eyes against the sun,
The visible ruler of the starry quire, Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run,
Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire j And the faint soul down darkens into night, And dies a burning martyrdom to light.
XIX.
" O go, and gaze — when the low winds of ev'n Breathe hymns, and Nature's many forests nod
Their gold-crowned heads ; and the rich blooms of heav'n Sun-ripened give their blushes up to God ;
And mountain-rgcks and cloudy steeps are riv!n By founts of fire, as smitten by the rod
Of heavenly Moses, — that your thirsty sense
May quench its longings of magnificence !
XX.
" Yet suns shall perish— stars shall fade away — Day into darkness — darkness into death —
Death into silence ; the warm light of day. The blooms of summer, the rich glpwing breath
Of even — all shall wither and decay,
Like the frail furniture of dreams beneath
The touch of morn — or bubbles of rich dyes
That break and vanish in the aching eyes."
,xxi.
They hear, soul-blushing, and repentant shed
Unwholesome thoughts in wholesome tears, and pour
Their sin to earth, — and with low drooping head Receive the solemn blessing, and implore
fts grace —then soberly with chastened tread. They meekly press towards the gusty door.
With humbled eyes that go to gaze upon
The lowly grass — like him of Babylon.
THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 265
XXII.
The lowly grass ! — O water-constant mind !
Fast-ebbing holiness ! — soon-fading grace Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind
Through the low porch had washed it from the face For ever ! How they lift their eyes to find
Old vanities. Pride wins the very place Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow !
XXIII.
And lo ! with eager looks they seek the way
Of old temptation at the lowly gate ; To feast on feathers, and on vain array.
And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state Of jewel-sprinkled locks. But where are they,
The graceless haughty ones that used to wait With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffened eye ? None challenge the old homage bending by.
XXIV.
In vain they look for the ungracious bloom ,
Of rich apparel where it glowed before, — For Vanity has faded all to gloom.
And lofty Pride has stiffened to the core, For impious Life to tremble at its doom, —
Set for a warning token evermore, Whereon, as now, the giddy and the wise Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond'ring eyes.
XXV.
The aged priest goes on each Sabbath mom, But shakes not sorrow under his grey hair ;
The solemn clerk goes lavendered and shorn, Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair ;
And ancient lips that puckered up in scorn. Go smoothly breathing to the house of pray'r ;
And in the garden-plot, from day to day,
The lily blooms its long white life away.
266 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT.
XXVI.
And where two haughty maidens used to be, In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod.
Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly. Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod ;
There, gentle str.anger, thou may'st only see
Two sombre Peacocks. Age, with sapient nod
Marking the spot, still tarries to declare
How they once lived, and wherefore they are there.
MINOR POEMS.
FAIR INES.
O SAW ye not fair Ines ? She's gone intg the West, To dazzle when the sun is down, And rob the world of rest : She took our daylight with her. The smiles that we love best, With morning blushes on her cheek, And pearls upon her breast.
II.
0 turn again, fair Ines, Before the fall of night,
For fear the Moon should shine alone,
And stars unrivalled bright ;
And blessed will the lover be
That walks beneath their light.
And breathes the love against thy cheek
1 dare not even write !
III.
Would I had been, fair Ines,
That gallant cavalier.
Who rode so gaily by thy side,
And whispered thee so near !
Were there no bonny dames at home,
Or no true lovers here.
That he should cross the seas to win
The dearest of the dear ?
268 . THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.
m
IV.
I saw thee, lovely Ines,
Descend along the shore,
With bands (jf noble gentlemen,
And banners waved before :
And gentle youth and maidens gay.
And snowy plumes they wore ;
It would have been a beauteous dream,-
If it had been no more !
Alas, alas, fair Ines,
She went away with song,
With Music waiting on her steps.
And shoutings of the throng ;
But some were sad, and felt no mirth,
But only Music's wrong,
In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell,
To her you've loved so long.
Farewell, farewell, fair Ines,
That vessel never bore
So fair a lady on its deck.
Nor danced so light before, —
Alas for pleasure on the sea,
And sorrow on the shore 1
The smile that blest one lover's heart
Has broken many more !
THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.
Summer is gone on swallows' wings. And Earth has buried all her flowers : No more the lark, the linnet sings, But Silence sits in faded bowers. There is a shadow on the plain Of Winter ere he comes again, — ;
THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 269
There is in woods a solemn sound
Of hollow warnings whispered round,
As Echo in her deep recess
For once had turned a prophetess.
Shuddering Autumn stops to list,
And breathes his fear in sudden sighs,
With clouded face, and hazel eyes
That quench themselves, and hide in mist.
Yes, Summer's ^one Uke pageant bright ; Its glorious days of golden light Are goiie — the mimic suns that quiver, Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river. Gone the sweetly-scented breeze That spoke in music to the trees ; Gone for damp and chilly breath. As if fresh blown o'er marble seas, Or newly from the lungs of Death. Gone its virgin roses' blushes, Warm as when Aurora rushes Freshly from the god's embrace. With all her shame upon her face. Old Time hath laid them in the mould ; Sure he is blind as well as old, Whose hand relentless never spares Young cheeks so beauty-bright as theirs ! Gone are the flame-eyed lovers now From where so blushing-blest they tarried Under the hawthorn's blossom-bough. Gone ; for Day and Night are married. All the light of love is fled : Alas L that negro breasts should hide The lips that were so rosy red. At morning and at even-tide !
Delightful Summer ! then adieu Till thou shalt visit us anew : But who without regretful sigh Can say, adieu, and see thee fly ? Not he that e'er hath felt thy power. His joy expanding .like a flower That Cometh after rain and snow. Looks jp at heaven, and learns to glow :
270 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER.
Not he that fled from Babel-strife To the green Sabbath-land of life, To dodge dull Care 'mid clustered trees, And cool his forehead in the breeze, — Whose spirit, weaiy-worn perchance. Shook from its wings a weight of grief, And perched upon an aspen leaf. For every breath to make it dance.
Farewell ! — on wings of sombre stain, That blacken in the last blue skies. Thou fly'st ; but thou wilt come again On the gay wings of butterflies. Spring at thy approach will sprout Her new Corinthian beauties out, Leaf-woven homes, where twitter-words Will grow to songs, and eggs to birds ; Ambitious buds shall swell to flowers. And April smiles to sunny hours. Bright days shall be, and gentle nights ' Full of soft breath and echo-lights,
As if the god of sun-time kept His eyes half open while he slept. Roses shall be where roses were. Not shadows, but reality ; As if they never perished there, But slept in immortaUty : Nature shall thrill with new delight, And Time's relumined river run Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright, As if its source were in the sun !
But say, hath Winter then no charms ? Is there no joy, no gladness warms His aged heart ? no happy wiles To cheat the hoary one to smiles ? Onward he comes— the cruel North Pours his furious whirlwind forth Before him — and we breathe the breath Of famished bears that howl to death. Onward he comes from rocks that blanch O'er solid streams that never flow,
THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 271
His tears all ice, his locks all snow, Just crept from some huge avalanche — A thing half-breathing and half-warm, As if one spark began to glow Within some statue's marble form. Or pilgrim stiffened in the storm. O ! will not Mirth's light arrows fail To pierce that frozen coat of mail ? O ! will not Joy but strive in vain To light up those glazed eyes again ?
No ! take him in, and blaze the oak. And pour the wine, and warm the ale ; His sides shaH shake to many a joke, His tongue shall thaw in many a tale. His eyes grow bright, his heart be gay. And even his palsy charmed away. What heeds he then the boisterous shout Of angry winds that scold without, Like shrewish wives at tavern door ? What heeds he then the wild uproar Of billows bursting on the shore ? In dashing waves, in howling breeze, There is a music that can charm him ; When safe, and sheltered, and at ease. He hears the storm that cannot harm him.
But hark ! those shouts ! that sudden din Of little hearts that laugh within. O ! take him where the youngsters play, And he will grow as young as they ! They come ! they come ! each blue-eyed Sport, The Twelfth-Night King and all his court — 'Tis Mirth fresh crowned with mistletoe ! Music with her merry fiddles, Joy " on light fantastic toe," Wit with all his jests and riddles. Singing and dancing as they go. And Love, young Love, among the rest, A welcome — nor unbidden guest.
But still for Summer dost thou grieve ? ''^hen read our Poets— they shall weave
273 ■ SONG.
A garden of green fancies still,
Where thy wish may rove at will.
They have kept for after treats
The essences of summer sweets,
And echoes of its songs that wind
In endless music through the mind :
They have stamped in visible traces
The " thoughts that breathe," in words that shine-
The flights of soul in sunny places —
To greet and company with thine.
These shall wing thee on to flowers —
The past or future, that shall seem
All the brighter in thy dream
For blowing in such desert hours.
The summer never shines so bright
As thought of in a winter's night ;
And the sweetest, loveliest rose
Is in the bud before it blows.
The dear one of the lover's heart
Is painted to his longing eyes,
In charms she ne'er can realize —
But when she turns again to part.
Dream thou then, and bind thy brow
With wreath of fancy roses now.
And drink of Summer in the cup
Where the Muse hath mixed it up ;
The "dance, and song, and sunburnt mirth,"
With the warm nectar of the earth :
Drink ! 'twill glow in every vein,
And thou shalt dream the winter through :
Then waken to the sun again,
And find thy Summer Vision true 1
SONG.
FOR MUSIC.
A LAKE and a fairy boat
To sail in the moonlight clear, —
And merrily we would float
From the dragons that watch us here I
THE FAREWELL. • 273
Thy gown should be snow-white silk,
And strings of orient pearls,
Like gossamers dipped in milk.
Should twine with thy raven curls ! V
Red rubies should deck thy hands, "•
And diamonds should be thy dower — I
But Fairies liave broke their wand?, ' And wishing has lost its power !
THE FAREWELL.
FOR A FRENCH AIR.
Fare thee well,
Gabrielle ! Whilst I join France With bright cuirass and lance,
Trumpets swell,
Gabrielle ! War-horses prance, And cavaliers advance.
In the night. Ere the fight, I'll think of thee ! And in prayer, Lady fair, In thy prayer Think of me !
Death may knell,
Gabrielle ! When my plumes dance By arquebus or lance,
Then farewell,
Gabrielle ! Take my last glance, Fair maid of France.
18
274 ODE.
AUTUMN. I.
I SAW old Autumn in the misty mom Stand shadowless like Silence, listening To silence, for no lonely bird would sing Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ; Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright With tangled gossamer that fell by night, Pearling his coronet of golden corn.
Where are the songs of Summer ? — With the sun,
Oping the dusky eyelids of the south.
Till shade and silence waken up as one.
And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth.
Where are the merry birds ? — Away, away,
On panting wings through the inclement skies, ,
Lest owls should prey
Undazzled at noonday, And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes.
III.
AVhere are the blooms of Summer ? — In the west, Blushing their last to the last sunny hours, When the mild Eve by sudden Night is prest Like tearful Proserpine, snatched from her flowers
To a most gloomy breast. Where is the pride of Summer,— the green prime,— The many, many leaves all twinkling ? — Three
On the mossed elm ; three on the naked lime Trembling, — and one upon the old oak tree 1
Where is the Dryads' immortality? Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew. Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through
In the smooth holly's green eternitj-.
BALLAD. 275
IV.
The squirrel gloats on his accomplished hoard, The ants have brimmed their garners withi ripe grain,
And honey bees have stored The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells ; The swallows all have winged across the main ; But here the Autumn melancholy dwells. And sighs her tearful spells, Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain.
Alone, alone,
Upon a mossy stone. She sits and reckons up the dead and gone With the last leaves for a love-rosary. Whilst all the withered world looks drearily, Like a dim picture of the drownfed past In the hushed mind's mysterious far away. Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last Into that distance, grey upon the grey.
V.
O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded Under the languid downfall of her hair : She wears a coronal of flowers faded Upon her forehead, and a face of care ; There is enough of withered everywhere To make her bower, — and enough of gloom ; There is enough of sadness to invite, It only for the rose that died, — ^whose doom Is Beauty's, — she that with the living bloom Of conscious cheeks most beautifies the light ; There is enough of sorrowing, and quite Enough of bitter fruits the earth doth bear, — Enough of chilly droppings for her bowl ; Enough of fear and shadowy despair, To frame her cloudy prison for the soul !
BALLAD.
Spring it is cheery, Winter is dreary, 6reen leaves hang, but the brown must fly ;
2^6 HYMN TO THE SUN,
When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken
What can an old man do but die?
Love will not clip him, Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ; Youth it is sunny, Age has no honey, — . What can an old man do but die ?
June it was jolly,
O for its folly ! A dancing leg and a laughing eye ;
Youth may be silly.
Wisdom is chilly, — What can an old man do but die ?
Friends, they are scanty, Beggars are plenty.
If he has followers, I know why ; Gold's in his clutches, (Buying him crutches !) —
What can an old man do but die ?
HYMN TO THE SUN.
Giver of glowing light ! Though but a god of other days.
The kings and sages
Of wiser ages Still live and gladden in thy genial rays !
King of the tuneful lyre. Still poets' hymns to thee belong ;
Though lips are cold
Whereon of old Thy beams all turned to worshipping and song !
TO A COLD BEAUTY. 277
Lord of the dreadful bow, None triumph now for Python's death :
But thou dost save
From hungry grave The life that hangs upon a summer breath.
Father of rosy day, No more thy clouds of incense rise ;
But waking flowers
At morning hours, tjive out their sweets to meet thee in the skies.
God of the Delphic fane, No more thou listenest to hymns sublime ;
* But they will leave On winds at eve, A solemn echo to the end of time.
TO A COLD BEAUTY.
I..
Lady, wouldst thou heiress be To Winter's cold and cruel part ?
When he sets the rivers free Thou dost still lock up thy heart-;
Thou that shouldst outlast the snow,
But in the whiteness of thy brow.
Scorn and cold neglect are made For winter gloom and winter wiad,
But thou wilt wrong the summer air, Breathing it to words unkind, —
Breath which only should belong
To love, to sunlight, and to songt ,
278 AUTUMN.
HI.
When the little buds unclose,
Red, and white, and pied, and blue,
And that virgin flower, the rose, Opes her heart to hold the dew, •
Wilt thou lock thy bosom up
With no jewel in its cup?
IV.
Let not cold December sit
Thus in Love's peculiar throne ; Brooklets are not prisoned now, » But crystal frosts are all agone. And that which hangs upon the spray, It is no snow, but flower of May ! *
AUTUMN.
The Autumn skies are flushed with gold, And fair and bright the rivers run ; These are but streams of winter cold, And painted mists that quench the sun.
II.
In secret boughs, no sweet birds sing, In secret boughs no bird can shroud ; These are but leaves that take to wing, And wintry winds that pipe so loud.
HI.
'Tis not trees' shade, but cloudy glooms That on the cheerless valleys fall. The flowers are in their grassy tombs, And tears of dew are on them all.
THE SEA OF DEATH. 279
RUTH.
She stood breast high amid the com, Clasped by the golden light of mom, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing'kiss had won.
On her cheek an autumn flush, Deeply ripened ; — such a blush In the midst of brown was born. Like red poppies grown with com.
Round her eyes her tresses fell,_ Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light, That had else been all too bright.
And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim ; ' Thus she stood amid the stocks, Praising God with sweetest looks ■;
Sure, I said, heav'n did not mean, Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come. Share my harvest and my home.
THE SEA OF DEATH.
A FRAGMENT.
Methought I saw Life swiftly treading over endless space : And, at her foot-,print, ibut a bygone pace. The ocean-past, which, with increasing wave, Swallowed her steps like a pursuing grave.
,d were my thoughts that anchored silently n the dead waters of that passionless sea.
88o BALLAD
s Unstirred by any touch of living breath :
Silence hung over it, and drowsy Death, Like a gorged sea-bird, slept with folded wings On crowded carcases — sad passive things That wore the thin grey surface, like a veil Over the calmness of their features pale.
And there were spring-facecj cherubs that did sleep Like water-lilies on that motionless deep. How beautiful ! with bright unruffled hair On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse ! And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips, Meekly apart, as if the soul intense Spake out in dreams of its own innocence : And so they lay in loveliness, and kept The birth-night of their peace, that Life e'en wept With very envy of their happy fronts ; For there were neighbour brows scarred by the brunts Of strife and sorrowing — where Care had set His crooked autograph, and marred the jet Of glossy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn, And lips that curled in bitterness and scorn — • Wretched, — as they had breathed of this world's pain, And so bequeathed it to the world again Through the beholder's heart in heavy sighs.
So lay they garmented in torpid light, Under the pall of a transparent night. Like solemn apparitions lulled sublime To everlasting rest, — and with them Time Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face Of a dark dial in a sunless place.
BALLAD.
She's up and gone, the graceless Girl !
And robbed my failing years ; My blood before was thin and cold %
But now 'tis turned to tears ;
/ REMEMBER, T REMEMBER. 281
My shadow falls upon my grave,
So near the brink I stand, ' She might have stayed a little yet,
And led me by the hand !
Aye, call her on the barren moor.
And call her on the hill, 'Tis nothing but the heron's cry.
And plover's answer shrill ; My child is flown on wilder wings,
Than they have ever spread, And I may even walk a waste
That widened when she fled.
Full many a thankless child has been.
But never one like mine ; Her meat was served on plates of gold.
Her drink was rosy wine. But now she'll share the robin's food.
And sup the common rill. Before her feet wU turn again
To meet her father's will !
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER-
I.
I REMEMBER, I remember, The house where I was born. The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn ; He. never came a winktoo soon, Nor brought too long a day. But now I often wish the night Had borne my breath away !
II. .
I remember, I remember. The roses, red and white. The vi'lets, and the Uly-cups, Those flowers made of light !
282 BALLAD.
The lilacs where the robin built, And where my brother set The laburnum on his birthday, — The tree is living yet !
III.
I remember, I remember.
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing ;
My spirit flew in feathers then.
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow !
IV.
I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high ;
I used to think their slender .tops
Were close against the sky :
It was a childish ignorance.
But now 'tis little joy
To know I'm farther off from heav'n
Than when I was a boy.
BALLAD.
Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse,
And Beauty's fairest queen, Tho' 'tis not for my peasant lips
To soil her name between : A king might lay his sceptre down.
But I am poor and nought. The brow should wear a golden crown
That wears her in its thought.
The diamonds glancing in her hair. Whose sudden beams surprise.
Might bid such humble hopes beware The glancing of her eyes ;
BALLAD. 283
Yet looking once, I looked too long,
And if my love is sin, Death follows on the heels of wrong,
And kills the crime within.
Her dress seemed wove of lily leaves, It was so pure and fine,
0 lofty wears, and lowly weaves, Biit hodden grey is mine ;
And homely hose must step apart, Where gartered princes stand,
But may he wear my love at heart That wins her lily hand !
Alas ! there's far from russet frieze
To silks and satin gowns. But I doubt if God made like degrees.
In courtly hearts and clowns'. My father wronged a maiden's mirth,
And brought her cheeks to blame, And all that's lordly of my birth.
Is my reproach and shame !
'Tis vain to weep, — 'tis vain to sigh,
'Tis vain this idle speech, For where her happy pearls do lie.
My tears may never reach ; Yet whej.1 I'm gone, e'en lofty pride
May say of what has been, His love was nobly born and died,
Tho' all the rest was mean !
My speech is rude, — but speech is weak
Such love as mine to tell. Yet had I .words, I dare not speak,
So, lady, fare thee well ;
1 will not wish thy better state Was one of low degree.
But I must weep that partial fate Made such a churl of me.
284 THE EXILE.
THE WATER LADY.
Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see ! I saw a maiden on a stream, And fair was she !
I stayed awhile, to see her throw Her tresses back, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.
I stayed a Uttle while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread.
I stayed to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing ; The waters closed above her face With many a ring.
And still I stayed a little more, Alas ! she never comes again ; I throw my flowers from 5ie shore, And watch in vain.
I know my life will fade away, I know that I must vainly' pine. For I am made of mortal clay, But she's divine !
THE EXILE.
The swallow with summer Will wing o'er the seas.
The wind that I sigh to Will visit thy trees,
TO AN ABSENTEE, ?85
The ship that it hastens
Thy ports will contain, But me — I must never
See England again !
There's many that weep there,
But one weeps alone, For the tears that are falling
So far from her own ; So far from thy own, love.
We know not our pain ; If death is between us.
Or only the main.
When the white cloud reclines
_ On the verge of the sea, I 'fancy the white cliffs,
And dream upon thee ; But the cloud spreads its wings To the blue heav'n and flies. We never shall meet, love, V Except in the skies !
TO AN ABSENTEE.
O'er hill and dale, and distant sea, Through all the miles that stretch between. My thought must fly to rest on thee, And would though worlds should intervene.
Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks The farther we are forced apart, Afiection's firm elastic links But bind the closer round the heart.
For now we sever each from each, I learn what I have lost in thee ; Alas ! that nothing less could teach. How great indeed my love should be 1
a86 ODE TO THE MOON.
Farewell ! I did not know thy worth, But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized . So angels walked unknown on earth. But when they flew were recognised !
SONG. I.
The stars are with the voyager
Wherever he may sail ; The moon is constant to her time ;
The sun will never fail ; But follow, follow round the world,
The green earth and the sea ; So love is with the lover's heart.
Wherever he may be.
Wherever he may be, the stars
Must daily lose their light ; The moon will veil her in the shade ;
The sun will set at night. The sun may set, but constant love
Will shine when he's away ; So that dull night is never night,
And day is brighter day.
ODE TO THE MOON.
Mother of light ! how fairly dost thou go Over those hoary crests, divinely led ! Art thou that huntress of the silver bow Fabled of old ? Or rather dost thou tread Xhose cloudy summits thence to gaze below, Lilie the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow,
ODE TO THE MOON.' 287
Where hunter never climbed, — secure from dread ?
How many antique fancies have I read
Of that mild presence ! and how many wrought !
Wondrous and bright,
Upon the silver light, Chasing fair figures with tlie artist. Thought !
What art thou like ? Sometimes I see thee ride
A far-bound galley on its perilous way.
Whilst breezy waves toss up their silvery spray ;
Sometimes behold thee glide, Clustered by all thy family of stars, Like a lone widow, through the welkin wide, Whose pallid cheek the midnight sorrow mars ; Sometimes I watch thee on from steep to steep, Timidly lighted by thy vestal torch, Till in some Latmian cave I see thee creep. To catch the young Endymion asleep, — Leaving thy splendour at the jagged porch !
III.
Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be ! Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named ; And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed A silver idol, and ne'er worshipped thee ! It is too late, or thou shouldst have my knee ; Too late now for the old Ephesian vows. And not divine the crescent on thy brows ! Yet, call thee nothing but the mere mild Moon,
Behind those chestnut boughs. Casting their dappled shadows at my feet ; I will be grateful for that simple boon, In many a thoughtful verse and anthem sweet. And bless thy dainty face whene'er we meet.
In nights far gone, — ay, far away and dead,- Before Care-fretted with a lidless eye, — I was thy wooer on my little bed, Letting the early hours of rest go by,
288 ODE TO THE MOON,
To see thee flood the heaven with milky light,
And feed thy snow-white swans, before I slept ;
For thou wert then purveyor of my dreams, —
Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept ,
Their burnished helms, and crowns, and corslets bright,.
Their spears, and glittering mails ; And ever thou didst spill in winding streams
Sparkles and midnight gleams, For fishes to new gloss their argent scales !
V. .
Why sighs ? — why creeping tears ? — why clasped hands ? Is it to count the boy's expended dower ? That fairies since have broke their gifted wands ? That young Delight, like any o'erblown flower. Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the ground ? Why then, fair Moon, for all thou mark'st no hour, Thou art a sadder dial to old Time-
Than .ever I have found On sunny garden-plot, or mossgrown tower, Mottoed with stern and melancholy rhyme.
Why should 1 grieve for this ? — O I must yearn.
Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory,
Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn,
Richly embossed with childhood's revelry.
With leaves and clustered fruits, and flowers eterne,-
(Eternal to the world, though not to me,)
Aye, there will those brave sports and blossoms be.
The deathless wreath, and undecayed festoon,
When I am hearsed within, — Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, That now she watches through a vapour thin.
VII.
So let it be : — Before I lived to sigh. Thou wert in Avon, and a thousand rills, Beautiful Orb ! and so, whene'er I lie Trodden, thou wilt be gazing from thy hills. Blest be thy loving light, where'er it spills.
TO 289
And blessed thy fair face, O Mother mild ! Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond. And blend their plighted shadows into one : Still smile at even on the bedded child, And close his eyelids with thy silver wand !
TO
Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow ; The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine : Flow'rs I have none to give thee, but I borrow Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine. '
Here are red roses, gathered at thy cheeks, — The white were all too happy to look white : For love the rose, for faith the lily speaks ; It withers in false hands, but here 'tis bright !
Dost love sweet Hyacinth ? Its scented leaf Curls manifold, — :all love's delights blow double : 'Tis said this flow'ret is inscribed with grief, — But let that hint of a forgotten trouble.
I plucked the Pnmrose at night's dewy noon ; Like Hope, it showed its blossoms in the night ; 'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon ! And here are Sunflowers, amorous of light !
These golden Buttercups are April's seal, — The Daisy stars her constellations be : These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel. Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee !
Here's Daisies for the morn. Primrose for gloom, Pansies and Roses for the noontide hours : A wight once made a dial of their bloom, — So may thy life be measured out by flow'rs I
19
t9o AUTUMN.
THE FORSAKEN,
The dead are in their silent graves, And the dew is cold above, And the living weep and sigh, Over dust that once was love.
Once I only wept the dead.
But now the living cause my pain :
How couldst thou steal me from my tears,
To leave me to my tears again ?
My Mother rests beneath the sod, — Her rest is calm and very deep ; I wished that she could see our loves, — But now I gladden in her sleep.
Last night unbound my raven locks, The morning saw them turned to grey. Once they were black and well-beloved. But thou art changed, — and so are they !
The useless lock I gave thee once-, To gaze upon and think of me. Was ta'en with smiles, — ^but this was torn In sorrow that I send to thee !
AUTUMN.
The Autumn is old. The sere leaves are flying ; He hath gathered up gold, And now he is dying ; Old age, begin sighing !
The vintage is ripe. The harvest is heaping ; But some that have sowed Have no riches for reaping ; Poor wretch, fall a-weeping 1
ODE TO MELANCHOLY. tQt
The year's in the wane, There is nothing adorning, The night has no eve, And the day has no morning ; Cold winter gives warning.
The rivers run chill. The red sun is sinking. And I am grown old. And life is fast shrinking ; Here's enow for sad thinking !
ODE TO MELANCHOLY.
Come, let us set our careful breasts. Like Philomel, against the thorn, To aggravate the inward grief, That makes her accents so forlorn ; The world has many cruel points, Whereby our bosoms have been torn, And there are dainty themes of grief. In sadness to outlast the morn, — True honour's dearth, affection's death. Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn. With all the piteous tales that tears Have watered since the world was bom.
The world ! — it is a wilderness Where tears are hung on every tree ; For thus my gloomy phantasy Makes all things weep with me ! Come let us' sit and watch the sky. And fancy clouds where no clouds be ; Grief is enough to blot the eye, And make heav'n black with misery. Why should birds sing such merry notes, Unless they were more blest than we ? No sorrow ever chokes their throats. Except sweet nightingale ; for she
392 ODE TO MELANCHOLY.
Was born to pain our hearts the more With her sad melody. Why shines the sun, except that he Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide, And pensive shades for Melancholy, When all the earth is bright beside ? Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave, Mirth shall not win us back again, Whilst man is made of his own grave, And fairest clouds but gilded rain !
I saw my mother in her shroud. Her cheek was cold and very pale ; And ever since I've looked on all As creatures doomed to fail ! Why do buds ope, except to die ? Ay, let us watch the roses wither, And think of our loves' cheeks ; And oh, how quickly time doth fly To bring death's winter hither ! Minutes, hours, days, and weeks, Months, years, and ages shrink to nought ; An age past is but a thought !
Ay, let us think of Him awhile.
That, with a coffin for a boat,
Rows daily o'er the Stygian moat,
And for our table choose a tomb :
There's dark enough in any skull
To charge with black a raven plume ;
And for tne saddest funeral thoughts
A winding sheet hath ample room,
Where Death, with his keen-pointed style,
Hath writ the common doom.
How wide the yew tree spreads its gloom,
And o'er the dead lets fall its dew.
As if in tears it wept for them.
The many human famiUes
That sleep around its stem !
How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet !
ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 293
Lo ! here the best, the worst, the world Doth now remember or forget, Are in one common ruin hurled, And love and hate are calmly met ; The loveliest eyes that ever shone, The fairest hands, and locks of jet, Is't not enough to vex our souls, And fill our eyes, that we have set Our love upon a rose's leaf, Our hearts upon a violet ? Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet ; And, sometimes, at their swift decay Beforehand we must fret : The roses bud and bloom again ; But love may haunt the grave of love, And watch the mould in vain.
O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine,
And do not take my tears amiss ;
For tears must flow to wash away
A thought that shows so stern as this :
Forgive, if somewhile I forget.
In woe to come, the present bliss.
As frighted Proserpine let fall
Her flowers at the sight of Dis,
Ev'n so the dark ai.d bright will kiss.
The sunniest things throw sternest shade,
And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid !
Now let us with a spell invoke
The full-orbed moon to grieve our eyes j
Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud
Lapped all about her, let her rise
All pale and dim, as if from rest
The ghost of the late buried sun
Had crept into the skies.
The Moon ! she is the source of sighs,
The very face to make us sad ;
If but to think in other times
The same calm quiet look she had.
294 THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
As if the world held nothing base,
Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad ;
The same fair light that shown in streams.
The fairy lamp that charmed the lad ;
For so it is, with spent delights
She taunts men's brains and makes them mad.
All things are touched with Melancholy, Born of the secret soul's mistrust, To feel her fair ethereal wings Weighed down with vile degraded dust; Even the bright extremes of joy Bring on conclusions of disgust,- Like the sweet blossoms of the May, Whose fragrance ends in must. O give her, then, her tribute just. Her sighs and tears, and musings holy ! There is no music in the life That sounds with idiot laughter solely ; There's not a string attuned to mirth, But has its chord in Melancholy.
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
'TwAS in the prime of summer time.
An evening calm and cool, And four-and- twenty happy boys
Came bounding out of school : There were some that ran and some that leapt,
Like troutlets in a pool.
Away they sped with gamesome minds.
And souls untouched by sin ; To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in ; Pleasantly shown the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.
Like sportive deer they coursed about. And shouted as they ran,—
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 29S
Turning to mirth all things of earth,
As only boyhood can ; But the Usher sat remote from all,
A melaiicholy man !
His hat was off, his vest apart.
To catch heaven's blessbd breeze ; For a burning thought was in his brow,
And his bosom ill at ease : So he leaned his head on his hands, and read
The book upon his knees !
Leaf after leaf he turned it o'er.
Nor ever glanced aside. For the peace of his soul he read that book
In the golden eventide : Much study had made himVery lean,
And pale, and leaden-eyed.
At last he shut the pond'rous tome.
With a fast and fervent giasp He strained the dUsky covers close.
And fixed the brazen hasp : " Oh, God ! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp !"
Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took, — Now up the mead, then down the mead,
And past a shady nook, — And lo ! he saw a little boy
That pored upon a book.
" My gentle lad, what is't you read —
Romance or fairy fable ? Or is it some historic page.
Of kings and crowns unstable ?" The young boy gave an upward glance, —
" It is ' The Death of Abel.' "
The Usher took six hasty stride's, As smit with sudden' pain, —
J-
296 THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again ; And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain ;
And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves ;
Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves ;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn. And murders done in caves ;
And how the sprites of injured men Shriek upward from the sod, —
Ay, how the ghostly hand will point To show the burial clod ;
And unknown facts of guilty acts Are seen in dreams from God !
He told how murderers walk the earth Beneath the curse of Cain, —
With crimson clouds before their eyes, And flames about their brain :
For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain !
"And well," quoth he, " I know for truth, Their pangs must be extreme, —
Woe, woe, unutterable woe, — Who spill life's sacred stream !
For why ? Methought, last night, I wrought A ijurder, in a dream !
" One that had never done me wrong —
A feeble man and old ; I led him to a lonely field,
The moon shown clear and cold : Now here, said I, this man shall die,
And I will have his gold !
"Two sudden blows with a ragged stick, And one with a heavy stone,
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 397
One hurried gash with a hasty knife, —
And then the deed was done : There was nothing lying at my foot
But lifeless flesh and bone 1
" Nothing but lifeless flesh and bone,
That could not do me ill ; And yet I feared him all the more,
~ For lying there so still : There was a manhood in his look, That murder could not kill !
" And lo ! the universal air
Seemed lit with ghastly flame ; Ten thousand thousand dreadful eyes
Were looking down in blame : I took the dead man by his hand,
And called upon his name !
" Gh God ! it made me quake to see
Such sense within the slain ! But when I touched the lifeless clay,
The Hood gushed out arnain ! For every clot, a burning spot
Was scorching in my brain !
" My head was like an ardent coal,
My heart as solid ice ; My wretched, wretched soul, I knew,
Was at the Devil's price : A dozen times 1 groaned ; the dead
Had never groaned but twice !
" And now, from forth the frowning sky, From the Heaven's topmost height,
I heard a voice — the awful voice Of the blood-avenging sprite —
' Thou guilty man ! take up thy dead And hide it from my sight !'
" I took the dreary body up, And cast it in a stream, —
298 THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM.
A sluggish water, black as ink," The depth was so extreme :
My gentle Boy, remember this Is nothing but a dream !
" Down went the corse with a hollow plunge, And vanished in the pool ;
Anon I cleansed my bloody hands, And washed my forehead cool,
And sat among the urchins young. That evening in the school.
" Oh, Heaven ! to think of their white souls, And mine so black and grim !
I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in Evening Hymn :
Like a Devil of the Pit I seemed, 'Mid holy Cherubim !
" And peace went with them, one and all. And each calm pillow spread ;
But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain That lighted me to bed ;
And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red !
" All night I lay in agony.
In anguish dark and deep,
My fevered eyes I dared not close. But stared aghast at Sleep :
For Sin had rendered unto her The keys of Hell to keep !
" All night I lay in agony.
From weary chime to chime.
With one besetting horrid hint. That racked me all the time ;
A mighty yearning, like the first Fierce impulse unto crime !
" One stern tyrannic thought, that made All other thoughts its slave ;
THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM. 299
Stronger and stronger every pulse
Did that temptation crave, — Still urging me to go and see
The Dead Man in his grave 1
" Heavily I rose up, as soon
As light was in the sky, And sought the black accursed pool
With a wild misgiving eye ; And I saw the Dead in the river bed,
For the faithless stream was dry.
" Merrily rose the lark, and shook
The dewdrop from its wing ; But I never marked its morning flight,
I never heard it sing : For I was stooping once again
Under the horrid thing.
" With breathless speed, like a soul in chase,
I took him up and ran ; There was no time to dig a grave
Before the day began : In a lonesome wood, with heaps of leaves,
I hid the murdered man !
" And all that day I read in school,
But my thought was otherwhere ; As soon as the midday task was done.
In secret I was there : And a mighty wind had swept the leaves,
And still the corse was bare !
" Then down I cast me on my face.
And first began to weep. For I knew my secret then was one
That earth refused to keep : Or land or sea, though he should be
Ten thousand fathoms deep.
" So wills the fierce avenging Sprite, Till blood for blood atones !
300
BALLAD.
Ay, though he's buried in a cave, And trodden down with stones.
And years have rotted off his flesh,— The world shall see his bones !
" Oh God ! that horrid, horrid dream
Besets me now awake ! Again— again, with dizzy brain,
The human life I take ; And my red right hand grows raging hot.
Like Cranmer's at the stake.
" And still no peace for the restless clay, Will wave or mould allow ;
The horrid thing pursues my soul, — It stands before me now !"
The fearful Boy looked up, and saw Huge drops upon his brow.
That very night, while gentle sleep The urchin eyelids kissed,
Two stern-faced men set out from Lynn, Through the cold and heavy mist ;
And Eugene Aram walked between, With gyves upon his wrist*
BALLAD.
It was not in the winter Our loving lot was cast !
It was the time of roses.
We plucked them as we passed '
* Admiral Burney (brother of Madame d'Arblay) went to school at an establishment where the unhappy Eugene Aram was usher subsequent to his cpme. The admiral stated that Eugene was generally liked by the boys, and that he used to discourse to them about murder, in somewhat the spirit which is attributed to him in this poem. — Gem, 1829.
BALLAD. 301
That churlish season never frowned
On early lovers yet ! Oh no — the world was newly crowned
With flowers, when first we met.
'Twas twilight, and I bade you go,
But still you held me fast ; It was the time of roses, —
We plucked them as we .passed !
What else could peer my glowing cheek
That tears began to stud ? And when I asked the like of Love
You snatched a damask bud, —
And oped it to the dainty core
Still glowing to the last : It was the time of roses,
We plucked them as we passed !
SONNETS.
SONNET
ON MISTRESS NICELY, A PATTERN FOR HOUSEKEEPERS. Written after seeing Mrs. Davenport in the character, at Covent Garden.
She was a woman peerless in her station,
With household virtues wedded to her name ;
Spotless in linen, grass-bleached in her fame, And pure and clear-starched in her conversation ; Thence in my Castle of Imagination
She dwells for evermore, the dainty dame,
To keep all airy draperies from shame, And all dream furnitures in preservation :
There walketh she with keys quite silver bright, In perfect hose, and shoes of seemly black,
Apron and stomacher of lily-white. And decent order follows in her track :
The burnished plate grows lustrous in her sight, And polished floors and tables shine her back.
SONNET.
WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE.
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled ! Hues of all flowers that in their ashes lie, Trophied in that fair light whereon they fed, Tulip, and hyacinth, and sweet rose red, — Like exhalations from the leafy mould, Look here how honour glorifies the dead,
SONNETS. 303
And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold !
Such is the memory of poets old,
Who on Parnassus' hill have bloomed elate ;
Now they are laid under their marbles cold,
And turned to clay, whereof they were create :
But God Apollo hath them all enrolled.
And blazoned on the very clouds of fate !
SONNET
TO FANCY.
Most delicate Ariel ! submissive thing, Won by the mind's high magic to its hest, — Invisible embassy, or secret guest, — Weighing the light air on a lighter wing Whether into the midnight moon, to brmg Illuminate visions to the eye of rest, — Or rich romances from the florid West, — Or to the sea, for mystic whispering, — Still by thy charmed allegiance to the will. The fruitful wishes prosper in the brain, As by the fingering of fairy skill, — Moonlight, and waters, and soft music's strain. Odours, and blooms, and my Miranda's smile. Making this dull world an enchanted isle.
SONNET
TO AN ENTHUSIAST.
Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth. Spring warmth of heart, and fefvency of mind. And still a large late love of all thy kind. Spite of the world's cold practice and Time's tooth,- For all these gifts, I know not, in fair sooth, Whether to give thee joy, or bid thee blind Thine eyes with tears, — that thou hast not resigned The passionate fire and freshness of thy youth :
304 SONNETS.
For as the current of thy life shall flow, Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stained, Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen, Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe Thrice cursed of thy race, — thou art ordained To share beyond the lot of common men. ,
SONNET.
It is not death, that sometimes in a sigh
This eloquent breath shall take its speechless flight ;
That sometimes these bright stars, that now reply
In sunlight to the sun, shall set in night :
That this warm conscious flesh shall perish quite,
And all life's ruddy springs forget to flow ;
That thoughts shall cease, and the immortal sprite
Be lapped in alien clay and laid below ;
It is not death to know this, — but to know
That pious thoughts, which visit at new graves
In tender pilgrimage, will cease to go
So duly and so oft, — ^and when grass waves
Over the past-away, there may be then
No resurrection in the minds of men.
SONNET.
By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts, Graven by Time, in love with his own lore ] By all old mart)T:doms and antique smarts, Wherein Love died to be alive the more ; Yea, by the sad impression on the shore, Left by the drowned Leander, to endear That coast for ever, where the billow's roar Moaneth for pity in the Poet's ear ; By Hero's fai^h, and the foreboding tear That quenched her brand's last twinkle in its fall ; By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear That sighed around her flight ; I swear by all. The world shall find such pattern in my act, As if Love's great examples still were lacked
SONNETS. JOS
SONNET
ON RECEIVING A GIFT.
Look how the golden ocean shines above
Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth j
So does the bright and blessed light of love
Its own things glorify, and raise their worth.
As weeds seem flowers beneath the flattering brine^
And stones like gems, and gems, as gems indeed,
Even so our tokens shine ; nay, they outshine
Pebbles and pearls, and gems and coral weed ;
For where be ocean waves but half so clear.
So calmly constant, and so kindly warm.
As Love's most mild and glowing atmosphere,
That hath no dregs to be upturned by storm 7
Thus, sweet, thy gracious gifts are gifts of price,
And more than gold to doting Avarice.
SONNET.
The curse of Adam, the old curse of all, ■ Though I inherit in this feverish life Of worldly toil, vain wishes, and hard strife, And fruitless thought, in Care's eternal thrall. Yet more sweet honey than of bitter gall I taste, through thee, my Eva, my sweet wife. Then what was Man's lost Paradise !^ — how rife Of bUss, since love is with him in his fall ! Such as our own pure passion still might frame, Of this fair earth, and its delightful bowers, If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flowers ; But oh ! as many and such tears are ours, As only should be shed for guilt and shame !
20
3o6 SONNETS.
SONNET.
Love, dearest lady, such as I would speak, Lives not within the humour of the eye ; Not being but an outward phantasy, That skims the surface of a tinted cheek, — Else it would wane with beauty, and grow weak. As if the rose made summer, — and so lie Amangst the perishable things that die, ^ Unlike the love which I would give and seek : Whose health is of no hue — to feel decay With cheeks' decay, that have a.rosy prime. Love is its own great loveliness alway, And takes new lustre from the touch of time ; Its bough owns no December and no May, But bears its blossom into Winter's clime.
SONNET.
SILENCE.
There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silencewhere no sound may be, In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound ; No voice is hushed — no life treads silently. But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground :
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls, And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan.
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.
COMIC POEMS.
A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.
Oh, when I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind ! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the teardrop from my eye,
To cast a look behind !
A hoop was an eternal round
Of pleasure. In those days I found
A top a joyous thing ; But now those past delights I drop, My head, alas ! is all my top.
And careful thoughts the string !
My marbles — once my bag was stored, — Now I must play with Elgin's lord.
With Theseus for a taw ! My playful horse has slipt his string, Forgotten all his capering,
And harnessed to the law !
My kite — how fast and far it flew ! Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew
My pleasure from the sky ! 'Twas papered o'er,,with studious themes, The tasks I wrote — my present dreams
Will never soar so high !
My joys are wingless all and dead ; My dumps are made of more tl\an lead ;
My flights soon find a fall ; My fears prevail, my fancies droop, Joy never cometh with a hoop.
And seldom with a call.!
3o8 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW.
My football's laid upon the shelf; I am a shuttlecock myself
The world knocks to and fro ; My archery is all unlearned, And grief against myself has turned
My arrows and my bow !
No more in noontide sun I bask ; My authorship's an endless task,
My head's ne'er out of school : My heart is pained with scorn and slight, I have too many foes to fight,
And friends grown strangely cool !
The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand- to shake,
It makes me shrink and sigh : On this -I will not dwell and hang. The changeling would not feel a pang
Though these should meet his eye !
No skies so blue or so serene
As then ; — no leaves look half so green
As clothed the playground tree ! All things I loved are altered so. Nor does it ease my heart to know
That change resides in me !
Oh, for the garb that marked the boy, The trousers made of corduroy.
Well inked with black and red ; The crownless hat, ne'er deemed an ill — It only let the sunshine still
Repose upon my head !
Oh, for the riband round the neck ! The careless dog's-ears apt to deck
My book and collar both ! How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child,
A boy of larger growth ?
A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 309
Oh, for that small, small beer anew !
And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue
That washed my sweet meals down ; The master even ! — and that small Turk That fagged me ! — worse is now my work —
A fag for all the town !
Oh, for the lessons learned by heart ! Ay, though the very birch's smart
Should mark tho,se hours again ; I'd " kiss the rod," and be resigned Beneath the stroke, and even find
Some sugar in the cane !
The Arabian Nights re'.iearsed in bed The Fairy Tales in school-time read,
By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun ! The angel form that always walked In all my dreams, and looked and talked
Exactly like Miss Brown !
The omne bene — Christmas come ! The prize of merit, won for home —
Merit had prizes then ! But now I write for days and days, For fame — a deal of empty praise.
Without the silver pen !
Then home, sweet home ! the crowded coach — The joyous shout — the loud approach —
The winding horns like rams' ! The meeting sweet that made me thrill, The sweetmeats almost sweeter still,
No " satis" to the "jams !" —
V/hen that I was a tiny boy
My days and nights were full of joy,
My mates were blithe and kind, — No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the teardrop from my eye.
To cast a look behind !
3>o
EPPING HUNT.
ADVERTISEMENT.
Striding in the Steps of Stmtt — the historian of the old English Sports— the author of the following pages has endeavoured to record a yearly revel, already fast hastening to decay. The Eastei Chase will soon be numbered with the pastimes of past times ; its dogs will have had their day, and its Deer will be Fallow. A few more seasons, and this City Common Hunt will become un- common.
In proof of this melancholy decadence, the ensuing epistle is inserted. It was penned by an underling at the Wells, a person more accustomed to riding than writing : —
" Sir, — About the Hunt. In anser to your Innqueries, their as been a great falling off laterally, so much so this year that there (Vas nobody allmost. We did a mear nothing provisionally, hardly a Bottle extra, wich is a proof in Pint. In short pur Hunt may be said to be in the last Stag of a decline. " I am. Sir, " With respects from your humble Servant,
" Bartholomew Rutt."
' On Monday they began to hunt. " — Chevy Chase.
John Huggins was as bold a man
As trade did ever know, A warehouse good he had, that stood
Hard by the church of Bow.
There people bought Dutch cheeses round,
And single Glos'ter flat, — And English butter in a lump.
And Irish — in z.pat.
Six days a week beheld him stand,
His business next his heart, At counter with his apron tied
About his counter-part.
THE EPPING HUNT. 3U
The seventh in a sluice-house box,
He took his pipe and pot ; On Sundays for eel-piety,
A very noted spot.
Ah, blest if he had never gone
Beyond its rural shed ! One Easter-tide, some evil guide
Put Epping in his head !
Epping for butter justly famed,
And pork in sausage popt ; Where winter time, or summer time,
Pig's flesh IS always chopt.
But famous more, as annals tell, '
Because of Easter Chase ; There ev'ry year, 'twixt dog and deer.
There is a gallant race.
With Monday's sun John Huggins rose,
•And slapt his leather thigh, And sang the burthen of the song, " This day a stag must die."
For all the livelong day before,
And all the night in bed, Like Beckford, he had nourished " Thoughts
On Hunting" in his head.
Of horn and morn, and hark and bark,
And echo's answering sounds. All poets' wit hath every writ
In dog-r.€i verse of hounds.
Alas ! there was no warning voice
To whisper in his ear. Thou art a fool in leaving Cheap
To go and hunt the deer I
3ia THE EPPING HUNT.
No thought he had of twisted spine, Or broken arms or legs ;
Not chicken-hearted he, altho' 'Twas whispered of his eggs I
Ride out he would, and hunt he would, Nor dreamt of ending ill ;
Mayhap with Dr. Ridoufs fee. And Surgeon Huntei's bill.
So he drew on his Sunday boots.
Of lustre superfine ; The liquid black they wore that day,
Was Warren-Xtdi to shine.
His yellow buckskins fitted close.
As once upon a stag ; Thus well equipt he gaily skipt.
At once, upon his nag.
But first to him. that held the rein, A crown he nimbly flung ;
For holding of the horse ? — ^why, no — ^ For holding of his tongue.
To say the horse was Huggins' own,
Would only be a brag ; His neighbour Fig and he went halves,
Like Centaurs, in a nag.
And he that day had got the grey. Unknown to brother cit ;
The horse he knew would never tell, - Altho' it was a tit.
A well-bred horse he was, I wis,
As he began to show. By quickly "rearing up within
The way he ought to go."
THE EPPING HUNT. 31/
But Huggins, like a wary man,
Was ne'er from saddle cast ; Resolved, by going very slow.
On sitting very fast.
And 50 he jogged to Tot'n'am Cross,
An ancient town well known, Where Edward wept for Eleanor . In mortar and in stone.
A royal game of fox and goose,
To play on such a loss ; Wherever she set down her arts.
Thereby he put a cross.
Now Huggins had a crony here,
That lived beside the way ; One that had promised sure to be
His comrade for the day.
Whereas the man had changed his mind,
Meanwhile upon the case ! And meaning not to hunt at all,
Had gone to Enfield Chase.
For why, his spouse had made him vow
To let a game alone. Where folks that ride a bit of blood,
May break a bit of bone.
" Now, be his wife a plague for life !
A coward sure is he :" Then Huggins turned his horse's head
And crfiSsed the bridge of Lea.
Thence slowly on thro' Laytonstone, Past many a Quaker's box, —
No friends to hunters after deer, Tho' followers of a Fox.
314
THE EPPING HUNT.
And many a score behind— before — ^
The self-same route inclined, And minded all to majrch one way,
Made one great march of mind.
Gentle and simple, he and she, _
And swell, and blood, and.prig ; And some had carts, and some a chaise, , According to their gig.
Some long-eared jacks, some knacker's hacks,
(However odd it sounds,) Let out that day to hunt, instead
Of going to the hounds I
And some had horses of their owfi. And some were forced to job it :
And some, while they inclined to Hunt, Betook themselves to Cob-it.
All sorts of vehicles and vans.
Bad, middling, and the smart ; Here rolled along the gay barouche,
And there a dirty cart !
And lo ! a cart that held a squad
Of cbstermonger line ; With one poor hack, like Pegasus,
That slaved for all the Nine !
Yet marvel not at any load,
That any horse might drag ; When all, that morn, at once were drawn
Together by a stag !
Now when they saw John Huggins go
At such a sober pace ; " Hallo !" cried they ; " come, trot away,
You'll never see the chase !"
THE EPPING HUNT. 315
But John, as grave as any judge,
Made answers quite as blunt ; " It will be time enough to trot,
When I begin to hunt !"
And so he paced to Woodford Wells,
Where many a, horseman met, And letting go the reins, of course.
Prepared for heavy wet.
And lo ! within the crowded door.
Stood Rounding, jovial elf; Here shall the Muse frame no excuse,
But frame the man himself.
A snow white head, a merry eye,
A cheek of jolly blush ; A claret tint laid on by health,
With Master Reynard's brush ;
A hearty frame, a courteous bow.
The prince he learned it from ; His age about threescore and ten.
And there you have Old Tom.
In merriest key I trow was he,
So many guests to boast ; So certain congregations meet.
And elevate the host.
" Now welcome, lads," quoth he, " and prads,
You're all in glorious luck : Old Robin has a run to-day,
A noted forest buck.
*
" Fair Mead's the place, where Bob and Tom,
In red already ride ; 'Tis but a siej>, and on a horse
You soon may go a stride."
3i6 THE EPPING HUNT.
So off they scampered, man and horse, As time and temper pressed —
But Huggins, hitching on a tree, Branched off from all the rest.
Howbeit he tumbled down in time To join with Tom and Bob,
All in Fair Mead, which held that day Its own fair meed of mob.
Idlers to wit — no Guardians some,
Of Tattlers in a squeeze ; Ramblers, in heavy carts and vans,
Spectators, up in trees.
Butchers on backs of butchers' hacks.
That shambled to and fro ! Bakers intent upon a buck,
Neglectful of the dough !
Change Alley Bears to speculate,
As usual, for a fall ; And green and scarlet runners, such
As never cUmbed a wall !
'Twas strange to think what difference
A single creature made ; A single stag had caused a whole
.Sanation in their trade.
Now Huggins from his saddle rose, And in the stirrups stood ;
And lo ! a little cart that came Hard by a little wood.
In shape like half a hearse, — tho' not
For corpses in the least ; For this contained the deer alive,
And not the dear deceased !
THE EPPING HUNT, 317
And now began a sudden stir,
And then a sudden shout, The prison-doors were opened wide,
And Robin bounded out !
His antlered head shone blue and red.
Bedecked with ribbons fine ; Like other bucks that come to 'list
The hawbucks in the line.
One curious gaze of mild amaze,
He turned and shortly took : Then gently ran adown the mead,
And bounded o'er the brook.
Now Huggins, standing far aloof,
Had never seen the deer. Till all at once he saw the beast
Come charging in his rear.
Away he went, and many a score
Of riders did the same. On horse^and ass — like high and low
And Jack pursuing game !
Good Lord ! to see the riders now, Thrown off with sudden whirl,
A score within the purling brook, Enjoyed their " early purl."
A score were sprawling on the grass. And beavers fell in showers ;
There was another Floorer there, Beside, the Queen of Flowers !
Some lost their stirrups, some their whips.
Some had no caps to show j But few, like Charles at Charing Cross,
Rode on in Statue quo.
3i8 THE EPPING HUNT.
" O dear ! O dear !" now might you hear, " I've surely broke a bone ;"
" My head is sore," — with many more Such speeches from the thrown.
Howbeit their wailings never moved
The wide Satanic clan, Who grinned, as once the Devil grinned.
To see the fall of Man.
And hunters good, that understood, Their laughter knew no bounds,
To see the horses " throwing off," So long before the hounds."
For deer must have due course of law, Like men the Courts among ;
Before those Barristers the dogs Proceed to " giving tongue."
But now Old Robin's foes were set,
That fatal taint to find, That always is scent after him.
Yet always left behind.
And here observe how dog and man
A different temper shows, What hound resents that he is sent
To follow his own nose ?
Towler and Jowler — howlers all. No single tongue was mute ;
The stag had led a hart, and lo ! The whole pack followed. suit.
No spur he lacked," fear stuck a knife And fork in either haunch ;
And every dog he knew had got An eye-tooth tohis paunch !
THE EPPING HUNT. 319
Away, away ! he scudded like
A ship before the gale ; Now flew to " hills we know not of,"
Now, nun-like, took the vale.
Another squadron charging now,
Went off at furious pitch ; — A perfect Tam o' Shanter mob.
Without a single witch.
But who was he with flying skirts,
A hunter did endorse. And like a poet seemed to ride
Upon a wingfed horse, —
A whipper in ? no whipper in :
A huntsman ? no such soul : A connoisseur, or amateur ?
Why yes, — a Horse Patrol.
A member of police, for whom
The county found a nag. And, like Acteon in the tale,
He found himself in stag !
Away they went then dog and deer,
And hunters all away, — The maddest horses never knew
Mad stagers such as they !
Some gave a shout, some rolled about,
And anticked as they rode. And butchers whistled on their curs,
And milkmen tally-hoed I
About two score there were, not more,
That galloped in the race ; The rest, alas ! lay on the grass.
As once in Chevy Chase !
320 THE EPPING HUNT.
But even those that galloped on, Were fewer every minute, —
The field kept getting more select. Each thicket served to thin it.
For some pulled up, and left the hunt,
Some fell in miry bogs, And vainly rose and " ran a muck,"
To overtake the dogs.
And some, in charging hurdle stakes.
Were left bereft of sense. What else could be premised of blades
That never learned to fence ?
But Rounding, Tom, and Bob, no gate, Nor hedge, nor ditch, could stay ;
O'er all they went, and did the work Of leap years in a day.
And by their side see Huggins ride,
As fast as he could speed ; For, like Mazeppa, he was quits
At mercy of his steed.
No means he had, by timely check,
The gallop to remit, For firm and fast, between his teeth,
The biter held the bit.
Trees raced along, all Essex fled
Beneath him as he sate, — He never saw a county go
At such a county rate !
" Hold hard ! hold hard ! you'll lame the dogs ;
Quoth Huggins, " So I do, — I've got the saddle well in hand,
And hold as hard as you !"
THE EPPING HUNT. 321
Good Lord ! to see him ride along,
And throw his arms about, As if with stitches in the side.
That he was drawing out !
And now he bounded up and down,
Now like a jpUy shook : Till bumped and galled — yet not where Gall
For bumps did ever look !
And rowing with his legs the while,
As tars are apt to ride ; With every kick he gave a prick,
Deep in the horse's side !
But soon the horse was well avenged,
For cruel smart of spurs', For, riding through a moor, he pitched
His master in a furze !
Where sharper set than hunger is
He squatted all forlorn ; And like a bird was singing out
While sitting on a thorn !
Right glad was he, as well might be,
Such cushion to resign : " Possession is nine points," but his
Seemed more than ninety-nine.
Yet worse than all the prickly points
That entered in his skin. His nag was running off the while
The thorns were running in !
Now had a Papist seen his sport,
Thus laid upon the shelf, Altho' no horse he had to cross,
He might have crossed himself.
322 THE EPPING HUN'T.
Yet surely still the wind is ill That none can say is fair j
A jolly wight there was, that rode Upon a sorry mare !
A sorry mare, that surely came Of pagan blood and bone ;
For down upon- her knees she went, To many a stock and stone !
Now seeing Huggins' nag adrift. This farmer, shrewd and sage,
Resolved, by changing horses here, To hunt another stage !
Tho' felony, yet who would let
Another's horse alone. Whose neck is placed in jeopardy
By riding on his own ?
And yet the conduct of the man Seemed honest-like and fair ;
For he seemed willing, horse and all, Togo before the mare!
So up on Huggins' horse he got, And swiftly rode away.
While Huggins mounted on the mare Done brown upon a bay !
And off they set, in double chase, For such was fortune's whim,
The farmer rode to hunt the stag, And Huggins hunted him !
Alas ! with one that rode so well In vain it was to strive ; .
A dab was he, as dabs should be — ' All leaping and alive !
I
THE EPPING HUNT. 323
And here of Nature's kindly care
Behold a curious proof, As nags are meant to leap, she puts
A frog in every hoof!
Whereas the mare, altho' her share
She had of hoof and frog, On coming to a gate stopped short
As stiff as any log ;
Whilst xinggins in the stirrup stood
With neck like neck of crane. As sings the Scottish song — " to see
The gate his hart had gane."
And lo ! the dim and distant hunt
Diminished in a trice : The steeds, like Cinderella's team,
Seemed dwindling into mice ;
And, far remote, each scarlet coat
Soon flitted like a spark, — Tho' still the forest murmured back
An echo of the bark !
But sad at soul John Huggins turned :
No comfort could he find ; Whilst thus the " Hunting Chorus" sped.
To stay five bars behind.
For tho' by dint of spur he got
A leap in spite of fate — Howbeit there was no toll at all.
They could not clear the gate.
And, like Fitzjames, he cursed the hunt.
And sorely cursed the day, And mused a new Gray's elegy
On his departed grey !
524 THE EPPING HUNT.
Now many a sign at Woodford town
Its Inn-vitation tells : But Huggins, full of ills, of course
Betook him to the Wells,
Where- Rounding tried to cheer him up With many a merry laugh :
But Huggins thought of neighbour Fig, And called for half and-half.
Yet, spite of drink, he could not blink Remembrance of his loss ;
To drown a care like his, required Enough to drown a horse.
When thus forlorn, a merry hoirn Struck up without the door, —
The mounted mob were all returned : The Epping Hunt was o'er !
And many a horse was taken out Oi saddle, and of shaft ;
And men, by dint of drink, became The only " beasts of draught."
For now begun a harder run On wine, and gin, and beer :
And overtaken men discussed The overtaken deer.
How far he ran, and eke how fast, And how at bay he stood.
Deerlike, resolved to sell his life As dearly as he could ;
And how the hunters stood aloof.
Regardful of their lives. And shunned a beast, whose very horns
They knew could handle knives!
THE EPPING HUNT. 32 j
How Huggins stood when he was nibbed
By help and ostler kind, And when they cleaned the clay before,
How worse "remained behind."
And one, how he had found a horse
Adrift — a goodly grey ! And kindly rode the nag, for fear
The nag should go astray.
Now Huggins, when he heard the tale, Jumped up with sudden glee ;
" A goodly grey ! why, then, I say That grey belongs to me !
"Let me endorse again my horse, Delivered safe and sound;
And, gladly, I will give the man A bottle and a pound !"
The wine was drunk, — the money paid,
Tho' not without remorse, To pay another man so much,
For riding on his horse ;
And let the chase again take place For many a long, long year —
John Huggins will not ride again To hunt the Epping Deer !
MORAL.
Thus- pleasure oft eludes our grasp, Just when we think to grip her ;
And hunting aifter happiness-. We only hunt a slippe".
326 NUMBER ONE.
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION OF EPPING HUNT.
The Publisher begs leave to say, that he has had the following letter from the Author of this little book : —
Dear Sir, — I am much gratified to learn from you, that the Epping Hunt has had such a run, that it is quite exhausted, and that you intend therefore to give the work what may be called " second wind" by a new impression.
I attended the last Anniversary of the Festival, and am con- cerned to say that the sport does not improve, but appears an ebbing as well as Epping custom. The run was miserable indeed ; but what was to be expected ? The chase was a Doe, and, consequently, the Hunt set off with the Hind part before. It was, therefore, quite in character, for so many Nimrods to start, as they did, before the hounds, but which, as you know, is quite contrary to the Lex Tallyho-nis, or Laws of Hunting.
I dined with the Master of the Revel, who is as hale as ever, and promises to reside some time in the Wells ere he kicks the bucket. He is an honest, hearty, worthy man, and when he dies there will be " a cry of dogs " in his kennel.
I am, dear sir, yours, &c.
T. Hood.
Winchmore Hill, June, 1830.
NUMBER ONE.
VERSIFIED FROM THE I'ROSE OF A YOUNG LADY.
It's very hard ! — and so it is
To live in such a row, —
And witness this that every Miss
But me, has got a Beau.
For Love goes calKng up and down,
But here he seems to shun ;
I am sure he has been asked enough
To call at Number One !
I'm sick of all the double knocks That come to Number Four ! At Number Three, I often see A lover at the door ;
NUMBER ONE 327
And one in blue, at Number Two, Calls daily like a dun, — It's very hard they come so near And not to Number One !
Miss Bell I hear has got a dear
Exactly to her mind, —
By sitting at the window pane
Without a bit of blind ;
But I go in the balcony.
Which she has never done,
Yet arts that thrive at Number Five
Don't take at Number One !
'Tis hard with plenty in the street.
And plenty passing by, —
There's nice young men at Number Ten,
But only rather shy ;
And Mrs. Smith across the way
Has got a grown-up son,
But la ! he hardly seems to know
There is a Number One !
There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine,
But he's intent on pelf.
And though he's pious will not love
His neighbour as himself
At Number Seven there was a sale —
The goods had quite a run !
And here I've got my single lot
On hand at Number One !
My mother often sits at work And talks of props and stays, And what a comfort I shall be In her declining days : The very maids about the house Have set me down a nun. The sweethearts all belong to them That call at Number One.
Once only when tlie flue took fire, One Friday afternoon^
r
328 THOSE EVENING BELLS.
Young Mr. Long came kindly in And told me not to swoon : Why can't he come again without The Phoenix and the Sun ! We cannot always have a flue On fire at Number One !
I am not old ! I am not plain !
Nor awkward in my gait —
I am not crooked like the bride
That went from Number Eight :
I'm sure white satin made her look
As brown as any bun —
But even beauty has no chance,
I think, at Number One 1
At Number Six they say Miss 'Rose
Has slain a score of hearts.
And Cupid, for her sake, has been
Quite prodigal of darts.
The Imp they show with bended bow,
I wish he had a gun !
But if he had, he'd never deign
To shoot with Number One !
It's very hard and so it is To live in such a row ! And here's a ballad singer come To aggravate my woe :
0 take away your foolish song, And tones enough to stun —
There is " Nae luck about the house,"
1 know, at Number One !
THOSE EVENING BELLS.
" i'd be a parody."
Those Evening Bells, those Evening Bells, How many a tale their music tells.
THE DROWNING DUCKS. ' 3*9
Of Yorkshire cakes and crumpets prime, And letters only just in time !
The Muffin-boy has passed away, The Postman gone — and I must pay, For down below Deaf Mary dwells. And does not hear those Evening Bells.
And so 'twill be when she is gone, That tuneful peal will still ring on, And other maids with timely yells Forget to stay those Evening Bells.
THE DROWNING DUCKS.
Amongst the sights that Mrs. Bond
Enjoyed yet grieved at more than others,
Were little duckUngs in a pond,
Swimming about beside their mothers —
Small things like living water-lilies.
But yellow as the dsEo-dillies.
" It's very hard," she used to moan,
" That other people have their ducklings
To grace their waters— mine alone Have never any pretty chucklings."
For why ! — each little yellow navy
Went down — all downy — to old Davy !
She had a lake — a pond I mean —
Its wave was rather thick than pearly —
She had two ducks, their napes were green — She had a drake, his tail was curly, —
Yet spite of drake, and ducks, and pond.
No little ducks had Mrs. Bond !
The birds were both the best of mothers — The nests had eggs — the eggs had luck —
The infant D's came forth like others — But there, alas ! the matter stuck !
They might as well have all died addle,
As dis when they began to paddle !
330 THE DROWNING DUCKS.
For when, as native instinct taught hei;
The mother set her brood afloat, They sank ere long right under water,
Like any overloaded boat ; They were web-footed too to see, As ducks and spiders ought to be !
No peccant humour in a gander Brought havoc on her little folks, —
No poaching cook — a frying pander To appetite,— destroyed their yolks,— r
Beneath her very eyes, Od rot 'em !
They went, like plummets, to the bottom.
The thing was strange — a contradiction It seemed of nature and her works !
For little ducks, beyond conviction, Should float without the help of corks :
Great Johnson it bewildered him !
To hear of ducks that could not swim.
Poor Mrs. Bond ! what could she do
But change the breed — and she tried divers
Which dived as all seemed born to do ; No little ones were e'er survivors —
Like those that copy gems, I'm thinking.
They all were given to die-sinking !
In vain their downy coats were shorn ;
They floundered still ! — Batch after batch went ! The little fools seemed only bom
And hatched for nothing but a hatchment ! Wherte'er they launched — O sight of wonder ! Like fires the water " got them under !"
No woman ever gave their lucks
A better chance than Mrs. Bond did ;
At last quite out of heart and ducks. She gave her pond up, and desponded ;
For Death among the water-lilies.
Cried " Due ad me" to all her diilies !
A TRUE STORY. 331
But though resolved to breed no more,
She brooded often on this riddle — Alas ! 'twas darker than before !
At last about the summer's middle, What Johnson, Mrs. Bond, or none did, To clear the matter up the Sun did !
The thirsty Sirius, dog-like drank
So deep, his furious tongue to cool, The shallow waters sank and sank.
And lo, from out the wasted pool. Too hot to hold them any longer, There crawled some eels as big as conger !
I wish all folks would look a bit.
In such a case below the surface ; But when the eels were caught and split
By Mrs. Bond, just think of her face. In each inside at once to spy A duckling turned to giblet-pie !
The sight at once explained the case,
•Making the Dame look rather silly, The tenants of that Eely Place
Had found the way to Pick a dilly. And so by under-water suction. Had wrought the httle ducks' abduction.
A TRUE STORY.
Whoe'er has seen upon the human face The yellow jaundice and the jaundice black. May form a notion of old Colonel Case With nigger Pompey waiting at his back.
Case, — as the case is many time with folks From hot Bengal, Calcutta, or Bombay, Had tint his tint, as Scottish tongues would say. And showed two cheeks as yeUow as eggs' yolks.
332 A TRUE STORY.
Pompey, the chip of some old ebon block, In hue was like his master's stiff cravat, And might indeed have claimed akin to that. Coming, as he did, of an old black stock.
Case wore the liver's livery that such Must wear, their past excesses to denote. Like Greenwich pensioners that take too much, And then do penance in a yellow coat. Pompey's, a deep and permanent jet dye, A stain of nature's staining — one of those We callykr/ colours — merely, I suppose. Because such colours never go at fly.
Pray mark this difference of dark and sallow, Pompey's black husk, and the old Colonel's yellow.
The Colonel, once a penniless beginner, From a long Indian rubber rose a winner, With plenty of .pagodas in his pocket. And homeward turning his Hibernian thought, Deemed Wicklow was the very place that ought To harbour one whose wick was in the socket.
Unhappily for Case's scheme of quiet, Wicklow just then was in a pretty riot, A fact recorded in each day's diurnals. Things, Case was not accustomed to peruse,
Careless of news ; But Pompey always read those bloody journals, Full of Killm.any and of Killmore work, The freaks of some O'Shaunessy's shillaly, Or morning frays by some O'Brien Burke, Or horrid nightly outrage by some Daly ; How scums deserving of the Devil's ladle, Would fall upon the harrnless skull and knock it, And if he found an infant in the cradle Stern Rock would hardly hesitate to rock it ; In fact, he read of burner and of killer. And Irish ravages, day after day. Till, haunting in his dreams, he used to say, That " Pompey could not .sleep on Pompey i Pillar.^'
A TRUE STORY. 3«3
Judge then the horror of the nigger's face
To find — with such impr^essions of that dire land —
That Case, his master, — was a packing case
For Ifeland ! He saw in fearful reveries arise, Phantasmagorias of those dreadful men Whose fame associate with Irish plots is, Fitzgeralds — Tones — O'Connors — Hares — and then " Those Em?nets," not so " little in his eyes"
As Doctor Watts's ! He felt himself piked, roasted, — carved and hacked, His big black burly body seemed in fact A pincushion for Terror's pins and needles, — Oh, how he wished himself beneath the sun Of Afric — or in far Barbadoes — one Of Bishop Coleridge's new black beadles.
Full of this fright. With broken peace and'broken English choking, As black as any raven and as croaking, Pompey rushed in upon his master's sight, Plumped on his knees, and clasped his sable digits, Thus stirring Curiosity's sharp fidgets — " O Massa ! — Massa ! — Colonel ! — Massa Case, — Not go to Ireland ! — -Ireland dam bad place ; Dem take our bloods — dem Irish — every drop — Oh why for Massa go so far a distance
To have him life ?" Here Pompey made a stop,
Putting an awful period to existence.
" Not go to Ireland— =-not to Ireland, fellow.
And murdered — why should I be murdered, sirrah ?"
Cried Case, with anger's tinge upon his yellow, —
Pompey, for answer, pointing in a mirror
The Colonel's saffron, and his own japan, —
" Well, what has that to do — quick — speak outright, boy ?"
" O Massa" — (so the explanation ran)
" Massa be kUled — 'cause Massa Orange Man,
And Pompey killed — 'cause Poinpey not a White Boy /"
334 ODE TO ST. SWITHIN.
THE CARELESSE NURSE MAYD.
I SAWE a Mayd sitte on a Bank, Beguiled by Wooer fayne and fond ; And whiles His flatterynge Vowes She drank, Her Nurselynge slipt within a Pond !
All Even Tide they Talkde and Kist, For She was fayre and He was Kinde ; The Sunne went down before She wist Another Sonne had sett behinde 1
With angrie Hands and frownynge Browe, That deemd Her owne the Urchine's Sinne, She pluckt Him out, but he was nowe Past being Whipt for fallynge in.
She then beginnes to wayle the Ladde With Shrikes that Echo answered round— O ! foolishe Mayd to be soe sadde The Momente that her Care was drownd !
ODE TO ST. SWITHIN,
" The rain it raineth every day."
The dawn is overcast, the morning lowers, On ev'ry window-frame hang beaded damps Like rows of small illumination lamps To celebrate the Jubilee of Showers ! A constant sprinkle patters from all leaves, The very Dryads are not dry, but soppers,
And from the Houses' eaves
Tumble eaves-droppers.
The hundred clerks that live along the street,
Bondsmen to mercantile and city schemers.
With squashing, sloshing, and galloshing feet,
Go paddling, paddling, through the wet, like steamers,
ODE TO ST. SWITHIN. 335
Each hurrying to earn the daily stipend — Umbrellas pass of every shade of green, And now and then a crimson one is seen, Like an umbrella ripened.
Over the way a waggon Stands with six smoking horses, shrinking, blinking.
While in the George and Dragon The man is keeping himself dry — and drinking ! The butcher's boy skulks underneath his tray,
Hats shine — shoes don't — and down droop collars, And one blue Parasol cries all the way
To school, in company with four small scholars !
Unhappy is the man to-day who rides, Making his journey sloppier, not shorter; Ay, there they go, a dozen of outsides. Performing on " a stage with real water !" A dripping pauper crawls along the way,
The only real willing out-of-doorer.
And says, or seems to say, " Well, I am poor enough — but here's &J)ourer!"
The scene in water colours thus I paint, Is your own festival, you Sloppy Saint ! Mother of all the Family of Rainers !
Saint of the Soakers !
Making all people croakers, Like frogs in swampy marshes, and complainers ! And why you mizzle forty days together, Giving the earth your water-soup to sup, I marvel — Why such wet, mysterious weather?
I wish you'd clear it up !
Why cast such cruel dampers On pretty Picnics, and against all wishes Set the cold ducks a-swimming in the hampers, And volunteer, unasked, to wash the dishes ? Why drive the Nymphs from the selected spot,
To cling like ladybirds around a tree —
Why spoil a Gipsy party at their tea, By throwing your cold water upon hot ?
336 THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO.
Cannot a rural maiden, or a man,
Seek Hornsey Wood by invitation, sipping
Their green with Pan, But souse you come, and show their Pan all dripping' Why upon snow-white tablecloths and sheets. That do not wait, or want a second washing.
Come squashing ? Why task yourself to lay the dust in streets, As if there were no water-cart contractors. No potboys spilling beer, no shopboys ruddy
Spooning out puddles muddy, , Milkmaids, and other slopping benefactors !
A Queen you are, raining in your own right, Yet, oh ! how little flattered by report !
Even by those that seek the Court, Pelted with every term of spleen and spite.- Folks rail and swear at you in every place ; They say you are a creature of no bowel ; They say you're always washing Nature's face,
And that you then supply her. With nothing drier. Than some old wringing cloud by way of towel ! The whole town wants you ducked, just as you duck it, They wish you on your own mud porridge suppered, They hope that you may kick your own big bucket, Or in your water-butt go souse ! heels up'ard ! They are, in short, so weary of your drizzle. They'd spill the water in your veins to stop it — Be warned ! You are too oartial to a mizzle — Pray drofi it !
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO.
'The Admiral compelled them all to strike." — Life of Nelson.
Hush ! silence in School— not a noise ! You shall soon see there's nothing to jeer at, Master Marsh, most audacious of boys ! Come ! — " Palmam qiii meruit ferat !"
THE SCHOOLMASTER'S MOTTO. 337
So this morn in the midst of the Psalm, The Miss Siffkins's school you must leer at, You're complained of — Sir ! hold out your palm — There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
You wilful young rebel, and dunce ! This offence all your sins shall appear at, You shall have a good caning at once — There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
You are backward; you know, in each verb. And your pronouns you are not more clear at, But you're forward enough to disturb — There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !" >
You said Master Twig stole the plums, When the orchard he never was near at, I'll not punish" wrong fingers or thumbs — There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
You make Master Taylor your butt. And this morning his face you threw beer at, And you struck him — do you like a cut ? There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
Little Biddle you likewise distress. You are always his hair or his ear at — He's my Opt, Sir, and you are my Pess : There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
Then you had a pitched fight with young Rouse, An offence I am always severe at ! You discredit to Cicero House ! There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
You have made too a plot in the night. To run off from the school that you rear at ! Come, your other hand, now. Sir — the right, There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
I'll teach you to draw, you young dog ! Such pictures as I'm looking here at ! " Old Mounseer making soup of a frog," There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat 1"
338 THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.
You have run up a bill at a shop, That in paying you'll be a whole year at— You've but twopence a week, Sir, to stop ! There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
Then at dinner you're quite cock-a-hoop. And the soup you are certain to sneer at — I have sipped it — it's very good soup — There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
T'other day when I fell o'er the form, Was my tumble a thing, Sir, to cheer at ? Well for you that my temper's not warm — There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
Why, you rascal ! you insolent brat !
All my talking you don't shed a tear at.
There — take that. Sir ! and that ! that ! and that !
There ! — " Palmam qui meruit ferat !"
THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.
A PATHETIC BALLAD.
" Oh flesli, flesh, how art thou fishified !" — Shakspbare.
I.
'TwAS twelve o'clock by Chelsea chimes,
When all in hungry trim, Good Mister Jupp sat down to sup
With wife, and Kate, and Jim.
II. Said he, " Upon this dainty cod
How bravely I shall sup" — When, whiter than the tablecloth,
A GHOST came rising up 1
III. " O, father dear, O, mother dear,
Dear Kate, and brother Jim — You know when some one went to sea—
Don't cry — but I am him !
THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION. 339
IV.
" You hope some day with fond embrace
To greet your absent Jack, But oh, I am come here to say
I'm never coming back !
" From Alexandria we set sail,
With corn, and oil, and figs. But steering ' too much Sow,' we struck
Upon the Sow and Pigs !
VI.
" The ship we pumped till we could see
Old England from the tops ; When down she went with all our hands,
Right in the Channel's Chops.
VII.
" Just give a look in Nore/s chart,
The very place it tells ; I think it says twelve fathom deep,
Clay bottom, mixed with shells.
VIII.
" Well, there we are till ' hands aloft/ . We have at last a call ; The pug I had for brother Jim, Kate's parrot too, and all.
" But oh, my spirit cannot rest,
In Davy Jones's sod. Till I've appeared to you and said —
Don't sup on that 'ere cod !
" You live on land, and httie think What passes in the sea ;
Last Sunday week, at 2 p.m.. That cod was picking me !
340 THE SUPPER SUPERSTITION.
XI.
" Those oysters, too, that look so plump,
And seem so nicely done. They put my corpse in many shells,
Instead of only one.
xn.
" Oh, do not eat those oysters then, And do not touch the shrimps ;
When I was in my briny grave. They sucked my Hood like imps !
XIII. ' ■
" Don't eat what brutes would never eat,
The brutes I used to pat, They'll know the smell they used to smell,
Just try the dog and cat !"
XIV.
The spirit fled — they wept his fate,
And cried, Alack, alack ! At last up started brother Jim,
" Let's try if Jack was Jack !"
XV.
They called the dog, they called the cat,
And little kitten too, And down they put the cod and sauce.
To see what brutes would do.
XVI.'
Old Tray licked all the oysters up.
Puss never stood at crimps. But munched the cod — and little kit
Quite feasted on the shrimps !
XVII.
The thing was odd, and minus cod And sauce, they stood like posts ;
Oh, prudent folks, for fear of hoax, Put no belief in Ghosts !
341 A STORM AT HASTINGS,
AND THE LITTLE UNKNOWN.
'TwAS August — Hastings every day was filling — Hastings, that " greenest spot on memory's waste I" With crowds of idlers willing or unwilling To be bedipped— be noticed — or be braced, And all things rose a penny in a shilling. Meanwhile, from window and from door, in haste " Accommodation bills" kept coming down, Gladding " the world of letters" in that town.
Each day poured in new coachfuls of new cits. Flying from London smoke and dust annojdng, Unmarried Misses hoping to make hits. And new-wed couples fresh from Tunbridge tO)^ng, Lacemen and placemen, ministers and wits. And Quakers of both sexes, much enjoying A morning's reading by the ocean's rim. That sect delighting in the sea's broad brim.
And lo ! amongst all these appeared a creature. So small, he almost might a twin have been With Miss Crachami — dwarfish quite in stature, Yet well proportioned — neither fat nor lean. His face of marvellously pleasant feature, So short and sweet a man was never seen — All thought him charming at the first beginning — Alas, ere long they found him far too winning !
He seemed in love with chance — and chance repaid
His. ardent passion with her fondest smile,
The sunshine of good luck, without a shade.
He staked and won — and won and staked — the bile
It stirred of many a man and many a maid.
To see at every venture how that vile
Small gambler snatched — and how he won them too-
A living Pam, omnipotent at loo !
Miss Wiggins set her heart upon a box,
'Twas handsome, rosewood, and inlaid with brass.
342 A STORM AT HASTINGS.
And dreamt three times she garnished it with stocks
Of needles, silks, and cottons — but, alas !
She lost it wide awake. We thought Miss Cox
Was lucky — ^but she saw three caddies pass
To that small imp ; — no living luck could loo him !
Sir Stamford would have lost his Raffles to him !
And so he climbed — and rode— and won— and walked,
The wondrous topic of the curious swarm
That haunted the Parade. Many were baulked
Of notoriety by that small form
Pacing it up and down : some even talked
Of ducking him— when lo ! a dismal storm
Stepped in — one Friday, at the close of day —
And every head was turned another way —
Watching the grander guest. It seemed to rise Bulky and slow upon the southern brink Of the horizon — fanned by sultry sighs-^ So black and threatening, I cannot think Of any simile, except the skies Miss Wiggins sometimes shades in Indian ink — J/z'w-shapen blotches of such heavy vapour, They seem a' deal more solid than her paper.
As for the sea, it did not fret, and rave. And tear its waves to tatters, and so dash on The stony-hearted beach ; — some bards would have It always rampant, in that idle fashion — Whereas the waves rolled in, subdued and grave. Like schoolboys, when the master's in a passion. Who meekly settle in and take their places, With a very quiet awe on all their faces.
Some love to draw the ocean with a head. Like. troubled table-beer — and make it bounce. And froth, and roar, and fling — but thisy I've said,. Surged in scarce rougher than a lady's flounce : But then, a grander contrast thus it bred With the wild welkin, seeming to pronounce Something more awful in the serious ear, As one would whisper that a lion's near —
A STORM AT HASTINGS. 343
Who just begins to roar : io the hoarse thunder Growled long^but low — a prelude note o<" death, As if the stifling clouds yet kept it under,
' But still it muttered to the' sea beneath Such a continued peal, as made us wonder It did not pause more oft to take its breath, Whilst we were panting with the sultry weather,
-And hardly cared to wed two words together.
But watched the surly advent of the storm, Much as the brown-cheeked planters of Barbadoes Must watch a rising of the Negro swarm : Meantime it steered, like Odin's old Armadas, Right on our coast ;— a dismal, coal-black form ; Many proud gaits were quelled— and all bravadoes Of folly ceased— and sundry idle jokers Went home to cover up their tongs and pokers.
So fierce the lightning flashed. In all their days The oldest smugglers had not seen such flashing, And they are used to many a pretty blaze. To keep their Hollands from an awkward clashing With hostile cutters in our creeks and bays : And truly one could think without much lashing The fancy, that those coasting clouds so awful And black, were fraught with spirits as unlawful
The gay Parade grew thin — all the fair crowd Vanished — as if they knew their own attractions, — For now the lightning through a near hand cloud Began to make some very crooked fractions — Only some few remained that were not cowed, A few rough sailors, who had been in actions. And sundry boatmen, that with quick yeo's, Lest it should blow, — were pulUng up the Rose:
(No flower, but a boat) — some more were hauling The Regent by the head : — another crew With that same cry peculiar to their calling — Were heaving up the Hope : — and as they knew The very gods themselves oft get a mauling In their own realms, 'the seamen wisely drew
344 ^ STORM A T HASTINGS. ,
The Neptune rather higher on the beach, That he might lie beyond his billows' reach.
And now the storm, with its despotic power, Had all usurped the azure of the skies. Making our daylight darker by an hour. And some few drops — of an unusual size — Few and distinct — scarce twenty to the shower, Fell like huge teardrops from a giant's eyes — But then. this sprinkle thickened in a trice And rained much harder — in good solid ice.
Oh ! for a very storm of words to show How this fierce crash of hail came rushing o'er us ! Handel would make the gusty organs blow Grandly, and a rich storm in music score us : — But ev'n his music seemed composed and low, When we were handled by this Hailstone Chorus ; Whilst thunder rumbled, with its awful sound. And frozen comfits rolled along the ground —
As big as bullets : — Lord ! how they did batter Our crazy tiles : — and now the lightning flashed Alternate with the dark, until the latter Was rarest of the two ! — the gust too dashed So terribly, I thought the hail must shatter Some panes, — and so it did, — and first it smashed The very square where I had chose my station To watch the general illumination.
Another, and another, still came in,
And fell in jingling ruin at my feet.
Making transparent holes that let me win
Some samples of the storm ; — Oh ! it was sweet
To think I had a shelter for my skin.
Culling them through these " loopholes of retreat" —
Which in a little we began to glaze —
Chiefly with a jacktowel and some baize !
By which, the cloud had passed o'erhead, but played Its crooked fires in constant flashes still. Just in our rear, as though it had an-ayed Its heavy batteries at Fairlight Mill,
A STORM A T HASTINGS. 345
So that it lit the town, and grandly made The rugged features of the Castle Hill Leap like a birth, from chaos into light, And then relapse into the gloomy night— 7
As parcel of the cloud ; — the clouds themselves, Like monstrous crags and summits everlasting, Piled each on each in most gigantic shelves. That Milton's devils were engaged in blasting. We could e'en fancy Satan and his elves Busy upon those crags, and ever casting Huge fragments loose, — and that we felt the sound They made in falling to the startled ground.
And so the tempest scowled away, — and soon Timidly shining through its skirts of jet. We saw the rim of the pacific moon. Like a bright fish entangled in a net. Flashing its silver sides, — how sweet a boon, Seemed her sweet light, as though it would laeget, With that fair smile, a calm upon the seas — Peace in the sky — and coolness in the breeze !
Meantime the hail had ceased : — and all the brood Of glaziers stole abroad to count their gains ) At every window there were maids who stood Lamenting o'er the glass's small remains, — Or with coarse Unens made the fractions good, Stanching the wind in all the wounded panes, — Or, holding candles to the panes, in doubt : The wind resolved— blowing the candles out.
No house was whole that had a southern front, — No greenhouse but the same mishap befell ; ^^w-windows and ^i?//-glasses bore the brunt, —
No sex in glass was spared ! For those who dwell
On each- hill-side, you might have swum a punt In any of their parlours ; — Mrs. Snell Was slopped out of her seat, — and Mr. Hitchin Had a.Jlower-gaxde.n washed into a Kitchen.
But still the sea was mild, and quite disclaimed The recent violence. — Each after each
346 A STORM AT HASTINGS.
The gentle waves a gentle mxirmur framed, Tapping, like woodpeckers, the hollow beach, Howbeit his weather eye the seaman aimed Across the calm, and hinted by his speech A gale next morning — and when morning broke, There was a gale — " quite equal to bespoke."
Before high water — (it were better far To christen it not water then but waiter, For then the tide is serving at the bar) Rose such a swell — I never saw one greater ! Black, jagged billows rearing up in war Like ragged roaring bears against the baiter. With lots of froth upon the shingle shed, Like stcut poured out with a fine beachy head.
No open boat was open to a fare. Or launched that morn on seven-shilling trips j No bathing woman waded — none would dare A dipping in the wave — but waived their dips ; No seagull ventured on the stormy air, And all the dreary coast was clear of ships ; For two lea sJwres upon the River Lea Are not so perilous as one at sea.
Awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene Before us in such horrid hurly-burly, — A boiling ocean of mixed black and green,. A sky of copper colour, grim and surly, — When Ip, in that vast hollow scooped between Two rolling Alps of water, — white and curly ! We saw a pair of little arms a-skimming. Much like a first or last attempt at swimming !
Sometimes a hand — sometimes a little shoe — Sometimes a skirt — sometimes a hank of hair Just like a dabbled seaweed rose to view, Sometimes a knee, .sometimes a back was bare — At last a frightful summerset he threw Right on the shingles. Anyone could swear The lad was dead-^witheut a chance of perjury, And battered by the surge beyond all surgery 1
LINES. 347
However \vc snatched up the corse thus thrown, Intending, Christian-like, to sod and turf it, And after venting Pity's sigh and groan, Then Curiosity began with her fit ; And lo ! the features of tlie Small Unknown ! 'Tway he that of the surf had had this surfeit ! And in his fob, the cause of late monopolies, We found a contract signed with Mephistopheles
A bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave
His forfeit soul to Satan in reversion.
Providing in this world he was to have
A lordship over luck, by whose exertion
He might control the course of cards and brave
All throws of dice, — but on a sea excursion
The juggling demon, in his usual vein.
Seized the last cast — ^and Nicked him in the main !
LINES
TO A LADY. ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA.
Go where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempests make a soda-water sea, Almost as rough as our rough Piccadilly,
And think of me !
Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juice, — A wine more praised than it deserves to be ! Go pass the Cape, just capable of ver- juice, And think of me !
Go where the tiger in the darkness prowleth. Making a midnight meal of he and she ; Go where the lion in his hunger howleth.
And think of me !
Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, Or lies along at full length like a tree. Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth, And think of me !
348 TO FANNY.
Go where with human notes the parrot dealeth In mono-/^//y-logue with tongue as free, And like a woman, all she can revealetb,
And think of me !
Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, And parasols of straw where hats should be, Go to the land of slaves and palankeening, And think of me !
Go to the land of jungles and of vast hills, And tall bamboos — may none bamboozle thee ! Go gaze upon their elephants and castles.
And think of me !
Go where a cook must always be a currier, And parch the peppered palate like a pea, Go where the fierce mosquito is a worrier. And think of me !
Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes. Consigned for wedlock to Calcutta's quay, Where woman goes for mart, the same as mangoes, And think of me !
Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the. land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant. And think of me !
TO FANNY. " Gay being, bom to flutter !" — Sale's Glee.
Is this your faith, then, Fanny !
What, to chat with every Dun ! I'm the one, then, but of many,
Not of many, but the One !
Last night you smiled on all, ma'am. That appeared in scarlet dress ;
And your Regimental Ball, ma'am, Looked a little like a Mess.
TO FANNY. J4J,
I thought that of the Sogers
(As the Scotch say) one might do, And that I, sHght Ensign Rogers,
Was the chosen man and true.
But 'Sblood ! your eye was busy
With that ragamuffin mob — Colonel Buddell— Colonel Dizzy —
And Lieutenant-Colonel Cobb.
General Joblin, General Jodkin,
Colonels — Kelly, Felly, with Majors — Sturgeon, Truffle, Bodkin,
And the Quarter-master Smith.
Major Powdemm — Major Dowdrum —
Major Chowdrum — Major Bye — Captain Tawney — Captain Fawney,
Captain Any-one — but I !
Deuce take it ! when the regiment
You so praised, I only thought That you loved it in abridgment,
But I now am better taught !
I went, as loving man goes.
To admire thee in quadrilles ; But Fan, you dance fandangoes
With just any fop that wills !
I went with notes before us,
On the lay of Love to touch ; But with all the corps in chorus,
Oh ! it is indeed too much !
You once — ere you contracted
For the army — seemed my own ; But now you laugh with all the staff,
And I may sigh alone !
I know not how it chances,
When my passion ever dares. But the warmer my advances.
Then the cooler are your airs.
3S0 THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.
I am, I don't conceal it,
But I am a little hurt ; You're a Fan, and I must feel it,
Fit for nothing but a Flirt I
I dreamt thy smiles of- beauty On myself alone did fall ;
But, alas ! " Cosi Fan Tutti !" It is thus. Fan, thus with all !
You have taken quite a mob in Of new military flames ;
They would make a fine Round Robin If I gave you all their names !
THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL.
" Resigned, I kissed the rod."
Well ! I think it is time to put up ! For it does not accord with my notions,
Wrist, elbow, and chine,
Stifl' from throwing the line. To take nothing at last by my motions !
I ground-bait my way as I go. And dip in at each watery dimple ;
But however I wish
To inveigle the fish. To my gentle they will not play simple 1
Though my float goes so smmmingly on, My bad luck never seems to diminish ;
It would seem that the Bream
Must be scarce in the stream. And the Chub, tho' it's chubby, be thinnish /
Not a Trout there can be in the place, Not a GrayUng or Rud worth the mention,
And although at my hook
With attention I look, I can ne'er see my hook with a Tench on /
THE ANGLER'S FAREWELL. 35 1
At a brandling once Gudgeon would gape, But they seem upon different terms now ;
Have they taken advice
Of the " Council of Nice," And rejected their " Diet of Worms," now ?
In vain my live minnow I spin,
Not a Pike seems to think it worth snatching ;
For the gut I have brought,
I had better have bought A good rope that was used to J^ack-ketching !
Not a nibble has ruffled my cork. It is vain in this river to search then ;
I may wait till it's night.
Without any bite. And at roost- time have never a Perch then !
No Roach can I meet, with — no Bleak, Save what in the air is so sharp now ;
Not a Dace have I got.
And I fear it is not " Carpe diem," a day for the Carp now !
Oh ! there is not a one-pound prize To be got in this fresh water-lottery !
What then can I deem
Of so Ashless a stream But that 'tis— like St. Mary's— C/Zfl^' ''
For an Eel I have learned how to try. By a method of Walton's own showing—
But a fisherman feels
Little prospect of Eels, In a path that's devoted to towing !
I have tried all the water for miles. Till I'm weary of dipping and casting,
And hungry and faint —
Let the Fancy just paint What it is, without Fish, to be Fasting i
352
SEA SONG.
And the rain drizzles down very fast, While my dinner-time sounds from a far bell- So, wet to the skin, I'll e'en back to my inn. Where at least I am ssure of a Bar-bell/
SEA SONG.
AFTER DIBDIN.
Pure water it plays a good part in "the swabbing the decks and all that — And it finds its own level for sartin — lor it sartinly drinks very flat : For my part a drop of the creatur I never could think was a fault. For If Tars should swig water hy natur, The sea would have never been salt ! Then off with it into a jorum. And make it strong, sharpish, or sweet, For if Fve any sense of decorum. It never was meant to be neat !
One day when I was but half sober — Half measures I always disdain — I walked into a shop that sold Soda, And axed for some Water Champagne : Well, the lubber he drew and he drew, boys, Till I'd shipped my six bottles or more, And blow off my last limb but it's true, boys, Why, I warn't half so drunk as afore ! Then off with it into a jorum. And make it strong, sliarpish, or sweet, For if I've any sense of decorum, It never was meant to be neat.
353 THE KANGAROOS.
A FABLE.
A PAIR of married kangaroos
(The case is oft a human one too) Were greatly puzzled once to choose
A trade to put their eldest son to : A little brisk and busy chap,
As all the little K's just then are — About some two months off the lap, —
They're not so long in arms as men are.
A twist in each parental muzzle Betrayed the hardship of the puzzle —
So much the flavour of life's cup Is framed by early wrong or right, And kangaroos we know are quite
Dependent on their " rearing up.'' The question, with its ins and outs, Was intricate and full of doubts ;
And yet they had no squeamish carings For trades unfit or fit for gentry, Such notion never had an entry.
For they had no armorial bearings. Howbeit they're not the last on earth That might indulge in pride of birth ;
Whoe'er has seen their infant young Bob in and out their mother-'s pokes.
Would own, with very ready tongue, They are not born like common folks. Well, thus the serious subject stood.
It kept the old pair watchful nightly, Debating for young hopeful's good, That he might earn his livelihood.
And go through life (like them) uprightly. Arms would not do at all ; no, marry. In that line all his race miscarry ;
And agriculture was not proper. Unless they meant the lad to tarry
For ever as a mere clod-hopper.
_^^_ 23
354
THE KANGAROOS.
He was not well cut out for preaching,
At least in any striking style :
And as for being mercantile — He was not formed for over-reaching.
The law — while there still fate ill-starred him, And plainly from the bar debarred him : A doctor — who would ever fee him ?
In music he could scarce engage,
And as for going on the stage. In tragic socks I think I see him !
He would not make a rigging-mounter ;
A haberdasher had some merit, But there the counter still ran counter,
For just suppose
A lady chose To ask him for a yard of ferret !
A gardener digging up his beds ?
The puzzled parents shook their heads.
" A tailor would not do because — " They paused and glanced upon his paws. Some parish post, — though fate should place it Before him, how could he embrace it ? In short, each anxious kangaroo Discussed the matter through and through ; By day they seemed to get no nearer,
'Twas posing quite —
And in the night Of course they saw their way no clearer ! At last thus musing on their knees — Or hinder elbows if you please — It came — no thought was ever brighter ! In weighing every why and whether. They jumped upon it both together — " Let's make the imp a shorthand writer J"
MORAL.
I wish all human parents so
Would argue what their sons are fit for ; Some would-be critics that I know
Would be in trades they have more wit for.
3SS
ODE
rO THE ADVOCATES FOR THE REMOVAL OF SMITHFIELD MARKET. " Sweeping our flocks and herds." — Douglas.
0 PHILANTHROPIC men !
For this address I need not make apology — Who aim at clearing out the Smithfield pen, And planting further off its vile Zoology — Permit me thus to tell,
1 like your efforts well,
For routing that great nest of Hornithology !
Be not dismayed, although repulsed at first. And driven from their Horse, and Pig, and Lamparts, Charge on ! — you shall upon their hornworks burst, And carry all their Bull-'vrzx\& and their i?a/«-parts.
Go on, ye wholesale drovers ! And drive away the Smithfield flocks and herds !
As wild as Tartar-Curds, That come so fat, and kicking, from their clovers ; Off with them all ! — those restive brutes, that vex Our streets, and plunge, and lunge, and butt, and battle ;
And save the female sex From being cowed — like 16 — by the cattle !
Fancy — when droves appear on The hill of Holborn, roaring from its top, — Your ladies — ready, as they own, to drop. Taking liieniselves to Thomson's with a Fear-on t
Or, in St. Martin's Lane, Scared by a bullock, in a frisky vein, — Fancy the terror of your timid daughters,
While rushing souse
Into a coffee-house.
To find it— Slaughter's !
Or fancy this : — Walking along the street, some stranger miss.
336 ODE. ,
Her head with no such thought of danger laden, When suddenly 'tis " Aries Taurus Virgo !" You don't know Latin, I translate it ergo, Into your Areas a Bull throws the Maiden !
Think of some poor old crone' Treated, just like a penny, with a toss !
At that vile spot now grown
So generally known For making a Cow Cross !
Nay, fancy your own selves far off from stall, Or shed, or shop — and that an Ox infuriate
Just pins you to the wall, Giving you a strong dose of Oxy-Muriate !
Methinks I hear the neighbours that live round
The Market-ground Thus make appeal unto their civic fellows— " 'Tis well for you that live apart — unable
To hear this brutal Babel, *
But am firesides are troubled with their bellows,"
" Folks that too freely sup
Must e'en put up With their own troubles if they can't digest ;
But we must needs regard
The case as hard That others'' victuals should disturb our rest. That from our sleep yotir food should start and jump us !
We like, ourselves, a steak.
But, sirs, for pity's sake ! We don't want oxen at our doors to rump-its f
" If we do doze — it really is too bad ! We constantly are roared awake or nmg,
Through bullocks mad That run in all the ' Night Thoughts' of our Young !"
Such are the woes of sleepers — now let's take The woes of those that wish to keep a Wake!
A GOOD DIRECTION. 357
Oh, think. ! when WomlJwell gives his annual feasts, Think of these " Bulls of Basan," far from mild ones ;
Such fierce tame beasts. That nobody much cares to see the Wild ones ! Think of the Show woman, "what shows a Dwarf,"
Seeing a red Cow come
To swallow her Tom Thumb, And forced with broom of birch to keep her off !
Think, too, of Messrs. Richardson and Co.,
When looking at their public private boxes, ^
To see in a back row Three live sheeps' heads, a porker's and an Ox's ! Think of their Orchestra, when two horns come Through, to accompany the double drum ! Or, in the midst of murder and remorses.
Just when the Ghost is certain,
A great rent in the curtain. And enter two tall skeletons — of Horses !
Great Philanthropies ! pray urge these topics Upon the Solemn Council of the Nation, Get a Bill soon, and give, some noon, - The Bulls, a Bi^ll of Excommunication ! Let the old Fair have fair-play as its right.
And to each show and sight ' Ye shall be treated with a Free List latitude;-
To Richardson's Stage Dramas,
Dio — and Cosmo — ramas,
Giants and Indians wild,
Dwarf, Sea Bear, and Fat Child, And that most rare of Shows — a Show of Gratitude !
A GOOD DIRECTION.
A CERTAIN gentleman, whose yellow cheek Proclaimed he had not been in living quite
An Anchorite — • Indeed, he scarcely ever knew a well day ; At last, by friends' advice, was led to seek A surgeon of great note — named Aberfeldie.
358 CONVEYANCiNG.
A very famous Author upon Diet, Who, better starred than Alchemists of old. By dint of turning mercury to gold. Had settled at his country house in quiet.
Our Patient, after some impatient rambles
Thro' Enfield roads, and Enfield lanes of brambles,
At last, to make inquiry had the nous, —
" Here, my good man.
Just tell me if you can. Pray which is Mr. Aberfeldie's house ?" The man thus stopped — perusing for awhile The yellow visage of the man of bile. At last made answer, with a broadish grin : " Why, turn to right — and left — and right agin, The road's direct — you cannot fail to go it." " But stop — my worthy fellow ! — one word more — From other houses how am I to know it ?"
" How ! — why, you'll see blue pillars at the door !"
CONVEYANCING.
O, London is the place for all,
In love with loco-motion ! Still to and fro the people go
Like billows of the ocean ; Machine or man, or caravan,
Can all be had for paying, When great estates, or heavy weights,
Or bodies want conve)ang.
There's always hacks about in packs.
Wherein you may be shaken. And Jarvis is not always drunk,
Tho' always overtaken; In racing tricks he'll never mix,
His nags are in their last days. And slow to go, altho' they show
As if they had their 7^/ days!
CONVEYANCING.
Then if you like a single horse,
This age is quite a cab-age, A car not quite so small and light
As those of our queen Mab age ; The horses have been broken well.
All danger is rescinded, For some have broken both their knees.
And some are broken winded.
If you've a friend at Chelsea end,
The stages are worth knowing — , There is a sort, we call 'em short,
Although the longest going — For some will stop at Hatchett's shop,
Till you grow faint and sicky, Perched up behind, at last to find.
Your dinner is all dickey I
Long stages run from every yard :
But if you're wise and frugal. You'll never go with any Guard
That plays upon the bugle, " Ye banks and braes," and other lays,
And ditties everlasting, Like miners going all your way.
With boring and with blasting.
Instead Qi journeys, people now
May go upon a Gumey, With steam to do the horses' work,
"^y powers of attorney ; Tho' with a load it may explode.
And you may all be M«-done ! And find you're going up to heaven,
Instead of tip to London I
To speak of every kind of coach,
It is not my intention ; But there is still one vehicle
Deserves a little mention ;
3 59
360
EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES.
The world a sage has called a stage,
With all its living lumber, And Malthus swears it always bears
Above the proper number.
The law will transfer house or land
For ever and a day hence, For lighter things, watch, brooches, rings,
You'll never want conveyance ; Ho ! stop the thief ! my handkerchief !
It is no sight for laughter — Away it goes, and leaves my nose
To join in running after !
EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES OF A SENTIMENALIST. " My Tables ! Meat it is, I set it down \"— Hamlet.
I THINK it was Spring — but not certain I am-^
When my passion began first to work ; But I know we were certainly looking for lamb,
And the season was over for pork.
'Twas at Christmas, I think, when I met with Miss Chase, Yes, — for Morris had asked me to dine, —
And I thought I had never beheld such a face. Or so noble a turkey and chine.
Placed close by her side, it made others quite wild,
With sheer envy to witness my luck ; How she blushed as I gave her some turtle, and smiled
As I afterwards offered some duck.
I looked and I languished, alas, to my cost. Through three courses of dishes and meats ;
Getting deeper in love — but my heart was quite lost. When it came to the trifle and sweets !
EPICUREAN REMINISCENCES. 361
With a rent-roll that told of my houses and land
To her parents I told my designs — And then to herself I presented my hand,"
With a very fine pottle of pines !
I asked her to have me for weal or for woe, And she did not object in the least;
I can't tell the date — but we married, I know, Just in time to have game at the feast.
We went to , it certainly was the seaside ;
For the next, the most blessed of morns, I remember how fondly I gazed at my bride,
Sitting down to a plateful of prawns.
> ■ O never may memory lose sight of that year.
But still hallow the time as it ought, That season the " grass" was remarkably dear,
And the peas at a guinea a quart
So happy, like hours, all our days seemed to haste, A fond pair, such as poets have drawn,
So united in heart — so congenial in taste. We were both of us partial to brawn !
A long life I looked for of bliss with my bride, But then Death — I ne'er dreamt about that !
Oh there's nothing certain in life, as I cried, When my turbot 'eloped with the cat !
My dearest took ill at the turn of the year, But the cause no physician could nab ;
But something it seemed like consumption, I fear, It was just after supping on crab.
In vain she was doctored, in vain she was dosed. Still her strength and her appetite pined;
She lost relish for what she had relished the most. Even salmon she deeply declined.
362 rM NOT A SINGLE MAN,
For months still I lingered in hope and in doubt, While her form it grew wasted and thin ;
But the last dying spark of existence went out, As the oysters were just coming in !
She died, and she left me the saddest of men
To indulge in a widower's moan, Oh, I felt all the power of solitude then.
As I ate my first natives alone !
But when I beheld Virtue's friends in their cloaks, And with sorrowful crape on theit ha+s,
O my grief pouied a flood ! and the out-of-door folks Were all crying — I think it was sprats !
I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN.
"Bouble, single, and the nib." — HoYLE. " This, this is Solitude."— Byron.
Well, I confess, I did not guess
A simple marriage vow Would make me find all women-kind
Such unkind women now ! They need not, sure, as distant be
As Java or Japan, — Yet every Miss reminds me this —
I'm not a single man !
II. '
Once they made choice of my bass voice
To share in each duet ; So well I danced, I somehow chanced
To stand in every set : They now declare I cannot sing.
And dance on Bruin's plan ; Me draw ! — me paint ! — me any thing ! —
I'm not a sitigle man !
ru NOT A SINGLE MAN. 363
III.
' Once I was asked advice, and tasked
What works to buy or not, And "would I read that passage out
I so admired in Scott?" They then could bear to hear one read ;
But if I now began, How they would snub, " My pretty page,"—
I'm not a single man !
IV.
One used to stitch a collar then,
Another hemmed a frill ; I had more purses netted then ^ Than I could hope to fill. I once could get a button on,
But now I never can — My buttons then were Bachelor's—
I'm not a single man !
V.
Oh, how' they hated politics
Thrust on me by papa : But now my chat — they all leave that
To entertain mamma. Mamma, who praises her own self.
Instead of Jane or Ann, And lays " her girls" upon the shelf —
I'm not a single man !
VI.
Ah me, how strange it is the change,
In parlour and in hall, They treat me so, if I but go
To make a morning call. If they had hair in papers once,
Bolt up the stairs they ran ; They now sit still in dishabille —
I'm not a single man !
364 I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN.
VII.
Miss Mary Bond was once so fond
Of Romans and of Greeks ; She daily sought my cabinet
To study my antiques. Well, now she doesn't care a dump
For ancient pot or pan, Her taste at once is modernized —
I'm not a single man !
VIII.
My spouse is fond of homely life,
And all that sort of thing ; I go to balls without my wife,
And never wear a ring : And yet each Miss to whom I come,
As strange as Genghis Khan, Knows by some sign, I can't divine —
I'm not a single man !
IX.
Go where I will, I but intrude,
I'm left in crowded rooms, Like Zimmerman on Solitude,
Or Hervey at his Tombs. From head to heel, they make me feel,
Of quite another clan ; Compelled to own though left alone
I'm not a single man !
X.
Miss Towne the toast, though she can boast
A nose of Roman line. Will turn up even that in scorn
At comphments of mine : She should have seen that I have been
Her sex's partisan, And really married all I could —
I'm not a single man !
I'M NOT A SINGLE MAN. ' 365
XI.
'Tis hard to see how others fare,
Whilst I rejected stand, — Will no one take my arm because
They cannot have my hand ? Miss Parry, that for some would go
A trip to Hindostan, With me don't-care to mount a^tair —
I'm not a single man !
XII.
Some change, of course, should be in force,
But, surely, not so much — There may be hands- 1 may not squeeze.
But must I never touch ? Must I forbear to hand a chair
And not pick up a fan ? But I have been myself picked up —
I'm not a single man !
Others may hint a lady's tint
Is purest red and white — May say her eyes are like the skies,
So very blue and bright — /must not say that she has eyes,
Or if I so began, I have my fears about my ears —
I'm not a single man !
XIV.
I must confess I did not guess
A simple marriage vow. Would make me find all women-kind
Such unkind vromen now ; I might be hashed to death, or smashed,
By Mr. Pickford's vaft, Without, I fear, a single tear —
I'm not a' single man !
366 THE SUB-MARINE.
THE BURNING OF THE LOVE-LETTER.
" Sometimes they were put to the proof, by what was called the Fiery Oxit7A.."—Hist. Eng.
No morning ever seemed so long !
I tried to read with all my might !
In my left hand " My Landlord's Tales,"
And threepence ready in my right.
'Twas twelve at last — my heart beat high ! The Postman rattled at the door — And just upon her road to church, • I dropt the " Bride of Lammermoor i "
I seized the note — I flew upstairs — Flung-to the door, and locked me in — - With panting haste I tore the seal — / And kissed the B in Benjamin!
'Twas full of love — to rhyme with dove — And all that tender sort of thing — Of sweet and meet — and heart and dart — But not a word about a ring !
In doubt I cast it in the flame, And stood to watch the latest spark — And saw the love all end in smoke — Without a Parson and a Clerk !
THE SUB-MARINE.
It was a brave and jolly wight. His cheek was baked and brown,
For he had been in many climes With captains of renown,
And fought with those who fought so well At Nile and Camperdown.
THE SUB-MARINE. 367
His coat it was a soldier coat,
Of red with yellow faced, But (merman-like) he looked marine
All downward from the waist ; His trousers were so wide and blue,
And quite in sailor taste !
He put the rummer to his lips.
And drank a jolly draught ; He raised the rummer many times —
And ever as he quaffed, The more he drank, the more the Ship
Seemed pitching fore and aft !
The Ship seemed pitching fore and aft,
As in a heavy squall ; It gave a lurch and down he went.
Head-foremost in his fall ! Three times he did not rise, alas !
He never rose at all !
But down he went, right down at once.
Like any stone he dived. He could not see, or Jiear, or feel —
Of senses all deprived ! At last he gave a look around
To see where he arrived !
And all that he could see was green, , •
Sea-green on every hand ! And then he tried to sound beneath,
And all he felt was sand ! There he was fain to lie, for he
Could neither sit nor stand !
And lo ! above his head there bent
A strange and staring lass ! One hand was in her yellow hair.
The other held a glass ; A mermaid she must surely be
If ever mermaid was !
368 . THE SUB-MARINE.
Her fish-like mouth was open wide, Her eyes were blue and pale,
Her dress was of the ocean green, When ruffled by a gale ;
Thought he " beneath that petticoat She hides a salmon-tail!"
She looked as siren ought to look, A sharp and bitter shrew.
To sing deceiving lullabies For mariners to rue, —
But when he saw her lips apart. It chilled him through and through !
With either hand he stopped his ears
Against her evil cry ; Alas, alas, for all his care,
His doom it seemed to die, Her voice went ringing through his head,
It was so sharp and high !
He thrust his fingers further in
At each unwilling ear. But still, in very spite of all.
The words were plain and clear ; " I can't stand here the whole day long,
To hold your glass of beer !"
With opened mouth and opened eyes,
Up rose the Sub-marine, And gave a stare to find the sands
And deeps where he had been : There was no siren with her glass !
No waters ocean-green !
The wet deception from his eyes Kept fading more and more.
He only saw the barmaid stand AVith pouting lip before —
The small -green parlour of The Ship, And little sanded floor !
369
PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT.
A SEA ECLOGUE. " I apprehend you !" — School of Reform,
Boatman.
Shove off there ! — ship the rudder, Bill — cast off! she's under way !
Mrs. F.
She's under what ? — I hope she's not ! good gracious, what a spray !
Boatman.
Run out the jib, and rig the boom ! keep clear of those two brigs !
Mrs. F. I hope they don't intend some joke by running of their rigs !
Boatman. Bill, shift them bags of ballast aft — she's rather out of trim !
Mrs. F. Great bags of stones ! they're pretty things to help a boat to swim !
Boatman. The wind is fresh — if she don't scud, it's not the breeze's fault !
Mrs. F. Wind fresh, indeed ! I never felt the air so full of salt !
Boatman. That schooner, Bill, harn't left the roads, with oranges and nuts >.
Mrs. F. If seas have roads, they're very rough — I never felt such ruts !
Boatman. It's neap, ye see, she's hea\7 lade, and couldn't pass the bar.
Mrs. F.
The bar ! what, roads with turnpikes too ? I wonder where they
are !
24
370 PAIN IN A PLEASURE BOAT.
Boatman. Ho 1 Brig ahoy ! hard up ! hard up ! that lubber cannot steer !
Mrs. F.
Yes, yes — hard up upon a rock ! I know some danger's near i Lord, there's a wave ! it's coming in ! and roaring like a bull !
Boatman. Nothing, Ma'am,, but a little slop ! go large, Bill ! keep her full !
Mrs. F.
What, keep her full ! what daring work ! when full, she must go down !
Boatman.
Why, Bill, it lulls ! ease off a bit— it's coming off the town ! Steady your helm ! we'll clear the Pint 1 lay right for yonder pink !
Mrs. F. Be steady — well, I hope they can ! but they've got a pint of drink !
Boatman. Bill, give that sheet another haul — she'll fetch it up this reach.
Mrs. F.
I'm getting rather pale, I know, and they see it by that speech ! I wonder what it is, now, but 1 never felt so queer !
Boatman. Bill, mind your luff — why. Bill, I say, she's yawing — keep her near !
Mrs. F. Keep near ! we're going further off j the land's behind our backs.
Boatman.
Be easy. Ma'am, it's all correct, that's only 'cause we tacks ; We shall have to beat about a bit — Bill, keep her, out to sea.
Mrs. F. Beat who about ? keep who at sea ? — how black they look at me !
Boatman. It's veering round — I knew it would ! off with her head ! stand by I
LITERARY AND LITERAL. 371
Mrs. F.
Off with her head ! who's ? where ? what with ? — an axe I seem to spy !
Boatman.
She can't keep her own, you see \ we shall have to pull her in !
Mrs. F. They'll drown me, and take all I have ! my life's not worth a pin !
Boatman. Look out you know, be ready, Bill — just when she takes the sand !
Mrs. F. The sand — 0 Lord ! to stop my mouth ! how everything is planned !
Boatman.
The handspike. Bill — quick, bear a hand ! now. Ma'am, just step - ashore!
- Mrs. F.
What ! ain't I going to be killed — and weltered in my gore ? Well, Heaven be praised ! but I'll not go a sailing any more !
LITERARY AND LITERAL.
The March of Mind upon its mighty stilts, (A spirit by no means to fasten mocks on,) In travelUng through Berks, Beds, Notts, and Wilts,
Hants — Bucks, Herts, Oxon, Got up a thing our ancestors ne'er thought on, A thing that, only in our proper youth, We should have chuckled at — in sober truth, A Conversazione at Hog's Norton !
A place whose native dialect, somehow, Has always by an adage been affronted, And that it is all gutterals, is now Taken for grunted.
372 LITERARY AND LITERAL.
Conceive the snoring of a greedy swine, The slobbering of a hungry Ursine Sloth — If you have ever heard such creature dine — And — ^for Hog's Norton, make a mix of both !
O shades of Shakspeare ! Cliaucer ! Spenser !
Milton ! Pope ! Gray ! Warton ! O Colman ! Kenny ! Pknchd ! Poole ! Peake !
Pocock ! Reynolds ! Morton ! O Grey ! Peel ! Sadler ! Wilberforce ! Burdett !
Hume ! Wilmot Horton ! Think of your prose and verse, and worse — delivered in
Hog's Norton !
The founder of Hog's Norton Athenaeum
Framed her society
With some variety From Mr. Roscoe's Liverpool museum ; Not a mere picnic, for the mind's repast, But, tempting to the solid knife-and-forker, It held its sessions in the house that last
Had killed a porker.
It chanced one Friday, One Farmer Grayley stuck a very big hog, A perfect Gog or Magog of a pig-hog.
Which made of course a literary high day,
Not that our Farmer was a man to go With literary tastes — so far from suiting 'em. When he heard mention of Professor Crowe, Or \j3!^2L.-Rookh, he always was for shooting 'em ! In fact in letters he was quite a log,"
With him great Bacon
Was literally taken, And Hogg — the Poet — nothing but .a Hog ! As to all others on the list of Fame, Although they were discussed and mentioned daily. He only recognised one classic name. And thought that she had hung herself — Miss Baillie 1
To balance this, our Farmer's only daughter Had a great taste for the Castalian water —
LITEkARY AND LITERAL. 373
A Wordsworth worshipper — a Southey wooer — (Though men that deal in water-colour cakes May disbeUeve the fact — yet nothing's truer)
She got the bluer The more she dipped and dabbled in the Lakes. I'he secret truth is, Hope, the old deceiver, At future Authorship was apt to hint, Producing what some call the Type-us Fever, Which means a burning to be seen in print.
Of learning's laurels — Miss Joanna BaiUie —
Of Mrs. Hemans — Mrs. Wilson — daily
Dreamt Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley ;
And Fancy hinting that she had the better
Of L. E. L. by one initial letter,
She thought the world would quite enraptured see
" LovK Lays and Lyrics
BY.
A. P. I. G."
Accordingly, with very great propriety. She joined the H. N. B. and double S., That is — Hog's Norton Blue Stocking Society ; And saving when her Pa his pigs prohibited.
Contributed Her pork and poetry towards the mess.
This feast, we said, one Friday was the case, When farmer Grayley — from Macbeth to quote — Screwing his courage to the " sticking place," Stuck a large knife into a gnmter's throat : — A kind of murder that the law's rebuke Seldom condemns by sha,ke of its peruke, Showing the little sympathy of big-wigs With pig-wigs !
The swine — poor wretch ! — with nobody to speak for it. And beg its life, resolved to have a squeak for it ; So — like the fabled swan — died singing out. And, thus, there issued from the farmer's yard A note that notified without a card, An invitation to the evening rout.
374 LITERARY AND LITERAL.
And when the time came duly, — •" at the close of The day," as Beattie has it, " when the ham — " Bacon, and pork were ready to dispose of, And pettitoes and chit'lings too, to cram, — Walked in the H. N. B. and double S.'s All in appropriate and swinish dresses, For lo ! it is a fact, and not a joke. Although the Muse might fairly jest upon it. They came— each " Pig-faced Lady," in that bonnet We call a poke.
The Members all assembled thus, a rare woman At pork and poetry was chosen chairwoman ; In fact, the bluest of the Blues, Miss Ikey, Whose whole pronunciation was so piggy. She always named the authoress of " Psyche," —
As Mrs.' Tiggey I And now arose a question of some moment, — What author for a lecture was the richer, Bacon or Hogg ? there were no votes for Beaumont,
But some for Flitcher ; While others, with a more sagacious reasoning,
Proposed another work,
And thought their pork Would prove more relishing from Thomson's Season-ing!
But, practised in Shaksperian readings daily, —
O ! Miss Macaulay ! Shakspeare at Hog's Norton ! —
Miss Anne Priscilla Isabella Grayley
Selected him that evening to snort on.
In short, to make our story not a big tale,
Just fancy her exerting
Her talents, and converting The Winter's Tale to something like a pig-tale !
Her sister auditory, All sitting round, with grave and learned faces.
Were veiy plauditory. Of course, and clapped her at the proper places ; Till fanned at once by fortune and the Muse, She thought herself the blessedest of Blues. But Happiness, alas ! has blights of ill. And Pleasure's bubbles in the air explode ; — There is no travelUng through Ufe but still
ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. 375
The ship will meet with breakers on the road !
With that peculiar voice Heard only from Hog's Norton throats and noses, Miss G., with Perdita, was making choice Of buds and blossoms for her summer posies, When coming to that line, where Proserpine Lets fall her flowers from the wain of Dis ;
Imagine this — Uprose on his hind legs old Farmer Grayley, Grunting this question for the club's digestion, " Do Di^s Waggon go from the Ould Baaley ?"
ODE TO MADAME HENGLER,
FIREWORK-MAKER TO VAUXHALL.
Oh, Mrs. Hengler ! — Madame, — I beg pardon Starry Enchantress of the Surrey Garden ! Accept an ode not meant as any scoff — The Bard were bold indeed at thee to quiz. Whose squibs are far more popular than his ; Whose works are much more certain to go off.
Great is thy fame, but not a silent fame ; With many a bang the public ear it courts ; And yet thy arrogance we never blame. But take thy merits from thy own reports. Thou hast indeed the most indulgent backers, We make no doubting, misbehaving comments, Even in thy most bounceable of moments ; But lend our ears implicit to thy crackers ! — Strange helps to thy applause too are not missing,
Thy Rockets raise thee,
And Serpents praise thee, As none beside are ever praised — by hissing :
Mistress of Hydropyrics, Of glittering Pindarics, Sapphics, Lyrics, Professor of a Fiery Necromancy, Oddly thou charmest the pohter sorts
With midnight sports, Partaking very much oi flash a.nd fancy /
37<5 ODE TO MADAME HENGLER.
What thoughts had shaken all In olden tinie at thy nocturnal revels,
Each brimstone ball They would have deemed an eyeball of the Devil's 1 But now thy flaming Metfeors cause no fright ; A modern Hubert to the royal ear,
Might whisper without fear, " My Lord, they say there were five moons to-night !" Nor would it raise one superstitious notion To hear the whole description fairly out : — " One fixed' — which t'other four whirled round about
With wondrous motion."
Such are the very sights Thou workest, Queen of Fire, on earth and heaven, Between the hours of midnight and eleven. Turning our English to Arabian Nights, With blazing mounts, and founts, and scorching dragons,
Blue stars and white,
And blood-red light. And dazzling Wheels fit for Enchanters' waggons. Thrice lucky woman ! doing things that be With other folks past benefit of parson ; For burning, no Burn's Justice falls on thee, Altho' night after night the .public see Thy Vauxhall palaces all end in Arson !
Sure thou wast never born Like old Sir Hugh, with water in thy head.
Nor lectured night and morn Of sparks and flames to have an awful dread, Allowed by 3, prophetic dam and sire
To play with fire. O didst thou never, in those days gone by. Go carrying about — no schoolboy prouder — Instead of waxen doll a little Guy ; Or in thy pretty pyrotechnic vein, Up the parental pigtail lay a train. To let off all his powder ?
Full of the wildfire of thy youth, Didst never in plain truth.
ODE TO MADAME HENGLER. 377
Plant whizzing Flowers in thy mother's pots, Turning the garden into powder plots ?
Or give the cook, to fright her, Thy paper sausages well stuffed with nitre ? Nay, wert thou never guilty, now, of dropping A lighted cracker by thy sister's Dear,
So that she could not hear
The question he was popping?
Go on, Madame ! Go on — be bright and busy While hoaxed astronomers look up and stare From tall observatories, dumb and dizzy. To see a Squib in Cassiopeia's Chair ! A Serpent wriggling into Charles's Wain ! A Roman Candle lighting the Great Bear ! A Rocket tangled in Diana's train, And Crackers stuck in Berenice's Hair !
There is a King of Fire — Thou shouldst be Queen ! Methinks a good connexion might come from it ; Couldst thou not make him,in the garden scene. Set out per Rocket and return per Comet ;
Then give hirri a hot treat Of Pyrotechnicals to sit and sup, Lord ! how the world would throng to see him eat, He swallowing Fire, while thou dost throw it up !
One solitary night — true is the story. Watching those forms that Fancy will create Within the bright confusion of the grate, I saw a dazzling countenance of glory !
Oh Dei gratias !
That fiery facias 'Twas thine. Enchantress of the Surrey Grove ;
And ever since that night.
In dark and bright, Thy face is registered within my stove I
Long may that starry brow enjoy its rays. May no untimely blow its doom forestall ; But when old age prepares the friendly pall. When the last spark of all thy sparks decays, Then die lamented by good people all,
Like Goldsmith's Madam Blaize!
378
A REPORT FROM BELOW.
" Blow high, blow low." — Sea Song.
As Mister B. and Mistress B.
One night were sitting down to tea, i
With toast and muffins hot —
They heard a loud and sudden bounce,
That made the very china flounce ;
They could not for a time pronounce
If they were safe or shot —
For Memory brought a deed to match
At Deptford done by night —
Before one eye appeared a Patch
In t'other eye a Blight !
To be belaboured out of life,
Without some small attempt at strife,
Our nature will not grovel ;
One impulse moved both man and dame,
He seized the tongs — she did the same.
Leaving the ruffian, if he came,
The poker and the shovel.
Suppose the couple standing so,
When rushing footsteps from below
Made pulses fast and fervent.
And first burst in the frantic cat.
All steaming like a brewer's rat,
And then^as white as my cravat —
Poor Mary May, the servant !
Lord, how the couple's teeth did chatter, Master and Mistress both flew at her, " Speak ! Fire ? or Murder ? What's the matter ?" Till Mary getting breath. Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much -To tell before her deatli : —
"We was both, ma'am, in the wash-house, ma'am, a standing at our tubs.
And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs ;
A REPORT FROM BELOW. 379
' Mary,' says she to me, ' I say' — and there she stops for coughin',
' That dratted copper flue has took to smokin' very often,
But please the pigs,' — for that's her way of swearing in a passion,
• I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin' in this fashion !'
Well, down she takes my master's horn — I mean his horn for
loading. And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding. ' Lawk, Mrs. Round !' says I, and stares, ' that quantum is unproper, I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper ; You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff,' But bhe only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff. Well, when the pinch is over — ' Teach your grandmother to suck A powder-horn,' says she — ' Well,' says I, ' I wish you luck.' Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, ' Come,' says she, quite in a- huff, 'come, keep your tongue inside
your lips ; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these ; I shall put it in the grate, and let it turn up by degrees.' So in it goes, and bounce — O Lord ! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were canonized, like sogers in a battle ! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs. And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks. Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water. I first looks round for Mrs Round, and sees her at a distance,
As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence ;
All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap
Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap.
Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up to- gether.
As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather :
But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality.
She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality.
Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother.
Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other.
So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute,
Lawk, sich a shirt ! thinks I, it's well my master wasn'.t in it ;
Oh ! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin' ;
Here lays a leg, and there a leg — I mean, you know, a stocking —
38c ODE TO M. BRUNEL.
Bodies all slit "and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt,
And arms burnt off, and sides and backs all scotched and black
with dirt ; But as nobody was in 'em — none but — nobody was hurt ! Well, there I am, a-scrambUng up the things, all in a lump. When, mercy on us ! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A-staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky ; Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul ! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you wont believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered — ' Why, where is the powder
blew?'"
ODE TO M. BRUNEL.*
' Well said, old mole ! canst work i' the earth so fast? a worthy pioneer !"
Hamlet. Well ! — Monsieur Brunei, How prospers now thy mighty undertaking. To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends Of Rt)therhithe and Wapping —
Never be stopping, But poking, groping, in the dark keep making An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons, For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons, To cross the water in inverse proportion. Walk under steamboats under the keel's ridge, To keep down all extortion, ■And without sculls to diddle London Bridge ! In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry, Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow, Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey,
To give us the " View Hollow." In short it was thy aim, right north and south, To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth ; Alas ! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof, Came, like " a tide in the affairs of men ;"
* The architect of the Tunnel under the Thames-
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE. 381
And with a mighty stormy kind of roar, Reproachful of thy wrong, Burst out in that old song Of Incledon's, beginning " Cease, rude Bore." Sad is it, worthy of one's tears,
Just when one seems the most successful, To find one's self o'er head and ears
In difficulties most distressful ! Other great speculations have been nursed,
Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf ; But thy concern was at the worst,
When it began to liquidate itself ! But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden, And languishes thy Tunnel — so to paint, tinder a slow incurable complaint.
Bed-ridden ! Why, when thus Thames — bed-bothered — why repine ! Do try a spare bed at the Serpentine ! Yet let none think thee dazed, or crazed, or stupid •■,
And sunk beneath thy own and Thames's craft ; Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid
Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft ! I'll tell thee with thy Tunnel what to do ; Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two. The wine does better than such water trades :
Stick up a sign — the sign of the Bore's Head ;
I've drawn it ready for thee in black lead, And make thy cellar subterrane — Thy Shades !
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE.
" Look out for squalls."— The Pilot.
O COME, dear Barney Isaacs, come, Punch for one night can spare his drum
As well as pipes of Pan ! Forget not, Popkins, your bassoon, Nor, Mister Bray, your horn, as soon As you can leave the Van \ Blind Billy, bring your violin j
382 ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE.
Miss Crow, you're great in Cherry Ripe f And Chub, your viol must drop in Its bass to Soger Tommy's pipe.
Ye butchers, bring your bones , An organ would not be amiss If grinding Jim has spouted his,
Lend yours, good Mister Jones. Do, hurdy-gurdy Jenny — do Keep sober for an hour or two, Music's charms to help to paint. And, Sandy Gray, if you should not Your bagpipes bring — O tuneful Scot ! Conceive the feelings of the Saint !
Miss Strummel issues an invite. For music, and turn-out to-night In honour of Cecilia's session ; But ere you go, one moment stop, " And with all kindness let me drop A hint to you, and your profession ; Imprimis then : Pray keep within The bounds to which your skill was born j Let the one-handed let alone Trombone, Don't — Rheumatiz ! seize the violin, Or Ashmy snatch the horn !
Don't ever to such rows give birth,
As if you had no end on earth.
Except to " wake the lyre ;"
Don't " strike the harp," pray never do,
Till others long to strike it too,
Perpetual harping's apt to tire ;
Oh I have heard such flat-and-sharpers,
I've blest the head
Of good King Ned, For scragging all those old Welsh Harpers !
Pray, never, ere each tuneful doing. Take a prodigious deal of wooing ; And then sit down to thrum the strain, As if you'd never rise again —
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE. 383
The least Cecilia-like of things ; Remember that the Saint has wings. I've known Miss Stmmmel pause an hour, Ere she could " Pluck the Fairest Flower." Yet without hesitation, she Plunged next into the " Deep, Deep Sea." When on the keys she does begin, Such awful torments soon you share. She really seems like Milton's " Sin," Holding the keys of — you know where !
Never tweak people's ears so toughly,
•That urchin-like they can't help saying —
" O dear ! O dear — ^you call this playing,
But oh, it's playing very roughly !"
Oft, in the ecstasy of pain,
I've cursed all instrumental workmen.
Wished Broadwood Thurtelled in a lane.
And Kirke White's fate to every Kirkman —
I really once delighted spied
" Clementi CoUard in Cheapside."
Another word — don't be surprised. Revered and ragged street musicians, You have been only half-baptized. And each name proper, or improper, Is not the value of a copper. Till it has had the due additions, •Husky, Rusky, Ninny, Tinny, Hummel, Bummel, Bowsky, Wowsky, All these are very good selectables ; But none of your plain pudding-and-tames — Folks that are called the hardest names Are music's most respectables. Ev'ry woman, ev'ry man. Look as foreign as you can, Don't cut your hair, or wash your skin. Make ugly faces and begin.
Each dingy Orpheus gravely heats. And now to show they understand it !
3«4 , ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE.
Miss Crow her scrannel throttle clears, And all the rest prepare to band it. Each scraper right for concertante, Rozins the hair of Rozinante : • Then all sound A, if they know which, That they may join like birds in June ; Jack Tar alone neglects to tune, For he's all over concert-pitch.
A little prelude goes before. Like a knock and ring at music's door, Each instrument gives in its name ; Then sitting in They all begin To play a musical round game. Scrapenberg, as the eldest hand, Leads a first fiddle to the band,
A second follows suit ; Anon the ace of horns comes plump On the two fiddles with a trump,
Puffindorf plays a flute.
This sort of musical revoke. The grave bassoon begins to smoke And in rather grumpy kind Of tone begins to speak its mind ; The double drum is next to mix. Playing the Devil on Two Sticks — Clamour, clamour, Hammer, hammer. While now and then a pipe is heard, Insisting to put in a word.
With all his shrilly best. So to allow the little minion Time to deliver his opinion.
They take a few bars rest.
Well, little pipe begins — with sole And small voice going thro' the hole.
Beseeching,
Preaching,
Squealing,
Appealing,
ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S EVE. 385
Now as high as he can go,
Now in language rather low,
And having done — begins once more,
Verbatim what he said before.
This twiddling, twaddling sets on fire,
All the old instrumental ire.
And fiddles for explosion ripe,
Put out the little squeaker's pipe ;
This wakes bass viol — and viol for that,
Seizing on innocent little B flat.
Shakes it like terrier shaking a rat —
They all seem miching malico ! To judge from a rumble unawares, The drum has had.a pitch downstairs : And the trumpet rash. By a violent crash, Seems spUtting somebody's calico ! The viol too groans in deep distress, As if he suddenly grew sick ; And one rapid fiddle sets off express,—
Hurrying,
Scurrying,
Spattering,
Clattering, To fetch him a Doctor of Music. This tumult sets the Haut-boy crying. Beyond the Piano's pacifying.
The cymbal
Gets nimble.
Triangle
Must wrangle, The band is becoming most martial of bands, When just in the middle, A quakerly fiddle, Proposes a general shaking of hands !
Quaking,
Shaking,
Quivering,
Shivering, Long bow — short bow — each bow drawing ; Some like filing — some like sawing ;
26
386 A BLOW-UP.
At last theSe agitations cease,
And they all get
The flageolet, To breathe " a piping time of peace."
Ah, too deceitful charm. Like lightning before death, For Scrapenberg to rest his arm,
And Puffindorf get breath ! Again without remorse or pity. They play " The Storming of a City," Miss S. hersejf composed and planned it- When lo ! at this renewed attack. Up jumps a little man in black, — " The very Devil cannot stand it !" And with that, Snatching hat, ' (Not his own,) Off is flown. Thro' the door, In his black, To come back. Never, never, never more !
O Music ! praises thou hast had, From Dryden and from Pope,
For thy good notes, yet none I hope, But I, e'er praised the bad,
Yet are not sailit and sinner even ?
Miss Strummel on Cecilia's level ?
One drew an angel down from heaven !
The other scared away the Devil !
A BLOW-UP.
" Here we go up, up, ixp." — The Lay of the First Minstn..
Near Battle, Mr. Peter Baker Was Powder-maker, Not Alderman Flower's flour, — the white that puffs And primes and loads heads bald, or grey, or chowder,
A BLOW-UP, 387
Figgins and Higgins, Fippins, Filby, Crowder, — Not vile apothecary's pounded stuffs, But something blacker, bloodier, and louder, Gunpowder !
This stuff, as people know, is semper Eadem ; very hasty in its temper — Like Honour that resents the gentlest taps, Mere semblances of blows, however slight ; So powder fires, although you only p'rhaps
Strike light. To- make it, therefore, is a ticklish business, And sometimes gives both head and heart a dizzines For as all human flash and fancy minders, Frequenting fights and Powder-works well know, There seldom is a mill without a blow Sometimes upon the grinders. But then — the melancholy phrase to soften, Mr. B.'s mill transpired so very often ! And advertised — than all Price Currents louder, " Fragments look up — there is a rise in Powder," So frequently, it caused the neighbours' wonder, — And certain people had the inhumanity To lay it all to Mr. Baker's vanity. That he might have to say — " That was my thunder !"
One day — so goes the tale.
Whether, with iron hoof.
Not sparkle-proof. Some ninny-hammer struck upon a nail, — Whether some glowworm of the Guy Faux stamp, Crept in the building, with Unsafety Lamp — One day this mill that had by water ground. Became a sort of windmill and blew round. With bounce that went in sound as far as Dover, it Sent half the workmen sprawling to the sky ; Besides some visitors who gained thereby, - What they had asked — ^permission " to go over it !" Of course it was a very hard and high blow, And somewhat differed from what's called a fly-blow. At Cowes' Regatta, as I once observed, A pistol-shot made twenty vessels start ; If such a sound could terrify oak's heart,
388 A BLOW-UP.
Think how this crash the human nerve unnerved. In fact, it was a very awful thing, — As people know that have been used to battle. In springing either mine or mill, you spring
A precious rattle ! The dunniest heard it— poor old Mr. F. Doubted for once if he was ever deaf; Through Tunbridge- town it caused most strange alarms,
Mr. and Mrs. Fogg,
Who lived like cat and dog. Were shocked for once into each other's arms. Miss M. the milliner— her fright so strong. Made a great gobble-stitch six inches long ; The veriest quakers quaked against their wish : The " Best of Sons" was taken unawares. And kicked the " Best of Parents", down the stairs • The steadiest servant dropped the China dish ; A thousand started, though there was but one Fated to win, and that was Mister Dunn, Who struck convulsively, and hooked a fish !
Miss Wiggins, with some grass upon her fork, Tossed it just like a haymaker at work ; Her sister not in any better case,
For, taking wine.
With nervous Mr. Pyne, He jerked his glass of Sherry in her face.
Poor Mistress Davy, «■ Bobbed off her bran-new turban in the gravy j
While Mr. Davy at the lower end. Preparing for a goose a carver's labour, Darted his two-pronged weapon in his neighbour, As if for once he meant to help a friend.
The nursemaid telling little " Jack-a-Norey," " Bo-peep," and " Blue-cap" at the house's top, Screamed, and let Master Jeremiah drop
From a fourth storey ! Nor yet did matters any better go With cook and housemaid in the realms below ; As for the laundress, timid Martha Gunning,
A BLOW-UP. 389
Expressing faintness and her fears by fits And starts, — she came at last but to her wits, By falHng in the ale that John left running. Grave Mr. Miles, the meekest of mankind. Struck all at once, deaf, stupid, dumb, and blind. Sat in his chaise some moments like a corse.
Then coming to his mind,
Was shocked to find. Only a pair of shafts withouta horse. Out scrambled all the Misses from Miss Joy's ! From Prospect House, for urchins small and big.
Hearing the awful noise.
Out rushed a flood of boys. Floating a man in black, without a wig ; Some carried out one treasure, some another, — Some caught their tops and taws up in a hurry. Some saved Chambaud, some rescued Lindley Murray, But little Tiddy carried his big brother !
Sick of such terrors. The Tunbridge folks resolved that truth should dwell No longer secret in a Tunbridge Well, But to warn Baker of his dangerous errors ; Accordingly, to bring the point to pass. They called a meeting of the broken glass. The shattered chimney-pots, and scattered tiles.
The damage of each part, And packed it in a cart. Drawn by the horse that ran from Mr. Miles ; While Dr. Babblethorpe, the worthy Rector, And Mr. Gammage, cutler to George Rex, And some few more, whose names would only vex, Went as a deputation to the Ex-. Powder-proprietor and Mill-director.
Now Mr. Baker's dwelling-house had pleased Along with mill-materials to roam, And for a time the deputies were teased. To find the noisy gentleman at home ; At last they found him with undamaged skin. Safe at the Tunbridge Arms — not out — but Inn. The worthy Rector, with uncommon zeal, Soon put his spoke in for the common weal —
390 SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION.
A grave old gentlemanly kind of Urban, — The piteous tale of Jeremiah moulded,
And then unfolded, By way of climax, Mrs. Davy's turban ; He told how auctioneering Mr. Pidding
Knocked down a lot without a bidding, — How Mr. Miles, in fright, had given his mare,
The whip she wouldn't bear. At Prospect House, how Dr. Gates, not Titus,
Danced like Saint Vitus, — And Mr. Beak, thro' Powder's misbehaving,
Cut off his nose whilst shaving ; When suddenly, with words that seemed like swearing. Beyond a Licenser's belief or bearing — Broke in the stuttering, sputtering Mr. Gammage — " Who is to pay us, sir^' — ^he argued thiis, ,
" For loss of cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus-cus — Cus-custom, and the dam-dam-dam-dam-damage ?"
Now many a person had been fairly puzzled By such assailants, and completely muzzled ; Baker, however, was not dashed with ease — But proved he practised after their own system. And with small ceremony soon dismissed 'em. Putting these words into their ears like fleas : " If I do have a blow, well, where's the oddity? I merely do as other tradesmen do,
You, sir, — and you — and you ! I'm only puffing off my own commodity !"
SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION.
" An indifference to tears, and blood, and human suffering, that could rally belong to a Boney-parte." — Life of Napoleon.
Time was, I always had a drop For any tale or sigh of sorrow ; My handkerchief I used to sop Till often I was forced to borrow ;
SYMPTOMS OF OSSIFICATION. 39J
I don't know how it is, but now My eyelids s,eldom want a drying.; The doctors, p'rhaps, could tell me how-— I fear my heart is ossifying !
O'er Goethe I used to weep,
With turnip cheeks and nose of scarlet,
When Werter put himself to sleep
With pistols kissed and cleaned by Charlotte ;
Self-murder is an awful sin,
No joke there is in bullets flying,
But now at such a tale I grin —
I fear my heart is ossifying !
The Drama once could shake and thrill My nerves, and set my tears a stealing. The Siddons then could turn at will Each plug upon the main of feeling ; At Belvidera now I smile, And laugh while Mrs. nailer's crying ; 'Tis odd, so great a change of style — I fear my heart is ossifying !
That heart was such — some years ago, To see a beggar quite would shock it, And in his hat I used to throw The quarter's savings of my pocket : I never wish — as I did then ! — The means from my own purse supplying, To turn them all to gentlemen : I fear my heart is ossifying !
We've had some serious things of late, Our sympathies to beg or borrow. New melodrames, of tragic fate. And acts, and songs, and tales of sorrow ; Miss Zouch's case, our eyes to melt. And sundry actors sad good-b3'e-ing. But Lord ! so little have I felt, I'm sure my heart is ossifying !
392
DOMESTIC ASIDES; OR, TRUTH IN PARENTHESES.
" I REALLY take it very kind, This visit, Mrs. Skinner ! I have not seen you such an age — (The wretch has come to dinner !)
" Your daughters, too, what loves of girls — What heads for painters' easels ! Come here and kiss the infant, dears — (And give it p'rhaps the measles !)
" Your charming boys I see are home From Reverend Mr. Russell's ; 'Twas very kind to bring them both — (What boots for my new Brussels !)
" What ! little Clara left at home ? Well now I call that shabby : I should have loved to kiss her so — (A flabby, dabby, babby !)
" And Mr. S., I hope he's well, Ah ! though he lives so handy. He never now drops in to sup — ■ (The better for our brandy !)
" Come, take a seat — I long to hear About Matilda's marriage ; You're come of course to spend the day ! (Thank Heaven, I hear the carriage !)
" What ! must you go ? next time I hope ' You'll give me longer measure ; Nay — I shall see you down the stairs — (With most uncommon pleasure !)
" Good-bye ! good-bye ! remember all. Next time you'll take your dinners ! (Now, David, mind I'm not at home
In future to the Skinners !")
393
FRENCH AND ENGLISH.
' Good heaven ! Why, even the little children in France speak French !"
Addison. ,
Never go to France Unless you know the lingo, If you do, like me. You will repent by jingo. Staring like a fool, And silent as a mummy, There I stood alone, A nation with a dummy :
Chaises stand for chairs, They christen letters Billies, They call their mothers mares. And all their daughters^/AVj/ Strange it was to hear, I'll tell you what's a good 'un, They call their leather queer. And half their shoes are wooden.
III.
Signs I had to make For every little notion, Limbs all going like A telegraph in motion ; For wine I reeled about, To show my meaning fully, > And made a pair of horns. To ask for " beef and bully."
IV.
Moo ! I cried for milk ; I got my sweet things snugger, When I kissed Jeannette, 'Twas understood for sugar.
394 THE DUEL.
If I wanted bread, My jaws I set a-going, And asked for new-laid eggs By clapping hands and crowing !
If I wished a ride,
I'll tell you how I got it \
On my stick astride
I made believe to trot it ;
Then their cash was strange,
It bored me every minute.
Now here's a }wg to change,
How many sows are in it !
VI.
Never go to France, Unless you know the lingo ; If you do, like me. You will repent by jingo ; Staring like a fool. And silent as a mummy, There I stood alone, A nation with a dummy !
THE DUEL.
A SERIOUS BALLAD. "Like the two Kings of Brentford smelling at one nosegay."
In Brentford town, of old renown.
There lived a Mister Bray, Who fell in love with Lucy Bell,
And so did Mr. Clay.
To see her ride from Hammersmith,
By all it was allowed. Such fair outsides are seldom seen,
Such Angels on a Cloud.
THE DUEL. -',5
Said Mr. Bray to Mr. Cla>.
You choose to rival me, And court Miss Bell, but there your court
No thoroughfare shall be.
Unless you now give up your suit,
You may repent your love ; I who have shot a pigeon match,
Can shoot a turtle dove.
So pray before you wo& her more, • Consider what you do ; If you pop aught to Lucy Bell — I'll pop it into you.
Said Mr. Clay to Mr. Bray,
Your threats I quite explode ; One who has been a volunteer
Knows how to prime and load.
And so I say to you unless
Your passion quiet keeps, I who have shot and hit bulls' eyes,
May chance to hit a sheep's.
Now gold is oft for silver changed,
And that for copper red ; But these two went away to give
Each other change for lead.
But first they sought a friend apiece.
This pleasant thought to give — When they were dead, tliey thus should have
Two seconds still to live.
To measure out the ground not Ipng
The seconds then forebore, And having taken one rash step,
They took a dozen more.
They next prepared each pistol-pan
Against the deadly strife, By putting in the prime of death
Against the prime of life.
396 TO A BAD RIDER.
Now all was ready for the foes, But when they took their stands,
Fear made them tremble so they found They both were shaking hands.
Said Mr. C. to Mr. B., Here one of us may fall,
And hke St. Paul's Cathedral now, Be doomed to have a ball.
I do confess I did attach Misconduct to your name ;
If I withdraw the charge, will then' Your ramrod do the same ?
Said Mr. B., I do agree —
But think of Honour's Courts !
If we go off without a shot. There will be strange reports.
But look, the morning now is bright, Though cloudy it begun ;
Why can't we aim above, as if We had called out the sun ?
So up into the harmless air Their bullets they did send ;
And may all other duels have That upshot in the end !
TO A BAD RIDER.
Why, Mr. Rider, why
Your nfig so ill indorse, man ? To make observers cry,
You're mounted, but no horseman?
MV SON AND HEIR. 397
With elbows out so far, , This thought you can't debar me- Though no Dragoon — Hussar — You're surely of the army !
III.
I hope to turn M.P., You have not any notion,
So awkward you would be At " seconding a motion !"
MY SON AND HEIR.
My mother bids me bind my heir, But not the trade where I should bind ; To place a boy — the how and where — It is the plague of parent-kind !
She does not hint the slightest plan, Nor what indentures to indorse ; Whether to bind him to a man, Or, like Mazeppa, to a horse.
What line to choose of likely rise, To something in the stocks at last, — " Fast bind, fast find," the proverb cries, I find I cannot bind so fast !
IV.
A Statesman James can never be ; A Tailor ? — there I only learn His chief concern is cloth, and he Is always cutting his concern.
398 MY SON AND HEIR.
A Seedsman ? — I'd not have him so ; A Grocer's plum might disappoint ; A Butcher ? — no, not that — although I hear " the- times are out of joint !"
Too many of all trades there be, Like Pedlars, each has such a pack ; A merchant selhng coals ? — ^we see The buyer send to cellar back.
VII.
A Hardware dealer ? — that might please, But if his trade's foundation leans On spikes and nails, he wont have ease When he retires upon his means.
VIII.
A Soldier ? — there he has not nerves, A Sailor seldom lays up pelf : A Baker? — no, a baker serves. His customer before himself.
IX.
Dresser of hair ? — that's not the sort ; A Joiner jars with his desire — A Churchman ? — ^James is very short, And cannot to a church aspire.
X.
A Lawyer ? — that's a hardish term ! A Publisher might give him' ease, If he could into Longman's firm, Just plunge at once " in medias Rees."
XI.
A shop for pot, and pan, and cup, Such brittle Stock I can't advise ; A Builder running houses up. Their gains are stories — maybe lies !
MV SON AND HEIR. 399
XII.
A Coppersmith I can't endure — Nor petty Usher A, B, C-ing ; A Publican no father sure, Would be the author of his being !
XIII.
A Paper-maker ? — come he must To rags before he sells a sheet ; A Miller ? — all his toil is just To make a meal he does not eat.
XIV.
A Currier ? — that by favour goes — A Chandler gives me great misgiving- An Undertaker ? — one of those That do not hope to get their living !
Three Golden Balls ? — I like them not ; An Auctioneer I never did — The victim of a slavish lot, Obliged to do as he is bid !
XVI.
A Broker watching fall and rise Of stock ? — I'd rather deal in stone : A Printer? — there his toils comprise Another's work beside his own.
XVII.
A Cooper? — neither I nor Jim Have any taste or turn for that — A Fish retailer ? — but with him. One part of trade is always flat.
XVIII.
A Painter ? — long he would not live. An Artisf s a precarious craft — In trade, Apothecaries give, But very seldom take a draught.
•400 COCKLE V. CACKLE.
XIX.
A Glazier ? — what if he should smash ! A Crispin he shall not be made — A Grazier may be losing cash, Although he drives " a roaring trade."
XX.
Well, something must be done ! to look On all my little works around — James is too big a boy, like book, To leave upon the shelf unbound.
XXI.
But what to do ? — my temples ache From evening's dew to morning's pearl, What course to take my boy to make^ — O could I make my boy — a girl !
COCKLE V. CACKLE.
Those who much read advertisements and bills, Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills,
Called Anti-bilious — Which some Physicians sneer at, supercilious. But which we are assured, if timely taken,
May save your liver and bacon ; Whether or not they really give one ease,
I, who have never tried,
Will not decide ; But no two things in union go like these — Viz., Quacks and Pills — save Ducks and Peas. Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow. Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow. And friends portended was preparing for
A human Pat^ P^rigord ; She was, indeed, so very far from well, Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks — And — tho' upon the ear it strangely knocks — To save her by a Cockle from a shell )
COCKLE V. CACKLE. 401
But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth,
Who very vehemently bids us " throw
Bark to the Bow-wows," hated physic so,
It seemed to share " the bitterness of death :'■"
Rhubarb — Magnesia — Jalap, and the kind —
Senna — Steel — Assafoetida, and Squills —
Powder or Draught — but least her throat inclined
To give a course to Boluses or Pills ;
No — not to save her life in lung or lobe,
For all her lights' or ,all her liver's sake,
Would her convulsive thorax undertake.
Only one little uncelestial globe !
'Tis not to wonder at, in such a case, If she put by the pill-box in a place For linen rather than for drugs intended — Yet for the credit of the pills let's say
After they thus were stowed away,
Some of the linen mended ; But Mrs. Wr, by disease's dint. Kept getting still more yellow in her tint, When lo ! her second son, like elder brother, Marking the hue on the parental gills, Brought a new charge of Anti-turmeric Pills, To bleach the jaundiced visage of his Mother — Who took them — in her cupboard — like the other.
" Deeper and deeper, still," of course.
The fatal colour daily grew in force ; Till daughter W., newly come from Rome, Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part. To cure Mamma, another dose brought home Of Cockles ; — not the Cockles of her heart !
These going where the others went before,
Of course she had a very pretty store ; And then — some hue of health her cheek adorning,
The Medicine so good must be,
They brought her dose on dose, which she Gave to the upstairs cupboard, " night and morning." Till wanting room at last, for other stocks, Out of the window one fine day she pitched The pillage of each box, and quite enriched The feed of Mister Burrcll's hens and rocks, —
133
402 COCKLE V. CACKLE.
A little Barber of a bygone day, Over the way, Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops, Was one great head of Kemble — that is, John, Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on, And twenty little Bantam fowls — with crops.
Little Dame W. thought when through the sash
She gave the physic wings,
To find the very things So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash, For thoughtless cock and unreflecting pullet ! But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles, Each pecked itself into a peck of troubles, And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet. They might as well have addled been, or ratted, For long before the night — ah ! woe betide The Pills ! each suicidal Bantam died Unfatted !
Think of poor Burrell's shock. Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers. And laid in death as Everlasting Layers With Bantam's small ex-Emperor, the Cock, In rufHed plumage and funereal hackle. Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle ! To see as stiff as stone his unlive stock. It really was enough to move his block.
Down on the floor he dashed, with horror big, Mr. Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig ; And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble, Burst out with natural c mphasis enough.
And voice that grief made tremble. Into that very speech of sad Macduff — " What ! all my pretty chickens and their dam,
At one fell swoop !
Just when I'd bought a coop To see the poor lamented creatures cram !"
After a little of this mood,
And brooding over the departed brood,
COCKLE V. CACKLE. 403
With razor he began to ope each craw, Already turning-black, as black as coals ; When lo ! the undigested cause he saw — " Pisoned by goles !"
To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction, Her window still stood open to conviction ; And by sho.t course of circumstantial labour, He fixed the guilt upon his adverse neighbour ; Lord ! how he railed at her : declaring now. He'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary, Then, in another moment, swore a vow. He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory ! She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard. Lapped in a paradise of tea and cream ; When up ran Betty with a dismal scream — " Here's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farmyard !" Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending. With all the warmth that iron and a barber Can harbour ; To dress the head and front of her offending. The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking ; In short, he made her pay him altogether, In hard cash, very hard, for every feather, Charging, of course, each Bantam as a Dorking ; Nothing could move him, nothing make him supple, So the sad dame unpocketing her loss. Had nothing left but to sit hands across. And see her poultry " going down ten couple."
Now birds by poison slain,
As venomed dart from Indiari's hollow cane,
Are edible ; and Mrs. W.'s thrift, —
She had a thrifty vein, — Destined one pair for supper to make shift, — Supper as usual at the hour of ten : But ten o'clock arrived and quickly passed. Eleven — twelve — and one o'clock at last. Without a sign of supper even then ! At length, the speed of cookery to quicken, Betty was called, and with reluctant feet^
404 ODE.
Came up at a white heat — " Well, never I see chicken like them chicken ! My saucepans they have been a pretty while in 'em ! Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, To flesh and bones, and perfect rags ; but drat Those Anti-biling Pills ! there is no bile in 'em !"
ODE.
IMITATED FROM HORACE.
Oh ! well may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sigh " O rus !"
Of London pleasures sick : My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades, — my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick !
What joy have I in June's return ?
My feet are parched — my eyeballs burn,
I scent no flowery gust ; But faint the flagging zephyr springs. With dry Macadam on its wings,
And turns me " dust to dust."
My sun his daily course renews, Due east, but with no Eastern dews ;
The path is dry and hot ! His setting shows more tamely still. He sinks behind no purple hill.
But down a chimney's pot !
Oh ! but to hear the milk-maid blithe, Or early mower whet his scythe
The dewy meads among ! My grass is of ihat sort — alas ! That makes no hay, — called sparrow-grass
By folks of vulgar tongue !
ODE, 405
Oh ! but to smell the woodbine sweet ! I think of cowslip-cups — but meet
With very vile rebuffs ! For meadow buds, I get a whiff Of Cheshire cheese, — or only sniff
The turtle made at Cuff's.
How tenderly Rousseau reviewed His periwinkles ! — mine are stewed !
My rose blooms on a gown ! — I hunt in vain for eglantine, And find my blue-bell on the sign
That marks the Bell and Crown !
Where are ye, birds ! that blithely wing From ti:ee to tree, and gaily sing
Or mourn in thickets deep ? My cuckoo has some ware to sell. The watchman is my Philomel,
My blackbird is a sweep !
Where. are ye, linnet! lark ! and thrush ! That perch on leafy bough and bush,
And tune the various song ? Two hurdy-gurdists, and a poor Street-Handel grinding at my door,
Are all my " tuneful throng."
Where are ye, early-purling streams, Whose waves reflect the morning beams
And colours of the skies ? My rills are only puddle-drains From- shambles — or reflect the stains
Of calimanco-dyes.
Sweet are the little brooks that run O'er pebbles glancing in the sun.
Singing in soothing tones : Not thus the city streamlets flow ; They make no music as they go,
Tho' never " off the stones."
4o6 ODE.
Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep, Thiit wont to bleat, and frisk, and leap
Beside your woolly dams ? Alas ! instead of harmless crooks, My Corydons use iron hooks.
And skin — not shear — the lambs.
The pipe whereon, in olden day, Th' Arcadian herdsman used to play
Sweetly — here soundeth not; But merely breathes unwelcome fumes, Meanwhile the city boor consumes
The rank weed — "piping hot."
All rural things are vilely mocked, On every hand the sense is shocked
With objects hard to bear : Shades, — vernal shades ! — where wine is sold ! And for a turfy bank, behold
An Ingram's rustic chair !
Where are ye, London meads and bowers, And gardens redolent, of flowers
Wherein the zephyr wons ? Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more ! See Hatton's Garden bricked all o'er ;
And that bare Wood — St. John's.
No pastoral scene procures me peace ;
I hold no Leasowes in my lease, ,
No cot set round with trees : No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks j And omnium furnishes my banks
With brokers — Aot with bees.
Oh ! well may poets make a fuss In summer time, and sigh " O rus !"
Of city pleasures sick : My heart is all at pant to rest In greenwood shades — my eyes detest
This endless meal of brick !
407 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS.
Tom ! — are yba still within this land Of livers-7Still on Hastings' sand,
Or roaming on the waves, — Or has some billow o'er you rolled, Jealous that earth should lap so bold
A seaman in her graves ?
On land the rush-light Uves of men Go out but slowly ; nine in ten.
By tedious long decline, — Not so the jolly sailor sinks. Who founders in the wave, and drinks
1 he apoplectic brine !
III.
Ay, while I write, mayhap your head Is sleeping on an oyster-bed, —
I hope 'tis far from truth ! With periwinkle eyes ; — your bone Beset with mussels, not your own.
And corals at your tooth !
Still does the " Chance" pursue the chance The main affords — the " Aidant" dance
In safety on the tide ? Still flies that sign of my goodwill A little bunting thing — but still
To thee a flag of pride ?
V.
Does that hard, honest hand now clasp The tiller in its careful grasp —
4oS STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS.
With every summer breeze When ladies sail, in lady-fear — . Or, tug the oar, a gondolier
On smooth Macadam seas ?
VI.
Or are you where the flounders keep, Some dozen briny fathoms deep.
Where sands and shells abound— With some old Triton on your chest .And twelve grave mermen for a 'quest,
To find that you are — drowned ?
VII.
Swift is the wave, and apt to bring A sudden doom — perchance I sing
A mere funereal strain ; You have endured the utter strife — And are — the same in death or life,
A good man in the main !
VIII.
Oh, no — I hope the old brown eye Still watches ebb and flood and sky ;
That still the old brown shoes Are sucking brine up — pumps indeed 1 Your tooth still full of ocean weed,
Or Indian — which you choose.
IX.
I like you, Tom ! and in these lays Give honest worth its honest praise,
No pufi" at honour's cost ; For though you met these words of mine, All letter-learning was a line
You, somehow, never crossed !
StAnZAS to TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS. 409
Mayhap, we ne'er shall meet again, Except on that Pacific main.
Beyond this planet's brink ; Yet as we erst have braved the weather, Still we may float awhile together.
As comrades on this ink !
XI.
Many a scudding gale we've had Together, and, my gallant lad.
Some perils we have passed ; When huge and black the wave careered. And oft the giant surge appeared
The master of our mast :
XII.
'Twas thy example taught me how To climb the billow's hoary brow,
Or cleave the raging heap — To bound along the ocean wild, With danger only as a child
The waters rocked to sleep.
XIII.
Oh, who can tell that brave delight, To see the hissing wave in might,
Come rampant like a snake ! To leap his horrid crest, and feast '
One's eyes upon the briny beast.
Left couchant in the wake !
XIV.
The simple shepherd's love is still To bask upon a sunny hill,
The herdsman roams the vale — With both their fancies I agree ; Be mine the swelling, scooping sea,
That is both hill and dale !
4IO STANZAS TO TOM WOODGA TE, OF HASTINGS.
XV.
I yearn for that brisk spray— I yearn To feel the wave from stem to stern
Uplift the plunging keel. That merry step we used to dance, On board the " Aidant" or the " Chance,"
The ocean " toe and heel."
XVI.
I long to feel the steady gale, That fills the broad distended sail —
The seas on either hand ! My thought, like any hollow shell, Keeps mocking at my ear the swell
Of waves against the land.
XVII.
It is no fable — that old strain Of sirens !— so the witching main
Is singing — and I sigh ! My heart is all at once inclined To seaward — and I seem to iind
The waters in my eye !
XVIII.
Methinks I see the shining beach ; The merry waves, each after each,
Rebounding o'er the flints ; I spy the grim preventive spy ! The jolly boatmen standing nigh !
The maids in morning chintz !
XIX.
And there they float — the sailing craft ! The sail is up — the wind abaft —
The ballast trim and neat. Alas ! 'tis all a dream — a lie ! A printer's imp is standing by,
To haul my mizen sheet !
ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER. 411
My tiller dwindles to a pen-' My craft is that of bookish men —
My sale — let Longman tell ! Adieu the wave ! the wind ! the spray ! Men — maidens — chintzes — fade away !
Tom Woodgate, fare thee well !
ON A PICTURE OF HERO AND LEANDER.
In the Gem for 1829. The subject is Leander just landing from the Helles- pont ; Hero receiving him ; Cupid holding a torch above them ; and a girl peeping at them from the top of the flight of steps.
Why, Love, why Such a water-rover ? Would she love thee more For coming half-seas over?
Why, Lady, why So in love with dipping ? Must a lad of Greece Come all over dripping ?
Why, Cupid, why Make the passage brighter ? Were not any boat Better than a lighter ?
Why, Maiden, why So intrusive standing? ^ Must thou be on the stair.
When he is on the landing ?
SONNETS.
TO A DECAYED SEAMAN.
Hail ! seventy-four cut down ! Hail, top and lop :
Unless I'm much mistaken in my notion, Thou wast a stirring tar, before .that hop
Became so fatal to thy locomotion ; Now, thrown on shore, like a mere weed of ocean,
Thou readest still to men a lesson good, To King and Country showing thy devotion,
By kneeling thus upon a stump of wood ! Still is- thy spirit strong as alcohol;
Spite of that limb, begot of acorn-egg — Methinks — thou Naval History in one vol.
A virtue shines, e'en in that timber l^g. For unlike others that desert their Poll,
Thou walkest ever with thy " Constant Peg !"
ON STEAM.
BY AN UNDER-OSTLER.
I WISH I livd a Thowsen year Ago
Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers
And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo
The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers
But Now by meens of Powers of Steem forces
A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettls
The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses
And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels
SONNETS. 41^
Poor Bruits I wunder How we bee to Liv When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates And Theaves of Osiers crib the Coles and Giv Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits !
TO A SCOTCH GIRL, WASHING LINEN AFTER HER COUNTRY FASHION.
Well done and wetly, thou Fair Maid of Perth : Thou mak'st a washing picture well deserving The peri and pencilling of Washington Irving :
Like dripping Naiad, pearly from her birth,
Dashing about the water of the Firth, To cleanse the calico of Mrs. Skirving, And never from thy dance of duty swerving
As there were nothing else than dirt on earth !
Yet what is thy reward ? Nay, do not start ! I do not mean to give thee a new damper,
But while thou fiUest this industrious part Of washer, wearer, mangier, presser, stamper,
Deserving better character — thou art What Bodkin would but call — " a common Iramper."
Allegory — A moral vehicle. — Dictionary.
I HAD a Gig-Horse, and I called him Pleasure,
Because on Sundays, for a little jaunt. He was so fast and showy, quite a treasure ;
Although he sometimes kicked and shied aslant I had a Chaise, and christened it Enjoyment,
With yellow body, and the wheels of red, Because 'twas only used for one employment,
Namely, to go wherever Pleasure led,
414 SONNETS.
I had a wife, her nickname was Delight : A son called Frolic, who was never still :
Alas ! how often dark succeeds to. bright ! Delight was thrown, and Frolic had a spill,
Enjoyment was upset and shattered quite, And Pleasure fell a splitter on Faints Hill !
ADDITIONAL POEMS,
THE TWO SWANS.
A. FAIRY TALE.
Immortal Imogen, crowned queen above The lilies of thy sex, vouchsafe to hear A fairy dream in honour of true love — True above ills, and frailty, and all fear — Perchance a shadow of his own career Whose youth was darkly prisoned and long twined Bj' serpent-sorrow, till white Love drew near, And sweetly sang him free, and round his mind A bright horizon threw, wherein no grief may wind.
I saw a tower builded on a lake. Mocked by its inverse shadow, dark and deep — That seemed a still intenser night to make, Wherein the quiet waters sunk to sleep, — And, whatsoe'er was prisoned in that keep, A monstrous Snake was warden : — around and round In sable ringlets I beheld him creep. Blackest amid black shadows, to the ground, Whilst his enormous head the topmost turret crowned :
From whence he shot fierce light against the stars. Making the pale moon paler with affright ; And with his ruby eye out-threatened Mars — That blazed in the mid-heavens, hot and bright — Nor slept, nor winked, but with a steadfast spite Watched their wan looks and tremblings in the skies ; And that he might not slumber in the night, The curtain-lids were plucked from his large eyes. So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize.
41 6 THE TWO SWANS.
Prince or princess in dismal durance pent, Victims of old Enchantment's love or hate, Their lives must all in painful sighs be spent, Watching the lonely waters soon and late, And clouds that pass and leave them to their fate. Or company their grief with heavy tears : — Meanwhile that Hope can spy no golden gate For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears They weep and pine away as if immortal years.
No gentle bird witli gold upon its wing Will perch upon the grate — the gentle bird Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring Freedom's sweet keynote and commission-word Learned of a fairy's lips, for pity stirred — Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest ! Watched by that cruel Snake and darkly heard. He leave a widow on her lonely nest. To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast
No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark, Will seek the fruitful perils of the place, To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark That bear that serpent-image on their face. And Love, brave Love ! though he attempt the base,. Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win His captive lady from the strict embrace Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within His sable folds — like Eve enthralled by the old Sin.
But there is none — no knight in panoply. Nor Love, entrenched in his strong steely coat : No little speck-— no sail — no helper nigh. No sign — no whispering — no plash of boat : — The distant shores show dimly and remote, Made of a deeper mist, — serene and grey, — And slow and mute the cloudy shadows float Over the gloomy wave, and pass away. Chased by the silver beams that on their marges play.
And bright and silvery the willows sleep
Over the shady verge — no mad winds tease
Their hoary heads ; but quietly they weep
Their sprinkling leaves — half fountains and half trees \
THE TWO SWANS. 417
There lilies be — and fairer than all these, A solitary Swan hen breast of snow Launches against the wave that seems to freeze Into a chaste reflection, still below. Twin-shadow of herself wherever she may go.
And forth she paddles in the very noon Of solemn midnight, like an elfin thing Charmed into being by the argent moon — Whose silver light for love of her fair wing Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping Her ci-'nty plumage : — all around her grew A radrant circlet, like a fairy ring ; And all behind, a tiny little clue Of light, to guide her back across the waters blue.
And sure she is no meaner than a fay Redeemed from sleepy death, for beauty's sake, By old ordainment ; — silent as she lay. Touched by a moonlight wand I saw her wake, And cut her leafy slougb» and so forsake The verdant prison of her lily peers, That slept amidst the stars upon the lake — A breathing shape — ^restored to human fears. And new-bom love and grief— self-conscious of her tears.
And now she clasps her wings around her heart, And near that lonely isle begins to glide, ' Pah as her fears,- and oft-times with a start Turns her. impatient head from side to side In universal terrors — all too wide To watch j and often to that marble keep Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep.
And well she may, to spy that fearful thing All down the dusky walls in circlets wound ; Alas ! for what rare prize, with many a ring Girding the marble casket round and round ? His folded tail, lost in the gloom profound. Terribly darkeneth the rocky base ; But on the top his monstrous head is crowned
27
4i8 THE TWO SWANS
With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face Gleam his unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place.
Alas ! of the hot fires that nightly fall, No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite, So he may never see beneath the wall That timid little creature, all too bright. That stretches her fair neck, slender and white, Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night With song — but, hush — it perishes in sighs. And there will be no dirge sad-sweUing, though she dies !
She droops— she- sinks — she leans upon the lake. Fainting again into a Ufeless flower ; But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake Her spirit from its death, and with nevir power She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower Of tender song, timed to her falling tears — That wins the shady summit of that tower. And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears. Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears.
And lo ! the scaly beast is all deprest, Subdued like Argus by the might of sound — What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest To magic converse with the air, and bound The many monster eyes, all slumber-drowned : — So on the turret-top that watchful Snake Pillows his giant head, and lists profound, As if his wrathful spite would never wake. Charmed into sudden sleep for Love and Beauty's sake \
His prickly crest lies prone upon his crown, And thirsty lip from lip disparted flies. To drink that dainty flood of music down — His scaly throat is big with pent-up sighs — And whilst his hollow ear entranced lies, His looks for envy of the charmed sense Are fain to listen, till his steadfast eyes. Stung into pain by their own impotence. Distil enormous tears into the lake immense.
THE TWO SWANS. 419
Oh, tuneful Swan ! oh, melancholy bird ! Sweet was that midnight miracle of song, Rich with ripe sorrow, needful of no word To tell of pain, and love, and love's deep wrong — Hinting a piteous tale — perchance how long ,
Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake. What time disguised thy leafy mates among — And no eye knew what human love and ache Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to break.
Therefore no poet will ungently touch The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew Trembles like tears ; but ever hold it such As human pain may wander through and through. Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue — Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entombed, By magic spells. Alas ! who ever knew Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed. Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed ?
And now the winged song has scaled the height Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair. And soon a little casement flashing bright Widens self-opened into the cool air — That music like a bird may enter there And soothe the captive in his stony cage ; For there is nought of grief, or painful care, But plaintive song may happily engage From sense of its own ill, and tenderly assuage.
And forth into the light, small and remote, A creature, like the fair son of a king. Draws to the lattice in his jewelled coat Against the silver moonlight glistening, And leans upon his white hand listening To that sweet music that with tenderer tone Salutes him, wondering what kindly thing Is come to soothe him with so tuneful moan, Singing beneath the walls as if for him alone !
And while he Ustens, the mysterious song. Woven with timid particles of speech, - Twines into passionate words that grieve along The melancholy notes, and softly teach
420 THE TWO SWANS.
The secrets of true love, — that trembling reach His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun He missions like replies, and each to each Their silver voices mingle into one, Like blended streams that make one music as they run.
" Ah Love ! my hope is swooning in my heart." — " Ay, sweet ! my cage is strong and hulig full high."— " Alas ! our lips are held so far apart, Thy words come faint, — they have so far to fly !" — " If I may Only shun that serpent-eye !" — " Ah me ! that serpent-eye doth never sleep." — "' Then nearer thee, Love's martyr, I will die I" — " Alas, alas ! that word has made me weep ! For pity's sake remain safe in thy marble keep !"
" My marble keep ! it is my marble tomb !" — " Nay, sweet ! but thou hast there thy living breath," — " Aye to expend in sighs for this hard doom." — " But I willcome to thee and sing beueath, And nightly so beguile this serpent wreath:" — " Nay, I will find a path from these despairs." — " Ah ! needs then thou must tread the back of death, Making his stony ribs thy stony stairs ? — Behold his ruby eye, how fearfully it glares !"
Full sudden at these words, the princely youth Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still Unconscious of his foot, yet not for ruth. But numbed to dulness by the fairy skill Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill For intense fear) that charmed him as he lay- Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, Held some short throbs by natural dismay, Then, down, down the serpent-track begins his darksome way
Now dimly seen — now toiling out of sight, Eclipsed and covered by the envious wall ; Now fair and spangled in the sudden light, And clinging with wide arms for fear of fall : Now dark and sheltered by a kindly pall Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe ; Slowly he winds adown — dimly and small,
THE TWO SWANS. 421
Watched by the gentle Swan that sings beiow, Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow.
But nine times nine the Serpent folds embrace The marble walls about — which he must tread Before his anxious foot may touch the base : Long is the dreary path, and must be sped ! But Love,- that holds the mastery of dread, Braces his si'irit, and with constant toil He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread, Impatient plunges from the last long coil : So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil !
The song is hushed, the charn^ is all complete, And two fair Swans are swimming on the lake : But scarce their tender bills have time to meet. When fiercely drops adown that cruel Snake — His steely scales a fearful rustling make. Like autumn leaves that tremble and foretell The sable storm ; — the plumy lovers quake — And feel the troubled waters pant and swell, Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell.
His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, Hiss horrible pursuit — his red eyes glare The waters into blood — ^his eager breath Grows hot upon their plumes : — now, minstrel fair I She drops her ring into the waves, and there It widens all around, a fairy ring Wrought of the silver light — the fearful pair Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.
Bending their course over the pale grey lake, Against the pallid East, wherein light played In tender flushes, gtill the baffled Snake Circled them round continually, and bayed Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade The sanctuary ring : his sable mail Rolled darkly through the flood, and writhed and made A shining track over the waters pale. Lashed into boiling foam by his enormous tail.
4S2 TO HOPE.
And so they sailed into the distance dim, Into the very distance — small and white, Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim Over the brooklets — followed by the spite Of that huge Serpent, that with wild affright Worried them on their course, and sore annoy, Till on the grassy marge I saw them 'light, And change, anon, a gentle girl and boy. Locked in embrace of sweet unutterable joy !
Then came the Mom, and with her pearly showers Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes Tears are no grief ; and from his rosy bowers The Oriental sun began to rise. Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies ; Wherewith that sable Serpent far away Fled, like a part of night — delicious sighs From waking blossoms purified the day, And little birds were singmg sweetly from each spray.
TO HOPE.
Oh ! take, young seraph, take thy harp,
And play to me so cheerily ; For grief is dark, and care is sharp,
And life wears on so wearily.
Oh ! take thy harp !
Oh ! sing as thou wert wont to do.
When, all youth's sunny season long,
I sat and listened to thy song. And yet 'twas ever, ever new. With magic in its heaven-tuned string —
The future bliss thy constant theme,^ Oh ! then each little woe took wing
Away, like phantoms of a dream, As if each sound That fluttered round
Had floated over Lethe's stream !
By all those bright and happy hours We spent in life's sweet eastern bowers,
TO HOPE. 423
Where tKou wouldst sit and smile, and show
Ere buds were come, where flowers would blow.
And oft anticipate the rise
Of life's warm sun that scaled the skies ;
By many a story of love and glory,
Arid friendships promised oft to me ;
By all the faith I lent to thee, —
Oh ! take, young seraph, take thy harp.
And play to me so cheerily ; For grief is dark, and care is sharp,
And life weaj's on so wearily. Oh ! take thy harp F
Perchance the strings will sound less clear,
That long have lain neglected by In sorrow's misty atmosphere ; It ne'er may speak as it hath spoken
Such joyous notes so brisk and high ; But are its golden chords all broken ? Are there not some, though weak and low. To play a lullaby to woe ?
But thou canst sing of love no more.
For Celia showed that dream was vain ; And many a fancied bliss is o'er. That comes not e'en in dreams again. Alas ! alas ! How pleasures pass. And leave thee now no subject, save The peace and bliss beyond the grave ! Then be thy flight among the skies :
Take, then, oh ! take the skylark's wing. And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing !
Another life-spring there adorns
Another youth, without the dread Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns
Is here for manhood's aching head. — Oh ! there are realms of welcome day, A world where tears are wiped away !
424 TO CELTA.
Then be thy flight among the skies : Take, then, oh ! take the skylark's wing.
And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing On skylark's wing !
TO CELIA.
Old fictions say that Love hath eyes, Yet sees, unhappy boy ! with none ; BUnd as the night ! but fiction lies. For Love doth alwa3'^s see with one,
To one our graces all unveil, To one our flaws are all exposed ; But when with tenderness we hail. He smiles and keeps the critic closed.
But when he's scorned, abused, estranged He opes the eye of evil ken. And all his angel friends are changed To demons — and are hated then !
Yet once it happed that, semi-blind, He met thee on a summer day. And took thee for his mother kind. And firowned as he was pushed away.
But still he saw thee shine the same, Though he had oped his evil eye, And found that nothing but her shame Was left to know his mother by !
And ever since that morning sun. He thinks of thee, and blesses Fate That he can look with both on one Who hath no ugliness to hate.
425
ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.
Ah me ! those old familiar bounds ! That classic house, those classic grounds,
My pensive thought recalls ! What tender urchins now confine, What Uttle captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls ?
Ay, that's the very house ! I know Its ugly windows, ten a-row !
Its chimneys in the rear ! And there's the iron rod so high. That drew the thunder from the sky,
And turned our table-beer !
There I was birched ! there I was bred ! There like a little Adam fed
From Learning's woful tree ! The weary tasks I used to con ! — The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! —
Most fruitless leaves to me ! —
The summoned class ! — the awful bow ! — I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds ! How many ushers now employs. How. many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads !
And Mrs. S ? Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the parlour) yet
Some favoured two or three, — The little Crichtons of the hour, Her muffin-medals that devour.
And swill her prize — Bohea ?
Ay, there's the playground ! there's the lime. Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
426 A PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.
So wildly I have read ! — > Who sits there now, and skims the cream Of young Romance, and weaves a dream Of Love and Cottage-bread ?
Who struts the Randall of the walk? Who models tiny heads in chalk ?
Who scoops the light canoe ? What early genius buds apace ? Where's Poynter ? Harris ? Bowers ? Chase ?
Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ?
Alack ! they're gone — a thousand ways ! And some are serving in " the Greys,"
And some have perished young ! — Jack Harris weds his second wife ; Hal Baylis drives the wane of life ;
And Blithe Carew — is hung !
Grave Bowers teaches ABC To savages at Owhyee ;
Poor Chase is with the worms ! — All, all are gone — the olden breed ! — New crops of mushroom boys succeed,
" And push us from owe forms !"
Lo ! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about.
At play where we have played ! Some hop, some run (some fall), some twine Their crony arms ; some in the shine, —
And some are in the shade !
Lo ! there what- mixed conditions run ! The orphan lad ; the widow's son ;
And Fortune's favoured care — The wealthy-born, for whom she hath Mac-Adamized the future path —
The Nabob's pampered heir !
Some brightly starred — some evil bom, — For honour some, and some for scorn,—-
A PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 427
For fair or foul renown ! Good, bad, indifferent— none may lack ! Look, here's a White, and there's a Black !
And there's a Creole brown !
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep^ And wish their "frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home j" — Some tease the future tense, and plan The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come ! —
A foolish wish ! There's one at hoop ; And four zX fives I and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed ! And one that curvets in and out, Reigning his fellow Cob about, —
Would I were in his steed !
Yet he would gladly halt and drop That boyish harness off, to swop
With this world's heavy van To toil, to tug. O little fool ! While thou canst be a horse at school,
To wish to be a man !
Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing To wear a crown, — to be a king !
And sleep on tegal down ! Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown !
And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys ? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son ? That manhood's mirth ? — -Oh, go thy ways To Drury Lane when plays.
And see ho^ forced our fiin !
Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare ! — Our tops are spun with coils of care,
488 TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE.
Our dumps are no delight ! The Elgin marbles are but tame, And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite :
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead,
Like balls with no rebound ! And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground !
Then be contented. Thou hast got The most of* heaven in thy young lot ;
There's sky-blue in thy cup ! Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast — Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last
A sorry breaking-up !
ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE,
ON THE DEATH OF THE ELEPHANT. '"Tis Greece, but living Greece no more." — Giaour.
Oh, Mr. Cross ! Permit a sorry stranger to draw near.
And shed a tear (I've shed my shilling) for thy recent loss !
I've been a visitor Of old — a sort of a Bufi"on inquisitor Of thy menagerie, and knew the beast
That is deceased ! I was the Damon of the gentle giant,
And oft have been.
Like Mr. Kean, Tenderly fondled by his trunk compliant Whenever I approached, the kindly brute Flapped his prodigious ears, and bent his knees —
It makes me freeze To think of it ! No chums could better suit. Exchanging grateful looks for grateful fruit, —
TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE. 429
For so our former dearness was begun. — I bribed him with an apple, and beguiled The beast of his affection like a child ; And well he loved me till his life was done
(Except when he was wild). It makes me blush for human friends — but. none I have so truly kept or cheaply won !
Here is his pen !
The casket — ^but the jewel is away !
The den is rifled of its denizen,—
Ah, well-a-day ! This fresh free air breathes nothing of his grossness, And sets me sighing even for its closeness.
This light one>-storey, Wliere like^a cloud I used to feast my eyes on The grandeur of his Titan-like horizon. Tells a dark tale of its departed glory ; — The very beasts lament the change like me.
The shaggy Bison Leaneth his head dejected on his knee ; The Hyaena's laugh is hushed ; the Monkey's pout ; The Wild Cat frets in a complaining whine ; The Panther paces restlessly about,
To walk her sorrow out ; The Lions in a deeper bass repine ; The Kangaroo wrings its sorry short forepaws ;
Shrieks come from the Macaws ; The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head,
And pineth for the dead ; The Boa writhes into a double knot ;
The Keeper groans
Whilst sawing bones, And looks askance at the deserted spot; Brutal and -rational lament his loss, , The flower of thy beastly family ! —
Poor Mrs. Cross Sheds frequent tears into her daily tea,
And weakens her Bohea ! Oh, Mr. Cross, how little it gives birth To grief when'human greatness goes to earth ;
430 TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE.
How few lament for Czars !— But, oh, the universal heart o'erflowed
At his "high mass,"
Lighted by gas, When, like Mark Antony, the keeper showed
The Elephantine scars ! —
Reporters' eyes
Were of an egg-like size ; Men that had never wept for murdered Marrs ! Hard-hearted editors, with iron faces
Their sluices all unclosed, —
And discomposed Compositors went fretting to their cases ! —
That grief has left its traces ; The poor old Feef-eater has gone much greyer
With sheer regret ;
And the Gazette Seems the least trouble of the beast's Purveyor i
And I too weep ! a dozen of great men I could have spared without a single tear ;
But then They are renewable from year to year ! Fresh Gents would rise though Gent resigned the pen
I should not wholly
Despair for six months of another C ,
Nor, though F lay on his small bier,
Be melancholy. But when will such an elephant appear? Though Penley were destroyed at Drury Lane,
His like might come again ;
Fate might supply A second Powell, if the first should die ; Another Bennet, if the sire were snatched ;
Barnes — might be matched ;
And Time fill up the gap Were Parsloe laid upon the green earth's lap ; Even Claremont might be equalled, — I could hope (All human greatness is, alas, so puny !) For other Egertons — another Pope,
But not another Chunee !
ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ. 431
Well ! he is dead !
And there's a gap in Nature of eleven
feet high by seven — Five living tons ! — and I remain — nine stone
Of skin and bone ! It is enough to make me shake my head
And dream of the grave's brink —
'Tis worse^ to think How like the Beast's the sorry life I've led !-
A sort of show Of my poor pubUc self and my- sagacity,
To profit the rapacity Of certain folks in Paternoster Row, A slavish toil to win an upper storey —
And a hard glory Of wooden beams about my weary brow !
Oh, Mr. C. ! If ever you behold me twirl my pen To earn a public supper, that is, eat
In the bare street, — Or turn about their literary den —
Shoot me! '
ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.
BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT GRETNA GREEN.
Ah me ! what causes such complaining breath,
Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow? It is to chide with stem, remorseless Death, For laying Laing low ! From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe — A shrill and persevering loud lament, Echoed by Mrs. T.'s EstabUshment
" For Six Young Ladies, In a retired and healthy part of Kent."
All weeping, Mr. L gone down to Hades !
Thoughtful of grates, and convents, and the veil ! Surrey takes up the tale,
432 EtEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.
And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones, With the two parfour-boarders and th' apprentice — So universal this mis-timed event is —
Are joining sobs and groans ! The shock confounds all hytneneal planners,
And drives the sweetest from their sweet behaviours. The girls at Manor House forget their manners.
And utter sighs like paviours ! Down — down through Devon and the distant shires
Travels the news of Death's remorseless crime ; And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires Of matches against time !
Along the northern route The road is watered by postilions' eyes ;
The topboot paces pensively about. And yellow jackets are all stained with sighs. There is a sound of grieving at the Ship, And sorry hands are wringing at the Bell,
In aid of David's knell. The postboy's heart is cracking — not his whip — To gaze upon those useless empty collars ^ His wayworn horses seem so glad to slip — And think upon the dollars That used to urge his gallop — quicker ! quicker ! All hope is fled. For Laing is dead — Vicar of Wakefield — Edward Gibbon's vicar !
The barristers shed tears Enough to feed a snipe (snipes live on suction)
To think in after years No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction, ■
Nor knaves inveigle Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal ;
The dull reporters Look truly sad and seriously solemn
To lose the future column On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters !
But grave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeau —
That never real beau of flesh and blood Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chwnbaud.
LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY. 433
Sleep — David Laing ! — sleep In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee ! O'er thy grave a thousand maidens weep,
And honest postboys mourn thee ! Sleep, David ! — safely and serenely sleep,
Be-wept of many a learned legal eye ! To see the mould above thee in a heap
Drowns many a lid that heretofore was dry ! — Especially of those that, plunging deep
In love, would " ride and tie !" Had I command thou should'st have gone thy ways In chaise and pair — and lain in Pfere-la-Chaise !
A LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY.
Well hast thou cried, departed Burke, All chivalrous romantic work
Is ended now and past ! — That iron age — which some have thought ■ Of metal rather ovtvwrought
Is now all overftw/.
Ay, — ^where are those heroic knights Of old — those armadillo wights
Who wore the plated vest, — Great Charlemagne, and all his peers Are cold — enjoying with their spears
An everlasting rest !
The bold King Arthur sleepeth sound, So sleep his knights who gave that Round
Old Table such eclat ! Oh Time has plucked that plumy brow ! And none engage at turneys now
But those who go to law.
Grim John o' Gaunt is quite gone by, And Guy is nothing but a Guy,
Orlando lies forlorn ! — Bold Sidney, and his kidney — nay. Those " early Champions" — what are they
But Knights without a mom !
434 LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY
No Percy branch now perseveres Like those of old in breaking spears —
The name is now a he. Surgeons, alone, by any chance. Are all that ever couch a lance
To couch a body's eye !
Alas for Lion-hearted Dick, That cut the Moslem to the quick
His weapon lies in piece,— Oh, it would warm them in a trice, If they could only have a spice
Of his old mace in Greece !
The famed Rinaldo lies a-cold. And Tancred too, and Godfrey bold,
That scaled the holy wall ! No Saracen meets Paladin, We hear of no great Saladin,
But only grow the small.
Our Cressys too have dwindled since To penny things — at our Black Prince
Historic pens would scoff — The only one we moderns had Was nothing but a Sandwich lad,"
And measles took him off.
Where are those old and feudal clans. Their pikes, and bills, and partizans.
Their hauberks — ^jerkins — buffs ? A battle was a battle then, A breathing piece of work — but men
Fight now with powder puffs !
The curtal-axe is out of date !
The good old cross-bow bends to Fate
'Tis gone — the archer's craft ! No tough arm bends the springing yew. And jolly draymen ride, in lieu
Of Death, upon the shaft.
The spear — the gallant tilter's pride — The rusty spear is laid aside,
LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE Of CtilVALRY.. 435
Oh spits now domineer ! The coat of mail is left alone — And where is all chain armour gone ?
Go ask at Brighton Pier.
We fight" in ropes and not in lists, Bestowing hand-cuffs with our fists,
A low and vulgar art ! No mounted man is overthrown — A tilt — it is a thing unknown,
Except upon a cart.
Methinks I see the bounding bard Clad like his chief in steely garb
For warding steel's appliance ! Methinks I hear the trumpet stir, 'Tis but the guard to Exeter
That bugles the " Defiance."
In cavils when will cavaliers Set ringing helmets by the ears,
Ahd scatter plumes about ? Or blood — if they are in the vein — That tap will never run again,
Alas the Casque is out.
No iron-crackling now is scored By dint of battle-axe or sword
To find a vital place — Though certain doctors still pretend Awhile, before they kill a friend,
To labour through his case.
Farewell, then, ancient men of might— = Crusader, errant squire, and knight !
Our coats and customs soften. To rise would only make ye weep — Sleep on, in rusty iron sleep.
As in a safety coffin.
436
A PLAN FOR WRITI]SfG BLANK VERSE IN RHYME.
In a Letter to the Editor of the " Comif Annual" for 1832.
Respected Sir, — In a morning paper justly celebrated for the acuteness of its reporters, and their almost prophetic insight into character and motives — the Rhodian length of their leaps towards results, and the magnitude of their inferences, beyond tlie drawing of Meux's dray-horses, — there appeared, a few days since, the following paragraph ; —
" Mansion House. Yesterday, a tall, emaciated being, in a brown coat, indicating his age to be about forty-five, and the raggedness of which gave a great air of mental ingenuity and intelligence to his countenance, was introduced by the officers to the Lord Mayor. It was evident from his preliminary bow that* he had made some discoveries in the art of poetry, which he wished to lay before his Lordship, but the Lord Mayor perceiving by his accent that he had already submitted his project to several of the leading Publishers, referred him back to the same jurisdic- tion, and the unfortunate Votary of the Muses withdrew, declaring by another bow, that he should oifer his plan to the Editor of the ' Comic Annual.' " ,
The unfortunate above referred to, sir, is myself, and with regard to the Muses, indeed a votary, t^lough not a 10/. one, if the qualification depends on my pocket — but for the idea of addressing myself to the Editor of the " Comic Annual," I am indebted solely to the assumption of the gentlemen of the Press. That I have made a discovery is true, in common with Hervey, and Herschel, and Galileo, and Roger Bacon, — or rather, I should say with Columbus — my invention concerning a whole hemisphere, as it were, in the world of poetry— in short, the whole continent of blank verse. To an immense number of readers this literary land has been hitherto a complete terra incognita, and from one sole reason, — the want of that harmony which makes the close of one line chime with the end of another. They have no relish for numbers that turn up blank, and wonder accordingly at the epithet of " Prize," prefixed to Poems of the kind which emaiiate in — I was going to say from — the University of Oxford. Thus many very worthy members of society are unable to api')reciate the Paradise Lost, the Task, the Chase, or the
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH. 437
Seasons, — the Winter especially — without rhyme. Others, again, can read the Poems in question, but with a limited enjoyment ; as certain persons can admire the architectural beauties of Salisbury steeple, but would like it better with a ring of bells. For either^ pf these tastes my discovery will provide, without affronting the palate of any other ; for although the lover of rhyme will find in it a prodigality hitherto unknown, the heroic character of blank verse will not suffer in the least, but each line will " do as it likes with its own," and sound as independently of the next as " milk- maid" and "water-carrier." I have the honour to subjoin a specimen — and if, through your publicity, Mr. Murray should be induced to make me an offer for an Edition of "Paradise Lost" on this principle, for the Family Library, it will be an eternal obligation on, Respected Sir, your most obliged, and humble servant, ^
* * * * * *
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.
Even is come j and from the dark Park, hark, The signal of the setting sun — one gun ! And six is sounding from the chime, prime time To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain, — Or hear Othello's jealous doubt spout out, — 'Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade, Denying to his frantic clutch much touch ; — Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride Four horses as no other man can span ; Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz. Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung ; The gas up-blazes with its bright white light, And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl, About the streets and take up Pall-Mall Sal, Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash, Past drowsy Charley, in a deep slfeep, creep. But frightened by Policeman B 3, flee. And while they're going, whisper low, " No go !"
438 JOHN DA Y.
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads. And sleepers waking, grumble — " Drat that cat !" Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams, and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly ; — ■
But Nursemaid, in a nightmare rest, chest-pressed,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears — what faith is man's ! — Ann's banns
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice :
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows' woes !
JOHN DAY.
A PATHETIC BALLAD. " A Day after the Y&vc."— Old Proverb.
John Day he was the biggest man
Of all the coachman kind, With back too broad to be conceived
By any narrow mind.
The very horses knew his weight
When he was in the rear. And wished his box a Christmas-box
To come but once a year.
Alas ! against the shafts of love
What armour can avail ? Soon Cupid sent an arrow through
His scarlet coat of mail.
The barmaid of the Crown he loved. From whom he never ranged ;
For though he changed his horsesAhere, His love he never changed.
JOHN DAY. 439
He thought her fairest of all fares,
So fondly love prefers ; And often, among twelve outsides,
Deemed no outside like hers.
One day as she was sitting down
Beside the porter-pump. He came, and knelt with all his fat,
And made an offer plump.
Said she, " My taste will never learn
To like so huge a man. So I must beg you will come here
As little as you can."
But still he stoutly. urged his suit. With vows, and sighs, and tears, t could not pierce her heart, although He drove the " Dart" for years. ,
In vain he wooed, in vain he sued ;
The maid was cold and proud. And sent him off to Coventry,
While on his way to Stroud.
He fretted all the way to Stroud,
And thence all back to town ; The course of love was never smooth,
So his went un and down.
At last her coldness made him pine
To merely bones and skin. But still he loved like one resolved
To love through thick and thin.
" O Mary ! view my wasted back,
And see my dwindled calf ; Though I have never had a wife,
I've lost my better half"
Alas ! in vain he still assailed,
Her heart withstood the dint ; Though he had carried sixteen stone,
He could not move a flint.
440 THE FALL.
Worn out, at last he made a vow To break his being's link ;
For he was so reduced in size At nothing he could shrink.
Now some will talk in water's praise, And waste a deal of breath,
But John, though he drank nothing else, He drank himself to death.
The cruel maid that caused his love Found out the fatal close.
For looking in the butt, she saw The butt-end of his woes.
Some say his spirit haunts the Crown,
But that is only talk — For after riding all his life, ' His ghost objects to walk.
THE FALL.
" Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep." — Count Fathom
Who does not know that dreadful gulf, where Niagara falls, Where eagle unto eagle screams, to vulture vulture calls ; Where down beneath. Despair and Death in liquid darkness grope, And upward, on the foam there shines a rainbow without Hope ; While, hung with clouds of Fear and Doubt, the unreturning wave Suddenly gives an awful plunge, like life into the grave ; And many a hapless mortal there hath dived to bale or bliss ; One — only one — hath ever lived to rise from that abyss !
0 Heaven ! it turns me now to ice, with chill of fear extreme. To think of my frail bark adrift on that tumultuous stream ! In vain with desperate sinews, strung by love of life and lightj
1 urged that coffin, my canoe, against the current's might : On — on — still on — direct for doom, the river rushed in force, And fearfully the stream of Time raced with it in its course. My eyes I closed — I dared not look the way towards the goal ; But still I viewed the horrid close, and dreamt it in my soul. Plainly, as through transparent lids, I saw the fleeting shore, And lofty trees, like winged things, flit by for evermore ;
A SINGULAR EXHIBITION. 441
Plainly^, but with no prophet sense — I lieard the sullen sound, The torrent's voice — and felt the mist, like death-sweat gathering
round. 6 agony ! O life ! My home ! and those that made it sweet : Ere I could pray, the torrent lay beneath my very feet. With frightful whirl, more swift than thought, I passed the dizzy
edge, Bound after bound, with hideous bruise, I dashed from ledge to
ledge. From crag, to crag, — in speechless pain, — from midnight deep to
deep ; I did not die, — but anguish stunned my senses into sleep. How long entranced, or whither dived, no clue I have to find : At last the gradual light of life came dawning o'er my mind ; And through my brain there thrilled a cry, — a cry as shrill as birds' Of vulture or of eagle kind, — but this was set to words : — " It's Edgar Huntley in his cap and nightgown, I declares ! He's been a walking in his sleep, and pitched all down the stairs !"
A SINGULAR EXHIBITION AT SOMERSET HOUSE. " Our Crummie is a dainty cow." — Scotch Song.
On that first Saturday in May, When Lords and Ladies, great and grand, Repair to see what each R.A. Has done since last they sought the Strand, In red, brown, yellow, green, or blue. In short, what's called the private view, — Amongst the guests — the deuce knows how She got in there without a row — There came a large and vulgar dame. With arms deep red, and face the same. Showing in temper not a saint ; No one could guess for why she came, - Unless perchance to " scour the paint."
From wall to wall she forced her way. Elbowed Lord Durham — poked Lord Grey — Stamped Stafford's toes to make him move. And Devonshire's Duke received a shove ;
442 A SINGULAR EXHIBITION
The great Lord Chancellor felt her nudge, She made the Vice, his Honour, budge, And gave a pinch to Park the Judge. As for the ladies, in this stir. The highest rank gave way to her.
From Number One and Number Two,
She searched the pictures through and through,
On benches stood to inspect the high ones,
And squatted down to scan the shy ones ;
And as she went from part to part,
A deeper red each cheek became.
Her very eyes lit up in flame,
That made each looker-on exclaim,
" Really an ardent love of art !''
Alas ! amidst her inquisition.
Fate brought her to a sad condition ;
She might have run against Lord Milton,
And still have stared at deeds in oil,
But ah ! her picture-joy to spoil.
She came full butt on Mr. Hilton.
The keeper, mute, with staring eyes,
Like a lay-figure for surprise.
At last thus stammered out, " How now !
Woman- — where, woman, is your ticket.
That ought to let you through our wicket?"
Says woman, " Where is David's Cow ?"
Said Mr. H., with expedition,
" There's no Cow in the Exhibition."
" No Cow !" — but here her tongue in verity
Setoff with steam and rail celerity :—
" Na Cow ! there an't no Cow ! then the more's the shame and pity,
Hang you and the KA.'s, and all the Hanging Committee !
No Cow — but hold your tongue, for you needn't talk to me —
You can't talk up the Cow, you can't, to where it ought to be ;
I haven't seen a picture, high or low, or anyhow,
Or in any of the rooms, to be compared with David's Cow.
You may talk of your Landseers, and of your Coopers, and youi
Wards, Why, hanging is too good for them, and yet here they are on
cords !
A SINGULAR EXHIBITION. 44.3
They're only fit for window frames, and shutters, and street- doors — , David will paint 'em any day at Red Lions or Blue Boars ; Why, Morland was a fool to him at a little pig or sow. It's, really hard it an't hung up— I could cry about the Cow ! But I know well what it is, and why— they're jealous of David's
fame, But to vent it on the Cow, poor thing, is a cruelty and a shame. Do you think it might hang by-and-by, if you cannot hang it
- . now? David has made a party up to come and see his Cow. If it only hung three days a week, for an example to the learners. Why can't it hang up, turn about, with that picture of Mr. Turner's? Or do you think from Mr. Etty you need apprehend a row, If now and then you cut him down to hang up David's Cow ? I can't think where their tastes have been, to not have such a
creature, Although I sav, that should not say, it was prettier than Nature ; It must be hung — and shall be hung, for, Mr. H., I vow, I daren't take home the catalogue, unless it's got the Cow ! As we only want it to be seen, I, should not so much care, If it was only round the stone man's neck, a-coming up the stair ; Or down there in the marble room, where all the figures stand. Where one of them Three Graces might just hold it in her hand ; Or may be Bailey's Charity the favour would allow. It would really be a charity to .hang up David's Cow. We haven't nowhere else to go if you don't hang it here, The Water- Colour place allows no oilman to appear. And the British Gallery sticks to Dutch, Teniers, and Gerard Douw, And the Suffolk Gallery will not do — it's not a Suffolk Cow. I wish you'd seen him painting her, he hardly took his meals Till she was painted on the board correct from head to heels ; His heart and soul was in his Cow, and almost made him shabby, He hardly whipped the boys at all, or helped to nurse the babby. And when he had her all complete and painted over red, He got so grand, I reaUy thought him going off his head. Now hang it, Mr. Hilton, do just hang it anyhow : Poor David, he will hang himself unless you hang his Cow; And if it's unconvenient, and drawn too big' by half, David shan't send next year except a very little calf."
-♦44
I'M GOING TO BOMBAY.
"Nothing venture, nothing have." — Old Proverb. " Every Indiaman has at least two mates." —Falconer's Marine Guide.
My hair is brown, my eyes are blue,
And reckoned rather bright ;
I'm shapely, if they tell me true,
And just the proper height ;
My skin has been admired in verse.
And called as fair as day —
If I am fair, so much the worse,
I'm going to Bombay !
II.
At school I passed with some ^clat ; I learned my French in Fran'ce ; De Wint gave lessons how to draw, And D'Egville how to dance : — Crevelli taught me how to sing. And Cramer how to play — It really is the strangest thing — I'm going to Bombay !
I've been to Bath and Cheltenham Wells,
But not their springs to sip, —
To Ramsgate — not to pick up shells, —
To Brighton — not to dip.
I've toured the Lakes, and scoured the coast
From Scarboro' to Torquay —
But though of time I've made the most,
I'm going to Bombay !
IV.
By Pa and Ma I'm daily told To marry now's my time. For though I'm veiy far from old, I'm rather in my prime.
PM GOING TO BOMBAY. 44J
They say while we have any sun We ought to make our hay — But India has so hot a one, I'm going to Bombay !
My cousin writes from Hyderapot My only chance to snatch, And says the climate is so hot, It's sure to light a match. She's married to a son of Mars, With very handsome pay, And swears I ought to thank my stars I'm going to Bombay !
VI.
She says that I shall much delight
To taste their Indian treats ;
But what she likes may turn me quite.
Their strange outlandish meats.
If I can e^t rupees, who knows ?
Or dine, the Indian way.
On doolies and on bungalows —
I'm going to Bombay !
VII.
She says that I shall much enjoy, — I don't know what she means, — To take the air and buy some toy. In my own palankeens, — I like to drive my pony chair, Or ride our dapple grey — But elephanfs are horses there — I'm going to Bombay !
VIII.
Farewell, farewell, my parents deai- My friends, farewell to them ! And oh, what costs a sadder tear, Good-by, to Mr. M, ! —
446 THE GHOST.
If I should find an Indian vault, Or fall a tiger's prey. Or steep in salt, it's all his fault I'm going to Bombay !
IX.
That 'fine new teak-built ship, the Fox, A I — Commander Bird, Now lying in the London Docks, Will sail on May the third ; Apply for passage or for freight To, Nichol, Scott, & Gray- Pa has applied and sealed my fate— I'm going to Bombay !
My heart is full— my trunks as well ;
My mind and caps made up,
My corsets, shaped by Mrs. Bell,
Are promised ere I sup ;
With boots and shoes, Rivarta's best
And dresses by Duce,
And a special licence in my chest —
I'm going to Bombay !
THE GHOST.
A VERY SERIOUS BALLAD. " I'll be your second." — Liston.
In Middle Row, some years ago, There lived one Mr. Brown ;
And many folks considered him The stoutest man in town.
But Brown and stout will both wear out ;
One Friday he died hard. And left a widowed wife to mourn,
At twenty pence a yard.
THE GHOST. 447
Now Widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax, And wished, Hke Mr. Wilberforce,
To manumit her blacks.
With Mr. Street she soon was sweety
The thing thus came about : She asked him in at home, and then
At church he asked her out.
Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand ; . So like a Phoenix he rose up Against the Hand in Hand.
One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view ; It came a little after one,
But she was after two !
"O Mrs. B. ! O Mrs. B. !
Are these your sorrow's deeds, Already getting up a flame
To bum your widow's weeds?
" It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene ; My memory — like Rogers's,
Should still be bound in green !
" Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt — I'm like an old ' Forget-me-not,'
With all the leaves torn out !
" To think that on that finger-joint
Another pledge should cling ; O Bess ! upon my very soul.
It struck like ' Knock and Ring.''
" A ton of marble on my breast
Can't hinder my return ; Your conduct. Ma'am, has set my blood
"A-boiling in my urn !
448 RHYME AND REASON.
" Remember, oh ! remember, how The marriage rite did run, —
If ever we one flesh should be, 'Tis now — when I have none !
" And you, sir — once a bosom friend — Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow. Consider you are kicked.
" A hollow voice is all I have, But this I tell you plain.
Marry come up ! — you marry. Ma'am, And I'll come up again."
More he had said, but chanticleer The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow, and off he went, Like fowling-piece at cock !
RHYME AND REASON.
To the Editor of the " Comic Annual."
-Sir, — In one of your Annuals you have given insertion to "A Plan for Writing Blank Verse in Rhyme ;" but as I have Seen no regular long poem constructed on its principles, I suppose the scheme did not take with the literary world. Under these cir- cumstances I feel encouraged to bring forward a novelty of my own, and I can only regret that such poets as Chaucer and Cottle, . Spenser and Hayley, Milton and Pratt, Pope and Pye, Byron and Batterbee, should have died before it was invented.
The great difficulty in verse is avowedly the Rhyme. Dean Swift says somewhere in his letters, " that a rhyme is as hard to find with him as a guinea," — and we all know that guineas are proverbially scarce among poets. The merest versifier that ever attempted a Valentine must have met with this Orson, some un- tameable savage syllable that refused to chime in with society. For instance, what poetical Fox-hunter — a contributor to the Sporting Magazine — has not drawn all the covers of Beynsird, Ceynard, Deynard, Feynard, Geynard, Heynard, Keynard, Ley- nard, Meynard, Neyaard, Peynard, Queynard, to find a rhyme for
THE DOUBLE KNOCK, , 449
Reynard? The spirit of the times is decidedly against Tithe; and I know of no tithe more oppressive than that poetical one, in heroic measure, which requires that every tenth syllable shall pay a sound. in kind. How often the Poet goes up a line, only to be stopped at the end by an impracticable rhyme, like a bull in a blind alley ! I have an ingenious medical friend, who might have been an eminent poet by this time, but the first line he wrote ended in ipecacuanha, 'and with all his physical and mental power, he has never yet been able to find a rhyme for it.
The plan I propose aims to obviate this hardship. My system is, to take the bull by the horns ; in short, to try, at first what words will chime, before you go farther and fare worse. To say nothing of other advantages, it will at least have one good effect, — and that is, to correct the erroneous notion of the would-be poets and poetesses of the present day, that the great end of poetry is rhyme. I beg leave to present a specimen of verse, which proves quite the reverse, and am, Sir, Your most obedient servant,
John Dryden Grubb.
THE DOUBLE KNOCK.
Rat-tat it went upon the lion's chin ;
" That hat, I know it !" cried the joyful girl ;
" Summer's it is, I know him by his knock ;
Comers like him are welcome as the day !
Lizzy ! go down and open the street-door;
Busy I am to any one but him.
Know him you must — he has been often here ;
Show him upstairs, and tell him I'm alone."
Quickly the maid went tripping down the stair ; Thickly the heart of Rose Matilda beat ; " Sure he has brought me tickets for the play — Drury — or Covent Garden — darling man ! Kemble will play — or Kean, who makes the soul Tremble in Richard or the frienzied Moor — Farren, the stay and prop of many a farce Barren beside — or Liston, Laughter's Child — Kelly the natural, to witness whom Jelly is nothing to the public's jam — Cooper, the sensible — and Walter Knowles Super,' in William Tell, now rightly told.
29
450 BATLEY BALLADS.
Better — ^perch^nce, from Andrews, brings a box, Letter of boxes for the Italian stage — Brocard ! Donzelli ! Taglioni ! Paul ! No card, — thank Heaven — engages me to-night ! Feathers, of course — no turban, and no toque — Weather's against it, but I'll go in curls. Dearly I dote on white — my satin dress, Merely one night — it wont be much the worse — Cupid — the New Ballet I long to see — Stupid ! why don't she go and ope the door !"
Glistened her eye as the impatient girl Listened, low bending o'er the topmost stair, Vainly, alas ! she listens and she bends. Plainly she hears this question and reply : " Axes your pardon, sir, but what d'ye want ?" " Taxes," says he, " and shall not call again !"
BAILEY BALLADS.
To anticipate mistake, the above title refers not to Thomas Haynes — or r. W. N. — or even to any publishers^but the original Old Bailey. It belongs to a set of songs composed during the courtly leisure of what is technically called a Juryman in AVaiting — that is, one of a corps de riserve, held in readiness to fill up the gaps which extraordinary mental exertion — or sedentary habits — or starvation, may make in the Council of Twelve. This wrong box it was once my fortune to get into. On the 5th of November, at the 6th hour, leaving my bed and the luxurious perusal of Taylor on Early Rising — I walked from a yellow fog into a black one, in my unwilling way to the New Court, which sweet herbs even could not sweeten, for the sole purpose of making criminals uncomfortable. A neighbour, a retired sea-captain with a wooden leg, now literally a iurj'-mast, limped with me from Highbury Terrace on the same hanging errand — a personified Halter. Our legal drill corporal was Serjeant Aiabin, and when our muster-roll without butter was over, before breakfast, the uninitiated can form no idea of the ludicrousness of the excuses of the would-be Nonjurors, — aggravated by the solemnity of a previous oath, the delivery from a witness-box like a pulpit, and the professional gravity of the Court. One weakly
LINES TO MARY. 451
old gentleman had been ordered by his physician to eat little, but often, and apprehende^i even fatal consequences from being locked up with an obstinate eleven ; another conscientious demurrer desired time to make himself .master of his duties, by consulting Jonathan WildjVidocq, Hardy Vaux, and LazarillodeTormes. Butthenumber of deaf men who objected the hardness of their hearing criminal cases was beyond beUef. The pubUshers of " Curtis on the Ear" and " Wright on the Ear"— (two popular surgical works, though rather suggestive of Pugilism) — ought to have stentorian agents in that Court. Defective on one side myself, I was literally ashamed to strike up singly in such a chorus of muffled double drums, and tacitly suffered hiy ears to be boxed with a common Jury. I heard, on the right hand, a Judge's charge — an arraignment and evidence to match, with great dexterity, but failing to catch the defence from the left hand, refused naturally to concur in any sinister verdict. The learned Serjeant, I presume, as I was only half deaf, only half discharged me, — committing me to the relay-box, as a Juror in Waiting, — and from which I was relieved only by his successor. Sir Thomas Denraan, and to justify my dulness, I made even his stupendous voice to repeat my dismissal twice over !
It was during this compelled attendance that the project struck me of a Series of Lays of Larceny, combining Sin and Sentiment in the melodramatic mixture which is so congenial to the cholera- morbid sensibility of the present age and stage. The following are merely specimens, but a hint from the Powers that be, — in the Strand, — will promptly produce a handsome volume of the remainder, with a grateful Dedication to the learned Serjeant
No. I. LINES TO MARY.
(at no. I NEWGATE, FAVOURED BY MR. WONTNER.)
O Mary, I believed you true, And I was blest in so believing ; But till this hour I never knew — That you were taken up for thieving I
Oh ! when I snatched a tender kiss, Or some such trifle when I courted, You said, indeed, that love was bliss, But never owned you were transported 1
453 -^ LINES TO MARY.
But then, to gaze on that fair face, It would have been an unfair feeling To dream that you had pilfered lace — And Flints had suffered from your stealing \
Or, when my suit I first preferred,
To bring your coldness to repentance.
Before I hammered out a word.
How could I dream you'd heard a sentence !
Or when, with all the warmth of youth, I strove to prove my love no fiction. How could I guess I urged a truth On one already past conviction ?
How could I dream that ivory part,
Your hand — where I have looked and lingered,
Although it stole away my heart,
Had been held up as one light-fingered ?
In melting verse your charms I drew, The charms in which my muse delighted — > Alas ! the lay, I thought was new, Spoke only what had been indicted!
Oh ! when that form, a lovely one, Hung on the neck its arms had flown to, I little thought that you had run A chance of hanging on your own too.
You said you picked me from the world — My vanity it now must shock it — And down at once my pride is hurled, — You've picked me — and you've picked a pocket 1
Oh ! when our love had got so far,
I'he banns were read by Dr. Daly,
Who asked if there was any bar —
Why did not some one shout, "Old Bailey?"
But when you robed your flesh and bones In that pure white that angel garb is, Who could have thought you, Mary Jones Among the Joans that link with Darbies ■
LINES TO MARY. 453
And when the parson came to say My goods were yours, if I had got any, And you should honour and obey, . Who could have thought — " O Bay of Botany !"
But, oh ! the worst of all your slips I did not till this day discover — That down in Deptford's prison-ships, O Mary ! you've a hulking lover !
No. 11.
" Love, with a witness !"
He has shaved off his whiskers and blackened his brows, Wears a patch and a wig of false hair, — But it's him — oh, it's him ! — we exchanged lovers' vows When I lived up in Cavendish Square.
He had beautiful eyes, and his Hps were the same, And his voice was as soft as a flute — -_ Like a Lord or a Marquis he looked, when he came To make love in his master's best suit.
If I lived for a thousand long years from my birth, I shall never forget what he told — How he loved me beyond the rich women of earth. With their jewels and silver and gold !
When he kissed me, and bade me adieu with a sigh, By the light of the sweetest of moons ; Oh, how little I dreamt I was bidding good-by To my Missis's teapot and spoons !
No. III.
" I'd be a parody." — Bailey.
We met — 'twas in a mob — and I thought he had done me I felt — I could not feel — for no watch was upon me ; He ran — the night was cold — and his pace was unaltered, I too longed much to pelt — but my small-boned leg faltered. I wore my brand-new boots — and unrivalled their brightness j They fit me to a hair — how I hated their tightness ! I called, but no one came, and my stride had a tether — Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather !
454 OVR VILLAGE
And once again we met — and an old pal was near him ;
He swore, a something low — but 'twas no use to fear him ;
I seized upon his arm — he was mine and mine only,
And stepped — as he deserved — to cells wretched and lonely :
And there he will be tried — ^but I shall ne'er receive her,
The watch that went too sure for an artful deceiver.
The world may think me gay, — heart and feet ache together-
Oh, thou hast been the cause of this anguish, my leather.
OUR VILLAGE.— BY A VILLAGER.
Our village, -that's to say, not Miss Mitford's village, but our
village .of Bullock Smithy, Is come into by an avenue of trees, three oak pollards, two elders,
and a withy ; And in the middle there's a green of about not exceeding an acre
and a half ; It's common to all, and fed off by nineteen cows, six ponies, "* three horses, five asses, two foals, seven pigs, and a calf ! Besides a pond in the middle, as is held by a similar sort of
common-law lease. And contains twenty ducks, six drakes, three ganders, two dead
dogs, four drowned kittens, and twelve geese. Of course the green's cropt very close, and does famous for
bowling when the little village-boys play at cricket ; Only some horse, or pig, or, cow, or great jackass, is sure to come
and stand right before the wicket. ^
There's fifty-five private houses, let alone barns, and workshops,
and pigsties, and poultry huts, and such-like sheds ; With plenty of public-houses — two Foxes, one Green Man, three
Bunch of Grapes, one Crown, and six King's Heads. The Green Man is reckoned the best, as the only one that for
love or money can raise A postilion, a blue-jacket, two deplorable lame white horses, and
a ramshackled "neat postchaise." There's one parish church for all the people, whatsoever may be
their ranks in life or their degrees, Except one very damp, small, dark, freezing-cold, little Methodist
Chapel of Ease ;
OUR VILLAGE. 455
And close by the churchyard there's a stonemason's yard, that
when the time is seasonable Will furnish with afflictions sore and marble urns arid cherubims
very low and reasonable. There's a cage, comfortable enough ; I've been in it with Old Jack
Jeffrey and Tom Pike ; For the Green Man next door will send you in ale, gin, or any- thing else you like. I can't speak of the stocks, as nothing remains of them but the
upright -post ; But the pound is kept in repairs for the sake of Cob's horse, as is
always there almost. There's a smithy of course, where that queer sort of a chap in his
way. Old Joe Bradley, i
Perpetually hammers and stammers, for he stutters and shoes
horses very badly. There's a shop of all sorts, that sells everything, kept by the
widow of Mr. Task ; But when you go there, it's ten to one she's out of everything you
ask. You'll know her house by the swarm of boys, like flies, about the
old sugary cask : '
There are six empty houses, and not so Well papered inside as
put. For bill-stickers wont beware, but sticks notices of sales and
election placards all about. That's the Doctor's with a green door, where the garden pots iji
the windows are seen — A weakly monthly rose that don't blow, and a dead geranium, and
a tea-plant with five, black leaves and one green. As for hoUyoaks at the cottage doors, and honeysuckles and
jasmines, you may go and whistle ; But the tailor's front garden grows^two cabbages, a dock, a
ha'porth of pennyroyal, two dandelions, and a thistle. There are three small orchards — Mr. Busby's the schoolmaster's
is the chief — With two pear-trees that don't bear ; one plum and an apple, that
every year is stripped by a thief. There's another small day-school too, kept by the respectable
Mrs. Gaby, A select estabHshment, for six little boys and one big, and four
little girls and a baby ;
456 ODE TO MR. MALTHUS.
There's a rectory, with pointed gables and strange odd chimneys that never smokes,
For the rector don't live on his living like other Christian sort of folks ;
There's a barber's, once a week well filled with rough black- bearded, shock-headed churls.
And a window with two feminine men's heads, and two masculine ladies in false curls ;
There's a butcher's, and a carpenter's, and a plumber's, and a small greengrocer's, and a baker.
But he wont bake on a Sunday ; and there's a sexton that's a coal- merchant besides, and an undertaker;
And a toyshop, but not a whole one, for a village can't compare with the London shops ;
One window sells drums, dolls, kites, carts, bats, Clout's balls, and the other sells malt and hops.
And Mrs. Brown, in domestic economy not to be a bit behind her betters.
Lets her house to a milliner, a watchmaker, a rat-catcher, a cobbler, lives in it herself, and it's the post-office for letters;.
Now I've gone through all the village — ay, from end to end, save and except one more house,
But I haven't come to that — and I hope I never shall — and that's the Village Poorhouse 1
ODE TO MR. MALTHUS.
My dear, do pull the bell. And pull it well. And send those noisy children all upstairs, Now playing here like bears — You George, and William, go into the grounds, Charles, James, and Bob are there, — and take your string,
Drive horses, or fly kites, or anything, You're quite enough to play at hare and hounds ; — You little May, and Caroline, and Poll,
Take each your doll, And go, my dears, into the two-back pair. Your sister Margaret's there — Harriet and Grace, thank God, are both at schOol, At far-off Ponty Pool —
ODE TO MR. RiALTHUS.
I want to read, but really can't get on — Let the four twins, Mark, Matthew, Luke, and John, Go— to their nursery — go — I never can Enjoy my Mai thus among such a clan !
Oh Mr Malthus, I agree
In everything I read with thee !
The world's too full, there is no doubt,
And wants a deal of thinning out, —
It's plain — as plain as Harrow's Steeple —
And I agree with some thus far,
Who say the King's too popular,
That is, — he has too many people.
There are too many of all trades,
Too many bakers. Too many every-thing-makers. But not too many undertakers, —
Too many boys, — Too many hobby-de-hoys, — Too many girls, men, widows, wives, and maids,— There is a dreadful surplus to demolish ; And yet some Wrongheads, With thick not long heads. Poor metaphysicians ! Sign petitions Capital punishment to abolish ; And in the face of censuses such vast ones New hospitals contrive, For keeping life alive, Lapng first stones, the dolts ! instead of last ones ! — Others, again, in the same contrariety. Deem that of all Humane Society They really deserve thanks, Because the two banks of the Serpentine By their design, Are Saving Banks. Oh ! were it given but to me to weed The human breed. And root out here and there some cumbering elf, I think I could go through it, And really do it With profit to the world and to myself.-
4S7
45^ ODE TO MR. MALTHUS.
For instance, the unkind among the Editors,
My debtors, those I mean to say
Who cannot or who will not pay,
, And all my creditors.
These, for my own sake, I'd destroy ;
But for the world's, and every one's,
I'd hoe up Mrs. G 's two sons,
And Mrs. B 's big litrie boy,
Called only by herself an " only joy."
As Mr. Irving's chapel's not too full, Himself alone I'd pull — But for the peace of years that have to run, I'd make the Lord Mayor's a perpetual station,
And put a period to rotation.
By rooting up all Aldermen but one, — , These are but hints what good might thus be done !
But ah ! I fear the public good
Is little by the public understood, — For instance — if with flint, and steel, and tinder, Great Swing, for once a philanthropic man. Proposed to throw a light upon thy plan, No doubt some busy fool would hinder His burning all the Foundling to a cinder.
Or, if the Lord Mayor, on an Easter Monday,
That wine and bun-day, Proposed to poison all the Httle Blue-coats, Before they died by bit or sup, Some meddling Marplot would blow up,
Just at the moment critical.
The economy political Of saving their fresh yellow plush and new coats.
Equally 'twould be undone. Suppose the Bishop of London, On that great day In June or May, When all the large small family of charity,
Brown, black, or carroty, Walk in their dusty parish shoes, In too, too many two-and-twos,
THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 459
To sing together till they scare the walls
Of old St. Paul's, Sitting in red, grey, green, blue, drab, and white, Some say a gratifying sight.
Tho' I think sad — but that's a schism —
To witness so much pauperism — Suppose, I say, the Bishop then, to make In this poor crowded world more room,
Proposed to shake Down that immense extinguisher, the dome- Some humane Martin in the charity Gal-via.y
I fear would come and interfere,
Save beadle, brat, and overseer.
To walk back in their parish shoes,
In too, too many two-and-twos, Islington — Wapping — or Pall Mall way !
Thus, people hatched from goose's egg, _ Foolishly think a pest, a plague. And in its face their doors all shut, On hinges oiled with cajeput —
Drugging themselves with drams well spiced and cloven, And turning pale as linen rags At hoisting up of yellow flags. While you and I are crying " Orange Boven 1" Why should we let precautions so absorb us. Or trouble shipping with a quarantine--' When if I understand the thing you mean, We ought to import the Cholera Morbus !
THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.
" The Needles have sometimes been fatal to MarinerS."-
Picture of Isle oj Vi'ighi.
One close of day — 'twas in the Bay
Of Naples — bay of glory ! —
While hght was hanging crowns of gpld
On mountains high and hoa'ry,
A gallant bark got under weigh,
And with her sails my story.
46o THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.
For Leghorn she was bound direct,
With wine and oil for cargo,
Her crew of men some nine or ten,
The captain's name lago ;
A good and gallant bark she was,
La Donna (called) del Lago.
Bronzed mariners were hers to view, With brown cheeks, clear or muddy. Dark, shining eyes, and coal-black hair, Meet heads for painter's study ; But 'midst their tan there stood one man Whose cheek was fair and ruddy j
His brow was high, a loftier brow Ne'er shone in song or sonnet, His hair a little scant, and when He doffed his cap or bonnet, One saw that Grey had gone beyond A premiership upon it !
His eye — a passenger was he,
"The cabin he had hired it, —
His eye was grey, and when he looked
Around, the prospect fired it —
A fine poetic light, as if
The Appe-Nine inspired it.
His frame was stout — in height about Six feet — well made and portly ; Of dress and manner just to give A sketch, but very shortly, His order seemed a composite Of rustic with the courtly.
He ate and quaffed, and joked and laughed, And chatted with the seamen, And often tasked their skill and asked, " What weather is't to be, man ?" No demonstration there appeared ■ That he was any demon.
THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 461
No sort of sign there was that he Could raise a stormy rumpus, ' Like Prospero make breezes blow, And rocks and billows thump us, — But little we supposed what he Could with the needle compass !
Soon came a storm — the sea at first Seemed lying almost fallow — When lo ! full crash, with billowy dash, From clouds of black and yellow, Came such a gale, as blows but once A century, like the aloe !
Our stomachs we had just prepared
To'vest a small amount in ;
When, gush ! a ilood of brine came down
The skylight — quite a fountain.
And right on end the table reared.
Just like the Table Mountain.
Down rushed the soup, down gushed the wine. Each roll its role repeating, ■ Rolled down — the round of beef declared For parting — not for meating ! Off flew the fowls, and all the game Was " too far gone for eating !"
Down knife and fork — down went the pork,
The lamb too broke its tether ;
Down mustard went — each condiment —
Salt— pepper — all together !
Down everything, like craft that seek
The Downs in stormy weather.
Down plunged the Lady of the Lake, Her timbers seemed to sever ; Down, down, a dreary derry down, Such lurch she had gone never ; She almost seemed about to take A bed of down for ever !
462 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.
Down dropped the captain's nether jaw,
Thus robbed of all its uses,
He thought he saw the Evil One
Beside Vefeuvian sluices,
Playing at dice for soul and ship,
And throwing Sink and Deuces.
Down fell the steward on his face, To all the Saints commending ; And candles to the Virgin vowed, As save-alls 'gainst his ending. Down fell the mate, he thought his fate, Check-mate, was close impending !
Down fell the cook — the cabin boy. Their beads with feryour telhng. While alps of serge, with snowy verge. Above the yards came yelling. Down Tell the crew, and on their knees Shuddered at each white swelling !
Down sunk the sun of bloody hue,
His crimson light a cleaver
To each red rover of a wave :
To eye of fancy-weaver,
Neptune, the God, seemed tossing in
A raging scarlet fever !
Sore, sore afraid, each Papist prayed
To Saint and Virgin Mary ;
But one there was that stood composed
Amid the waves' vagary :
As staunch as rock, a true game cock
'Mid chicks of Mother Gary !
His ruddy cheek retained its streak, No danger seemed to shrink him ; His step still bold, — of mortal mould The crew could hardly think him : 2 he Lady of the Lake, he seemed To know, could never sink him.
THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS. 46.^
Relaxed at last, the furious gale, Quite out of breath with racing ; The boiliqg flood in milder mood, With gentler billows chasing ; ^
From stem to stern, with frequent turn, The Stranger took to pacing.
And as he walked to self he talked,
Some ancient ditty thrumming,-
In under tone, as not alone —
Now whistUng, and now humming —
" You're welcome, CharUe," " Cowdenknowes,"
" Kenmure," or " Campbells' Coming."
Down went the wind, down went the wave,
Fear quitted the most finical ;
The Saints, I wot, were soon forgot,
And Hope was at the pinnacle ;
When rose on high, a frightful cry—
" The Devil's in the binnacle 1"
" The Saints be near," the helmsman cried,
His voice with quite a falter — ■
" Steady's my helm, but every look
The needle seems to alter;
God only knows where China lies,
Jamaica, or Gibraltar !"
The captain stared aghast at mate.
The pilot at th' apprentice ;
No fancy of the German Sea
Of Fiction the event is ;
But when they at the compass looked.
It seemed non compass mentis.
Now north, now south, now east, now west,
The wavering point was shaken,
'Twas past the whole philosophy
Of Newton, or of Bacon ;
Never by compass, till that hour,
Suc^i latitudes were taken !
464 THE COMPASS, WITH VARIATIONS.
With fearful speech, each after each Took turns in the inspection ; They found no gun — no iron — none To vary its direction j It s'eemed a new magnetic case Of Poles in Insurrection !
Farewell to wives, farewell their lives.
And all their household riches ;
Oh ! while they thought of girl or boy,
And dear domestic niches,
All down the side which holds the heart,
That needle gave them stitches.
With deep amaze, the Stranger gazed To see them so white-livered : And walked abaft the binnacle. To know at what they shivered : But when he stood beside the card, St. Josef ! how it quivered !
No fancy-motion, brain In eye of timid dreamer- The nervous finger of a sot Ne'er showed a plainer tremor ; To every brain it seemed too plain, There stood th' Infernal Schemer !
Mixed brown and blue each visage grew. Just like a pullet's gizzard ;
Meanwhile the captain's wandering wil^ From tacking hke an izzard, Bore down in this plain course at last, " It's Michael Scott— the Wizard !"
A smile passed o'er the ruddy face, " To see the poles so falter I'm puzzled, friends, as much as you, For with no fiends I -palter ; Michael I'm not — although a Scott — My Christian name is Walter."
THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. 465
Like oil it fell, that name, a spell
On all the fearful faction ;
The captain's head (for he had read)
Confessed the Needle's action,
And bowed to Him in whom the North
Has lodged its main attraction !
THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT.
" So, while I fondly imagined we were deceiving my relations, and flattered myself that I should outwit and incense them all, behold, my hopes are to be crushed at once by my aunt's consent and approbation, and I am myself the only dupe. But here, sir — here is the picture ^"-^Lydia Languish.
0 DAYS of old, O days of knights, Of tourneys and of tilts,
When love was, balked and valour stalked On high heroic stilts — Where are ye gone ? — adventures cease. The world gets tame and flat, — We've nothing now but New Police — There's no Romance in that !
1 wish I ne'er had learned to read. Or Radcliffe how to write ; That Scott had been a boor on Tweed, And Lewis cloistered quite ! Would I had never drunk so deep Of dear Miss Porter's vat ; I only turn to life, and weep — There's no Romance in that !
No bandits lurk — no turbaned Turk
To Tunis bears me off;
I hear no noises in the night
Except my mother's cough ;
No Bleeding Spectre haunts the house ;
No shape, but owL or bat.
Come flitting after moth or mouse —
There's no Romance in that ! „q
466 THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT.
I have not any grief profound,
Or secrets to confess ;
My story would not fetch a pound
For A. K. Newman's press ;
Instead of looking thin and pale,
I'm growing red and fat,
As if I lived on beef and ale —
There's no Romance in that !
It's very hard, by land or sea
Some strange event I, court,
But nothing ever comes to me
That's worth a pen's report :
It really made my temper chafe,
Each coast that I was at,
I vowed and railed, and came home sate —
There's no Romance in that !
■ The only time I had a chance, At Brighton one fine day, My chestnut mare began to prance, Took fright, and ran away ; Alas ! no Captain of the Tenth To stop my steed came pat ; A butcher caught the rein at length — There's no Romance in that !
Love — even love— goes smoothly on
A railway sort of track —
No flinty sire, no jealous Don !
No hearts upon the rack ;
No Polydore, no Theodore —
His ugly name is Mat,
Plain Matthew Pratt, and nothing more—
There's no Romance in that !
He is not dark, he is not tall,
His forehead's rather low.
He is not pensive — ^not at all.
But smiles his teeth to show ;
He comes from Wales, and yet in size
Is really but a sprat,
With sandy hair and greyish eyes —
There's no Romance in that .'
THERE'S NO ROMANCE IN THAT. 467
He wears no plumes- or Spanish cloaks, '
Or long sword hanging down ;
He dresses much hke other folks,
And commonly in brown ;
His collar he will not discard,
Or give up his cravat
Lord Byron-like — he's not a bardi—
There's no Romance in that !
He's rather bald, his sight is weak,
He's deaf in either drum ;
Without a lisp he cannot speak,
But then — he's worth a plum.
He talks of stocks and three per cents.
By way of private chat,
Of Spanish bonds, and shares, and rents —
There's no Romance in that !
I sing — no matter what I sing,
" Di Tanti," or " Crudel,"
" Tom Bowling," or " God save the King,"
" Di Piacer "—" All's well ;"
He knows no more about a voice »
For singing than a gnat-;
And as to music " has no choice" —
There's no Romance in that !
Of light guitar I cannot boast.
He never serenades ;
He writes, and sends it by the post.
He doesn't bribe the maids :
No stealth, no hempen ladder — no !
He comes with loud rat-tat,
That startles half of Bedford Row —
There's no Romance in that !
He comes at nine in time to choose
His coffee — ^just two cups,
And talks with Pa about the news,
Repeats debates, and sups.
John helps him with his coat aright,
And Jenkins hands his hat ;
My lover bows, and says good-night —
There's no Romance in that 1
468 SHOOTING PAINS.
I've long had Pa's and Ma's consent
My aunt she quite approves,
My brother wishes joy from Kent,
None try to thwart our loves ;
On Tuesday, Reverend Mr. Mace
Will make me Mrs. Pratt,
Of Number Twenty, Sussex Place —
There's no Romance in that.
SHOOTING PAINS.
"The charge is prepared." — Macheath. '
If I shoot any more I'll be shot.
For ill-luck seems determined to star me,
I have marched the whole day
With a gun,: — for no pay — Zounds, I'd better have been in the army !
What matters Sir Christopher's leave ; To his manor I'm sorry I came yet !
With confidence fraught.
My two pointers I brought, But we are not a point towards game yet !
And that gamekeeper too, with advice ! Of my course he has been a nice chalker,
Not far, were his words,
I could go without birds : If my legs could cry out, they'd cry " Walker !"
Not Hawker could find out a flaw; —
My appointments are modem and Mantony^
And I've brought my own man.
To mark down all he can. But I can't find a mark for my Antony !
The partridges, — where can they lie ? I have promised a leash to Miss Jervas,
As the least I could do ;
But without evep two To brace me, — I'm getting quite nervous I
SHOOTING PAINS. 469
To the pheasants — how well they're preserved I My sport's not a jot more beholden,
As. the birds are so shy,
For my friends I must buy, And so send " silver pheasants and golden."
1 have tried every form for a hare.
Every patch, every furze that could shroud her,
With toil unrelaxed.
Till my patience is taxed, ' But I cannot be taxed for hare-powder.
I've been roaming for hours in three flats In the hope of a snipe for a snap at ;
But still vainly I court
The pergussioning sport, I find nothing for " setting my cap at !"
A woodcock,— this month is the time, — Right and left I've made ready my lock for,
With well-loaded double.
But spite of my trouble. Neither barrel can I find a cock for !
A rabbit I should not despise,
But they lurk in their burrows so lowly ;
This day's the eleventh,
It is not the seventh, But they seem to be keeping it hole-y.
For a mallard I've waded the marsh,
And haunted each pool, and each lake — oh !
Mine is not the luck,
To obtain thee, O Duck, Or to doom thee, O Drake, like a Draco !
For a field-fare I've fared far a-field, Large or small I am never to sack bird.
Not a thrush is so kind
As to fly, and I find I may whistle myself for a blackbird !
470 THE BOY AT THE MORE"
I am angry, I'm hungry, I'm dry, Disappointed, and sullen, and goaded,
And so weary an elf,
I am sick of myself, And with Number One seem o'erloaded.
As well one might beat round St. Paul's, And look out for a cock or a. hen there ;
I have searched round and round
All the Baronet's ground. But Sir Christopher hasn't a wren there !
Joyce may talk of his excellent caps, But for nightcaps they set me desiring,
And it's really too bad.
Not a shot I have had With Hall's Powder, renowned for " quick firing."
If this is what people call-sport, Oh ! of sporting I can't have a high sense, And there still remains one More mischance on my gun — " Fined for shooting without any licence."
THE BOY AT THE NORE.
" Alone I did it !— Boy ^"—Coriolanus.
I SAY, little Boy at the Nore,
Do you come from the small Isle of Man ? Why, your history a mystery must be, —
Come tell us as much as you can,
Little Boy at the Nore !
You live, it seems, wholly on water. Which your Gambler calls living in clover ;-
But how comes it, if that is the case, You're eternally half seas over.
Little Boy at the Nore ?
THE BQY AT THE NORE. 471
While you ride — ^while you dance — while you float — Never mind your imperfect orthography ; —
But give us as well as you can, Your watery auto-biography,
Little Boy at the Nore !
LITTLE BOY AT THE NORE LOQUITUR.
I'm the tight little Boy at the Nore,
In a sort of ^ea-negus I dwells. Half and half 'twixt salt water and port ;
I'm reckoned the first, of the swells —
I'm the Boy at the Nore !
I lives with my toes to the flounders,
And watches through long days and nights ;
Yet, cruelly eager, men look —
To catch the first glimpse of my lights —
I'm the Boy at the Nore !
I never gets cold in the head.
So my life on salt water is sweet ; »
I think I owes much of my health
To being well used to wet feet —
As the Boy at the Nore !
There's one thing, I'm never in debt — Nay ! I liquidates more than I oughier ;*
So the man to beat Cits as goes by. In keeping the head above water,
Is the Boy at the Nore !
I've seen a good deal of distress, Lots of breakers in Ocean's Gazette.;
They should do as I do — rise o'er all. Ay, a good floating capital get,
Like the Boy at the Nore !
A word cai^ht from some American trader in passing
472 THE BROKEN DISH.
• I'm a'ter the sailor's own heart,
And cheers him, in deep water rolling ; And the friend of all friends to Jack Junk, Ben Backstay, Tom Pipes, and Tom Bowling, Is the Boy at the Nore !
Could I e'er but grow up, I'd be off
For a week to make love with my wheedles ;
If the tight little Boy at the Nore
Could but catch a nice girl at the Needles,
We'd have two at the Nore.
They thinks little of sizes on water. On big waves the tiny one skulks —
While the river has men-of-war on it —
Yes — the Thames is oppressed with great hulks, And the Boy's at the Nore !
But I've done — for the water is heaving Round my body as though it would^sink it !
And I've been so long pitching and tossing, That sea-sick — you'd hardly now think it — Is the Boy at the Nore !
THE BROKEN DISH.
What's life but full of care and doubt. With all its fine humanities ;
With parasols we walk about, Long pigtails and such vanities.
We plant pomegranate trees and things, And go in gardens sporting.
With toys and fans of peacocks' wings To painted ladies courting.
We gather flowers of every hue,
And fish in boats for fishes, Build summer-houses painted blue, —
But life's as frail as dishes.
ODE TO PEACE. 473
Walking about their groves of trees,
Blue bridges and blue rivers, How little thought them two Chinese
They'd both be smashed to shivers.
ODE TO PEACE.
WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT OF MY MISTRESS's GRAND ROUT.
O Peace ! oh come with me and dwell —
But stop, for there's the bell. O Peace ! for thee I go and sit in churches. On Wednesday, when there's very few
In loft or pew — Another ring, the tarts are come from Birch's. O Peace ! for thee I have avoided marriage —
Hush ! there's a carriage. O Peace ! thou art the best of earthly goods —
The five Miss Woods. O Peace ! thou art the goddess I adore —
There come some more. O Peace ! thou child of solitude and quiet — That's Lord Drum's footman, for he loves a riot.
O Peace !— Knocks will not cease. O Peace ! thou wert for human comfort planned —
That's Weippert's band. O Peace ! how glad I welcome thy approaches— I hear the sound of coaches. ■ O Peace ! O Peace ! — another carriage stops — It's early for the Blenkinsops.
O Peace ! with thee I love to wander,
But wait till I have showed up Lady Squander ;
And now I've seen her up the stair,
O Peace ! — but here comes Captain Hare.
O Peace ! thou art the slumber of the mind,
Untroubled, calm and quiet, and unbroken —
If that is Alderman Guzzlefrom Portsoken,
Alderman Gobble wont be far behind.
474 MUGGINS AND DUGGINS.
O Peace ! serene in worldly shyness — Make way there for his Serene Highness I
0 Peace ! if you do not disdain To dwell amongst the menial train,
1 have a silent place, and lone, That you and I may call our own, Where tumult never makes an entry — Susan, what business h^ve you in ray pantry ?
O Peace ! — but there is Major Monk, At variance with his wife. O Peace ! — And that great German, Vander Trunk, And that great talker. Miss Apreece. O Peace ! so dear to poets' quills — They're just beginning their quadrilles.
0 Peace ! our gi'eatest renovator —
1 wonder where I put my waiter.
0 Peace ! — but here my ode I'll cease !
1 have no peace to write of Peace.
HUGGINS AND DUGGINS,
A PASTORAL AFTER POPE.
Two swains or clowns — but call them swains —
While keeping fiocks on Salisbury Plains —
For all that tend on sheep as drovers
Are turned to songsters or to lovers, —
Each of the lass he called his dear
Began to carol loud and clear.
First Huggins sang, and Duggins then.
In the way of ancient shepherd men ;
Who thus alternate hitched in song,
" All things by turns, and nothing long."
HUGGINS.
Of all the girls about our place. There's one beats all in form and face ; Search through all Great and Little Bumpstead You'll only find one Peggy Plumstead.
MUGGINS AND DUGGINSr- 47 g
DUGGINS.
To groves and streams I tell my flame, I make the' cliffs repeat her name : When I'm inspired by gills and noggins, The rocks re-echo Sally Hoggins •!
HUGGINS.
When I am walking in the grove, I think of Peggy as I rove : I'd carve her name on every tree, But I-don't know my A, B, C.
DUGGINS.
Whether I walk in hill or valley, I think of nothing else but Sally : I'd sing her praise, but I can sing No song, except " God save the King."
HUGGINS.
My Peggy does all nymphs excel. And all confess she bears the bell ; Where'er she goes swains flock together, Like sheep that follow the bellwether.
DUGGINS.
Sally is tall and not too straight, — Those very poplar shapes I hate ; But something twisted like an S, — A crook becomes a shepherdess.
HUGGINS.
When Peggy's dog her arms emprison, I often -ft-ish my lot was hisn ; How often I should stand and turn. To get a pat from hands like hern.
DUGGINS.
I tell Sail's lambs how blest they be, To stand about and stare at she ; But when I look, she turns and shies. And wont bear none but their sheep's-eyes I
476 MUGGINS AND DUGGINS.
HUGGINS.
Love goes with Peggy, where she goes, — Beneath her smile the garden grows, Potatoes spring, and cabbage starts, 'Tatoes have eyes, and cabbage hearts !
DUGGINS.
Where Sally goes it's always Spring,
Her presence brightens everything ;
The sun smiles bright, but where her grin is,
It makes brass farthings look like guineas.
HUGGIKS.
For Peggy I can have no joy. She's sometimes kind, and sometimes coy, And keeps me, by her wayward tricks, As comfortless as sheep with ticks.
DUGGINS.
Sally is ripe as June or May, And yet as cold as Christmas Day ; For when she's asked to change her lot. Lamb's wool, — ^but Sally, she wool not.
HUGGINS.
Only with Peggy and with health, I'd never wish for state or wealth ; Talking of having health and more pence, I'd .drink her health if I had fburpence.
DUGGINS.
Oh, how that day would seem to shine, If Sally's banns were read with mine ; She cries, when such a wish I carry, " Marry come up !" but will not marry.
TO ma'hy housemaid. 477-
A FEW LINES ON COMPLETING FORTY-SEVEN.
When I reflect, with serious sense,
While years and years run on, How soon I may be summoned hence —
There's cook a-caUiag John.
Our lives are built so frail and poor.
On sand, and not on rocks. We're hourly standing at Death's door —
There's some one double-knocks.
AU human days have settled terms,
Our fates we cannot force ; This flesh of mine will feed the worms —
They're come to lunch, of course.
And when my body's turned to clay. And dear friends hear my knell.
Oh, let them give a sigh and say — I hear the upstairs bell.
TO MARY HOUSEMAID, ON valentine's day.
Mary, you know I've no love-nonsense, And, though I pen on such a day,
I don't mean flirting, on my conscience. Or writing in the courting way.
Though Beauty hasn't formed your feature, It saves you, p'rhaps, from being vain,
And many a poor unhappy creature May wish that she was half as plain.
Your virtues would not rise an inch. Although your shape was two foot taller.
And wisely you let others pinch Great waists and feet to make them smaller.
4?8 THE UNDYING ONE.
You never try to spare your hands From getting red by household duty,
But, doing all that it commands, Their coarseness is a moral beauty.
Let Susan flourish her fair arms.
And at your odd legs sneer and scoff;
But let her laugh, for you have charms That nobody knows nothing of.
THE UNDYING ONE,
" He shall not ^v^."— Uncle. Toby.
Of all the verses, grave or gay,
That ever whiled an hour, I never knew a mingled lay,
At once so sweet and sour, As that by Ladye Norton spun, And christened " The Undying One.'"
II.
I'm very certain that she drew A portrait when she penned
That picture of a perfect Jew, Whose days will never end ;
I'm sure it means my Uncle Lunn,
For he is an Undying One.
III.
These twenty years he's been the same,
And may be twenty more ; But Memory's pleasures only claim
His features for a score ; Yet in that time the change is none— Th' image of th' Undying One 1
THE UNDYINQ ONE. 479
They say our climate's damp and cold, And lungs are tender things ;
My uncle's much abroad and old, But when " King Cole" he sings,
A Stentor's voice, enough to stun.
Declares him an Undying One.
V.
Others have died from needle-pricks
And very slender blows, From accidental slips or kicks,
Or bleedings at the nose ; ' Or choked by grape-stone, or a bun— But he is the Undying One 1
VI.
A soldier once, he once endured
A bullet in the breast — It might have killed — but only cured
An asthma in the chest ; He was not to be slain with gun, For he is tlie Undying One.
VII.
In water once too long he dived, And all supposed him beat.
He seenied so cold — but he revived To have another heat,
Just when we thought his race was run,
And came in fresh — th' Undying One I
VIII.
To look at Meux's once he went,
And tumbled in the vat — And greater Jobs their lives have spent
In lesser boils than that : — He left the beer quite underdone. No bier to the Undying One !
48o ODE TO THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER
IX.
He's been from strangulation black,
From bile, of yellow hiie, Scarlet from fever's hot attack,
From cholera-morbus blue ; Yet with these dyes — to use a pun — He still is the Undying One.
He rolls in wealth, yet has no wife His Three per Cents, to share ;
He never married in his life, Or flirted with the fair ;
The sex he made a point to shun.
For beauty an Undying One.
XI.
To judge him by. the present signs.
The future by the past, So quick he lives, so slow declines.
The Last Man wont be last, But buried underneath a ton Of mould by the Undying One !
XII.
Next Friday week, his birthday boast, His ninetieth year he spends.
And I shall have his health to toast Amongst expectant friends.
And wish — it really sounds like fun —
Long life to the Undying One !
ODE FOR THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER.
O LuD ! O Lud ! O Lud ! I mean, of course, that venerable town, Mentioned in stories of renown,
Built fonnerly of mud ;—
ODE TO THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. 481
O Lud, I say, why didst thou e'er Invent the office of a mayor, An office that no useful purpose crowns, But to set aldermen against each other, That should be brother unto brother, — Sisters at least, by virtue of their gowns ?
But still, if one must have a mayor To fill the civic chair, O Lud, I say, Was there no better day To fix on than November Ninth so shivery, And dull for showing off the Livery's livery? Dimming, alas ! The 3razier's brass. Soiling th' Embroiderers and all the Saddlers, Sopping the Furriers, Draggling the Curriers, And making Merchant Tailors dirty paddlers ; Drenching the Skinners' Company to the skin, Making the crusty Vintner chiller. And turning the Distiller '
To cold without instead of warm within ; — Spoiling the brand-new beavers Of Wax-chandlers and Weavers,
Plastering the Plasterers and spotting Mercers, Hearty November-cursers — And showing Cordwainers and dapper Drapers Sadly in want of brushes and of scrapers ; Making the Grocer's Company not fit
For company a bit ; Dyeing the Dyers with a dingy flood. Daubing incorporated Bakers, And leading the Patten-makers ^
Over their very pattens in the mud,- O Lud ! O Lud ! O Lud !
" This is a sorry sight," To quote Macbeth — ^but oh, it grieves me quite, To see your wives and daughters in their plumes — White plumes not white — Sitting at open windows catching rheums,
31
482 ODE TO THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER.
Not " angels ever bright and fair,'' But angels ever brown and sallow, With eyes — you cannot see above one piair;
For city clouds of black and yellow
And artificial flowers, rose, leaf, and bud. Such sable lilies And grim daffodillies, Drooping, but not for drought — O Lud ! O Lud !
I may as well, while I'm inclined, Just go through all the faults I find : —
0 Lud ! then, with a better air, say June, Could'st thou not find a better tune
To sound with trumpets and with drums Than " See the Conquering Hero comes,"
When he who comes ne'er dealt in blood ? Thy ma/r is not a war-horse, Lud, That ever charged on Turk or Tartar, And yet upon a march you strike That treats him like — A little French if I may mart}^ — Lewis Cart-horse or Henry Carter !
O Lud ! I say
Do change your day
To some time when your Show can really show ;
WTien silk can seem like silk, and gold can glow.
Look at your Sweepers, how they shine in May I Have it when there^s a sun to gild the coach, And sparkle in tiara — ^bracelet — brooch —
Diamond — or paste — of sister, mother, daughter ; When grandeur really may be grand — But if thy pageant's thus obscured by land—
O Lud ! it's ten times worse upon the water ! Suppose, O Lud, to show its plan,
1 call, like Blue Beard's wife, to Sister Anne, Who's gone to Beaufort Wharf with niece and aunt To see what she can see — and what she can't ; Chewing a saffron bun by way of cud,
To keep the fog out of a tender lung, While perched in a verandah nicely hung Over a margin of thy own black mud, OLud!
ODE TO THE NINTH OF NOVEMBER. 483
Now Sister Anne, I call to thee, Look out and see : Of course about the bridge you view them rally
And sally. With many a wherry, sculler, punt, and cutter ; The Fishmongers' grand boat, but not for butter,
The Goldsmiths' glorious galley ; — Of course you see the Lord Mayor's coach aquatic,
With silken banners that the breezes fan, ,
In gold all glowing. And men in scarlet rowing, Like Doge of Venice to the Adriatic ; Of course you see all this, O Sister Aime?
" No, I see no such thing ! I only see the edge of Beaufort Wharf, With two coal-lighters fastened to a ring ;
And, dim as ghosts, Two little boys are jumping over posts ;
And something, farther off, That's rather like the shadow of a dog,
And all beyond is fog. If there be anything 20 fine and bright, To see it I must see by second sight. ~ Call this a Show ? It is not worth a pin i
I see no barges row,
No banners blow ; The Show is merely a gallanty-show, Without a lamp or any candle in."
But Sister Anne, my dear. Although you cannot see, you still may hear ? Of course you hear, I'm very sure of that,
The " Water Parted from the Sea," in C, Or " Where the Bee sucks," set in B ; Or Huntsman's chorus from the Freischutz frightful, Or Handel's Water Music in A flat. Oh, music from the water comes delightful ; It sounds as nowhere else it can : You hear it first In some rich burst.
484 LINES TO A FRIEND AT COBHAM.
Then faintly sighing, Tenderly dying, Away upon the breezes, Sister Anne.
" There is no breeze to die on ; And all their drums and trumpets, flutes and harps, Could never cut their way TUfith ev'n three sharps Through such a fog as this, you may rely on.
I think, but am not sure, 1 hear a hum, Like a very muffled double drum. And then a something faintly shrill, Like Bartlemy Fair's old buz at Pentonville. And now and then I hear a pop. As if from Pedley's soda-water shop. I'm almost ill with the strong scent of mud, And, not to mention sneezing. My cough is more than usual teasing ; I really fear that I have chilled my blood, O Lud ! O Lud ! O Lud ! O Lud ! O Ludl"
LINES TO A FRIEND AT COBHAM.
'Tis pleasant, when we've absent friends, Sometimes to hob and nob 'em With memory's glass — at such a pass, Remember me at Cobham !
Have pigs you will, and sometimes kill, But if you sigh and sob 'em. And cannot eat your home-grown meat, Remember me at Cobham !
Of hen and cock, you'll have a stock, And death will oft unthrob 'em — A country chick is good to pick — Remember me at Cobham !
Some orchard trees of course you'll lease, And boys will sometimes rob 'em, A friend (you know) before a foe — Remember me at Cobham I
ODE TO PERCIVAL SPENCER, ESQ., M.P. 48s
You'll sometimes have wax-lightea rooms, And friends of course to mob 'em ; Should you .be short of such a sort, Remeiober me at Cobham !
ODE TO PERCIVAL SPENCER, Esq., M.P.
Oh, Mr. Spencer ! — I mean no offence, sir — Retrencher of each trencher, man or woman's ; Maker of days of ember, Eloquent member
Of the House of Com I mean to say short commons.
Thou, Long Tom Coffin, singing out, " Hold fast," Avast ! . Oh ! Mr. Percival, I'll bet a dollar a Great growth of cholera, And new deaths reckone^i, Will mark thy lenten twenty-first and -second. The best of our physicians, when they con it. Depose the malady is in the air : Oh, Mr. Spencer ! — if the ill is there. Why should you bid the people live upon it ?
Why should you make discourses against courses ; While Doctors, though they bid us rub and chafe.
Declare, of all resources, The man is safest who gets in the safe ? And yet you bid poor suicidal sinners
Discard their dinners ! Thoughtless how Heaven above will look upon't, For men to die so wantonly of want !
By way of a variety.
Think of the ineffectual piety Of London's Bishop, at St. Faith's or Bride's, Lecturing such chameleon insides, Only to find
He's preaching to the wind
486 A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
Whatever others do, or don't, I cannot — dare not, must not — fast, and wont. Unless by night your day you let me keep,
And fast asleep ; My constitution can't obey such censors :
I must have meat
Three times a day to eat,
My health's of such a sort. The coats of my stomach are not Spencers.
A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
" If th' affairs of this world did not make us so sad, 'T would be easy enough to be merry." Old Song.
There's nothing but plague in this house !
There's the turbot is stole by the cat. The Newfoundland has eat up the grouse.
And the haunch has been gnawed by a rat ! It's the day of all days when I wished
That our friends should enjoy our good cheer, Mr. Wiggins — our dinner is dished, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year !
Mr. Rudge has not called, but he will,
For his rates, church, and highway, and poor ;
And the butcher has brought in his bill. Twice as much as the quarter before.
Little Charles is come home with the mumps, , And Matilda with measles, I fear.
And I've taken two sovereigns like dumps — But I Avish you a Happy New Year !
Your poor brother is in the Gazette,
And your banker is off to New York ; Mr. Bigsby has died in your debt.
And the Wiggins has foundered near Cork. Mr. Merrington's bill has come back,
You are chosen to serve overseer. The new wall is beginning to crack —
But I wish you a Happy New Year \
A HAPPY NEW YEAR. 487
The best dinner set's fall'n to the ground, •
The militia's called out, and you're drawn, Not a piece of our plate can be found.
But there's marks of men's feet on the lawn ; Two anonymous letters have come
That declare you shall die like a Weare,* And it may — or may not — be a hum, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year ! '
The old lawsuit with Levy is lost, You are fined for not cleansing the street,
And the water-pipe's burst with the frost, And the roof lets the rain in and sleet.
Your old tenant at Seventy-Four,
- Has gone off in the night with his gear.
And has taken the key of the door, — But I wish you a Happy New Year !
There's the Sun and the Phcenix to pay,
For the chimney has blazed like Old Nick, The new gig has been jammed by a dray.
And the old horse has taken to kick ; We have hardly a bushel of small.
And now coal is extravagant dear. Your great-coat is stole out of the hall, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year !
The whole greenhouse is smashed by the hail.
And the plants have all died in the night, The magnolia's blown down by the gale.
And the chimney looks far from upright ; And the deuce take the man from the shop,
That hung up the new glass chandelier. It has come in the end to one drop, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year !
There's misfortune wherever we dodge.
It's the same in the country and town. There's the porter has burned down his lodge,
While he went off to smoke at the Crown ;
Murdered by Thurtell.
488 A HAPPY NEW YEAR.
The fat butler makes free with y6ur wine, And the footman has drunk the small beer,
And the coachman can't walk in a line, — But I wish you a'Happy New Year
I have doubts if your clerk is correct,
There are hints of a mistress at Kew, And some day he'll abscond, I expect.
Mr. Brown has built out your back view ; The new housemaid's the greatest of flirts,
She has men in the house, that is clear. And the laundress has pawned all your shirts, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year !
Your " Account of a Visit to Rome,"
Not a critic on earth seems to laud. And old Huggins is lately come home.
And will swear that your Claiade isn't Claude ; Your election is far from secure,
Though it's likely to cost very dear. You've come out in a caricature, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year ! '
You've been christened an ass in the " Times,"
And the " Chronicle" calls you a fool, And that dealer in boys, Dr. Ghrimes,
Has engaged the next house for a school ; And the playground will run by the bow'r,
That you took so much trouble to rear, We shall never have one quiet hour, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year !
Little John will not take to his book.
He's come home black and blue from the cane ; There's your uncle is courting his cook.
And your mother has married again ! Jacob Jones will be tried with his wife.
And against them you'll have to appear, If they're hung you'll be wretched for life, —
But I wish you a Happy New Year !
489
A CHARITY SERMON.
" ' I would have walked many a mile to have communed with you ; and believe me, I will shortly pay thee another visit ; but my friends, I fancy, wonder at my stay, so let me have the money immediately.' Trubner then put on a stern look, and cried out, ' Thou dost not intend to rob me ?' *****
" ' I would have thee know, friend,' addressing himself to Adams, ' I shall not learn my duty from such -as thee. I know what charity is better than to give to vagabonds.' " — Joseph Andrews.
I'm an extremely charitable man — no collar and long hair, though
a little carroty ; Demure, half-inclined to the' unknown tongueSj but I never gained
anything by Charity^ I got a little boy into the Foundling, but his unfortunate mother
was traced and baited, And. the overseers found her out — and she found me out — and the
child was affiliated.
Oh, Charity will come home to roost, Like curses and chickens is Charity.
I once, near Whitehall's very old wall, when ballads danced over
the whole of it, Put a bad five-shilling piece into a beggar's hat, but the old hat
had got a hole in it ; And a little boy caught it in his little hat, and an officer's eye
seemed to care for it, As my bad crownpiece went through his bad crownpiece, and
they took me to Queen's Square for it. Oh, Charity, &c.
I let my very old (condemned) old house to a man at a rent that
was shockingly low, So I found a roof for his ten motherless babes — all defunct and
fatherless now ; ' . *
For the plaguey one-sided party-wall fell in, so did the roof, on son
and daughter, And twelve jurymen sat on eleven bodies, and brought in a verj
personal verdict of manslaughter. Oh, Charity, &c.
490 A CHARITY SERMON.
I picked up a young well-dressed gentleman, who had fallen in a
fit in St. Martin's Court, And charitably offered to see him home, for charity always seemed
to be my forte, And IVe had presents for seeing fallen gentlemen home ; but this
was an unlucky job, — Do you know, he got my watch, my purse, and my handkerchief,
for it was one of the swell mob. Oh, Charity, &c.
Being four miles from town, I stopped a horse that had run away
with a man, when it seemed that they must be dashed to
pieces. Though several kind people were following him with all their
might ; but such following a horse his speed increases. I held the horse while he went to recruit his strength ; I meant to
ride home, of course ; But the crowd came up and took me up, for it turned out the man
had run away with the horse. Oh, Charity, &c.
I watched last month all the drovers and drivers about the suburbs,
for it's a positive fact. That I think the utmost penalty ought always to be enforced against
everybody under Mr. Martin's Act. But I couldn't catch one hit over the horns, or over the shins, or
on the ears, or over the head ; And I caught a rheumatism from early wet hours, and got five
weeks of ten swelled fingers in bed. Oh, Charity, &c.
Well, I've utterly done with Charity, though I used so to preach
about its finest fount ; Charity may do for some that are more lucky, but / can't turn it
to anyaccount. It goes so the very reverse way — even if one chirrups it up with a
dust of piety ; That henceforth, let it be understood, I take my name entirely out
of the Ust of the subscribers to the Humane Society. Oh, Charity, &c.
491
ODE TO ADMIRAL LORD GAMBIER, G.C.B.
" Well, if you reclaim such as Hood, your Society will deserve the thanjcs of the country." — Temperance Society's Herald, vol, i. No, I. p. 8.
" My father, when last I from Guinea
Came home with abundance of wealth, Said, ' Jack, never be such a ninny
As to drink ' says I, ' Father, your health.' "
Nothing like Grog.
Oh ! Admiral Gam I dare not mention bier,
. In such a temperate ear ;
Oh ! Admiral Gam an Admiral of the Blue,
Of course, to read the Navy List aright, For, strictly shunning wine of either hue, You can't be Admiral of the Red or White ; Oh, Admiral Gam ! consider ere you call On merry Englishmen to wa-sh their throttles With water only, and to break their bottles, To stick, for fear of trespass, on the wall. Of Exeter Hall.
II.
Consider,^ I beseech, the contrariety Of cutting off our brandy, gm, and rum And then by tracts inviting us to come And " mix" in'your society ! In giving rules to dine, or sup, or lunch, Consider Nature's ends before- you league us To strip the Isle of Rum of all its punch. To dock the Isle of Mull of all its negus, Or doom — to suit your milk-and-water view — The Isle of Skye to nothing but sky-blue !
III.
Consider, — for appearance' sake, consider — The sorry figure of a spirit-ridder. Going on this crusade against the suttler, A sort of Hudibras — without a~Butler !
492 ODE TO ADMIRAL LORD GAMBmR, G.C.B.
IV.
Consider, — ere you break the ardent spirits Of father, mother, brother, sister, daughter ; What are your beverage's washy merits : Gin may be low — but I have known low-water !
Consider well before you thus deliver With such authority your sloppy canon. Should British tars taste nothing but the river, Because the Chesapeake once fought the Shannon ?
VI.
Consider too — ^before all Eau-de-vie, Schiedam, or other drinkers you rebut, To bite a bitten dog all curs agree ; But who would cut a man, because he'- cut ?
VII.
Consider — ere you bid the poor to fill Their murmuring stomachs with the " murmuring rill," Consider that their streams are not like ours, Reflecting heaven, margined by sweet flowers ; On their dark pools by day no sun reclines. By night no Jupiter, no Venus shines ; Consider life's sour taste, that bids them mix Rum with their Acheron, or gin with Styx : If you must pour out water to the poor, oh ! Let it be aqua d'oro !
VIII,-
Consider, — ere as furious as a griffin. Against a glass of grog you make such work, A man may like a stiff 'un. And yet not be a Burke.
IX.
Consider, too, before you bid all skinkers Turn water-drinkers.
What sort of fluid fills their native rivers, Their Mudiboos, and Niles, and Guadalquivers.
A PUBLIC DINNER. 493
How should you like yourself, in glass or mug,
The Bog— the Bug, The Maine, the Weser, or that freezer Neva ? Nay, take the very rill of classic ground — Lord Byrpn found Ev'n Castaly the better for Geneva.
Consider — if to vote Reform's arrears, His Majesty should please to make you peers, • Your titles would be very far from trumps To figure in a book of blue and red : The Duke of Drawwell — ^what a name to dread ! Marquis of Mainpipe ; Earl of New River Head And Temperance's chief, the Prince of Pumps.
A PUBLIC DINNER.
•' • Sit down and fall to,' said the Baraiecide." — Arabian Nights.
At seven you nick it, Give card — get wine ticket ; Walk round through the Babel, From table to table. To find — a hard matter — Your name in a platter. Your wish was to sit by Your friend, Mr. Whitby ; But stewards' assistance Has placed you at distance ; And, thanks to arrangers. You sit among strangers. But too late for mending. Twelve sticks come attending— A stick of a chairman, A little, dark, spare man. With bald shining nob, 'Mid Committee swell mob, In short, a short figure — You thought the Duke bigger.
494- A PUBLIC DINNER.
Then silence is wanted, Non Nobis is chanted ; Then chairman reads letter, The Duke's a regretter A promise to break it, But chair, he can't take it ; Is grieved to be from us. But sends friend Sir Thomas, And, what is far better, A cheque in the letter ; Hear ! hear ! and a clatter, And there ends the matter. Now soups come and fish in,
And C brings a dish in.
Then rages the battle — Knives clatter, forks rattle, Steel forks with black handles Under fifty wax-candles. , Your soup-plate is soon full. You sip just a spoonful : Mr. Roe will be grateful To send him a plateful ; And then- comes the waiter, " Must trouble for 'tater ;" And then you drink wine oft With somebody — nine oft" — Bucellas, made handy With Cape and bad brandy. Or East India sherry That's very hot — very. You help Mr. Myrtle, Then find your mock turtle Went off while you lingered With waiter light-fingered. To make up for gammon, You order some salmon. Which comes to your fauces With boats without sauces. You then make a cut on Some lamb, big as mutton. And ask for some grass too, But that you must pass too —
A PUBLIC DINNER. 495
It served the first twenty —
But toast there is plenty ;
Then while lamb gets coldish,
A goose that is oldish —
At carving not clever —
You're begged to dissever ;
And when thus you treat it,
Find no one will eat it.
So, hungry as glutton,
You turn to your mutton ;
But — no sight for laughter—
The soup it's gone after.
Mr. Green then is very
Disposed to take sherry,
And next Mr. Nappy
Will feel very happy ;
And then Mr. Conner
Requests the same honour j
Mr. Clarke,, when at leisure.
Will really feel pleasure.
Then waiter leans over
To take off a cover
From fowls, which all beg of
A wing or a leg of;
And while they all peck bon^
You take to a neck bone.
But even your hunger
Declares for a younger;
A fresh plate you call for,
But vainly you bawl for ;
Now taste disapproves it.
No waiter removes it.
Still hope, newly budding,
Relies on a pudding ;
But critics each minute
Set fancy agin it —
" That's queer vermicelli}
" I say, Vizetelly," '
" There's glue in that jelly."
" Tarts bad altogether ;"
" That crusf s made of leather."
" Some custard, friend Vesey?"
496 A PUBLIC DINNER.
" No— batter made easy." " Some cheese, Mr. Foster ?" — " Don't like single Gloucester." Meanwhile, to top table, Like fox in the fable, You see silver dishes With those little fishes The whitebait delicious, Borne past you officious j And near, rather plainish, A sound that's champagnish ; And glimpse certain bottles Made long in the throttles, And sniff — very pleasant — , Grouse, partridge, and pheasant, And see mounds of ices, For Patrons and Vices ; Pine-apple, and bunches Of grapes for sweet munches, And fruits of all virtue That really desert you ; You've nuts, but not crack ones, Half empty and black ones ; With oranges sallow. They can't be called yellow ; Some pippins well wrinkled. And plums almond sprinkled ; Some rout cakes, and so on, Then with business to- go on. Long speeches are stuttered, And toasts are well buttered, While dames in the gallery, All dressed in fallallery. Look on at the mummery, And listen to flummery. Hip, hip, and huzzaing, And singing and saying Glees, catches, orations, And lists of donations. Hush ! a song — Mr. Tinney— " Mr. Benbow, one guinea," " Mr. Frederick Manual
A PUBLIC DINNER, 497
One guinea, and annual ;" Song-r-Jockey and Jenny — " Mr. Markham, one guinea ;" " Have you all fiUed your glasses ? Here's a health to good lasses." The subscription still skinny, " Mr. Franklin, one guinea;" Franklin looks like a ninny. " Mr. Boreham, one guinea ; Mr. Blogg ; Mr. Finny ; Mr. Tempest, one guinea ," Mr. Merrington, twenty," Rough music in plenty. Away toddles Chairman, The little dark spare maiJ, Not sorry at ending, - With white sticks attending And some vain Tom Noddy Votes in his own body ' To fill the void seat up, And get^on his feet up. To say, with voice squeaking, " Unaccustomed to speaking" — Which sends you off seeking Your hat, number thirty. No coach-rrvery dirty, — So hungry and fevered. Wet footed, spoilt beavered, Eyes aching in socket, Ten pounds out of pocket. To Brook Street the upper,' You haste home to supper.
498
THE CIGAR.
" Here comes Mr. Puff."— 7%« Cnlu: " I knew by the smoke that so gi-acefuUy curled.' — Moore.
Some sigh for this and that,
My wishes don't go far, The .world may wag at will,
So I have my cigar.
Some fret themselves to death, With Whig and Tory jar ;
I don't care which is in, So I have my cigar
Sir John requests my vote.
And so does Mr. Marr ; ' I don't care how it goes,
So I have my cigar.
Some want a German row. Some wish a Russian war,
I care not — I'm at peace — So I have my cigar
I never see the Posf, 1 seldom read the Star*
The Globe I scarcely heed, So I have my cigar.
They tell me that Bank Stock Is sunk much under par.
It's all the same to me. So I have my cigar.
Honours have come to men,
My juniors at the Bar, No matter — I can wait.
So I have my cigar.
* The Star has set Th^ Cleie still revolves on its axis.
THE CIGAR. 459
Ambition frets me not ;
A cab, or glory's car Are just the same to me,
So I have my cigar.
I worship no vain gods,
But serve the household Lar; I'm sure to be at home,
So I have my cigar.
I do not seek for fame :
A General with a scar, A Private let me be.
So I have my cigar.
To have my choice among
The toys of life's bazaar, The deuce may take them alJ,
So I have my cigar.
Some minds are often tost
By tempests, like a tar • I always seem in port,
So I have my cigar.
The ardent flame of love
My bosom cannot char, I smoke but do not burn,
So I have my cigar.
They tell me Nancy Low
Has married Mr. E.— — f The jilt ! but I can live,
So I have my cigar.
Soo
SONNET.
"Doraton & Co. may challenge the world, the house of Hope perhaps excepted." — Road to Ruin.
Time was I sat upon a lofty stool, At lofty desk, and with a clerkly pen, Began each morning, at the stroke of ten, To write in Bell & Co.'s commercial school ; In Warnford Court, a shady nook and cool, The favourite retreat of merchant men ; Yet would my quill turn vagrant even then, And take stray dips in the Castalian pool. Now double entry — now a flowery trope, MingUng poetic honey with trade wax. Blogg Brothers — Milton — Grote & Prescott— Pope- Bristles — and Hogg — Glyn, Mills, and Halifax — Rogers — and Towgood — Hemp — the Bard of Hope — Barilla — Byron — 'TpHow — Burns — and Flax 1
SONNET.
TO LORD WHARNCLIFFE, ON HIS GAME BILL.
I'm fond of partridges, I'm fond of snipes,
I'm fond of blackcocks, for they're very good cocks —
I'm fond of wild ducks, and I'm fond of woodcocks.
And grouse, that set up such strange moorish pipes.
I'm fondof pheasants with their splendid stripes —
I'm fond of hares, whether from Whig or Tory —
I'm fond of capercailzies in their glory, —
Teal, widgeons, plovers, birds in all their types :
All these are in your care, law-giving Peer,
And when you next address your Lordly Babel,
Some clause put in your Bill, precise and clear,
With due and fit provision to enable
A. man that holds all kinds of game so dear
To keep, like Crockford, a good Gaming Table.
ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT. 501
RONDEAU.
[extractkd from a well-known annual,]
O CURIOUS reader ! didst thou ne'ef Behold a worshipful lord piayor Seated in his great civic chair
So dear?
Then cast thy longing eyes this way, It is the ninth November day, And in his new-born state survey
One here!
To rise from little into great Is pleasant ; but to sink in state P'rom high to lowly is a fate -: Severe.
Too soon his shine is overcast, Chilled by the next November blast ; His blushing honours only last
One year !
He casts his fur and sheds his chains, And moults till not a plume remains — The next impending mayor distrains ' His gear.
He slips like water through a sieve — Ah, could his little splendour live Another twelvemonth — he would give One ear !
ON THE DEATH OF SIR WALTER SCOTT,
1833-
Farewell, Sir Walter Scott, secured From Time — our greatest of Inditers ! No author's fame's so well assured For all who wrote were Underwriters.
502
THE CHINA-MENDER.
Good morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call ! Well, here's another pretty
job! I>ord help my Lady ! — what a smash ! — if you had only heard her
sob ! It was all through Mr. Lambert : but for certain he was winy, To think for to go to sit down on a table full of Chiny. " Deuce take your stupid head !" says my Lady to his very face ; But politeness, you know, is nothing, when there's Chiny in the
case : And if ever a woman was fond of Chiny to a passion It's my mistress, and all sorts of it, whether new or old fashion. Her brother's a sea-captain, and brings her home ship-loads — Such bonzes, and such dragons, and nasty, squatting things like
toads ; And great nidnoddin mandarins, with palsies in the head: I declare I've often dreamt of them, and had nightmares in my bed. But the frightfuller they are— lawk ! she loves them all the better : She'd have Old Nick himself made of Chiny if they'd let her. Lawk-a-mercy ! break her Chiny, and it's breaking her very heart j If I touch'd it, she would very soon say, " Mary, we must part." To be sure she is unlucky : only Friday comes Master Randall, And breaks a broken spout, and fresh chips a tea-cup handle : He's a dear, sweet little child, but he will so finger and touch. And that's, why my Lady doesn't take to children much. Well ! there's stupid Mr. Lambert, with his two great coat flaps, Must go and sit down on the Dresden shepherdess's laps, As if there was no such things as rosewood chairs in the room ; I couldn't have made a greater sweep with the handle of the
broom. Mercy on us ! how my mistress began to rave and tear ! Well ! after all, there's nothing like good ironstone ware for wear. If ever I marry, that's flat, I'm sure it wont be John Dockery, I should be a wretched woman in a shop full of crockery. I should never like to wipe it, though I love to be neat and tidy, And afraid of mad bulls on market-days every Monday and Friday. I'm very much mistook if Mr. Lambert's will be a catch ; The breaking the Chiny will be the breaking off of his own match. Missis wouldn't have an angel, if he was careless about Chiny ; She never forgives a chip, if it's ever so small and tiny.
THE CHINA-MENDER. 503
Lawk ! I never saw a man in all my life in such a taking :
I could find in my heart to pity him for all his mischief-making.
To see him stand a-hammering and stammering, like a zany ;
But what signifies apologies, if they wont mend old Chaney !
If he^ sent her up whole crates full, from Wedgwood's and Mr.
Spode's, He couldn't make amends for the cracked mandarins and smash'd
toads. Well ! every one has their tastes, but, for my parts, my own self, I'd rather have the figures on my poor dear grandmother's old shelf : A nice pea-green poll-parrot, and two reapers with brown ears of
corns. And a shepherd with a crook after a lamb with two gilt horns, And .such a Jemmy Jessamy in top-boots and sky-blue vest, And a frill and flowered waistcoat, with a fine bowpot at the breast. God help her, poor old soul ! I shall come into 'em at her death. Though she's a hearty woman for her years, except her shortness of
breath. Well ! you think the things will mend — if they wont, Lord mend
us all ! My Lady will go in fits, and Mr. Lambert wont need to call : I'll be bound in any money, if I had a guinea to give, He wont sit down again on Chiny the longest day he has to live. Poor soul ! I only hope it wont forbid his banns of marriage. Or he'd better have sat behind on the spikes of my Lady's carriage. But you'll join 'em all of course, and stand poor Mr. Lambert's
friend ; I'll look in twice a day, just to see, like, how they mend. To be sure it is a sight that might draw tears from dogs and cats ; Here's this pretty little pagoda, now, has lost four of its cocked
hats : Be particular with the pagoda : and then here's this pretty bowl — The Chinese Prince is making love to nothing because of this hole; And here's another Chinese man, with a face just like a doll — Do stick his pigtail on again, and just mend his parasol. But I needn't tell you what to do ; only do it out of hand, And charge whatever you like to charge — ^my Lady wont make a
stand. Well ! good morning, Mr. What-d'ye-call ; for it's time our gossip
ended ; And you know the proverb, the less - as is said, the sooner the
Chiny's mended.
504
A LAY OF REAL LIFE.
" Some are bom with a wooden spoon in their mouths, and some witn a golden ladle.'' — Goldsmith.
" Some are bom with tin rings in their noses, and some with silver ones."
Silversmith.
Who ruined me ere I was born, Sold every acre, grass or corn. And left the next heir all forlorn ?
My Grandfather. -
Who said my mother was no nurse, And physicked me and made me worse. Till infancy became a curse?
My Grandmother.
Who left me in my seventh year, A comfort to my mother dear, And Mr. Pope, the overseer?
My Father.
^Vho let me starve, to buy her gin,
Till all my bones came through my skin,
Then called me " ugly little sin?"
My Mother.
Who said my mother was a Turk, And took me home — and made me work, But managed half my meals to shirk ? My Aunt.
Who " of all earthly things" would boast, " He hated others' brats the most," And therefore made me feel my post ? My Uncle.
Who got in scrapes, an endless score, And always laid them at my door, Till many a bitter bang I bore ?
My Cousin.
Who took me home when mother died, Again with father to reside. Black «hoes, clean knives, run far and wide ? My Stepmother.
THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT. 505
Who marred my stealthy urchin joys, And when I played cried " What a noise .' Girls always hector over boys —
My Sister.
Who used to share in what was mine, Or took it all, did he incline, 'Cause I was eight, and he was nine? My Brother.
Who stroked my head, and said " Good lad," And gave me sixpence^ " all he had ;" But at the stall the coin was bad ?
My Godfather.
Who, gratis, shared my social glass, But when misfortune came to pass, Referr'd me to the pump? Alas !
My Friend.
Through all this weary world, in brief, Who ever sympathised with grief^ Or shared my joy — my sole .relief? Myself.
THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT.
" I like to meet a sweep — such as come forth with the dawn, or somewhat earlier, with their little professional notes, sounding like the peep, peep, of ■-■ /oung sparrow." — Essays of Elia.
" A voice cried Sweep no more ! Macbeth hath murdered sweep." — Shakspeare.
One morning, ere my usual time I rose, about the seventh chime, When little stunted boys that climb
Still linger in the street ; And as I walked, I saw indeed A sample of the sooty breed. Though he was rather run to seed,
In height above five feet.
So6 THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT.
A mongrel tint he seemed to take,
Poetic simile to make,
Day through his Martin 'gan to break,
White overcoming jet. From side to side he crossed oblique. Like Frenchman who has friends to seek. And yet no English word can speak.
He walked upon the fret : And while he sought the dingy job His lab'ring breast appeared to throb. And half a hiccup half a sob
Betray'd internal woe. To cry the cry he had by rote He yearn'd, but law forbade the note, Like Chanticleer with roupy throat,
He gaped — but not a crow ! I watched him, and the glimpse I snatched Disclosed his sorry eyelids patched With red, as if the soot had catched
That hung about the lid ; And soon I saw the teardrop stray, He did not care to brush away ; Thought I, the cause he will betray — And thus at last he did. Well, here's a pretty go ! here's a Gagging Act, if ever there was a
gagging! But I'm bound the members as silenced us, in domg it had
plenty of magging. They had better send us all off, they had, to the School for the
Deaf and Dumb, To unlarn us our mother tongues, and to make signs and be regu- larly mum. But they can't undo natur — as sure as ever the morning begins to
peep, Directly I open my eyes, I can't help calling out Sweep As natural as the sparrows among the chirabley-pots, that say Cheep ! For my own part I find my suppressed voice very uneasy, And comparable to nothing but having your tissue stopt when
you are sneezy. Well, it's all up with us ! tho' I suppose we mustn't cry all up. Here's a precious merry Christmas, I'm blest if I can earn either bit or sup !
THE SWEEP'S COMPLAINT. 507
If crying Sweep, of mornings, is going beyond quietness's border, Them as pretends to be fond of silence oughtn't to cry hear, hear,
and order, order. I wonder Mr. Sutton, as we've sut-on too, don't sympathise ivith us As a Speaker what don't speak, and that's exactly our own cus. God help us if we don't not cry, how are we to pursue our callings ? I'm sure we're ntothalf so bad as other businesses with their bawlings. For instance, the general postmen, that at six o'clock go about
ringing. And wake up all the babbies that their mothers have just got to
sleep with singing. Greens oughtn't to be cried no more than blacks — to do the
unpartial job. If they bring in a Sooty Bill, they ought to have brought in a
Dusty Bob. Is a dustman's voice more sweet than ourn, when he comes a
seeking arter the cinders. Instead of a little boy, like a blackbird in spring, singing merrily
under your windows ? There's the omnibus cads as plies in Cheapside, and keeps calling
out Bank and City ; Let his worship, the Mayor, decide if our call' of Sweep is not just
as pretty. I can't see why the Jews should be let go about crying Old Close
thro' their hooky noses, And Christia:n laws should be ten times more hard than the old
stone laws of Moses. -, ,
Why isn't the mouths of the muffin-men compell'd to be equally
shut ? Why, because Parliament members eat muffins, but they never
eat no sut. Next year there wont be any May-day at all, we shan't have no
heart to dance. And Jack in the Green will go in black like mourning for our
mischance. If we live as long as May, that's to say, through the hard winter
and pinching weather. For I don't see how we're to earn enough to keep body and soul
together. I only wish Mr. Wilberforce, or some of them that pities the niggers, Would take a peep down in our cellars, and look at our miserable
starving figures,
So8 THE SWEEPS COMPLAINT.
A-sitting idle on our empty sacks, and all ready to eat each
other, And a brood of little ones crying for bread to a heartbreaking
Father and Mother, rhey haven't a -rag of clothes to mend, if their mothers had thread
and needles, But crawl naked about the cellars, poor things, Uke a swarm oi
common black beadles. If they'd only inquired before passing the Act, and taken a few
• such peeps, I don't think that any real gentleman would have set his face
against sweeps. Climbing's an ancient respectable art, and if History's of any
vally. Was recommended by Queen Elizabeth to the great Sir Walter
Raleigh, When he wrote on a pane of glass how I'd chmb, if the way I only
knew. And she writ beneath, if your heart's afeard, don't venture up the
flue. As for me I was always loyal, and respected all powers that are
higher. But how can I now say God save the King, if I an'tto be a Cryer? There's London milk, that's one of the cries, even on Sunday the
law allows, But ought black sweeps, that are human beasts, to be worser off
than black cows ? Do we go calling about, when it's church time, like the noisy
Billingsgate vermin. And disturb the parson with " All alive O !" in the middle of a
funeral sermon ? But the fish wont keep, not the mackarel wont, is the cry of the
Parliament elves. Every thing, except the sweeps I think, is to be allowed to keep
themselves ! Lord help us ! what's to become of us if we mustn't cry no
more ? We shan't do for black mutes to go a standing at a death's door. And we shan't do to emigrate, no not even to the Hottentot
nations. For as time wears on, our black will wear off, and then think oJ
our situations !
/ CANNOT BEAR A GUN. So9
And we should not do, in lieu of black-a-moor footmen, to serve
ladies of quality nimbly,' For when we were drest in our sky-blue and silver, and large
frills, all clean and neat, and white silk stockings, if they
pleased to desire us to sweep the hearth, we couldn't resist
the chimbley.
I CANNOT BEAR A GUN.
" Timidity is generally reckoned an essential attribute of the fair sex, and this absurd notion gives rise to more false starts, than , race for the Leger. Hence screams at mice, fits at spiders, faces at toads, jumps at lizards, flights from daddy longlegs, panics at wasps, sauve quipeui at sight of a gun. Surely, when the military exercise is made a branch of education at so many ladies' academies, the use of the musket would only be a judicious step further in the march of mind." I should not despair, in a month's practice, of making the most timid British female fond of small arms. " — Hints by a Corporal.
It can't be minced, I'm quite convinced.
All girls are full of flam. Their feelings fine and feminine
Are nothing else but sham. On all their tricks I need not fix,
I'll only mention one, Howmanya Miss will tell you this,
" I cannot bear a gun !"
There's cousin Bell can't 'bide the smell
Of powder — hop-id stuff! A single pop will make her drop.
She shudders at a puff. My Manton near, with asperi fear
Will make her scream and run, " It's always so, you brute, you know
I cannot bear a gun !"
About my flask I must not ask,
I must not wear a belt, I must not take a punch to make
My pellets, card or felt. And if I just allude to dust,
Or speak of Number one, " I beg you'll not — don't talk of shot,
I cannot bear a gun !"
Sio / CANNOT BEAR A GUN
Percussion cap I dare not snap,
I may not mention Hall, Or raise my voice for Mr. Joyce,
His wadding to recall ; At Hawker's book I must not look,
All shooting I must shun. Or else — " It's hard, you've no regard,
I cannot bear a gun !"
The very dress I wear no less
Must suit her timid mind, A blue or black must clothe my back.
With swallow-tails behind. By fustian, jean, or velveteen
Her nerves are overdone, " Oh do not, John, put gaiters on,
I cannot bear a guu !"
Ev'n little James she snubs, and blames
His Lilliputian train, Two inches each from mouth to breech,
And charged with half -a. grain — His crackers stopped, his squibbing dropped.
He has no fiery fun, And all thro' her, " How dare you, Sir,
I cannot bear a gun !"
Yet Major Flint,— the Devil's in't !
May talk from mom to night, Of springing mines, and twelves and nines
And volleys left and right. Of voltigeurs and tirailleurs,
And bullets by the ton. She never dies of fright, and cries
" I cannot bear a gun !"
It stirs my bile to see her smile
At all his bang and whiz, But if I talk of morning walk,
And shots as good as his,
I CANNOT BEAR A GUN. 511
I must not name the fallen game,
As soon as I've begun, She's in her pout, and crying out,
" I cannot bear a gun !"
Yet underneath the rose her teeth
Are false to match her tongue. Grouse, partridge, hares, she never spares,
Or pheasants, old or young — On widgeon, teal, she makes a meal.
And yet objects to none, " What have I got, it's full of shot!
I cannot bear a gun !"
At pigeon pie she is not shy.
Her taste it never shocks, Though they should be from Battersea,
So famous for blue rocks ; Yet when I bring the very thmg
My markmanship has won. She cries, " Lock up that horrid cup,
I cannot bear a gun !"
Like fool and dunce I got her once
A box at Drury Lane, And by her side I felt a pride
' I ne'er shall feel again : To read the bill it made her ill.
And this excuse she spun, " Der Freyshiitz, oh, seven shots, you know.
I cannot bear a gun !"
Yet at a hint from Major Flint,
Her very hands she rubs. And quickly drest in all her' best.
Is oflf to Wormwood Scrubs. The whole review she sits it through.
With noise enough to stun. And never winks, or even thinks,
■' I cannot bear a gun !"
512 TRIMMER'S EXERCISE.
She thus may blind the Major's mind
In mock-heroic strife, But let a bout at war break out,
And Where's the soldier's wife. To take his kit and march a bit
Beneath a broiling sun ? Or will she cry, " My dear, good-by,
I cannot bear a gun !"
If thus she doats on army coats,
And regimental cuffs, The yeomanry might surely be
Secure from her rebuffs ; But when I don my trappings on,
To follow Captain Dunn, My carbine's gleam provokes a scream,
" I cannot bear a gun!"
It can't be minced, I'm quite convinced,
All girls are full of flam. Their feelings fine, and feminine,
Are nothing else but sham ; On all their tricks I need not fix,
I'll only mention one, How many a Miss will tell you fhis,
" I cannot bear a gun !"
TRIMMER'S EXERCISE,
FOR THE USE OF CHILDREN.
Here, come. Master Timothy Todd, Before we have done you'll look grimmer,
You've been spelling some time for the rod, And your jacket shall know I'm a Trimmer.
You don't know your A fi-om your B, So backward you are in your Primer,
Don't kneel — you shall go on my knee. For I'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer.
TRIMMER'S EXERCISE. 513
This morning you hindered the cook, By meltirig your dumps in the skimmer,
Instead of attending your book.
But I'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer.
To-day, too, you went to the pond,
And bathed, though you are not a swimmer.
And with parents so doting and fond — But I'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer.
. After dinner you went to the Avine,
And helped yourself — yes, to a brimmer ; You couldn't walk straight in a line,
But I'll riiake you to know I'm a Trimmer.
You kick little Tomkins about,
Because he is slighter and slimmer ; Are the weak to be thump'd by the stout?
But I'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer.
Then you have a sly pilfering trick,
Your school-fellows call you the nimmer, — •
I will cut to the bone if you kick ! For I'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer.
To-day you made game at my back.
You think that my eyes are grown dimmer,
But I watched you, I've got a sly knack, And I'll have you to know I'm a Trim:ner.
Don't think that my temper is hot,
It's never beyond a slow, simmer, I'll teach you to call me Dame Trot,
But I'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer.
Miss Edgeworth, or Mrs. Chapofte,
Might melt to behold your tears glimmei' ]
Mrs. Barbauld would let you alone, But I'll have you to know I'm a Trimmer.
33
SH
ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, Esq., M.P.
ON THE REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE ON DRUNKENNESS. . " Steady, boys, steady." — Sea Song. ,
" Then did they fall upon the chat of drinking ; and forthwith began Flag- gons to go. Goblets to fly, great Bowls to ting. Glasses to ring, draw, reach, fill, mix, give it me without water ; so, my Friend, so ; whip me off this Glass neatly, bring me hither some Claret, a full weeping Glass till it run over !"
Rabelais.
" Now, seeing that every Vessel was empty, great and small, vidth not so niuch at the Bottom as would half befuddle or muddle even a Fly, such as are the Flies of Baieux, I say, seeing this lamentable sight, Gargantua leapt up on one of the Tables, and with tears in his Eyes as big as Cannon Bullets, did pathetically beseech Pantagruel, as well as he could for the Hiccups and the Drinking Cups, and all sorts of Cups, as he valued his precious Body and Soul, one or both, never to drink more than became a reasonable Man, and not a Hog and a Beast. And the Stint of a reasonably reasonable Man is thus much, to wit, seven Thousand three Hundred and fifty-three Hogsheads, twice as many Kilderkiiis, thrice as many little Kegs, and as many Flaggons, Bottles, and Tankards as you will, beside. A Christian ought not to drink more. As Gargantua said these Words his Voice grew thick, his Tongue being as it were too hi^e for his Mouth ; and on a sudden he turned dog-sick, and fell off the Table a prodigious Fall, whereby there was a horrible Earth- quake, from Paris even unto Turkey in Asia, as is remembered unto this day."— y?afe/i7w.
O, Mr. Buckingham, if I may take
The liberty with you and your Committee,
Some observations I intend to make,
I hope will prove both pertinent and pretty,
On Drunkenness you've held a special court,
But is consistency, I ask, your forte,
When after (I must say) much Temperance swaggering,
You issue a Report,
That's staggering !
, Of course you laboured without drop or sup, Yet certain parts of that Report to read,
Some men might think indeed, A corkscrew, not a pen, had drawn it up.
For instance, was it quite a sober plan On such a theme as drunkenness to trouble
A poor old man, ";
Who could not e'en see single, much less double ?
ODE TO y. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P. 515
Blind some six years
As it appears, H& gives in evidence, and you receive il^ A flaming picture of a flaming palace Where gin-admirers sipped the chalice And then, (the banter is not bad,)
Thinks fit to add, You really should have seen it to believe it.*
That he could see such sights I must deny, Unless he borrowed Betty Martin's eye. A man that is himself walks in a line, One, not himself, goes serpentine.
And as he rambles
In crablike scrambles, The while his body works in curves, His intellect as surely swerves, And some such argument as this he utters, " While men get cut we must have cutters, As long as Jack will have his rum, We must have pink, corvette, and bomb,
Each sort of craft
Since Noah's old raft.
Frigate and brig,
Ships of all rig. We must have fleets, because our sailors swig. But only get our tars to broths and soups, And see how slops will do away with sloops !
• What is your occupation ? — My occupation has been in the weaving line ; but having the dropsy six years ago, I am deprived of my eyesight,
2734. Did you not once see a ginrshop burnt down ? — About nine months ago there was the sign of the Adam and Eve at the comer of Church Street, at Bethnal Green, burnt dovra, and they had such a quantity of spfrits in the house at the time that it was such a terrible fire, that they were obliged to throw everything into the middle of the road to keep it away from the liquor, and it was all in flames in the road ; and the gin-shop opposite was scorched and broke their windows ; and there was another gin-shop at the opposite comer ; at three comers there were gin-shops, and was, from the fire, just like a murdering concern, for you could not get round the comer at all, it was. so thronged that a man could not believe it unless he saw it.
5i6 ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P.
Turn flip to flummery, and grog to gravy, And then what need has England of a navy?"* Forgive my muse ; she is a saucy hussy, But she declares such reasoning sounds muzzy, And that, as sure as Dover stands at Dover, The man who entertains so strange, a notion
Of governing the ocean. Has been but half seas over.
Again : when sober people talk On soberness, would not their words all walk Straight to the point, instead of zigzag trials. Of both sides of the way, till having crost And crost, they find themselves completely lost Like gentlemen, — rather cut — in Seven Dials? Just like Ihe sentence foUowuig in fact :
" Every Actt Of the Legislature," (so it runs) " should flow Over the bed"- of what? — begin jK>'ir guesses.
The Bed of Ware?
The State Bed of the May'r ? One at the Hummums ? Of MacAdam's ? No
A parsley bed ?
Of cabbage, green or red ? Of onions ? daffodils ? of watercresses ? A spare-bed with a friend — one full of fleas ? At Bedford, or Bedhampton ? — None of thcbc. The Thames bed ? The bed of the New River ? A kennel ? brick-kiln ? or a stack of hay ?
Of churchyard clay. The bed that's made for ev'ry mortal liver ? No — give it up, — all guessing I defy in it. It is the bed of " Truth," — " inspired" forsooth As, if you gave your best best-bed to Truth,
She'd Hem it!
* 3^93- If temperance were universal, do you think we should need any line of-battle ships ? — It would be very unsafe for us to be without them.
+ 1686. Do you mean to infer from that, that the law in all its branches should he in accordance with the Divine command ? — I do ; every Act of the Legislature should flow over the bed of inspired truth, and receive the impreg- nation ul" its righteous and holy principles.
ODE TO 7. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P. 517
Come, Mr. Buckingham, be candid, come, Didn't that metaphor want " seeing home ?"
What man, who did not see far more than real,
Drink's beau ideal, — Could fancy the mechanic so well thrives.
In these hard times, > /
The source of half his crimes Is going into gin-shops changing fives !* Whate'er had washed such theoretic throats. After a soundish sleep, till twelve next day. And, perhaps, a gulp of soda — did not they
All change their notes ?
Suppose, rnind, Mr. B., I say, suppose You were the landlord of the Crown — the Rose — • The Cock and Bottle, or the Prince of Wales, The Devil and the Bag of Nails,
The Crown and Thistle,
The Pig and Whistle, Magpie and Stump — ^take which you like. The question equally will strike ; Suppose your apron on — top-boots, — fur cap —
Keeping an eye to bar and tap, When in comes, muttering like mad, The strangest customer you ever had ! Well, aftet rolling eyes and mouthing,
And calling for a go of nothing, He thus accosts you in a tone of malice : , " Here's pillars, curtains, gas, plate-glass — What not ? Zounds ! Mr. Buckingham, the shop you've got
Beats Buckingham Palace! It's not to be allowed. Sir ; I'm a Saint, So I've brought a paint-brush, and a pot of paint, —
You deal in Gin, Sir,
Glasses of Sin, Sir ; No words — Gin wholesome ? — You're a story-teller —
" 2512. Are they in the habit of. bringing £$ notes to get changed, as well as sovereigns ? — Very rarely ; / should think a £^ note is an article they seldom put in their pockets.
5i8 ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P.
I don't mind Satan standing at your back, The Spirit moveth me to go about, And paint your premises inside and out,
Black, Sir, coal black, Coal black, Sir, from the garret to the cellar. I'll teach you to sell gin — and, what is more, To keep your wicked customers therefrom, I'll paint a Great Death's Head upon your. door- Write underneath it, if you please — Old Tom !"*
Should such a case occur. How would you act with the intruder, Sir ? Surely, not cap in hand, you'd stand and bow, But after hearing him proceed thus far, (Mind — locking up the bar)
You'd seek the first policeman near,
" Here, take away this fellow, here, The rascal is as drunk as David's Sow !"
If I may ask again — between
Ourselves and the General -Post, I mean —
What was that gentleman's true situation
Who said — but could he really stand
To what he said ? — " In Scottish land
The cause of Drunkenness was education."!
Only, good Mr. Buckingham, conceive it ! In modern Athens, a fine classic roof, Christened the Hi^h School — that is, over proof J Conceive the sandy laddies ranged in classes, With quaichs and bickers, drinking-horns and glasses, Ready to take a lesson in Glenlivet ! Picture the little Campbells and M'Gregors, Dancing half fou', by way of learning figures ; And Murrays, — not as Lindley used to teach — Attempting verbs when past their parts of speech —
* 3006. Do you think it would be of good efTect, were the Legislature to order that those houses should be painted all black, with a large death's head and cross-bones over the door ? — I wish they would do even so much.
t 4502. What are the remote causes that have influenced the habit of drinking spirits among all classes of the population ? — One of the causes of drunkenness in Scotland is education.
ODE TO y. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P JiQ
Imagine Thompson, learning ABC,
By O D V. Fancy a dunce that *ill not drink his wash,— - And Master Peter Alexander Weddel
Invested with a medal For getting on so very far-in-tosh. Fancy the Dominie — a drouthy body, Giving a lecture upon making toddy. Till having emptied every stoup and cup, He cries, " Lads ! go and play — the school is up !
To Scotland,' Ireland is akin In drinking, like as twin to twin, — s When other means are all adrift, A liquor-shop is Pat's last shift, ' Till reckoning Erin round from store to store,
There is one whisky shop in four.* Then who, but with a fancy rather frisky, And warm besides, and generous with whisky. Not seeing most particularly clear, Would recommend to make the drunkards thinner. By shutting up the publican and sinner With pensions each of fifty pounds a yearPf Ods i taps and topers ! private stills and worms ! What doors you'd soon have open to your terms 1
To men of common gumption.
How strange, besides, must seem
At this time any scheme ^
To put a check upon potheen's consumption, When all ate calling out for Irish Poor Laws ! Instead of framing more laws,
* 3804. Did you observe the drinking of spirits very general in Ireland?— In Ireland, I think, upon a moderate calculation, one shop out of every four is a whisky-shop, throughout the whole kingdom. Those who have been unsuccessful in every other employment, and those who have no capital for any employment, fly to the selling of whisky as the last shift.
f 773. Now, suppose we w^ere to give ^50 a-year to every spirit-seller in Belfast, to pension them off, (and I am sure it would be much better for the country that they should be paid for doing nothing than for doing mischief).
520 ODE TO y. S. BUCKINGHAM, EHQ., M.P.
To pauperism if you'd give a pegger, Don't check, but patronise their " Kill-the-Beggar !"* If Pat is apt to go in Irish linen, (Buttoning his coat, with nothing but his skin in) Would any Christian man — that's quite himself, His wits not floor'd, or laid upon the shelf- While blaming Pat for raggedness, poor boy. Would he deprive him of his " Corduroy !" t
Would any gentleman, unless inclining To tipsy, take a board upon his shoulder. Near Temple Bar, thus warning the beholder,
"BEWARE OF TWINING?"
Are tea-dealers, indeed, so deep-designing, As one of your select would set us thinking. That to each tea-chest we should say Tu Doces,
(Or doses,) Thou tea-chest drinking ? %
What would be said of vie Should I attempt to trace The vice of drinking to the high in place.
And say its root was on the top o' the tree ?§ But /am not pot-valiant, and I shun To say how high potheen might have a run\
* 794. We have in our neighbourhood a species of whisky of .this kind called " Kill-the-Beggar."
t 795. Another description of what would be termed adulterated spirits, is by the vulgar termed " Corduroy."
X 798. It is quite common, in £)ublin particularly, to 1 avi at one end of the counter a large pile of tea-chests for fe nales to go behind, to be hid from sight : but the dangerous secrecy arises chiefly from the want of suspicion in persons going into grocers' shops.
788.- It is a well-known fact, that mechanics' wives not unfrequently get potions of spirituous liquors at grocers' shops, and have them set down to iheir husbands' accounts as soap, sugar, tea, &c.
§ 816. Do you ascribe the great inclination for whisky at present existing among the lower classes, originally to the use of it by the higher classes as a favourite drink?— ^I attribute a very large portion of the evil arising from the -ise of spirituous liquors to the sanction, they have received from the higher classes ; the respectable in society I hold to, be the chief patrons of drunkenness.
II 759- What do you mean by the phrase run ? — It m^ans, according to a com- mon saying, ^zk for one gallon made for the King, another is made for t/ie Queen.
ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P. 521
What would you think if, talldng about stingo, T told you that a lady friend of mine. By only looking at her wine Flushed in her face as red as a flamingo ?* Would you not ask of me, like many more,— " Pray, Sir, what had the lady had before?"
Suppose at sea, in Biscay's bay of bays, — A rum cask bursting in a blaze, — Should / be thought half tipsy or whole drunk. If running all about the deck I roar'd " I say is ever a Cork man aboard ?" Answered by some Hibernian Jack Junk, While hitching up his tarry trouser,' — How would it sound in sober ears, O how. Sir, If I should bellow with redoubled noise, "Then sit upon the bung-hole, broth of boys." t
When men — the fact's well known — reel to and fro, A little what is called how-come-you-so, They think themselves as steady as a steeple, And lay their staggerings on other people —
Taking that fact in pawn. What proper inference would then be drawn By e'er a dray-horSe with a head to his tail,
Should anybody cry.
To some one going by,
" O fie ! O fie ! O fie ! You're drunk — you've nigh had half a pint of aleTX
* 4627. A lady informed me lately, that in dining out, although she should not taste a drop in the hob and nob at dinner, yet the lifting of the glass as fre- quently as etiquette requires, generally flushed her face a good deal before dinner was ended.
+ 3901. Are you aware of the cause of the burning of the Kent East Tndiaman in the Bay of Biscay? — Holding a candle over the bung-hole of a cask of spirits, the snuff fell into the cask and set it on fire. They had not presence of mind to put in the bung, which would have put out the fire ; and if a man had sat on- the bung-hole it would not have burnt him, and it would have put it out.
+ 4282. Do many young men visit those houses ? — A very great many have done, more so than what visit the regular public-houses. I was in one of those places about twelve months ago, waiting for a coach, and there came into the beer-shop twenty-two boys, who called for half a gallon of ale, which they drank, and then they called for another.
S22 ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P.
One certain sign of fumes within the skull They say is being rather slow and dull, Oblivious quite of what we are about —
No one can doubt Some weighty queries rose, and yet you missed 'em For instance, when a Doctor so bethumps What he denominates the " forcing system,'' Nobody asks him about forcing pumps /* Oh say, with hand on heart, Suppose that I should start
Some theory like this,
" When Genesis Was written, — before man became a glutton, And in his appetites ran riot. Content with simple vegetable diet. Eating his turnips without leg of mutton. His spinach without lamb— carrots sans beef,
'Tis my belief He was a polypus, and I'm convinced Made other men when he was hashed or minced," — Did I in such a .style as this proceed, Would you not say I was Farre gone, indeed ?t
Excuse me, if I doubt at each Assize How sober it would look in public eyes. For our King's Counsel and our learned Judges When trying thefts, assaults, frauds, murders, arsons, To preach from texts of temperance like parsons, By way of giving tipplers gentle nudges. Imagine my Lord Bayley, Parke, or Park,| Donning the fatal sable cap, and hark,
' 121 1. The over-stimulation, which too frequently ends in the habit of drunkenness in Great Britain in every class, is the result of the ^ntish forcing system simply.
t 1282. Was not vegetable food prescribed in the first chapter of Genesis ?— Vegetable food was appointed when the restorative power of man wae com- plete. The restorative power in some of the lower animals is still complete. If a polypus be truncated or cut into several pieces, each part will become a perfect animal. — Vide Evidence of Dr. Farre.
X 975. What happy opportunities, for example, are offered to each Judge and King's Counsellor at every assize, to denounce all customary use of dis- tilled spirit as the great excitement to crime. The proper improvement of such opportunities would do much for temperance.
ODE TO J. S. BUCKINGHAM, ESQ., M.P. 523
" These sentences must pass, howe'er I'm panged, You Brandy must return — and Rum the same — To the Goose and Gridiron, whence you came — Gin .'^Reverend Mr. Cotton and Jack Ketch Your spirit jointly will despatch — Whisky be hanged !"
Suppose that some fine morning,
Mounted upon a pile of Dunlop cheeses,
I gave the following as public warning,
Would there not be sly winking, coughs and sneezes ?
Or dismal hiss of universal scorn —
" My brethren, don't be bom, — But if you're born, be well advised —
Don't be baptized. If both take place, still at the worst
Do not be nursed, — At every birth each gossip dawdle
Expects her caudle. At christenings, too, drink always hands about, Nurses will have their porter or their stout, — Don't wear clean linen, for it leads to sin, —
All washerwomen make a stand for gin — If you're a minister — to keep due stinting, Never preach sermons that are worth the printing,* Avoid a steamboat with a lady in her,t And when you court, watch Miss well after dinner, J Never run bills, or if you do don't pay,§ Kndigive your butter and your cheese away,||
* 4642. When a clergyman gets a new manse he is fined in a bottle of wine ; when he has been newly married, this circumstance subjects him to the same amicable penalty ; the birth of a child also costs one bottle, and the publication of a sermon another. — By y. Dunlop, Esq.
\ 4637. The absolute necessity of treating females in the same manner, in steamboat jaunts, is lamentable.
X 4637. Some youths have been known to defer their entrance into a tem- perate society till after their marriage, lest failure in the usual compliments should be misconstrued, and create a coldness with their future wives.
§ 1635. It (drinking) is employed in making bargains, at the payment of accounts.
II 4639. A landlady, in settling with a farmer for his butter and cheese, brings out the bottle and the glass with her own hands, and presses it on his acceptance. How can he refuse a lady soliciting him to do what he is, perhaps, unfortunately already more than half inclined to ?
'•21 THE UNITED FAMILY.
Build yachts and pleasure-boats, if you are rich,
But never have them launched, or payed with pitch,*
In fine, for Temperance if you stand high,
"Don't die !"t Did I preach thus. Sir, should I not appear Just like th£ "parson much bemused with beer?"
Thus far, O Mr. Buckingham, I've gathered, But here, alas ! by space my pen is tethered, And I cap merely thank you all in short. The witnesses that have been called in court. And the Committee for their kind Report, Whence I have picked and puzzled out this moral, With which you must not quarrel, 'Tis based in charity — That men are brothers,
And those who make afnss.
About their Temperance thus, Are fwf so much more temperate than others.
THE UNITED FAMILY.
" We stick at nine.''
Mrs. Battle.
" Tlirice to thine, And thrice to mine. And thrice again, To make up nine."
The Weird Sisters in Macbeth.
How oft in families intrudes The demon of domestic feuds, One Uking this, one hating that. Each snapping each, like dog and cat.
* 4640. The launching bowl is a bonus of drink, varying from £,2 to £,\o, according to the size of tlie ship, bestowed by the owners on the apprentices of a ship-building yard at the launch of a vessel. The graving bowl is given to the journeyman after a vessel is payed with tar.
+ 4386. On the event of a decease, every one gets a glass who comes within the dooj: until the funeral, and for six weeks after it.
THE UNITED FAMILY. 5^5
With divers bents and tastes perverse, One's bliss, in fact, another's curse How seldom anything vi^e see Like our united family !
Miss Brown of chapels goes in search, Her sister Susan likes the church ; One plays at cards, the other don't ; One will be gay, the other wont ; In pray'r and preaching one persists, The oQier sneers at Methodists ; On Sundays ev'n they can't agree Like our united family.
There's Mr. Bell, a Whig at heart,
His lady takes the Tories' part.
While William, junior, nothing loth.
Spouts Radical against them both;
One likes the News, one takes the Age, *
Another buys the unstamp'd page ;
They all say /, and never we,
Like our united family.
Not so with us ; — ^with equal zeal We all support Sir Robert Peel : Of WeUingtoa our mouths are full, We dote on Sundays on John Bull, With Pa and Ma on selfsame side, Our house has never to divide — No opposition members be In our united family.
Miss Pope her " Light Guitar" enjoys, Her father " cannot bear the noise,',' Her mother's charm'd with all her songs. Her brother jangks with the tongs ; Thus discord out of music springs, The most unnatural of things, Unlike the genuine harmony In our united family !
We all on vocal music dote, To each belongs a tuneful throat,
526 THE UNITED FAMILY.
And all prefer that Irish boon
Of melody — " The Young May Moon"-
By choice we all select the harp,
Nor is the voice of one too sharp,
Another flat— all in one key
Is our united family.
Miss Powell likes to draw and paint, But then it would provoke a saint, Her brother takes her sheep for pigs, And says her trees are periwigs. Pa' praises all, black, blue, or brown ; And so does Ma' — but upside down ! They cannot with the same eyes see, Like our united family.
Miss Patterson has been to France, Her heart's delight is in a dance ; The thing her brother cannot bear, So she must practise with a chair. Then at a waltz her mother winks ; But Pa' says roundly what he thinks, '^ll dos-k-dos, not vis-k-vis, Like our united family.
We none of us that whirling love.
Which both our parents disapprove,
A hornpipe we delight in more.
Or graceful Minuet de la Cour.
A special favourite with Mamma,
Who used to dance it with Papa,
In this we still keep step, you see,
In our united* family. •*
Then books — to hear the Cobbs' debates .' One worships Scott — another hates. Monk Lewis Ann fights stoutly for, .A,nd Jane likes Bunyan's " Holy Way." The father on MaccuUoch pores, The mother says all books are bores ; But blue serene as heav'n are we, In our united family.
THE UNITED FAMILY. 527
We never wrangle to exalt Scott, Banim, Bulwer, Hope, or Gait, We care not whether Smith or Hook, So that a novel be the book, And in one point we all are fast, Of novels we prefer the last, — In that the very Heads agree Of our united family !
To turn to graver matters still. How much we see of sad self-will. Miss Scrope, with brilliant views in life, Would be a poor lieutenp,nt's wife, A lawyer has her pa's good word. Her ma' has looked her out a Lord, What would they not all give to be Like our united family !
By one congenial taste a.llied.
Our dreams of bliss all coincide.
We're all for solitudes and cots,
And love, if we may choose our lots —
As partner in the rural plaii
Each paints the sanie dear sort of man ;
One heart alone there seems to be
In our united family.
One heart, one hope, one wish, one mind, — One voice, one choice, all of a kind, — And can there be a greater bliss — A little heav'n on earth — than this ? The truth to whisper in your ear, It must be told ! — we are not near The happiness that ought to be In our united family !
Alas ! 'tis our congenial taste That lays our little pleasures waste — We all delight, no doubt, to sing. We all delight to touch the string. But Where's the harp that nine may touch ? And nine " May Moons" are eight too much- Just fancy nine, all in one key. Of our united family 1
S28 THE UNITED FAMILY.
The play — O how we love a play ! / But half the bliss is shorn away ; On winter nights we venture nigh, But think ofhouses in July ! Nine crowded in a private box, Is apt to pick the stiffest locks — - Our curls would all fall out, though we Are ©ne united family.
In art the selfsame line we walk, We all are fond of heads in chalk. We one and all our talent strain Adelphi prizes to obtain ; Nine turban'd Turks are duly sent. But can the Royal Duke present Nine silver palettes — no, not he — To our united family.
Our eating shows the very thing, We all prefer the liver-wing, Asparagus when scarce and thin, And peas directly they come in. The marrow-bone — if there be one, — The ears of hare when crisply done. The rabbit's brain — we all agree In our united family.
In dress the same result is seen,
We all so dote on apple-green ;
But nine in green would seem a school
Of charity to quizzing fool —
We cannot all indulge our will
With " that sweet silk on Ludgate Hill,"
No remnant can sufficient be
For our united family.
In reading hard is still our fate, One cannot read o'erlooked by eight, And nine " Disowned" — nine "' Pioneers," Nine " Chaperons," nine " Buccaneers," Nine " Maxwells," nine " Tremaines," and such. Would dip into our means too much— Three months are spent o'er volumes three, In our united family.
THE COMET.
Unhappy Muses ! if the Nine Above in doom with us combine, — In vain we breathe the tender flame, Our sentiments are'all the same. And nine complaints address'd to Hope Exceed the editorial scope, One in, and eight /«/ out, must be Of our united family.
But this is nought — of deadlier kind, A ninefold woe remains behind. Oh why were we so art and part ? So like in taste, so one in heart ' Nine cottages may be to let, But here's the thought to make us fret. We cannot each add Frederick B. To our united family.
THE COMET,
AN ASTRONOMICAL ANECDOTE.
" I cannot fill up a blank better than with a short history of this selfsame 5to-ling."- - Sterne's Sentimental Journey.
Amongst professors of astronomy, Adepts in the celestial economy,
The name of H******rs* very often cited ; And justly so, for he is hand and glove With ev'ry bright intelligence above ; Indeed, it was his custom so to stop, Watching the stars upon the house's top, .
That once upon a time he got be-knighted.
In his observatory thus coquetting,
With Venus— or with Juno gone astray. All sublunary matters quite forgetting ,
In his flirtations with the winking stars. Acting the spy — it might be upon Mars — A new Andr^ ;
* Herschel.
84
S30 THE COMET..
Or, like a Tom of Coventry, sly peeping At Dian sleeping ; Or ogling through his glass Some heavenly lass Tripping with pails along the Milky Way ; Or looking at that Wain of Charles the Martyr's : —
Thushe was sitting, watchman of the sky, When lo ! a something with a tail of flame Made him exclaim "My stars !" — he always puts that stress on my — " My stars and garters !"
" A comet, sure as I'm alive ! A noble one as I should wish to view ! It can't be Halley's though, that is not due
Till eighteen thirty-five. Magnificent ! — how fine his fiery trail ! Zounds ! 'tis a pity, though, he comes unsought — Unasked — ^unreckoned, — in no human thought — He ought — he ought — he ought To have been caught With scientific salt upon his tail !" " I looked no more for it, I do declare. Than the Great Bear !
As sure as Tycho Brahe is dead. It really entered in my head, No more than Berenice's Hair !"
Thus musing, Heaven's Grand Inquisitor
Sat gazing on the uninvited visitor
Till John, the serving-man, came to the upper
Regions, with " Please your Honour, come to supper.'
" Supper ! good John, to-night I shall not sup Except on that phenomenon — look up !" " Not sup !" cried John, thinking with consternation That supping on a star must be j'/«rvation.
Or ev'n to batten On Ignes Fatui would never fatten. His visage seemed to say, — that very odd is, — But still his master the same tune ran on, " I can't come down, — ^go to the parlour, John, And say I'm supping with the heavenly bodies."
THE COMET. 531
" The heavenly bodies !" echoed John, " Ahem 1"
His mind still full of famishing alarms,
" Zooks, if your Honour sups with them,
In helping, somebody must make long arms !"
He thought his master's stomach was in danger,
But still in the same tone replied the Knight,
" Go down, John, go, I have no appetite, Say I'm engaged with a celestial stranger." — Quoth John, not much au fait in such affairs, " Wouldn't the stranger take a bit downstairs ?"
" No," said the master, smiling, and no wonder.
At such a blunder, " The stranger is not quite the thing you think, He wants no meat or drink. And one may doubt quite reasonably whether
He has a mouth. Seeing his head and tail are joined together. Behold him, — there he is, John, in the South."
John, looking up with his portentous eyes, Each rolling like a marble in its socket, At last- the fiery tad-pole spies. And, full of VaUxhall reminiscence, cries, "A rare good rocket !"
" A what ! A rocket, John ! Far from it !
What you behold, John, is a comet ; One of those most eccentric things
That in all ages
Have puzzled sages
And frightened kings. With fear of change, that flaming meteor, John, Perplexes sovereigns, throughout its range" —
" Do he ?" cried John,
" Well, let him flare on, I ha,ven't got no sovereigns to change !"
53^ THE LAMENT OF TOBY,
THE LEARNED PIG. 'A little learning is a dangerous thirig."— PoPE.
O HEAVY day ! oh day of woe !
To misery a poster, Why was I ever farrowed — why
Not spitted for a roaster ?
In this world, pigs, as well as men, Must dance to fortune's fiddlings,
But must I give the classics «up, For barley-meal and middlings ?
Of what avail that I could spell And read, just like my betters,
If I must come to this at last, To litters, not to letters ?
O, why are pigs madfe scholars of?
It baffles my discerning, What griskins, fry, and chitterlings
Can have to do with learning.
Alas ! my learning once drew cash, But public fame's unstable.
So I must turn a pig again, And fatten for the table.
To leave rriy literary line My eyes get red and leaky ;
But Giblett doesn't want me blue, But red and white, and streaky.
Old MuUins used to cultivate My learning like a gard'ner ;
But Giblett only thinks of lard. And not of Doctor Lardner.
THE LAMENT OF TOBY, THE LEARNED PIG. 533
He does not care about my brain The value of two coppers, . All that he thinks about my head Is, how I'm off for choppers.
Of all my literary kin
A farewell must be taken, Good-bye to the poetic Hogg !
The philosophic Bacon 1
Day after day my lessons fade.
My intellect gets muddy ; A trough I have, and not a desk,
A stye — and not a study !
Another little month, and then
My progress ends, like Bunyan's ; The seven sa.es that I loved
Will be chopped up with onions !
Then over head and ears in brine
They'll souse me, Uke a salmon, My mathematics turned to brawn,
My logic into gammon.
My Hebrew will all retrograde,
Now I'm put up to fatten. My Greek, it wiii all go to grease,
The dogs will have my Latin !
Farewell to Oxford ! — and to Bliss !
To Milman, Crowe, and Glossoj^, — ■ I now must be content with chats,
Instead of learned gossip !
Farewell to "Town !" farewell to " Gown!"
I've quite outgrown the latter, — Instead of Trencher-cap my head
Will soon be in a platter !
O why did I at Brazen-Nose
Rout up the roots of knowledge ? A butcher that can't read will kill
A pig. that's been to college !
534 JOHN JONES.
For sorrow I could stick myself, But conscience is a dasher ;
A thing that would be rash in man In me would~be a rasher !
One thing I ask — when I am dead, And past the Stygian ditches —
And that is, let my schoolmaster Have one of my two flitches.
'Twas he who taught my letters so I ne'er mistook or missed.. 'em,
Simply by ringing at the nose, According to BelVs system.
JOHN JONES.
A PATHETIC BALLAD. "'I saw the iron enter into his soul." — Sterne.
John Jones he was a builder's clerk
On ninety pounds a year, Before his head was engine-turned
To be an engineer.
For finding that the iron rods Were quite the public tale,
Like Robin Redbreast, all his heart Was set upon, a rail.
But, oh ! his schemes all ended ill, As schemes must come to nought
With men who try to make short cuts When cut with something short.
JOHN JONES. 533
His altitudes he did not take
Like any other elf; But first a spirit-level took
That levelled him himself.
Then getting up, from left to right
So many tacks he made, The ground he meant to go upon
Got very well surveyed.
How crows may fly he did not care
A single fig to know — He wished to make an iron road,
And not an iron crow :
So, going to the Rose and Crown
To cut his studies short, The nearest way from pint to pint
He found was through a quart.
According to this rule, he planned
His railway o'er a cup ; But when he came to lay it down,
No soul would take it up !
Alas ! not his the wily arcs
Of men as shrewd as rats. Who out of one sole level make
A precious lot oi flats !
In vain from Z to crooked S
His devious line he showed ; Directors even seemed to wish
For some directer road.
The writers of the public press All sneered at his design ;
And penny-a-liners wouldn't give A penny for his line !
535 JOHN JONES.
Yet still he urged his darling scheme In spite of all the fates ;
Until at last his zigzag ways Quite brought him into straits.
His money gone, of course he sank In debt from day to day —
His way would not pay him, and so He could not pay his way.
Said he, " All parties run me down,— How bitter is my cup !
My landlord is the only man. That ever runs me up !
"And he begins to talk of scores. And will not draw a cork."
And then he railed at Fortune, since He could not rail at York !
The morrow in a fatal noose They found him, hanging fast ;
This sentence scribbled on the wall, " I've got my line at last ! "
Twelve men upon the body sate, And thus on oath did say,
" We find he got his gruel 'cause He couldn't have his way /"
THE END.
OALZIEL BROTHERS, CAMDEN PRESS, LONDON, N.W.