THE WOKKS 
 
 THOMAS HOOD 
 
 COMIC AND SERIOUS, IN PEOSE AND VERSE. 
 
 EDITED, WITH NOTES, BY HIS SON. 
 
 VOLUME I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 EDWARD MOXON & CO, DOVER STREET. 
 1862. 
 
 ^5)383
 
 LONDON : 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, AVHITEFRIAR3.
 
 A \ 
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 ^ The present arrangement of my Father's works for 
 a complete and uniform edition has not been determined 
 on without due deliberation. Ifappeared to me that for 
 the requirements of those — who do not care to trace his 
 career as a writer from his first connection Avith Lite- 
 > rature, and to note the gradual development of a genius 
 I which, at the time of his death, had not arrived at its 
 fulness — enough is to be found in the edition of the 
 '' Serious Poems ; " of those of " Wit and Humoui^ ; " 
 of the " Whims and Oddities ; " and of two volumes of 
 '' Hood's Own," already published by Messrs. Moxon. 
 
 I have therefore considered it best, when called upon 
 to prepare a complete and uniform series of his writings, 
 to throw the materials collected into a form which shall 
 be of interest to more than the general reader. By 
 repubHshing his works in the order in which they were 
 TOtten, as far . as my most diligent search and most 
 earnest endeavours can establish it, I believe I shall
 
 iv PREFACE. 
 
 meet tlie wishes of many of my Father's admirers and 
 readers, who have contracted from the perusal of his 
 works, an almost friendlike interest, that ^\ill be gra- 
 tified by tracing step by step, the bent of his mind, 
 the progress of his intellect, and the maturing of his 
 powers. 
 
 It may be urged that I have reprinted fugitive articles 
 that might well have been omitted mthout detriment to 
 the Series. To this I might answer by pleading that it 
 is only natural that I should place greater store by what 
 my Father has written, than one not so nearly related 
 to him would do. 
 
 But believing, as I do, that the less laboured writings 
 of an author are among the surest indices of liis thought, 
 and the best tests of his genius, I have omitted nothing 
 that I thought would assist the real student of Litera- 
 ture, and its ministers — literary men — to a true estimate 
 of my Father — whether as an author or a man ; holding 
 always in recollection that quaint wise sapng of 
 Selden's, anent similar trifles — " take a straw, and throw 
 it up into the air, you may see by that which way the 
 wind is ; which you shall not do by casting up a 
 stone." 
 
 Wherever I have been able to find anything of inte- 
 rest bearing upon the works, I have added it as briefly 
 as possible in my notes — giving any alterations of the
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 text, any fragments connected -svitli or relating to por- 
 tions of it, and such, explanations of allusions contained 
 in it, as seemed advisable. 
 
 As far as lies in my power, I have left out nothing 
 that may interest the thoughtful and studious, while I 
 have endeavoured not to weary the cursory reader -s^ith 
 long annotations. 
 
 I have no wish, and indeed no need to deprecate 
 criticism* — for whenever it has been my task to prepare 
 an}H:hing connected "^dth my Father for publication, I 
 have always met with a reception that proved to me 
 how fully my critics have understood the difficulties 
 Avhich I have encountered. The kindly spiiit in which 
 the " Memorials " of my Father were received, en- 
 courages me to hope that my sincere desire to perfomi 
 what I really feel as a sacred duty and responsibility, 
 ^\ill be looked on with the same indulgence; for it 
 should be remembered that many, nay most of those 
 contemporaries of my Father, who could have pointed 
 out where his scattered Amtings were to be found, are 
 dead. 
 
 To those intimate acquaintances of his who survive, 
 and who have assisted me most materially in my 
 
 * I shall, indeed, the rather be grateful for it, where it points out 
 omissions or errors in a work, which it is my dearest wish to leave 
 complete and perfect in eveiy point.
 
 vi FEEFACE. 
 
 arduous yet most grateful undertaking, as well as to 
 numerous friends, — many unknown to me in tke flesh, — 
 who have so readily answered my appeals, through the 
 public press, for information and assistance, I tender my 
 most heartfelt thanks, 
 
 And am, 
 
 Yery truly theirs, 
 
 Thomas Hood. 
 
 P.S. The chief part of "The Eemains " puhlished at the end of 
 the " Memorials " has been incorporated with this Series. The great 
 raass of additional matter collected since the publication of that Work 
 would render their omission absolutely necessarj^ under any circum- 
 stances in the next Edition.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 1821. . 
 
 rAGi: 
 
 Extracts fiiom "The Lion's Head" 1 
 
 Ode to Dr.. Kitchener 2 
 
 To Hope 4 
 
 The Cook's Oracle 7 
 
 The Departure of Summer 25 
 
 A Sentimental Journey from Islington to Waterloo 
 
 Bridge, in March, 1821 30 
 
 1822. 
 
 Extracts from "The Lion's Head" 49 
 
 To a Critic 50 
 
 To Celia • . . 56 
 
 Presentiment 57 
 
 The Sea of Death Gi 
 
 To an Absentee 65 
 
 The Stag-eyed Lady 66 
 
 Lycus the Centaur 72 
 
 The two Peacocks of Bedfont 86 
 
 Hymn to the Sun 94
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGK 
 
 MlDXIGHT 95 
 
 To A Sleeping Child.— 1 95 
 
 II 96 
 
 To Fan-cy 97 
 
 Mr. Martin's Pictures and the Bonassus .... 97 
 
 Presence of Mind in a Ghost 101 
 
 1823. 
 
 Extracts from "The Lion's Head" 103 
 
 The Doubtful Sneeze 103 
 
 Thoughts on Sculpture 104 
 
 Fair Ines 105 
 
 To A False Friend 107 
 
 Ode.— Autumn 108 
 
 Sonnet. — Death 110 
 
 ,, Silence Ill 
 
 ,, Written in Keats' " Endymion " . . . . Ill 
 
 ,, To AN Enthusiast 112 
 
 To A Cold Beauty^ 113 
 
 Serenade Ill 
 
 Old Ballad 115 
 
 Sonnet. — "Love, I am jealous of a worthless niau " . . . 117 
 ,, " Love, see thy lover humbled at thy feet " . .118 
 
 1824. 
 
 The Forsaken 119 
 
 Song. — "The stars are with the voyager" 120 
 
 ,, " Lady, leave thy silken thread " . . . .121
 
 CONTENTS. ix 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Birthday Verses 122 
 
 I LOVE Thee 123 
 
 Lines. — "Let us make a leap, mj'- dear," 124 
 
 False Poets and True 124 
 
 Fragment. — " ' Farewell— Farewell ' — it is an awful word " . 125 
 
 GuiDO AND Marina 126 
 
 The two Swans 130 
 
 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy . .140 
 
 1825. 
 
 Odes and Addresses to Great People : — 
 
 Address 145 
 
 Advertisement to the Second Edition . 
 Preface to the Third Edition . . , _ . 
 Ode to Mr. Graham, the Aeronaut 
 
 Ode to Mr. M'Adam 
 
 A Friendly Epistle to Mrs. Fry, in Newgate . 
 Ode to Eichard Martin, Esq., M.P. for Gal way . 
 
 Ode to the Great Unknown 
 
 Address to Mr. Dymoke, the Champion of England 
 Ode to Joseph Grimaldi, Senior .... 
 
 To Sylvanus Urban, Esq., Editor of the "Gentleman's 
 
 Magazine" 
 
 An Address to the Steam Washing Company 
 
 Letter of Remonstrance from Bridget Jones to the 
 
 Noblemen and Gentlemen forming the Washing 
 
 Committee 191 
 
 Ode to Captain Parry 196 
 
 Ode to R. W, Elliston, Esq., the Great Lessee ! . . 203 
 Address to Maria Darlington on her return to the 
 
 Stage 207 
 
 146 
 148 
 149 
 156 
 161 
 166 
 169 
 178 
 181 
 
 185 
 188
 
 X CONTENTS. 
 
 Odes and Addresses to Great People— cwi^mwec?. p^^E 
 
 Ode to W. Kitchener, M.D 210 
 
 An Address to the very Key. John Ireland, D.D. . 217 
 Ode to H. Bodkin, Esq., Secretary to the Society 
 
 FOR the Suppression of Mendicity . . . 221 
 
 Playing at Soldiers 223 
 
 The Death Bed 227 
 
 To MY Wife 228 
 
 Song.— "There is dew for the flow'ret" 229 
 
 Verses in an Album 230 
 
 1826. 
 
 Whims and Oddities : — 
 
 Preface to the First Series 231 
 
 Address to the Second Edition 232 
 
 A Recipe — for Civilisation 235 
 
 Love 240 
 
 "The Last Man" 241 
 
 The Ballad of Sally Brown and Ben the Carpenter 249 
 
 A Fairy Tale 252 
 
 "Love Me, love my Dog" 257 
 
 A Dream 260 
 
 The Irish Schoolmaster 267 
 
 Faithless Nelly Gray " . 276 
 
 The Water Lady 279 
 
 Autumn 280 
 
 I remember, I remember 281 
 
 Death's Ramble 282 
 
 Address to Mr, Cross, of Exeter Change, on the Death 
 
 of the Elephant 284
 
 CONTENTS. xi 
 
 PACK 
 
 The Poet's Portion • . 288 
 
 Ode to the Late Lord Mayor, on the Publication of his 
 
 ** Visit to Oxford" 290 
 
 1827. 
 
 Whims and Oddities : — 
 
 Preface to the Second Series 295 
 
 Address to the Third Edition 296 
 
 Preface to the Two Series 297 
 
 Bianca's Dream 298 
 
 A True Story 308 
 
 A Parthian Glance 315 
 
 A Sailor's Apology for Bow-Legs 318 
 
 Elegy on David Laing, Esq 321 
 
 Sonnet. — Written in a Volume of Shakspeare . . . 323 
 
 A Retrospective Review 324 
 
 Ballad, — "It was not in the winter " 327 
 
 Stanzas to Tom Woodgate, of Hastings .... 328 
 
 Time, Hope, and Memory 333 
 
 Flowers • 334 
 
 Ballad. — " She's up and gone, the graceless girl " . . . 335 
 
 Ruth 336 
 
 The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies 337 
 
 Hero and Leander 377 
 
 Ballad. — "Spring it is cheery " 404 
 
 Song. — " A lake and a fairy boat " 404 
 
 Autumn 405 
 
 Ballad. — '* Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse " . . 406 
 
 Ode to the Moon 408 
 
 The Exile 411
 
 xii CONTENTS. 
 
 The Plea, of the Midsummer Faieies — continued. p^^gj. 
 
 To'Jane 412 
 
 Ode to Melancholy 413 
 
 Extract of Letter from L. E. L 417 
 
 Sonnet. — On Mistress Nicely 418 
 
 ,, "By ev'ry sweet tradition of true hearts " . . 418 
 
 To my Wife 419 
 
 ,, On eeceiving a Gift 420 
 
 ,, " Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak " . 420 
 
 Letter from L. E, L 421 
 
 Odes and Addresses to Great People— To Thos. Bish, Esq. 422 
 
 Ode. — ''Jerdan, farewell ! farewell to all" .... 425 
 
 1828. 
 
 Town and Country 427 
 
 Lament for the Decline of Chivalry .... 431 
 Ex PosT-FACTO Epigrams : — 
 
 On the Death of the Giraffe 434 
 
 On the Eemoval of a Menagerie 434 
 
 The Logicians 435 
 
 Death in the Kitchen 438 
 
 Reflections on a New Year's Day 441 
 
 Grimaldi's Benefit 442 
 
 Ode to Edwaed Gibbon Wakefield, Esq 443
 
 HOOD'S COMPLETE WORKS, 
 
 1821 
 
 THE LONDON MAGAZINE. 
 
 [My father's first connection with literature was an appointment as 
 assistant Sub-Editor to the old "London." The friendship which 
 existed between ray grandfather and Messrs. Taylor and Hessey, was 
 the means of obtaining him this employment, after he had been com- 
 pelled to give up engraving ; for up to this time, I am told, he had 
 displayed no strong literary tendencies. His duties were the perusal 
 and the correction for press of papers sent for insertion, but he ex- 
 tended his labour by writing humorous answers to correspondents in 
 the "Lion's Head,'' which he took under his special care. After a 
 time, however, his productions found their way into the body of the 
 Magazine. I have extracted the following from the Magazine for this 
 year.] 
 
 THE LION'S HEAD. 
 
 Napoleon Bonaparte's death will surely be the cause of 
 ours. Will the reader believe that we are up to our middles 
 in mourning verses ? 
 
 Lines by " A Student in the Inner Temple " are received. 
 Curia advisare vult. 
 
 J. G. G., whose poem was too short for the bookseller, to 
 whom he offered it for publication, and who fears it is too 
 long for the London, is unfortunately in the right. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 ODE TO DR. KITCHENER. 
 
 We are compelled to announce to E. E. that " The Stoim " 
 is blown over. 
 
 Colin has sent us a Summer Pastoral, and says he can 
 supply us with one every month. Has he always got sheep 
 in his pen ? 
 
 Beta's proposal of Scripture Sonnets " two a month or so " 
 is kind, but we have no desire to see the Scriptures cut up 
 into Sonnets. His poem on Fame w^ill bring neither him nor 
 us any. 
 
 Philogenes' " Verses on the Matchless Orinda,'' are defec- 
 tive in the title, as our legal adviser informs us ; Mrs. 
 Katherine Phillips was once married. 
 
 [In the "Lion's Head" for this year appeared, under a feigned 
 signature, the 
 
 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. 
 
 culinary sage ! 
 
 (I do not mean the herb in use. 
 
 That always goes along with goose) 
 How have I feasted on thy page : 
 " When like a lobster boil'd the mom 
 From black to red began to turn," 
 
 Till midnight, when I went to bed. 
 
 And clapt my tewah-diddle * on my head. 
 
 * The Doctor's composition for a nightcap.
 
 ODE TO DR. KITCHENER. 
 
 Who is there cannot tell, 
 
 Thou leadest a life of living well ? 
 
 " What baron, or squire, or knight of the shire 
 
 Lives half so well as a holy Fry — er ? " 
 
 In doing well thou must be reckon'd 
 
 The first, — and Mrs. Fry the second ; 
 
 And twice a Job, — for, in thy fev'rish 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 hungiy poet eats 
 His brains like thee. 
 But few there be 
 Could live so long on their receipts. 
 
 What living soul or sinner 
 
 Would slight thy invitation to a dinner, 
 Ought with the Danaides to dwell. 
 
 Draw gravy in a cullender, and hear 
 
 For ever 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 thy pen feathers. 
 Yea, by the sauce of Michael Kelly ! 
 
 Thy name shall perish never, 
 
 But be magnified for ever — 
 — By all whose eyes are bigger than their belly. 
 
 Yea, till the world is done — 
 — To a turn — and Time puts out the smi, 
 
 b2
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 Shall live the endless echo of thy name. 
 Bat, as for thy more fleshy frame, 
 Ah ! 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 touch' d with sorrow ! 
 
 To think how flesh must pass away — 
 
 So mutton, that is warm to-day. 
 Is cold, and turn'd to hashes, on the morrow ! 
 
 Farewell ! I would say more, but I 
 
 Have other fish to frv. 
 
 [The first poem of his, however, that appeared in the " London" is 
 "To Hope," which came out in the July number — the "Ode to Dr. 
 Kitchener" being in the "Lion's Head" for November, Between 
 July and the end of the year he also contributed to this magazine a 
 Review of "The Cook's Oracle," a poem entitled "The Departure of 
 Summer," and a burlesque after Sterne, called "A Sentimental Journey 
 from Islington to Waterloo Bridge."] 
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 Oh ! take, young seraph, take thy harp, 
 And play to me so cheerily ; 
 
 For gi'ief is dark, and care is sharp. 
 And life wears on so wearily. 
 Oh ! take thy harp ! 
 
 Oh ! sing as thou were wont to do. 
 When, all youth's sunny season long, 
 I sat and listen' d to thy song, 
 
 And yet 'twas ever, ever new.
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 With magic in its heaven-tuned string — 
 
 The future bUss thy constant theme, 
 Oh ! then each Uttle woe took wing 
 Away, hke phantoms of a dream ; 
 As if each sound 
 That flutter' d round 
 Had floated over Lethe's stream ! 
 
 By all those bright and happy hours 
 
 We sjDent in life's sweet eastern bow'rs. 
 
 Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show, 
 
 Ere buds were come, where flowers would grow, 
 
 And oft anticipate the rise 
 
 Of Hfe's warm sun that scaled the skies ; 
 
 By many a story of love and glory. 
 
 And 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 wears on so wearily. 
 Oh ! take thy harp ! 
 
 Perchance the strings will sound less clear. 
 That long have lain neglected by 
 
 In sorrow's misty atmospliere ; 
 
 It ne'er may speak as it has 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 1 
 
 But thou canst sing of love no more, 
 For Celia show'd that dream was vain ;
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 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 manliood's aching head. 
 Oh ! there are realms of welcome day, 
 A world where tears are wiped away ! 
 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 !
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE* 
 
 Dr. Kitchexer has greatly recognised the genius of his 
 name by taking boldly the path to which it points ; disre- 
 garding all the usual seductions of life, he has kept his eye 
 steadily on the larder, the Mecca of his appetite ; and has 
 unravelled all the mysteries and intricacies of celery soup, 
 and beef haricot, to the eyes of a reading public. He 
 has taken an extensive Icitchen range over the whole world 
 of stews, and broils, and roasts, and comes home to the 
 fireside (from which, indeed, his body has never departed), 
 boiling over with knowledge — stored with curiosities of 
 bone and sinew — a made-up human dish of cloves, 
 mace, cuny, catsup, cayenne, and the like. He has 
 sailed over all the soups, has touched at all quarters of 
 the lamb, has been in short, round the stomach world and 
 returns a second Captain Coolc ! Dr. Kitchener has written 
 a book ; and if he, good easy man, should think to surprise 
 any friend or acquaintance by slily asking, "What book 
 have I written ? " he would be sure to be astounded with a 
 successful reply, " A book on Cookery." His name is above 
 all disguises. In the same way a worthy old gentleman of 
 our acquaintance, who was wont to lead his visitors around 
 his kitchen garden (the Doctor will prick up his ears at this) 
 which he had carefully and cunningly obscured with a laurel 
 hedge, and who always said, with an exulting tone, "now 
 you would be puzzled to say where the kitchen garden was 
 
 * The Cook's Oracle ; containing Receipts for Plain Cookery, &c, : the 
 whole being the Result of Experiments instituted in the Kitchen of a 
 Physician.
 
 8 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 situated," once met with a strong-hearted man who re- 
 morselessly answered, " Not I ! over that hedge, to be sure." 
 The Doctor might expect you, in answer to his query, to say ; 
 " A book, sir ! Why, perhaps you have plunged your whole 
 soul into the ocean of an epic ; or rolled your mind, wdth the 
 success of a Sisyphus, up the hills of metaphysics : or played 
 the sedate game of the mathematics, that Chinese puzzle to 
 English minds ! or gone a tour with Bugald Stuart, in 
 search of the picturesque, or leaped double sentences and 
 wS-ded thi'ough metaphors, in a grammatical steeple chase 
 with Colonel Thornton ; or turned literary cuckoo, and gone 
 sucking the eggs of other people's books, and making the 
 woods of the world echo with one solitary, complaining, 
 revieiving note." Such might be the Doctor's notion of a 
 reply to which we fancy we see him simmering with delight, 
 and saying, " No sir ! I have not meddled either with the 
 curry of poetry or the cold meat of prose. I have not wasted 
 over the slow fire of the metaphysics, or cut up the mathe- 
 matics into thin slices — I have not lost myself amongst the 
 hick-shaivs of fine scenery, or pampered myself on the mock 
 turtle of metaphors. Neither have I dined at the table 
 and the expense of other men's minds ! No, sir, I have 
 written on cookery, on the kitchen, on the solids — 'the 
 substantials. Sir Giles, the substantial ' ! " 
 
 If it were not that critics are proverbial for having no 
 bowels, we should hesitate at entering the paradise of pies 
 and puddings which Dr. Kitchener has opened to us ; for 
 the steam of his rich sentences rises about our senses like the 
 odours of flowers around the imagination of a poet; and 
 larded beef goes nigh to lord it over our bewildered appetites. 
 But being steady men, of sober and temperate habits, and 
 used to privations in the way of food, we shall not scruple at 
 looking a leg of mutton in the face or shaking hands with a
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 9 
 
 shoulder of veal. " Minced coUops " nothing daunt us ; we 
 brace our nerves, and are not overwhelmed with "cockle 
 catsup ! " When Bags asks his friend, " How do you do when 
 you write 1 " it would seem that he had the Cook's Oracle 
 in his eye — for to men of any mastication, never was there a 
 book that required more training for a quiet and useful 
 perusal. Cod's head rises before you in all its glory ! While 
 the oysters revolve around it, in their firmament of melted 
 butter, like its well ordered satellites ! Moorgame, mackarel, 
 muscles, fowls, eggs, and force-meat balls, start up in all 
 directions and dance the hays in the imagination. We 
 should recommend those readers with whom dinner is a 
 habit, not to venture on the Doctor's pages, without seeing 
 that their hunger, like a ferocious house-dog, is carefully tied 
 up. To read four pages with an unchained appetite, would 
 bring on dreadful dreams of being destroyed with spits, or 
 drowned in mulligatawny soup, or of having youi' tongue 
 neatly smothered in yom- own brains, and, as Matthew says, 
 a lemon stuck in your mouth. We cannot but conceive that 
 such reading, in such unprepared minds, would have strange 
 influences ; and that the dreams of persons should be dished 
 up to suit the various palates. The school girl would, like 
 the French goose, "be persuaded to roast itself." The 
 indolent man would "sleep a fortnight" and even then 
 not be fit for use. The lover would di-eam that his heart 
 was overdone. The author would be roasted alive in his 
 own quills and basted with cold ink. It were an endless 
 task to follow this speculation ; and indeed we are keeping 
 our readers too long without the meal to which we have 
 taken the liberty of inviting them. The dinner "bell 
 invites " us — we go, and it is done. 
 
 The book, the Cook's Oracle, opens with a preface, as other 
 books occasionally do; but "the likeness ends;" for it
 
 10 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 continues with a whole bunch of introductions, treating of 
 cooks, and invitations to dinner, and refusals, and "friendly 
 advice," and weights and measures, and then we get fairly- 
 launched on the sea of boiling, broiling, roasting, stewing, 
 and again return and cast anchor among the vegetables. 
 It is impossible to say where the book begins ; it is a heap 
 of initiatory chapters — a parcel of graces before meat, — a 
 bunch of heads, — the asparagus of literature. You are not 
 troubled with "more last words of Mr. Baxter," but are 
 delighted, and redelighted, with more first words of Dr. 
 Kitchener. He makes several starts like a restless race- 
 horse before he fairly gets upon the second course ; or 
 rather, like Lady Macbeth's dinner party, he stands much 
 upon the order of his going. But now, to avoid sinking 
 into the same trick, we will proceed without further preface 
 to conduct our readers through the maze of pots, grid- 
 irons and frying pans, which Dr. Kitchener has rendered 
 a very poetical, or we should say, a very palatable amuse- 
 ment. 
 
 ^he first preface tells us, inter alia, that he has worked all 
 the culinary problems which his book contains, in his own 
 kitchen ; and that, after this warm experience, he did not 
 venture to print a sauce, or a stew, until he had read " two 
 hundred cookery books," which, as he says, "he patiently 
 pioneered through, before he set about recording the results 
 of his own experiments I " We scarcely thought there had 
 been so many volumes written on the Dutch-oven. 
 
 "The following receipts are not a mere marrowless 
 collection of shreds, and patches, and cuttings, and pastings, 
 but a bond fide register of practical facts, — accumulated by a 
 perseverance not to be subdued, or evaporated, by the 
 igniferous teiTors of a roasting fire in the dog days, — in 
 defiance of the odoriferous and calefacient repellants of
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 11 
 
 roasting, — boiling, — frying, — and broiling ; moreover the 
 author has submitted to a labour no preceding Cookery 
 Book maker, perhaps, ever attempted to encounter, — having 
 eaten each receipt before he set it down in his book." 
 
 We should like to see the Doctor, we confess, after this 
 extraordinary statement. To have superintended the agi- 
 tations of the pot, — to have hung affectionately over a 
 revolving calf's heart — to have patiently witnessed the 
 noisy marriage of bubble and squeak, — to have cooUy 
 investigated the mystery of a haricot, — appears within the 
 compass of any old lady or gentleman, whose frame could 
 stand the fire and whose soul could rule the roast. But to 
 have earten the substautials of four hundred and forty 
 closely printed pages is "a thing to read of, not to tell." 
 It calls for a man of ii'on interior, a man alieni aj^petens, sui 
 profmus. It demands the rival of time ; an edax rerum ! 
 The Doctor does not tell us how he travelled from gridiron 
 to frying-pan — from frying-pan to Dutch-oven — from Dutch- 
 oven to spit — from spit to pot — from pot to fork — he 
 leaves us to guess at his progress. We presume he ate his 
 way, page by page, through fish, flesh, fowl and vegetable ; 
 he would have left us dead among the soups and gravies. 
 Had a whole army of martyrs accompanied him on this 
 Russian retreat of the appetite, we should have found them 
 strewing the way ; and him alone, the Napoleon of the 
 task, living and fattening at the end of the journey. The 
 introduction goes on very learnedly, descanting upon 
 Shakspeare, Descartes, Dr. Johnson, Mrs. Glasse, Professor 
 Bradley, Pythagoras, Miss Seward, and other persons 
 equally illustrious. The Doctor's chief aim is to prove, we 
 believe, that cookery is the most laudable pm-suit, and the 
 most pleasiurable amusement of life. Much depends on the 
 age of your domestics ; for we are told that " it is a good
 
 12 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 maxim to select servants not younger than Thirty." Is it 
 so? Youth "thou art shamed!" This first introduction 
 concludes with a long eulogy upon the Doctor's " laborious 
 stove work ; " and upon the spirit, temper and ability with 
 which he had dressed his book. The Doctor appends to this 
 introduction a chapter called " Culinary Curiosities," in 
 which he gives the following recipe for " persuading a goose 
 to roast itself." We must say it outhorrors all the horrors 
 we ever read of. 
 
 "How TO ROAST A GoOSE ALIVE." 
 
 " Take a goose, or a duck, or some such lively creature 
 (but a goose is best of all for such purpose), pull off all her 
 feathers, only the head and neck must be spared, then make 
 a fire round about her, not too close to her, that the smoke 
 do not choke her, and that the fire may not burn her too 
 soon ; nor too far off", that she may not escape fire : within 
 the circle of the fire let there be set small cups and pots 
 full of water wherein salt and honey are mingled, and let 
 there be set also chargers full of sodden apples, cut into 
 small pieces in the dish. The goose must be all larded and 
 basted over with butter, to make her the more fit to be 
 eaten, and may roast the better : put then fire about her, 
 but do not make too much haste, when you see her 
 beginning to roast ; for by walking about, and flying here 
 and there, being cooped in by the fire that stops her way 
 out, the unwearied goose is kept in ; '-^ she will fall to drink 
 the water to quench her thirst, and cool her heart, and all 
 
 * This cook of a goose, or goose of a cook, whichever it may he, strangely 
 reminds us of the Doctor's own intense and enthusiastic bustle among the 
 butter-boats. We fancy we see him, and not the goose, " walking about, 
 and flying here and there, being cooped in by the fire." By this time, we 
 should suppose, he must be about "roasted enough."
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 13 
 
 her body, and the apple-sauce will make her dung, and 
 cleanse and empty her. And when she roasteth, and 
 consumes inwardly, always wet her head and heart with a 
 wet sponge ; and when you see her giddy with running, and 
 begin to stumble, her heart wants moisture, and she is 
 roasted enough. Take her up, set her before yom- guests, 
 and she will ciy as you cut off any part from her, and will 
 be almost eaten up before she be dead. It is mighty 
 pleasant to behold ! ! ! See Weckers Secrets of Nature, in 
 folio, London, 1660, pp. 148, 309." 
 
 The next chapter, or introduction (for we are not within 
 forty spits length of the cookery directions yet), is entitled 
 " Invitations to Dinner ; " and commences thus : 
 
 " In the aftairs of the mouth the strictest punctuality is 
 indispensable ; — the gastronomer ought to be as accurate an 
 observer of time as the astronomer — the least delay produces 
 fatal and irreparable misfortunes." 
 
 It appearing, therefore, that delay is dp^ngerous, as mammas 
 say to their daughters on certain occasions, the Doctor 
 directs that "the dining-room should be furnished with a 
 good-going clock." He then speaks of food " well done 
 when it is done," which leads to certain learned sentences on 
 indigestion. The sad disregard of dinner-hours generally 
 observed meets with his most serious displeasure and 
 rebuke ; but to refuse an invitation to dinner is the capital 
 crime, for which there is apparently no capital punishment. 
 " Nothing can be more disobliging than a refusal which is 
 not grounded on some very strong and unavoidable cause, 
 except not coming at the appointed hour ; according to the 
 laws of conviviality, a certificate from a sheriff's officer, a 
 doctor, or an undertaker, are the only pleas which are 
 admissible. The duties which invitation imposes do not
 
 14 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 fall only on the persons invited, but, like all other social 
 duties, are reciprocal." 
 
 If you should, therefore, fortunately happen to be ari'ested, 
 or have had the good luck to fracture a Hmb, or, if better 
 than all, you should have taken a box in that awful theatre 
 at which all must be present once and for ever ; you may be 
 pardoned refusing the invitation of some tiresome friend to 
 take a chop ; but there is no other excuse, no other available 
 excuse, for absenting yourself; no mental inaptitude will 
 save you. Late comers are thus rebuked : 
 
 " There are some who seldom keep an appointment ; we 
 can assure them they as seldom * 'scape without whipping,' 
 and exciting those murmurs which inevitably proceed from 
 the best regulated stomachs — when they are empty and 
 impatient to be filled." 
 
 Carving is the next subject of the Doctor's care ; but he 
 resolutely and somewhat vehemently protests against your 
 wielding the king of knives at any other table than your 
 own : thus for ever excluding an author from the luxuries of 
 table-anatomy. After giving an erudite passage from the 
 "Almanach des Gourmands," the Doctor wanders into 
 anecdote, and becomes facetious after the following recipe : 
 
 "I once heard a gentle hint on this subject given to a 
 blue mould fancier, who, by looking too long at a Stilton 
 cheese, was at last completely overcome by his eye exciting 
 his appetite, till it became quite imgovernable, and un- 
 conscious of everything but the mity object of his contempla- 
 tion, he began to pick out, in no small portions, the primest 
 parts his eye could select from the centre of the cheese." 
 
 The good natured founder of the feast, highly amused at 
 the ecstacies each morsel created in its passage over the 
 palate of the enraptured gourmand, thus encouraged the 
 perseverance of his guest — " Cut away, my dear sir, use no
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 15 
 
 ceremony, I pray ; — I hope you will pick out all the best of 
 my cheese — the rind and the rotten will do very well for my 
 wife and family ! " 
 
 There is something so serene and simple in the above 
 little story, that we recommend it to persons after dinner in 
 preference to those highly seasoned and spicy jests which 
 Mr. Joseph Miller has potted for the use of posterity. The 
 next introduction contains "Friendly Advice to Cooks and 
 other sei-vants ; " but we cannot help thinking that Dr. 
 Swift has in some degree forestalled our own good Doctor in 
 this department of literature, although perhaps Dr. Kitchener 
 is the most sober of counsellors. The following, to be sure, 
 is a little suspicious. "Enter into all their plans of economy, 
 and endeavour to make the most of eveiy thing as well for 
 your own honour as your master's profit." This, without 
 the note, would be unexceptionable ; but the Doctor quotes 
 from Dr. Trusler (all the Doctor's are redolent of servants) 
 as follows : — "I am persuaded that no servant ever saved 
 her master sixpence but she found it in the end of her own 
 2'>ockety — " Have the dust removed," says Dr. Kitchener, 
 " regularly every fortnight ! " — What dust % — Not that, we 
 tnist, which people are often entreated to come down with. 
 The accumulation of soot has its dire evils : for " many 
 good dinners have been spoiled, and many houses burned 
 do^Ti, by the soot falling." Thus the Doctor, veiy properly, 
 puts the greater evil first. " Give notice to your employers 
 when the contents of your coal cellar are diminished to a 
 chaldron." Diminished I we should be glad to hear when 
 our cellars had increased to this stock. There is no hope, 
 then, for those chamber-gentlemen who fritter away their 
 lives by sack or bushel ! Dr. Kitchener is rather abstruse 
 and particular in another of his directions : — " The best rule 
 for marketing is to pay ready money for everything.''' This is
 
 16 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 a good rule with the elect ; — but, is there no luxury in a 
 baker's bill? Are butchers' reckonings nothing? Is there 
 no virtue in a milk-tally ? We cannot help thinking that 
 tick was a great invention, and gives many a man a dinner 
 that would otherwise go unfed. 
 
 The chapter on weights and measures is short, but deeply 
 interesting and intense. There is an episode upon trough 
 nutmeg -graters that would do the water-gi'uel generation 
 good to hear. 
 
 And now the book begins to boil. The reader is told that 
 meat takes twenty minutes to the pound ; and that block- 
 tin saucepans are the best. We can fish out little else, 
 except a long and rather skilful calculation of the manner in 
 which meat jockeys itself and reduces its weight in the 
 cooking. Buckle and Sam Chifi'ney are nothing to " a leg of 
 mutton with the shank bone taken out ; " and it perhaps 
 might not be amiss if the Newmarket profession were to 
 consider how far it would be practicable to substitute the 
 cauldi^on for the blanket, and thus reduce by steam. We 
 should suppose a young gentleman, with half-an-hour's 
 boiling, would ride somewhere about feather-weight. 
 
 Baking is dismissed in a page and a half. We are sorry 
 to find that some joints, w^hen fallen into poverty and decay, 
 are quite unworthy of credit. "When baking a joint of 
 jyoor meat I have seen it (what ?) start from the bone, and 
 shrivel up scarcely to be believedP 
 
 Roasting is the next object of Dr. Kitchener's anxious 
 care ; and if this chapter be generally read, we shall not be 
 sm'prised to see people in future roasting their meat before 
 their doors and in their areas : for the Doctor says — 
 
 " Roasting should be done in the open air, to ventilate the 
 meat from its own fumes, and by the radiant heat of a clear 
 glowing fire, — otherwise it is in fact baked — the machines
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 17 
 
 the economical grate-makers call roasters, are, in plain 
 English, ovens." 
 
 The Doctor then proceeds, not being content with telling 
 you how to cook your victuals, to advise carefullj^ as to the 
 best method of cooking tlie^re. " The fire that is but just 
 sufficient to receive the noble sirloin w^ill parch up a lighter 
 joint;" which is plainly a translation into the cook's own 
 particular language of "temper the wind to the shorn 
 lamb." The chapter does not conclude without observing 
 that " eveiybody knows the advantage of slow boiling — sloiv 
 roasting is equally important." This is an axiom. 
 
 Frying is a very graceful and lively species of cooking, 
 though yielding perhaps in its vivacity and music to boiling 
 — but of this more anon. We are sony to find the Doctor 
 endeavouring to take away from the originality of frying, 
 classing it unkindly with the inferior sorts of boiling — 
 calling it, in fact, the mere corpulence of boiling. 
 
 " A frying-pan should be about four inches deep, with a 
 perfectly flat and thick bottom, twelve inches long, and 
 nine broad, with perpendicular sides, and must be half 
 filled with fat : good frying is, in fact, boiling in fat. To 
 make sure that the pan is quite clean, rub a little fat over 
 it, and then make it warm, and rub it with a clean cloth." 
 
 Broiling follows. We really begin to be enacting this 
 sort of cookery ourselves, from the vigour and spirit with 
 which we have rushed along in the company of Dr. Kitchener. 
 Broiling is the poetry of cooking. The lyre-like shape of 
 the instrument on which it was performed, and the brisk and 
 pleasant sounds that arise momentarily, are rather musical 
 than cuhnary. We are transported, at the thought, to that 
 golden gridiron in the Beef Steak Club, which seems to 
 confine the white cook in his burning cage, which generates 
 wit, whim, and song, for hours together, and pleasantly
 
 18 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 blends the fanciful and the substantial in one laughing and 
 robust harmony. 
 
 The Doctor is profound on the subject of vegetables, and 
 when we consider the importance of it, we are not surprised 
 to hear him earnestly exclaim, *' I should as soon think of 
 roasting cm animal alive, as of boiling a vegetable after it is 
 deadr No one will question that the one is quite as 
 pardonable as the other. Our readers cannot be too 
 particular in looking to their brocoli and potatoes. " This 
 branch of cookery requires the most vigilant attention. 
 If vegetables are a minute or two too long over the fire, 
 they lose all their beauty and flavour. If not thoroughly 
 boiled tender, they are tremendously indigestible, and much 
 more troublesome during their residence in the stomach 
 than underdone meats." 
 
 We pass over the rudiments of dressing fish, and of 
 compounding broths and soups, except with remarking, that 
 a turbot is said to be better for not being fresh, and that 
 " lean juicy beef, mutton, or veal form the ha%is ofhroth'' 
 
 Gravies and sauces are not neglected. The Doctor writes 
 — " However ' les pompeuses Bagatelles de la cuisine 
 masquee,' may tickle the fancy of demi connoisseurs, who, 
 leaving the substance to pm'sue the shadow, prefer won- 
 derful and whimsical metamorphoses, and things extrava- 
 gantly expensive, to those which are intrinsically excellent 
 — in whose mouth, mutton can hardly hope for a welcome 
 unless accompanied by venison sauce — or a rabbit any 
 chance for a race down the red lane, without assuming the 
 form of a frog or spider — or pork without being either 
 ' goosified ' or ' lambified,' and game and poultry in the 
 shape of crawfish gr hedgehogs. 
 
 "These travesties rather show the patience than the 
 science of the cook, — and the bad taste of those who prefer 
 
 cne I 
 jfer 1 
 
 a
 
 i 
 
 THE COOK'S OEACLE. 19 
 
 «uch baby tricks to old English nourishing and substantial 
 plain cookery. We could have made this the biggest book 
 with half the trouble it has taken me to make it the best ; 
 — concentration and perspicuity have been my aim." 
 
 We do not know what the Doctor understands as " a big 
 book ; " but to our notions (and we are experienced in the 
 weights and measures of printed works) the Cook's Oracle 
 is a tolerably huge and Gog-like production. We should 
 have been glad to have had a calculation of what the manu- 
 script lost in the printing. In truth a comparative scale 
 of the wasting of meat and prose during the cooking would 
 be no iminteresting performance. For our parts, we can 
 only remark from experience, that these our articles in the 
 London Magazine boil up like spinage. We fancy, when 
 written, that we have a heap of leaves fit to feed thirty 
 columns ; and they absolutely and alai-mingly shrink up to 
 a page or two when cb-essed by the compositor. 
 
 The romantic fancy of cooks is thus restrained : 
 
 " The imagination of most cooks is so incessantly on the 
 hunt for a relish, that they seem to think they cannot 
 make sauce sufficiently savoury, without putting into it 
 everything that ever was eaten ; and supposing every 
 addition must be an improvement, they frequently over- 
 power the natural flavour of their plain sauces, by 
 overloading them with salt and spices, &c. : — but, re- 
 member, these will be deteriorated by any addition, save 
 only just salt enough to awaken the palate — the lover of 
 'piquance' and compound flavours may have recourse to 
 the ' Magazine of Taste.' " 
 
 Again 
 
 " Why have clove and allspice, — or mace and nutmeg, 
 in the same sauce ? — or marjoram, — thyme, — and savory ? — 
 or onions, — leeks — eschallots — and garlick ? one will very 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 well supply the place of the other, — and the frugal cook 
 may save something considerable by attending to this to 
 the advantage of her employers, and her own time and 
 trouble. — You might as well, to make soup, order one 
 quart of water from the Thames, another from the New 
 River, a third from Hampstead, and a fom-th from Chelsea, 
 with a certain portion of spring and rain water." 
 
 The Doctor himself, however, in spite of his correction 
 of the cooks, is not entirely free from the fanciful. When 
 you have opened a bottle of catsup, he says, " use only the 
 best superfine velvet taper corks." This is drawing a cork 
 with the hand of a poet. 
 
 And now, will the reader believe it % The work commences 
 afresh ! After all our labour, — after all our travelling 
 through boiling, broiling, roasting, &c., we find that we have 
 the whole to go over again. To our utter dismay, p. 142 
 begins anew with — hoiling ! It is little comfort to us that 
 joints and cuttings come in for their distinct treatment : 
 we seem to have made no way, and sit down with as much 
 despair as a young school-girl, who, after three quarters 
 of a year's dancing, is put back to the Scotch step. Beef 
 has been spoken of before ; but we have not at all made up 
 our minds on the following subject : — 
 
 "Obs. — In Mrs. Mason's Ladies' Assistant this joint is 
 called haunch-bone; in Henderson's Cookery, edge-bone; 
 in Domestic Management, aitch-bone ; in Reynolds' Cookery, 
 ische-bone ; in ^Irs. Lydia Fisher's Prudent Housewife, 
 ach-bone ; in Mrs. M'lver's Cookery, hook-bone. We have 
 also seen it spelt each-bone, and ridge-bone, and we have 
 also heard it called natch-bone." 
 
 Of " half a calf's head " Dr. Kitchener says, sUly enough, 
 if you like it full-dressed score it superficially ; beat up the 
 yolk of an Q%<gy and rub it over the head with a feather ;
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 21 
 
 yovKler it, &c. Such a calf's head as this, so full-dressed, 
 might be company for the best nobleman's ditto in the land. 
 
 It is quite impossible for us to accompany Dr. Kitchener 
 regularly through " roasting, frying, vegetables," &c., as we 
 are by no means sure that om- readers would sanction the 
 encore. We shall pick a bit here and a bit there, from the 
 Doctor's dainty larder ; and take care to choose, as the 
 English do with a French bill of fare, from those niceties 
 which are novelties. 
 
 " A pig," observes the Doctor, as though he w^ere speaking 
 of any other dull, obstinate personage, " is a very troublesome 
 subject to roast. Most persons have them baked : send a 
 quarter of a pound of butter, and beg the baker to haste 
 it well." The following occurs to us to be as difficult a 
 direction to fulfil as any of Sir Thomas Parkin's wrestling 
 instructions : " Lay your pig hack to hack in the dish, with 
 one half of the head on each side, and the ears one at each 
 end, which you must take care to make nice and crisp, or 
 you will get scolded, as the good man was who brought his 
 wife a pig with one ear." The point at the end is like the 
 point of a spit. Again : " A sucking pig, like a young child, 
 must not be left for an instant ! " Never was such affection 
 manifested before for this little interesting and persecuted 
 tribe. 
 
 If Izaak Walton be the greatest of writers on the catching 
 of fish, Dr. Kitchener is, beyond doubt, triumphant over all 
 who have written upon the dressing of them. The Doctor 
 dwells upon "the fine pale red rose colour" of pickled 
 salmon, till you doubt whether he is not admiring a carna- 
 tion. " Cod's skull " becomes flowery and attractive ; and 
 fine '•' silver eels," when " stewed Wiggig's way," swim in 
 beauty as well as butter. The Doctor points out the best 
 method of killing this perversely living fish, observing, very
 
 22 THE COOK'S OEACLE. 
 
 justly, "that the human executioner does certain criminals 
 the favour to hcmg them before he breaks them on the 
 wheel." 
 
 Of salmon the Doctor rather quaintly and i^omxgly ob- 
 serves, " the thinnest part of the fish is the fattest. If you 
 have any left, put it into a pie-dish, and cover it," etc. The 
 direction is conditional, we perceive. 
 
 " Remember to choose your lobsters ' heavy and lively.^ " 
 — "Motion," saj^s the Doctor, "is the index of then- fresh- 
 ness." 
 
 Upon Oysters, Dr. Kitchener is eloquent indeed. He is, 
 as it were, " native here, and to the manner born." 
 
 " The true lover of an oyster will have some regard for the 
 feelings of his little favourite, and will never abandon it to 
 the mercy of a bungling operator, — but will open it himself, 
 and contrive to detach the fish from the shell so dexterously, 
 that the oyster is hardly conscious he has been ejected from 
 his lodging, till he feels the teeth of the piscivorous gommand 
 tickling him to death." 
 
 Who would not be an oyster to be thus surprised, to be 
 thus pleasingly ejected from its tenement of mother of pearl, 
 to be thus tickled to death ? When we ai^e placed in our 
 shell, we should have no objection to be astonished with a 
 similar delicate and titillating opening ! 
 
 Giblet soup requires to be eaten with the fingers. We were 
 not aware that these handy instiTiments could be used suc- 
 cessfully in the devouring of gravies and soups. 
 
 " N.B. This is rather a family dish than a company one ; 
 the bones cannot be well picked without the help of a live 
 pincers. Since Tom Coryat introduced forks, a.d. 1642, it has 
 not been the fashion to put ' pickers and stealers ' into soup." 
 
 After giving a most elaborate recipe for mock-turtle soup, 
 he proceeds —
 
 THE COOK'S OEACLE. 23 
 
 "This soup was eaten by the committee of taste with 
 unanimous applause, and they pronounced it a very satis- 
 factory substitute for 'the far fetcht and dear bought' 
 turtle ; which itself is indebted for its title of ' sovereign of 
 savouriness ' to the rich soup with which it is surrounded ; 
 without its paraphernalia of double relishes, a ' starved -tiu-tle ' 
 has not more intrinsic sapidity than a fatted calf." 
 
 And a little further on he observes — 
 
 " Obs. — This is a delicious soup, within the reach of 
 those ' who eat to live ; ' but if it had been composed 
 'expressly for those 'who only live to eat,' I do not know 
 how it could have been made more agreeable ; as it is, the 
 lover of good eating will ' wish his throat a mile long, and 
 every inch of it palate.' " 
 
 Oui' readers will pant to have " Mr. Michael Kelly's sauce 
 for boiled tripe, calf's-head, or cow-heel." It is this : — 
 
 " Garlick vinegar, a tablespoonful ; of mustard, brown sugar, 
 and black pepper, a teaspoonful each"; stirred into half a pint 
 of oiled melted butter." 
 
 Gad-a-mercy, what a gullet must be in the possession of 
 Mr. Michael Kelly ! 
 
 We think the following almost a superfluous direction to 
 cooks : — " Take your chops out of the frying-pan," p. 324 ; 
 but then he tells you in another place, " to put your tongue 
 into plenty of cold water;" p. 156, which makes all even 
 again. 
 
 After giving ample directions for the making of essence of 
 anchovy, the Doctor rather damps our ardour for entering 
 upon it, by the following observations : " Mem. — You cannot 
 make essence of anchovy half so cheaj) as you can buy it.'" 
 
 The following passage is rather too close an imitation of 
 one of the puff directions in the " Critic : " 
 
 " To a pint of the cleanest and strongest rectified spirit,
 
 24 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 (sold by Eickards, Piccadilly,) add two di-achms and a half of 
 the sweet oil of orange peel, (sold by Stewart, No. 11, Old 
 Broad-street, near the Bank,) shake it up, etc." 
 
 " Obs. — We do not offer this receipt as a rival to Mr. 
 Johnson's curagoa ; it is only proposed as an humble substi- 
 tute for that incomparable liqueur." 
 
 The Doctor proceeds to luxuriate upon made dishes, etc. ; 
 in the course of which he says, " The sirloin of beef I divide 
 into three parts : I first have it nicely honed /" This is rather 
 a suspicious way of having it at all. Mrs. Philip's Irish 
 stew has all the fascination of her country-women. In 
 treating of shin of beef, the Doctor gives us a proverb which 
 we never remember to have heard before. 
 
 " Of all the fowls of the air, commend me to the shin of 
 beef : for there's marrow for the master, meat for the mistress, 
 gristles for the servants, and bones for the dogs." 
 
 On pounded cheese the Doctor writes, " the piquance of 
 this huttery -caseous, relish,"' etc. Is not this a little overdone, 1 
 The passage, however, on the frying of eggs makes up for all. 
 
 " Be sure the frying-pan is quite clean ; when the fat is 
 hot, break two or three eggs into it ; do not turn them, but, 
 while they are frying, keep pouring some of the fat over 
 them with a spoon : when the yolk just begins to look white, 
 which it will be in about a couple of minutes, they are done 
 enough ; if they are done nicely, they will look as white and 
 delicate as if they had been poached ; take them up with a 
 tin slice, drain the fat from them, trim them neatly, and send 
 them up with the bacon round them." 
 
 " The beauty of a poached <£:%^ is for the yolk to be seen 
 hlushing through the w^hite, which should only be just suffi- 
 ciently hardened to form a transparent veil for the egg."" 
 
 So much for the Cook's Oracle. The style is a piquant 
 sauce to the solid food of the instructions ; and we never
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 25 
 
 recollect reading sentences that relished so savourily. The 
 Doctor appears to have written his work upon the back of a 
 dripping-pan, with the point of his spit, so very cooklike 
 does he dish up his remarks. If we were to be cast away 
 upon a desert island, and could only caiTy one book ashore, 
 we should take care to secure the Cook's Oracle ; for let 
 victuals be ever so scarce, there are pages in that erudite 
 book that are, as Congi-eve's Jeremy says, " a feast for an 
 emperor." Who could starve with such a larder of reading ? 
 
 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, — 
 
 There is in woods a solemn sound 
 
 Of hollow warnings whisper'd round. 
 
 As Echo in her deep recess 
 
 For once had turn'd 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 gone like pageant bright ; 
 Its glorious days of golden light 
 Are gone — the mimic suns that quiver, 
 Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river.
 
 26 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER, 
 
 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 ! that negi'o 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 1 
 Not he that e'er hath felt thy pow'r. 
 His joy expanding like a flow'r. 
 That Cometh after rain and snow, 
 Looks up at heaven, and learns to glow : — 
 Not he that fled from Babel-strife 
 To the green sabbath-land of life. 
 To dodge dull Care 'mid cluster'd trees,
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 27 
 
 And cool his forehead in the breeze, — 
 Whose spirit, weary-worn perchance, 
 Shook from its wings a weight of grief, 
 And perch'd 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 perish' d there. 
 But slept in immortality : 
 Nature shall thrill with new delight, 
 And Time's relumined river run 
 WaiTQ 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 ?
 
 28 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 
 
 Onward he comes — the cruel North 
 Pours his furious whirlwind forth 
 Before him — and we breathe the breath 
 Of famish' d bears that howl to death. 
 Onward he comes from rocks that blanch 
 O'er solid streams that never flow : 
 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 pilgiim stiffen' d in the storm. 
 Oh ! will not Mirth's light aiTows fail 
 To pierce that frozen coat of mail ? 
 Oh ! will not joy but strive in vain 
 To light up those glazed eyes again 1 
 
 No ! take him in, and blaze the oak, 
 And pour the wine, and warm the ale ; 
 His sides shall 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 charm' d away. 
 What heeds he then the boisterous shout 
 Of angry winds that scold without, 
 Like shrewish wives at tavern door 1 
 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 shelter' d, and at ease, 
 He hears the storm that cannot harm him.
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 29 
 
 But hark ! those shouts ! that sudden din 
 Of Uttle hearts that laugh within. 
 Oh ! 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 coui't — 
 'Tis Mirth fresh crown' d with misletoe ! 
 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 ? 
 Then read our Poets — they shall weave 
 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 thi'ough the mind : 
 They have stamp' d 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 flow'rs — 
 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
 
 30 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 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 realise — 
 
 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 mix'd it up ; 
 
 The " dance, and song, and sun-burnt 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 ! 
 
 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM ISLINGTON 
 TO WATERLOO BRIDGE, IN MARCH, 1821. 
 
 * ' The son of Cornelius shall make his own legs his compasses ; with 
 those he shall measure continents, islands, capes, bays, straits, and 
 isthmuses." — Memoirs of Martinus Scriblerus. 
 
 "I SHOULD very much like to travel," said a young 
 cockney, with his feet on the fender. "London is a vast 
 place ; but the world is ten times bigger, and no doubt a 
 many strange things are to be seen in it." 
 
 '* And pray, young man," said an old gentleman, whom 
 he called the philosopher, "pray, are you so familiar with 
 the features of your own country ; are you so well acquainted 
 with its men and manners, that you must go out of it for 
 matter of investigation and speculation ?"
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 31 
 
 " As for men," replied the cockney, " we may see them 
 any where. I've seen Cribb and Spring, and the best good 
 ones that ever peel'd ; and as for manners, I learned them at 
 the dancing-school. I have not been all over England, to be 
 sure, like my father's riders ; but I've been to Margate, 
 Brighton, and Moulsey Hurst ; so that what I have not seen 
 by sack I have seen by sample. Besides, London is the 
 very focus of England ; and sure I am, that I know it from 
 Wapping to Hyde Park Comer, and have seen all that is 
 instructive in it. I've been up the Monument, and down 
 St. Paul's, over the Bridges, and under the Tunnel. I've 
 seen the King and Court, Mrs. Salmon's royal waxwork too, 
 and the wild beasts at Exeter 'Change ; — I've seen Drury 
 Lane and Covent Garden play-houses, besides the Houses of 
 Lords and Commons — the Soho Bazaar, and both Bartlemy 
 Fair and the Brighton Pavilion. I never missed a Lord 
 Mayor's show, nor anything that is worth seeing ; and 
 I know by sight Lord Castlereagh, Jack Ketch, Sir William 
 Cmiis, Billy Waters, and many other public and dis- 
 tinguished characters." 
 
 " If you have seen no more than you say," said the phi- 
 losopher, " you have seen a great deal more than is English ; 
 and if you only wish to study mankind, it is at least a reason 
 against your leaving the country. England has, to be sure, 
 its national character ; but it gives birth to many mongrels, 
 who belong rather to the Spanish, Dutch, or other breeds : 
 there are foreigners born here, as well as others who visit us ; 
 and why should we go abroad to study them, when we have 
 them all in epitome at home ? Different nations, like 
 different men, are only compounds of the same ingredients, 
 but in different proportions. We shall find knaves and 
 honest men in every state, and a large proportion of fools 
 and dunces in them all. We shall find every where the
 
 82 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 same passions, the same virtues and vices, but altered in 
 their proportions by the influences of education, laws, and 
 religion; which in some parts tend to improve, and, in 
 others, to pervert the common nature of mankind. 
 
 " It is in their civil and religious institutions that we are to 
 look for the grand causes effecting those distinctions which 
 constitute national character ; but before we go to investi- 
 gate them, we should at least understand a little of our own." 
 
 "Pshaw!" said the cockney, who began to grow tired of 
 this harangue ; " there are sights to be seen abroad which 
 can't be brought over here, and as for men being the same all 
 the world over, it's all my eye, — a'nt there the Hottentots 
 that have noses like your pug's, and heads as black and 
 woolly as my poodle's ? A'nt the Frenchmen all skinny, and 
 haven't the Spaniards large whiskers ? There are the Pata- 
 gonians, too, that are as big as the Irish giant, and Laplanders 
 no bigger than Miss What's-her-name, the dwarf?" 
 
 " Pshaw," said the philosopher, in his turn ; " all these are 
 minor distinctions, and shrink, as it were, to nothing when 
 compared with the immeasurable distances between the 
 minds of men : whether I be Englishman or Hottentot, a 
 Laplander or a Patagonian, — 
 
 If I could stretch from pole to pole, 
 
 And grasp the ocean in a span, 
 I must be measured by my soul : 
 
 The mind's the standard of the man. 
 
 "There is, no doubt, a considerable difference between a 
 Hottentot's nose and my own, which, as you observe, is a 
 fine Roman one, and veiy like Csesar's; but there is, I 
 flatter myself, a much greater difference between our under- 
 standings. The first is only a difference in the conformation of 
 matter, but the last is a gradation in mind, which, to speak in 
 common language, is the most material matter of the two."
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 33 
 
 Here the Cockney was quite out of patience ; " he did not 
 care," he said, "about mind and matter; and as to the differ- 
 ence of men's minds, why men would differ, but he meant to 
 be of his own mind, and the philosopher might be of his," 
 and so they parted. 
 
 As I was present at this conversation, it occurred to me 
 that if men were so much alike everywhere, or rather, if 
 every soil produced the same varieties, I could see as much 
 of them in a walk through the populous streets of London as 
 in a hasty journey all over the Continent. Oh! I will not 
 travel, said I, for, in the first place, it's unnecessary ; and 
 secondly, I do not feel equal to its fatigues and dangers ; and 
 lastly, said I (for we always get to the true reason at last), I 
 can't afford it. Besides, I had not seen Waterloo Bridge ; 
 and we ought to see our own bridges, before we go to see the 
 bridges of others. A traveller, said I, should have all his 
 wits about him, and so will I. He should let nothing escape 
 him, no more will I. He should extract reflections out of a 
 cabbage stump, like sun-beams squeezed out of cucumbers ; 
 so will I, if I can ; and he should converse w^ith every and 
 any one, even a fish-woman. Perhaps I will, and perhaps I 
 will not, said I. Who knows but I may make a senti- 
 mental journey, as good as Sterne's ; but at any rate I can 
 write it, and send it to the London Magazine. 
 
 I had hardly left the threshold of my door, ere I met, as I 
 thought, with an advent m^e. I had just reached that ancient 
 and grotesque house which is said to have been a summer 
 seat of Queen Elizabeth, though now in the centre of the 
 village, or rather town of Islington, w^hen I obsei-ved that tlie 
 steps which led down to the door, had become the seat, or 
 rather the couch of an unfortunate female. She had, like 
 Sterne's Maria, her dog, and her pipe, and like her, too, she was 
 evidently beside herself. " Poor unfortunate and interesting
 
 34 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 Maria," said I, as she came into my mind, exactly as Sterne had 
 drawn her. I had touched a string — at the name of Maria, the 
 female for the first time raised her head, and I caught a glance 
 at her uncommon countenance. The rose had not fled from 
 it, nor the bloom, for this was damson, and that was damask ; 
 there was a fixedness in her gaze, and although she quickly 
 turned her head away, she could not hide from me that she had 
 a drop in her eye. " It won't do," said I, shaking my head, 
 "Maria found Sterne's handkerchief, and washed it with tears, 
 and dried it in her bosom ; but if I lose mine here, it's ten 
 to one if I see it again ; and if this Maria should wet it with 
 her eyes, methinks it would dry best again at her nose. 
 There is nothing to sympathise with in her bewilderment — 
 she's rather bewitched than bewitching — she's a dry sub- 
 ject," and so I left her. My eyes, however, were full charged 
 with the tears, and my bosom with the sighs, which I had 
 expected to mingle with those of the supposed unfortunate. 
 Some sentimentalists would have vented them upon the first 
 dead dog or lame chicken they might meet with, but I held 
 them too valuable to be wasted upon such objects. I hate 
 the weeping-willow set, who will cry over their pug dogs and 
 canaries, till they have no tears to spare for the real childi-en 
 of misfortune and misery ; but sensibility is too scarce, and 
 too valuable, not to be often imitated ; and these, therefore, 
 are the ways in which they advertise their counterfeit di'ops. 
 They should be punished like any other impostors, and they 
 might be made of some use to society at the same time ; for 
 as other convicts are set to beat hemp, and pick oakum, so 
 I would set these to perform funerals, and to chop onions. 
 These reflections, and the incidents which gave rise to them, 
 I resolved to treasure up, for they would perhaps have their 
 use in some part of my journey. 
 
 They will warn me against being too sentimental, said I.
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 35 
 
 111 the first place it is ridiculous ; secondly, it's useless ; and 
 lastly, it's inconvenient : for I just recollect that there's a 
 very large hole in my pocket handkerchief. These reflections 
 brought me into Colebrook Row, or rather into a heap of 
 mud that stood at the end of it, for street reveries are very 
 subject to such sudden terminations. They say that 
 Englishmeia have a rusticity about them that only rubs off 
 by a little travel ; but that must certainly be erroneous, for 
 I had hardly gone a quarter of a mile, ere I lost, in the 
 mudding of my boots, the little all of polish that I wore 
 about me. Barring the first agony of mortification, I bore 
 it, however, with imcommon fortitude, for I knew that 
 travellers must expect to meet, as I did, with sad and 
 serious accidents. There passed however a young gentleman 
 in very tight trotter-cases, but whilst his feet gave evident 
 signs of suffering, I observed that his countenance was calm, 
 vacant, and stoical. Pshaw ! said I, if he can bear his 
 pinches so well, I may surely put up with my splashes ; this 
 pain of mine exists only in imagination, whereas his poor 
 feet, like Shakspeare's stricken deer, "distend their leathern 
 coats almost to bursting." \Miat a felicity there is in a 
 happy application of words ! I was so pleased with the 
 resemblance which I had discovered between the foot of a 
 dandy and a stricken deer, that I quite forgot my vexation, 
 and its cause. I found, as I thought, that I had a genius for 
 apt quotations, and resolved not to be sparing of them ; they 
 would give to my travels an air of great learning; and if 
 learning be better than riches, there would be no more harm 
 in showing it thus than in pulling out a large purse, as some 
 do, to give a poor beggar a halfpenny. 
 
 " Give a poor beggar a halfpenny," said a man, as if he 
 had heard and echoed the last part of my thought. 
 
 The City Road was excessively dirty, but he had swept 
 
 i>2
 
 36 A sentime:n'tal journey 
 
 a cleaner passage over it, and as I trod across his little track 
 of Terra Firma, I dropped the merited coin into his hat, for I 
 saw he had only half-a-crown in it. " Thank your honour," 
 said he, looking full in my face, and then looking down upon 
 my boots, he thanked me again, and still more emphatically. 
 "It is very true," said I, entering into his feeling— " it's 
 very true — and if I too had looked upon my boots, you 
 probably had not had it." 
 
 He thought, no doubt, with certain philosophers, that 
 man's main-spring is selfishness, and perhaps he was not 
 quite wi'ong ; but at all events to decide it, I resolved to 
 watch his customers and analyze his profits. "A plague 
 take the fellow ! " said an old gentleman, whom he had 
 hunted fifty paces for a halfpenny, "you ought to be 
 reported to the Mendicity Society." He gave it to him, to 
 get rid of his importunity, thought I. He would have kept 
 his halfpenny by walking a little faster, but he walks very 
 lame, poor old gentleman, and that perhaps makes him 
 pettish. The next halfpenny he got from a lady, who had 
 walked a long way down the road to avail herself of his 
 labour. It was rather for her upper leathers than for her 
 soul's sake, said I ; and as for that old lady that followed 
 her, I can read in his face that she has given him a pocket- 
 piece ; but they all go in charity, as it is called, and I have 
 learned, by the bye, what to do with a forged or flash note. 
 As nobody else seemed inclined to give him anything, I 
 summed up my calculations : one third had given from 
 inconvenience, and one third for convenience, and the rest, 
 or the pocket-piece, was the gift of pure charity. We may 
 say of charity, as Hamlet Travestied, does of death — that it's 
 tnilj a fine thing to talk of. We all preach it — we all praise 
 and admire, but when we come to the practice of it, we " leave 
 that to men of more learning ; " and are as careful of our
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 37 
 
 pence as of our lives, when we find they've no chance of 
 returning. I had hardly ended these uncharitable reflections, 
 when I was obliged to retract and repent them. I had 
 begun to read a very conspicuous hand-bill which was posted 
 on some palings near Sadler's Wells, and invited the admirers 
 of fisty-cuffs to a grand sparring benefit at the Five's Court. 
 But I had hardly got farther than the noble science of self- 
 defence, than it was for the most part eclipsed by a new 
 hand-bill, fresh from the pole of the bill-sticker; and 
 altogether, they then appeared as follows : — To the Fancy — 
 on such a day — a Sermon will be preached by such a Bishop 
 at such a Church, for the benefit of such a charity — and as a 
 httle piece of the other bill expressed at the bottom that 
 real good ones were expected, I applied it of course to the 
 exclusion of pocket-pieces. I had a fresh subject besides in 
 this piece of waggery of the bill-sticker's, which had afforded 
 me no little entertainment. Shakspeare was right, and so 
 was the philosopher, in my estimation ; for I saw that what 
 they had represented was correct, that certain characters are 
 confined to no class, condition, nor country. We may meet 
 with dull pedagogues and authors, and with sensible clowns 
 and with witty bill-stickers ; and I doubt not that we as 
 readily meet with blunt Frenchmen, with shuffling English- 
 men, and honest and brave Italians. I met with no other 
 incident worth relating or reflecting upon, till I came to a 
 public-house near Lady Huntingdon's Chapel, and there I 
 met with matter of interest and amusement, inasmuch as it 
 involved a question upon national and domestic government. 
 It was no less than a quarrel between a man and his wife, 
 who had just ejected him from his seat in the parlour ; and 
 the argument was, not whether he should go there at all, 
 but whether he should go there without her permission first 
 souGfht and obtained. There were not wanting? auxiliaries 
 
 i y ') i i
 
 38 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 and allies upon each side, and there were as many advocates 
 for the rights of women, as there were supporters of the 
 doctrine of the free will of man. There was, besides, a third 
 party, composed chiefly of young persons, perhaps spinsters 
 and bachelors, who by siding, sometimes with one and 
 sometimes with the other, seemed inclined to provoke the 
 opposing parties to a general combat. It was evident from 
 the clamour of the females, and from the swearing of the 
 men, that the argument, if such it might be called, would 
 never arrive at any legitimate conclusion ; and taking 
 advantage therefore of a general pause, the effect of ex- 
 hausted rage, I was induced to offer my aid as a mediator 
 between the two sexes. Now, it so happens, that when 
 persons are angry or ridiculous, they like to make parties of 
 all the spectators ; and as I had taken no part in the fray, 
 but had been strictly neutral, the proposal was generally 
 agreed to ; especially as I had the appearance of one of the 
 meek among men. Getting therefore upon one of the 
 benches, I stretched forth my hand, and proceeded as 
 follows : — 
 
 "Ladies and gentlemen, the question which you have 
 referred to me is one of the greatest importance, not only 
 to me, but to you, — not only to you, but to all the world. 
 
 " It requires to know which of the sexes was born for 
 dominion — whether woman should rule ('or man should be 
 ruled,' said an Irishman). It not only questions whether 
 wife should rule husband, or husband rule wife — but also if 
 Queens should ascend the thi'one, or if Kings should sit 
 upon it ; for whichever may be unfit to command a family 
 must be equally unqualified to rule a nation." The con- 
 clusion of this sentence was followed by shouts of applause 
 from both parties, each applying to the other the unfitness 
 to which I alluded. "If," said I, "we may judge from a
 
 FROM ISLmOTOI^ TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 39 
 
 law which exists and has existed, I should say that the softer 
 sex are unqualified for the thrones, from which by that very 
 law they stand excluded." Here I was obliged to bow to 
 the applause of my male hearers, and also to the ladies, in 
 order to avoid the force of a flying patten. 
 
 "But there is one circumstance," I continued, "and it 
 certainlj^ goes strongly against such a conclusion ; — I mean 
 that in that instance the men were the law makers." Here 
 again I had to bow to the ladies, and duck to the gentle- 
 men. " I will say, moreover, that if we refer to the history 
 of a nation where that law was unknown, we shall find thaj: 
 the reigns of two thirds of her Queens have been happy and 
 glorious. (Loud applause from the females;) 
 
 " This fact, however, goes no further in support of this side 
 of the question, than the Salic law on the other ; for allowing 
 that the sway of those Queens was so sweet and splendid, yet 
 we must remember, that they governed by their ministers, 
 and conquered by their generals and admirals. (Cheei-s from 
 the men.) If we trace still further back in history, even 
 unto the days of Saul and David, and if we find a frequent 
 mention of Kings, and of their being anointed, what then 
 shall we say of this question, if we find in the w^hole course 
 of that history, no instance of an anointed Queen ! (Hisses 
 and groans from the ladies.) If such be the fact, what shall 
 we infer from it, but that there were no priestesses'? 
 (Shouts and laughter from the ladies.) But why had they 
 no priestesses? I must confess that I, am unable to answer. 
 (Cheers from the males.) I will now consider the other 
 branch of the subject ; for although it is evident, that those 
 who are unfit to rule families, must be unqualified to rule 
 kingdoms, yet it does not foUow, therefore, that those who 
 are unable to govern kingdoms, are unequal to the lighter 
 task of governing a family. There are very many worthy
 
 40 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 women whom I should be loth to trust with a sceptre, but 
 they sway the domestic rod with vigour and success — (hear ! 
 from the men) ; and there are also many men of a different 
 stamp, of indolent and profligate characters, whose affairs 
 thrive best, or would thrive better under the guidance of 
 their wives. (Hear ! from the women.) We know, too, 
 that there are others who have willingly resigned to their 
 wives the control of their purse, and the direction of their 
 affliirs ; convinced, by experience, that they were the best 
 merchants, the best accountants, and the best orators. 
 (Hear, hear ! from the ladies.) Upon these grounds we 
 may assign the right of dominion to the female sex (screams 
 of applause from the women, and groans from the men) ; 
 I say, upon these grounds we may assign the right of 
 dominion to the female sex (the same tumult repeated) ; 
 I say (said I, raising my voice), I say that upon these 
 groans we may assign the right of dominion to the female 
 sex, provided that the whole, or greater portion of men, may 
 be supposed idle, profligate, or the most ig-norant. But I 
 must confess, and I do it with all sincerity, that this would 
 appear to me to be a most unhandsome, most uncharitable, 
 and unjust estimate. (Shouts from the men, and hisses 
 from the ladies.) 
 
 "How then shall we decide this great question, seeing 
 that the trial by battle is by parliament abolished? It 
 may be ruled by precedent, or rather the want of it, that 
 the female sex be excluded from the sovereignty and the 
 priesthood, but their claims to domestic dominion are as yet 
 uncontroverted (cheers from the ladies) ; and as yet unes- 
 tablished. (Cheers from the gentlemen.) There only remains, 
 in my opinion, a middle course to pursue. 
 
 Let all agree, — let none engross the sway, 
 But each command by turns, and each obey.
 
 FROM ISLmGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 41 
 
 Let the lady be paramount in the kitchen and the nurseiy, 
 and absolute in the gaiTets. Let the gentleman be king in 
 his parlour, and emperor in his study ; and as for the drawing- 
 room and the garden, let their sway there be divided. Let 
 her be a judge in fashions, in novels, and in all fancy articles ; 
 and let him decide on politics, on liquors, and on horseflesh. 
 As for all other matters of argument, let them be considered 
 as drawn battles at draughts ; and finally let each sex con- 
 sider itself as bound to the other, by an alliance offensive 
 and defensive." The conclusion of this my oration was 
 followed by very general cries of applause, which were the 
 more gratifying, when I considered the difficulty of pleasing 
 all parties in a concern of so much interest to each. Nor 
 was that my only reward, for I received I know not how 
 many invitations to partake of porter, gin, and punch, all of 
 which I declined, alleging that I wished to go straightway 
 to Waterloo Bridge — at least, as far as it was possible to do 
 so by Gray's Inn Lane, Chancery Lane, and the Strand. I 
 had just reached the middle of Elm Street, when I was 
 alaimed by loud and piercing screams, and as a carriage had 
 rapidly turned the corner, I feared that some unfortunate 
 human being had been run over. There is something in the 
 shrill cry of a female in distress, that irresistibly impels, and 
 wings one to her succour ; I flew up the hill — turned the 
 corner, and beheld at my feet a poor swine, which was 
 screaming under the repeated lashes of a ruffian di'over. 
 She had sunk down, apparently from exhaustion, in the 
 middle of the kennel, and as she started and kicked under 
 the blood-thirsty thong, her struggles and splashiugs were 
 truly shocking. Aged — and a female — exposed to insult, 
 cruelty, and indignity ; her grunts so like groans, and her 
 squeaks so like screams, it was impossible for humanity to 
 look on and be passive. I straddled over the unfortunate
 
 42 A SEI^TIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 sow, and intei-posed my body betwixt her and her tormentor ; 
 and had it been at the risk of immolation, my feehngs 
 could not have allowed me to shrink from it. I should have 
 died a glorious martyr to humanity ! I protected the inno- 
 cent, and I did more, for I threatened to chastise her oppressor; 
 and I should certainly have done so with his own whip, if I 
 could only have wrested it from him. However, I accepted the 
 brute's challenge to fight ; and here I must say, that upon 
 any other occasion, I should have deemed it disgraceful and 
 uugentlemanly ; but in such a cause, as the champion of 
 humanity, the guardian of the brute creation, I thought it 
 not only gentlemanly, but angelic ; and I felt that I was 
 quite in my duty when I folded up my new coat, and con- 
 fided it to the care of a decent shopkeeper. We exchanged 
 only a few blows, and if I did not thrash him heartily, he 
 owed it to my humanity ; for it was merely from a reluctance 
 to end in blood what I had begun in teai'S, that I so speedily 
 declined the combat. The spectators indeed did not seem to 
 enter into my feeling ; but whip me the man who would not 
 prefer the praise of mercy to the meed of victory ! Besides, 
 I considered it a sin, a kind of profanation, to mar and dis- 
 figure "the human face divine," and one of us at least, 
 was handsome. 
 
 I did not however resign the cause and interests of the 
 poor sow, but slipping a crown into the hand of the drover, 
 I recommended her to his mercy as a man and a Christian : 
 "coax her," said I, "call her, or run before her, and entice 
 her with a cabbage leaf — do anything but whip her so 
 cruelly. And now," I continued, addressing myself to the 
 by-standers, amongst whom were some very well cbessed 
 ladies and gentlemen, " now let me impress one very great 
 error as regards pig driving. A pig will run this way and 
 that, and any way, perhaps, but the right one ; but it is
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 43 
 
 uncharitable and cruel to attribute to obstinaaj what may 
 only originate in an over anxiety to please. I have seen 
 a pig run backward, and forward, and sideways, and if it had 
 been possible to rim a dozen ways at once, I verily believe it 
 would have done it." 
 
 The sow got up, the crowd dispersed, and I pursued my 
 journey. It afterwards struck me that I heard at a distance 
 the same shrill, humanlike, and persevering screams ; but 
 it might be fancy, for I believe they will ring in my ears as 
 often as I pass the corner of Elm Street, Gray's Inn Lane. 
 Gray's Inn Lane, by the bye, is not, as I conjecture, the 
 true name of it ; the ancient appellation must have been 
 anything but what it now bears — perhaps Grazing LanCy 
 because ere it was built upon, the cattle used to graze in it. 
 
 Be that as it may, there is nothing farther to remark of 
 Gray's Inn Lane, but that it brings one into Holborn. 
 
 Hence, and through Chancery Lane, I amused myself by 
 speculating on the faces of the passengers. It's a study 
 I am very fond of, and if I am in any way superstitious, it 
 is in the signs and forebodings of the countenance. Who 
 cannot trace in the face of a dandy the circulation of his 
 two ideas, — his opinion of himself and others ; and who 
 is there that mistakes the keen eye of a genius ? 
 
 But it is Temper that writes the most legible hand in the 
 countenance ; and it is easy therefore to distinguish, amongst 
 a crowd, the pet lamb of his' mother ; the tyrant of his 
 family ; aud the humble servant of his wife. There's that 
 man, said I, looking at a gentleman who was standing on 
 the edge of the pavement — his curled lip indicates his pride ; 
 but I know by the very restlessness of his eye, that he's 
 afraid of bailiffs. As for that man who has just passed, 
 I would not live with such a temper for my board and 
 lodging. That lady's mask is handsome ; but I must say
 
 44 A SENTIMENTAL JOUENEY 
 
 with the fox, "cerebrum non habet;" and her Uttle gu'l's 
 doll has more wit in her one eye than she has in two. My 
 judgments, however, were not always fortunate; the man with 
 restless eyes was only looking for his poodle dog : and as the 
 cross-looking man went soon afterwards into a cook shop, I 
 supposed that he had been rather hungered than ill-natured. 
 As for the lady and the child, I don't know whether I set 
 them down rightly or not, but in the meantime I will 
 suppose so, and cling to my study. I was now in the 
 Strand, close to Temple Bar ; and from hence to Waterloo 
 Bridge, I calculated would be the journey of an hour. Who 
 is there that can walk along this, or any of the principal 
 City streets, without admhing the number of elegant shops, 
 and the still more elegant and wonderful productions which 
 they contain? they are to me the sources of the gi-eatest 
 pleasure, and when time will permit me to do so, I inspect 
 them from the goldsmith's and jeweller's, down to the 
 humbler repositories of the tinman and brazier. Nay I 
 have been caught, and rallied by my acquaintance for looking 
 in lovingly at the haberdasher's and milliner's. 
 
 It is not that I am merely smitten with the beauty of 
 their articles that I look into them with such admiration and 
 delight, but it is because I can there trace an evident and 
 progressive improvement in the arts and manufactm-es of 
 my country. This affords me a delight in which all ought 
 to sympathise, and that calls forth an admiration in which 
 all must participate. Whether we examine those paintings 
 and prints, which are more strictly termed works of art; 
 whether we examine those fabrics which have been produced 
 by the most complicated machinery, or those minor articles 
 which are the work of the handicraftsman, we shall find that 
 there prevails in all a degree of taste which can only be the 
 result of a general cultivation of mind. It is this that has
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 45 
 
 led to so many ingenious inventions, and has tended above 
 all to promote the general alliance between elegance and 
 utility ; and when we contemplate the mighty effects of its 
 progress hitherto, who can calculate its futm-e attainments? 
 Long may it continue its mighty march, to the honour and 
 happiness of my countrymen ; and may they, in better days, 
 obtain for their industiy and ingenuity those rewards which 
 hitherto have not kept pace with their merits. May they 
 still travel onwards in the path of improvement, and 
 surmounting all obstacles which a meaner ambition would 
 plant in their way, reach that point of excellence and 
 perfection to which man in this world may be destined to 
 attain ! Here a bookseller's shop gave a new turn to my 
 speculations. We are certainly a reading people, I thought, 
 as I looked in at the window ; but I would fain know if this 
 cultivation of the mind conduces to happiness. I "was 
 inclined to decide in the affirmative ; for the collection 
 before me suggested the names of Shakspeare, Addison, 
 Milton, and a host of other authors, linked with a thousand 
 delightful reminiscences — much must depend upon one's 
 course of reading, said I, while running over the titles : — A 
 Sermon to Sinne — The Fooles Jest Booh — Dialogues of the 
 Dead — Life in London — Tomline's Sea Worthies — The New- 
 gate Calendar — Catos Letter to the Country — The King's 
 Reply to his People — Wordes to the Wyse — Witte's Chronykill 
 — A New Spelling Booh. But what have we here? It 
 happened very strangely, T might almost say miraculously, 
 that I read a solution of my speculation in a book before 
 me. It was called The Prayse of Ignorance ; and in the two 
 grave-looking brown complexioned pages that lay open, I read 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Hee was made to bee happye but not learned : for eating 
 of the Tree of Knowledge hee was caste out of Paradyse.
 
 46 A SENTIAIENTAL J0UE:N'EY 
 
 Hys was the Blisse of Ignorance ; but We being bora to bee 
 learned, and unhappye withal, have noght but the Ignorance 
 of Blisse. Soe we aske not which bee the most happje ; but 
 which bee the leeste unhappye ; and trulye hee hath leeste 
 Paines that hath not most Bokes. Hee is your Berkshire or 
 Hampshire manne with a harde Head and a long Stomach 
 — which is a Hogge among Wittes, not a Witte among 
 Hogges ; and when hee sleepes you wot not which can grunte 
 loudeste. For why 1 Hee beares no care on hys Head, 
 excepte hys Hatte, and that hee hath not much care withal 
 except a-Sundayes. One maye rede in hys Vysage that he 
 wots not to write : but he maketh hys Marke and soe hath 
 one to ten chances against the Gallowes. Hys Haire is 
 unkempte ; and so is hys Intellecte ; but betwixt both hee 
 saveth a World of Trouble. Hys Head itches : it doth not 
 ake. It is as emptye as a diye Bowie ; but hys BeUy is 
 crammede to the fulle — for hee is no author. 
 
 You may write him downe a Manne with an Idea : but 
 hee is more blessede than anye with two ; for hee hath nonne 
 of their feverish Deliriums. How can hys Minde wandere ? 
 
 Now look you to yom* SchoUar. He cryes in hys very 
 Birthe, for hee is stryped into his ABC; most of hys 
 Wordes doe end in 0, and hys Whyppinges have many 
 Syllables. Hee hateth his Boke fulle sore : and noe Marvel ! 
 For he wotteth to the Sorrowe of hys Bottom, that Learaing 
 is at the Bottom of hys Sorrowe. There is a naturall 
 Hyphen betwixt them. A connexion of Minde and Matter. 
 One Cometh not without the other, and hee curseth them 
 both in his W^aye. Hys Granamar bringes him fresh annoye : 
 for hee onlye weepeth in another Sense. But hee gets the 
 Interjections by Harte. Figures are a great Greefe unto 
 him ; and onlye multiplie hys Paines. The dead Tongues 
 doe bringe him a lively sorrowe : hee gets them at hys
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 47 
 
 Fingers endes. And soe hee waxeth in Growth ; into a 
 Quarto or Folio, as maye bee ; a gi-eater Bulke of Learni4ig 
 and Heavinesse ; and belike hee goeth madde with Study 
 overmuch. Alsoe hee betaketh him to write ; and letts 
 hys Braines be sukede forthe through a Quill. If hee seeke 
 to get Monnye hys Boke is unsolde ; and if hee wolde have 
 of the Worlde's Fame hee is praysde of those that studye 
 not hys Rimes : or is scornde and mockede of those that will 
 not understande hys Conceites, which is a greate Sorrowe ; 
 for Poesie hath made hys Harte tender, and a little Worde 
 is a gi-eate Paine. Soe hee gets no Substance, but looses 
 Fleshe. Last] ye hee dyeth a pitifull Death ; the kindly 
 Creditour of an unkindlye Worlde ; and then hee is weejDcde 
 for ; and it is askde, ' Why will hee not write again ? ' 
 
 And the Parishe Clarke hys witte safficeth to hys Epitaph, 
 which runnes : — 
 
 Alake ! alake ! that Studye colde not save 
 Soe great a Witte out of so small a grave. 
 But Learning must decaye, and Letters both, 
 And Studye too. Death is a dreadful Goth, 
 "Which spareth nonne," 
 
 Unfoi'tunately, I could neither read further, nor turn over 
 the leaf through the glass ; and still more unfortunately, I 
 did not go in and purchase the book. However, I had read 
 enough to lead me to a decision, that the ignorant are the 
 most happy ; and as I walked away from the window I 
 repeated the lines : — 
 
 "No more : where ignorance is bliss, 
 "Tis folly to be wise." 
 
 As this was the second gi^eat question that I had decided, 
 I walked onward to Waterloo Bridge, without any doubt of 
 being able to determine the third, viz. : as to the merits and 
 demerits of the bridge and its architect. But here an
 
 48 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY. 
 
 unforeseen difficulty presented itself; for owing to the late- 
 ness of my arrival, and the sudden fall of a very dense fog, 
 I was unable to do any thing more than determine to come 
 again. 
 
 I accordingly walked back into the Strand, and finding a 
 stage at Somerset House, I took my seat in it, and turned 
 towards home. I had three travelling companions, two 
 males and one female ; and after we had discussed the usual 
 topics, and paid the usual compliments, the conversation 
 dwindled away into a profound silence ; I therefore employed 
 myself in the arrangement of my travels, and in recollecting 
 the various incidents and reflections to which they had 
 given rise. 
 
 I must request, Mr. Editor, yom- utmost indulgence to- 
 wards one, so inexperienced as a traveller, and if you should 
 find that the style of my narration is rugged and uneven, 
 and that the incidents and reflections are abrupt and uncon- 
 nected, I beg that you will attribute it to the unpleasant 
 jolting of the stage, and the frequent interruptions and 
 stoppages that it met with.
 
 1822. 
 
 THE LOXDON MAGAZINE. 
 
 [In tliis year my Father still continued to manage the "Lion's 
 Head," from which I append selections. But as his place, as one of the 
 regular contributors, was established from this time until the Magazine 
 passed out of Messrs. Taylor and Hessey's hands, in 1823, his 
 writings are to be met with pretty frequently. I suspect the various 
 correspondents, who sent lines "On "Winter," "A Conflagration," and 
 " Captivity," were in reality the same writer whose papers appeared in 
 the " London," signed sometimes "Theodore M.," sometimes "Incog.," 
 and occasionally with an " H." or " T." only.] 
 
 THE LION'S HEAD. 
 
 If I. E. L. had written her " Stanzas " before the appear- 
 ance of Lord Byron's, their merit would have been un- 
 questionable. 
 
 G.'s Muse should use Steer's Opodeldoc, which is allowed 
 to be excellent for "strains." 
 
 To ¥. and Y.— No ; a word to the Y's. 
 
 L. — sends us a "Scene from Memoiy, from the French." 
 We suppose L.'s memory is in French. 
 
 A. B. F. — " Hymn; in Imitation of Wordsworth." Lion's 
 Head is unfortunately obliged to decline giving it the 
 opportunity of being "said or sung" by the readers of the 
 " London." 
 
 A Correspondent has sent us some lines "On Winter," 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 TO A CRITIC. 
 
 which with much gravity he informs us are meant for 
 buiiesque. The following are certainly serious : 
 
 * ' Riding on the storm, he shies 
 Hail and snowballs from the skies : 
 And the earth, all over white, 
 Is very had for a weak sight ; 
 But spectacles made of green glass 
 Will make it look again like gra?^s, 
 And you shall dream of making hay 
 In the middle of Christmas-day, 
 And think you spy green gooseberries pudding 
 In all the eyes of a raisin pudding." 
 
 [Here occurs the poem called " Please to ring the BeUe," afterwards 
 published in "Whims and Oddities," and now to be found in the 
 second series of "Hood's Own." It is introduced by a letter jfrom a 
 sham correspondent, who says, "After reading, the other day, that 
 Pope could have extracted poetry out of a warming-pan, it occurred to 
 me that I could perhaps wring a verse or two out of a bell, or strike a 
 few stanzas out of a brass knocker."] 
 
 TO A CRITIC. 
 
 CRUEL One ! How littel dost thou knowe 
 How manye poetes with Unhappyenesse 
 Thou mayest have slaine ; are they beganne to blowe 
 Like to yonge Buddes in the}Te firste sappyenesse ! 
 Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges gi'owe 
 Great Poetes yet maye come of singinges smalle, 
 Which, if an hungrede Worme doth gnawe belowe, 
 Fold up theyre stryped leaves, and dye withalle. 
 Alake, that pleasaunt Flowre must fayde and falle 
 Because a Grubbe hath ete into yts Hede, — 
 That els had groAvne soe fayre and eke soe talle 
 To-wardes the Heaven, and opened forthe and sprede 
 Its blossomes to the Sunne for Menne to rede 
 In soe brio-hte hues of Lovelinesse indeede !
 
 THE LIOX'S HEAD. 51 
 
 W.'s " Night " is too long, for the moon rises twice in it. 
 
 AVe are happy to leani from L. that he has " descended 
 from his poetic flights into another walk ;"" perhaps he has 
 a prose essay on foot for our next number. 
 
 G. R.'s diction would inflate a balloon. He should re- 
 member that "a power of fine words" is not "poetic 
 power." 
 
 T. says that his tale is out of his own head : is he a 
 tadpole % 
 
 B. conjures us to tell him " whether he may ever hope^to 
 produce anything he need not blush at ? " No, never ; if 
 he continues to write such poetry as he now submits to our 
 perusal. To be serious, let our coiTespondcnt take a hint 
 from Dr. Watts : 
 
 * ' How doth the little busy h 
 Improve each shining hour." 
 
 We thank " A Constant Reader" for his translation of the 
 "Opening of the obscure poem of Lycophron." In his 
 anxiety to "render it as literally as possible" he has still 
 retained too much of the obscurity. 
 
 "De mortuis nil nisi bonum" — but honum is not the 
 Latin for Studens's lines on Chatterton. 
 
 Sam Sparkle's Anacreontic (from Queen Street, Cheapside 
 — hush !) is too far gone : the Conduits in Chepe do not run 
 wine now-a-days. The Muse is often agTceable in her cups ; 
 but when she stammers in her grammar and stumbles in her 
 metaphors, it is high time she should be seen home. Sam's 
 Muse has not a foot to stand upon. Can he send us 
 something soberer, or was his Muse born with a claret- 
 mark 1 
 
 H. L. is always con'ect in his rhymes, but sometimes with 
 the sacrifice of his sense — for example :
 
 52 THE LIOX'S HEAD. 
 
 "Dark, dark is the sky, tlie thunder rolls, 
 The lightning follows, 
 The tempest hollows." 
 
 We should suggest also that Noah's three-decker was not 
 provided, as m our naval arXitecture, with wings ; and 
 besides that, it is contrary to all seamanship to say 
 
 "Spread, spread your sail, for there hlows a gale.^^ 
 
 ^' Lines to Boreas" go rather "too near the wind." 
 "The Dead Ass" is dispatched, as the author desired, 
 and " The Rose in a Shower " is under cover at our Pub- 
 lishei's'. 
 
 Minor's "Conflagration" exhibits some power. Some- 
 times indeed his " words that bm-n " go a step on the other 
 side of the sublime. 
 
 "Uprose the curling flames, and writhed amain, 
 As they had burned themselves, and roar d with pain ; 
 * * * * 
 
 And flocks of glowing fragments, forced on high, 
 Like red flamingos soar'd along the sky." 
 
 We really did not know that "Juvenile was handed down 
 to posterity as an author much read by the Romans." For 
 this information we are indebted to B., and not less so for 
 his candour in pointing out one fault in om- Magazine — 
 that " the London is too full of literature." We are glad 
 it is no worse, and have no doubt that with B.'s assist- 
 ance we shall be able, when necessary, to render it quite 
 otherwise. 
 
 Centam' on " Riding" seems to have been inspired by the 
 King's Mews. If he had as much of it as Charles at 
 Charing Cross, he would be glad to feel his own feet again. 
 Riding, however — we do not mean C.'s paper — is a good 
 exercise.
 
 THE LION'S HEAD. 53 
 
 The "Essay on Agricultural Distress" would only in- 
 crease it. 
 
 The sonnet by $ (0 fie !) is warm with other fires than 
 those of poesy. 
 
 P.'s "Time," we are soriy to say, is lost; and in 
 endeavouring to find it, ours shared the fate. 
 
 " Lion's Head " is quite overwhelmed by the liberal offers 
 of Sophronia. Her " Sonnet on the Iron Bridge " is too like 
 Wordsworth's on the subject. The "Moral Essays in the 
 manner of Pope" are too chaste in style for the readers 
 of this age. The "Nativity" is not a good subject for a 
 tale ; and an "Essay on Platonic Love" would not be fairly 
 treated by her. 
 
 " The Echo," we fear, will not answer. 
 
 H.'s "Captivity" is in some parts pathetic ; but in others 
 he has allowed himself to be tempted into a strain that 
 accords but ill with its melancholy. 
 
 ''All me, it is the worst of wretched things 
 "When men are pinion'd and have got no wings ; 
 They watch regretfully the sparrows small, 
 And gaze with envy on a /?'eestone wall. 
 Night brought me hither, and relieved my pains 
 Awhile, because she hid me from my chains ; 
 The morning came, and she was mist, and I 
 Was left," &c. 
 
 " Alien " is foreign to his subject. 
 
 Senex — Is he 81 in the shade 1 — appears to have suffered 
 by the diy weather. 
 
 "It is pleasant to be immort.al," says a correspondent 
 signed S., " if it be only for a season." Marry, here is a 
 fellow that discounts eternity. 
 
 Anacreon, in his foolish Greek manner, entreated one of 
 the Royal Academy of Antiquity (some Sir Thomas Lawrence 
 of Teos) to paint his mistress ; and though he desired effects
 
 54 THE LION'S HEAD. 
 
 which were sufficient to pose the acutest brush, he still did 
 not (to use Mr. Egan's fanciful phraseology) "render the 
 features perfectly unintelligible." A Chelsea Anacreou sub- 
 mits the following directions to the R. A.'s of this age. 
 Whether they are capable of execution we leave to the 
 painters to determine ; but the lines have an originality 
 about them which seems to hold out its own protection. 
 We should like to see Mr. Shee or Mr. Phillips working to 
 this pattern. 
 
 " Come, take thy pencil — paint my love 
 More teuder than most tender dove ; 
 Suffuse her cheeks with that warm glow 
 Would fain on lover hope bestow ; 
 And make it frequent go and come 
 Back to and from its sighful home. 
 Lay on her tongue the tone of truth, 
 The Vesper Hymn of virgin youth. 
 She loves each eve, in pious praise, 
 To lisp to Sol's declining rays ; 
 And hide that song from vulgar men 
 Within its own most h allow* d pen, 
 By double row of pillars, chaste 
 As Dian in the mojxd tvaste [&c.]. 
 From those lips let odours breathe ; 
 Round them all my kisses wreathe. 
 In her fond voluptuous chin 
 Mould a dimple, hearts to gin ; 
 And make thy magic art uprear 
 A heartsease smile behind each tear [kc.]. 
 Give to her feet the airy motion 
 Of sunbeams trembling on the ocean ; 
 Lay her white fingers on a harp 
 Of gold, the power of gloom to warp. 
 And if thou canst, in its warm nest 
 Paint, paint the heart beneath the breast ; 
 Make visible its million springs. 
 Nor snap one of its thousand strings ; 
 Depict it in a tear- wove guise 
 Floating i;pon a sea of sighs. 
 Its hundred ears inclined to one 
 Sweet tale of love," &c., kc. 
 
 i
 
 THE LION'S HEAD. 55 
 
 W.'s " Tears of Sensibility " head better be dropt. 
 
 B. is surely humming ! 
 
 C.'s " Sleep " seems to have composed itself. 
 
 We suspect H. B.'s "Sonnet to the Rising Sun" was 
 written for a lark. 
 
 Thersites is left "to be reclaimed," as he desires; of 
 which there is much need, and perchance but little hope. 
 
 We should be loth to make Mr. Christie angry by printing 
 Athenseus's " Ode to Fonthill Abbey," now that it is advertised 
 for sale. The poem opens bravely, but sneaks off miserably 
 at the conclusion — or, to speak in our own style, takes up at 
 The Lion J and sets down at The Lamh. Caliph Vathek is not 
 " that simple Eastern tale of Turkish hearts " which the 
 bard describes. Why cannot our correspondent get his ode 
 inserted among the sundries in the catalogue. It would 
 sound well. "Three saucepans, fom- sets of fire-irons, two 
 grates, one ode, and a coal-scuttle." There is a way of 
 getting these things smuggled in. 
 
 The following verses are selected from an ode written in 
 fear of the new MaiTiage Act : 
 
 "FARE THEE WELL. 
 
 ' ' Before our banns be published like a tax, 
 Ask'd on the portals of St. Mary Axe, 
 If thou wilt marry me — then prythee tell — 
 Oh now — or fare thee well ! 
 
 " Think of old maids of seventy — fourscore. 
 Fourscore old women at the temple's door. 
 Those that can read, and those that learn to spell — 
 Oh now — or fare thee well ! 
 
 " Suppose our names a history — suppose 
 Our love forepicked to pieces, like a rose 
 Shed blushing all abroad — my Isabel ! 
 Oh now — or fare thee well !"— Theodosius.
 
 56 TO CELIA. 
 
 L. F., who dates himself under sixteen years of age, will 
 do well to remember that youth may excuse, but not 
 recommend, bad poetry. The "Night Thoughts" are not 
 admired because the author was Youno-. 
 
 [In addition to the "Lion's Head" contributions in this year's 
 volume, occur "Lines to Celia"—" Presentiment"— "The Sea of 
 Death" — "To an Absentee" — "The Stag-eyed Lady" — " Lycus the 
 Centaur"— "The Two Peacocks of Bedfont"— "Hymn to the Sun"— 
 Sonnets, " Midnight "— " Fancy "—and two " To a Sleeping Child "— 
 besides a humorous notice of Martin's pictures in the form of a letter 
 from an uneducated "Welshwoman in the metropolis to her fiiends in 
 Monmouth.] 
 
 TO CELIA. 
 
 Old fictions say that Love hath eyes, 
 Yet sees, unhappy boy ! with none ; 
 Blind as the night ! but fiction lies. 
 For Love doth always 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 scorn'd, 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 happ'd that, semi-blind, 
 He met thee on a summer day. 
 And took thee for his mother kind, 
 And frown'd as he was push'd away.
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 57 
 
 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. 
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 A FKAGMENT. 
 
 If a man has a little child to whom he bows his heart and 
 stretches forth his arms — if he has an only son, or a little 
 daughter, with her sweet face and innocent hands, with her 
 mother's voice, only louder — and her mother's eyes, only 
 brighter, — let him go and caress them while they are his, for 
 the dead possess nothing. Let him put fondness in his 
 breath while it is with him, and caress his babes as if they 
 would be fatherless, and blend his fingers with their glossy 
 hair as if it were a frail, frail gossamer. And if he be away, 
 let him hasten homeward with his impatient spirit before 
 him, plotting kisses for their lips ; but if he be far distant, 
 let him read my story, and weep and utter fond breath, 
 kissing the words before they go, wishing that they could 
 reach his children's ear. And yet let him be glad ; for 
 though he is beyond seas, he is still near them while Death 
 is behind him — for the greater distance swallows the less. 
 And the wings of angels may waft his love to their far-away
 
 58 PKESEKTIMEM'. 
 
 thoughts, silently, like the whisperings of their own spiiits 
 while they weep for their father. 
 
 It was in the days of my bitterness, when care had 
 bewildered me, and the feverish strife of this world had 
 vexed me till I was mad, that I went into a little land of 
 graves, and there wept ; for my soitow was deep into dark- 
 ness, and I could not win friendship by friendshij), nor love 
 (though it still loved me) but in heaven — for it was purer 
 than the pm-e air, and had floated up to God. And I sat 
 down upon a tombstone with my unburied gTief, and 
 wondered what that earth contained of joy, and misery and 
 triumph long past, and pride lower than nettles, and how old 
 love was joined to love again, and hate was gone to hate. 
 For there were many monuments with sunshine on one side 
 and shade on the other, like life and death, with black 
 frowning letters upon their white, bright faces ; and through 
 those letters one might hear the dead speaking silently and 
 slow, for there was much meaning in those words, and 
 mysteries which long thought could not fathom. And there 
 was dast upon those flat dwellings, which I kissed, for lips 
 like it were there, and eyes where much love had been, and 
 cheeks that had warmed the sunshine. But the dust was 
 gone in a breath, and so were they ; and the wind brought 
 shadows that passed and passed incessantly over that land of 
 graves, which you might strive to stay, but could not, even 
 as the dead had passed away and been missed in the after 
 brightness. 
 
 Thus I buried my thoughts with the dead ; and as I sat, 
 unconsciously, I heard the sound of young sweet voices, and, 
 looking up, I saw two little children coming up the path. 
 The lambs lifted up their heads as they passed and gazed, 
 but fed again without stin-ing, for there was nothing to fear 
 from such innocent looks and so gentle voices; there was
 
 PHESENTIMENT. 59 
 
 even a melancholy in their tone which does not belong to 
 childhood. The eldest was a young boy, very fair and gentle, 
 with a little hand linked to his ; for, by his talk, it seemed 
 that he had brought his sister to show her where her poor 
 father lay, and to speak about Death. Their lips seemed too 
 rosy and tender to utter his dreadful name — but the word 
 was empty to them, and unmeaning as the sound of a shell 
 — for they knew him not, that he had kissed them before 
 they were born or breathed, and would again w^ien the time 
 came. So they approached, dew-dabbled, and struggling 
 through the long-tangled weeds to a new grave, and stood 
 before it, and gazed on its record, like the ignorant sheep, 
 wdthout reading. They did not see their father, but only a 
 little mound of earth, with strange grass and weeds; and 
 they looked and looked again, and at each other, with 
 whisperings in their eyes, and listened, till the flowers dropped 
 from their forgotten hands. And when I saw how rosy they 
 were in that black, which only made them the more rosy, 
 and their bright curly hair, that had no proud hand to part 
 it, I thought of the yearnings of disembodied love and 
 invisible agony that had no voice, till methought their 
 father's spirit passed into mine, and biu-ned, and gazed 
 through my eyes upon his children. They had not yet 
 seemed to notice me, but only that silent grave ; and, 
 looking more and more sadly, their eyes filled with large 
 tears, and their lips dropped, and their heads sank so 
 mournfully and so comfortless, that my own grief rushed into 
 my eyes and hid them from me. And I said inwardly, I 
 will be their father, and dry their blue eyes, and win their 
 son'owful cheeks into dimples, for they are veiy fair and 
 young — too young for this stormy life. I will watch them 
 through the wide world, for it is a cruel place, where the 
 teuderest are most torn because they are tenderest, and the
 
 60 PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 most beautiful are most blighted. Therefore this little one 
 shall be mj daughter, that I may gather her for heaven as 
 my best deed upon earth ; and this young boy shall be my 
 son, to share my blessing when I die, that God in that time 
 may so deal with my own oifspring. For I feel a misgiving 
 that I shall soon die, and that my own little ones will come 
 to my grave and weep over me, even as these poor orphans. 
 Oh ! how shall I leave them to the care of the careless — to 
 the advice of the winds — to the home of the wide world ? 
 And as I thought of this, the fidl tears dropped from my 
 eyes, and I saw again the two children. They were still 
 there and weeping ; but as I looked at them more earnestly, 
 I perceived that they were altered, or my sight changed, so 
 that I knew their faces. I knew them — for I had seen them 
 in very infancy, and through all their growth — in sickness 
 when I prayed over them — and in slumber when I had 
 watched over them till I almost wept. 
 
 They were so beautiful ! I had kissed, how often ! those 
 veiy cheeks, blushing my own blood, and had breathed 
 blessings upon then' glossy brows, and had pressed their little 
 hands in ecstasies of anxious love. They also knew me ; 
 but there was an older grief in their looks than had ever 
 been : — and why had they come to me in that place, and in 
 black, so sad and so sjDcechless, and with flowers so 
 withering 1 but they only shook their heads and wept. 
 Then I trembled exceedingly, and stretched out my arms 
 to embrace them, but there was nothing between me and 
 the tombstone where they had seemed : yet they still gazed 
 at me from behind it, and fui'ther and still further as I 
 followed, till they stood upon the verge of the churchyard. 
 Then I saw, in the simshine, that they were shadowless ; 
 and, as they raised their hands in the light, that no blood 
 was in them ; and as I moved still closer, they slowly turned
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 61 
 
 into trees, and hills, and pale blue sky, that had been in the 
 distance. Still I gazed where they had been, and the sky 
 seemed full of them; but they were only clouds, and the 
 shadows, and the rustling was the rustling of the sheep. 
 I saw them no more. They were gone from me, as if for 
 ever ; but I knew that this was my warning, and wept, for 
 it came to me through my own children in all its bitterness. 
 I felt that I should leave them — as I had foretold — their 
 hearts, and lips, and sweet voices, to one another, to be their 
 own comfort ; for I knew that such grief is prophetic of 
 grief, and that angels so minister to man, and that Death 
 thus converses in spirit with his elect. So I spread my arms 
 to the world in farewell, and weaned my eyes from all things 
 that had been pleasant on the Earth, and would be so after 
 me, and prepared myself for her ready bosom. And I said 
 now I will go home and kiss my children before I die, and 
 put a life's love into my last hour ; for I must hasten while 
 my last thoughts are with me, lest I madden, and perhaps 
 wrong them in my delirium, and spurn their sorrowful love, 
 and curse them, instead of blessing, with a fierce, strange 
 voice. Thus I hurried towards them faster and faster till I 
 ran ; but as my desire increased, my strength failed me, so 
 that I wished for my deathbed, and threw myself down on a 
 green hill, under the shade of trees that almost hid the sky 
 with their intricate branches. And as I lay, the thought of 
 death, with a deep gloom like the shade of a darkened 
 chamber, blinded me to the trees, and the sky, and the grass, 
 that were round me. But a pale light came, as I thought, 
 through the pierced shutters, and I saw by it strange 
 and familiar faces full of grief, and eyes that watched mine 
 for the last look, and tiptoe figures gliding silently with 
 clasped hands — and a woman that chafed my feet ; and as 
 she seemed to chafe them, she turned to shake her head,
 
 62 PKESEXTIMEXT. 
 
 and tears gushed iuto all eyes as if they had been one, so 
 that I seemed di'owned, and could see nothing except their 
 shadows in the light of my own spirit. In that moment I 
 heard the cries of my own chikben, calling to me fainter 
 and fainter, as if they died and I could not save them ; and 
 I tried to stay them, but my tongue was lifeless in my 
 mouth, and breath seemed locked up in my bosom : and I 
 thought, 'surely I now die, and the last of my soul is in 
 my ears, for I still hear, though I see not ' ; but the voices 
 were soon di'owned in a noise like the rushing of waters, 
 for the blood was struggling through my heart, slower and 
 slower, till it stopped, and I turned so cold, that I felt the 
 burning of the air upon me, and the scalding of unknown 
 tears. Yet for a moment the light returned to me, with 
 those mourners — for they were already in black, even their 
 faces ; but they turned darker and darker, and whirled 
 round into one shade till it was utterly dark : and as my 
 breath went forth, the air pressed heavy upon me, so that 
 I seemed buried, and in my deep grave, and suffering the 
 pain of worms till I was all consumed and no more conscious. 
 Thus I lay for unknown time, and without thought ; and 
 again awakening, I saw a dark figm-e bending over me, and 
 felt him gi'asp me till I ached in all my bones. Then I 
 asked him if he was Death or an angel, and if he had 
 brought me wings, for I could not see plainly ; but as my 
 senses returned, I knew an intimate friend and neighboiu', 
 and recognised the sound of his voice. He had thus found 
 me, he said, in passing, and had seen me faint, and had 
 recovered me ; but not till he had almost wrung the blood 
 from my fingers ; and he inquired the cause of my dis- 
 tress. So I thanked him, and told him of my vision, and 
 he tried to comfort me : but I knew that the angels of my 
 children had told me truly, and the more so for this shadow
 
 PEESENTIMENT. 63 
 
 of Death that I had passed ; and feehng that my hoiu' was 
 near, and recollecting my home, I endeavoured to rise. But 
 my strength was gone, and I fell backwards ; till fear, which 
 had first taken away my strength, restored it tenfold, and I 
 descended the hill, and hurried onwards before my friend, 
 who could not keep up with me. 
 
 When I had gone a little way, however, the road was of 
 deep sand, so that I grew impatient of my steps, and wished 
 for the speed of a horse that I heard galloping before me. 
 Even as I heard it, the horse suddenly turned an angle of 
 the road, and came iimning with all the madness of fright, 
 plunging and scattering the loose sand from his fiery heels. 
 As he came nearer, I thought I saw a rider upon his back — 
 it was only fancy ; but he looked like Death, and very 
 terrible, for I knew that he was coming to tear me and 
 trample me under his horse's hoofs, and carry me away 
 for ever, so that I should never see my children again. At 
 that thought my soul fainted within me without his touch, 
 and my breath went from me, so that I could not stir even 
 from Death, though he came nearer and nearer, and I could 
 see him frown through the black tossing mane. In a 
 moment he was close ; the wild foaming horse struck at me 
 with his furious heels — so that the loose sand flew up in 
 my bosom — reared his head disdainfully, and flew past me 
 with the i-ush of a whirlwind. The fiend grinned upon me 
 as he passed, and tossed his arms in an ecstasy of triumph ; 
 but he left me untouched, and the noise soon died away 
 behind me. Then a warm joy trembled over my limbs, and 
 I hurried forward again with an hour's hope of life. My 
 heart's beat quickened my feet, and I soon reached the 
 corner where I had first seen the horse ; but there I stopped 
 — it was only a low moan — but my heart stopped with it. 
 In another throb I was with my children, and in another
 
 64 THE SEA OF DEATH. 
 
 they were with God. I saw their eyes before they closed 
 
 — but my son's 
 
 How it happened I have never asked, or have forgotten. 
 I only knew that I had childi-en, and that they are dead. 
 Now I have only their angels. They still visit me in the 
 churchyard ; but their eyes are closed, and their little locks 
 drop blood — they still shrink, and faint, and fade away — 
 but still I die not ! 
 
 THE SEA OF DEATH. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 •Methouo-ht I saw 
 
 Life swiftly treading over endless space ; 
 And, at her foot-print, but a bygone pace. 
 The ocean Past, which, with increasing wave. 
 Swallow' d her steps like a pursuing grave. 
 
 Sad were my thoughts that anchor'd silently 
 On the dead waters of that passionless sea, 
 Unstirr'd 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-faced cherubs that did sleep 
 Like water-lilies on that motionless deep. 
 How beautifid ! with bright uniiiffled hair 
 On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were
 
 TO AN ABSENTEE. 65 
 
 Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse ! 
 
 And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips. 
 
 Meekly apart, as if the soul intense 
 
 SjDake out in ckeams 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 neighbom' brows scarr'd by the brunts 
 
 Of strife and sorrowing — where Care had set 
 
 His crooked autograph, and marr'd the jet 
 
 Of glossy locks, with hollow eyes forlorn, 
 
 And lips that curl'd in bitteniess 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 luU'd sublime 
 
 To everlasting rest, — and with them Time 
 
 Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face 
 
 Of a dark dial in a sunless place. 
 
 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, — thouoh worlds should intervene. 
 
 *o' 
 
 Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks 
 The farther we are forced apart, 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 66 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 Affection's firm elastic links 
 
 But bind thee closer round the heart. 
 
 For now we sever each from each, 
 I leam what I have lost in thee ; 
 Alas, that nothing else could teach 
 How great indeed my love should be ! 
 
 Farewell ! I did not know thy worth ; 
 But thou art gone, and now 'tis prized 
 So angels walk'd unknown on earth. 
 But when they flew were recognised ! 
 
 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 A MOOEISH TALE, 
 
 Scheherazade immediately began the following story : — 
 
 Alt Ben Ali (did you never read 
 
 His wondrous acts that chronicles relate, — 
 
 How there was one in pity might exceed 
 The sack of Troy 1 ) Magnificent he sate 
 
 Upon the throne of gi-eatness — gi-eat indeed. 
 For those that he had under him were gi'eat — 
 
 The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails. 
 
 Was a Bashaw — Bashaws have horses' tails. 
 
 Ali was cruel — a most cruel one ! 
 
 'Tis nimour'd he had strangled his own mother — 
 Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done, 
 
 'Tis thouo'ht he would have slain his elder brother
 
 THE STAG-EYED LADY. G7 
 
 And sister too — but happily that none 
 
 Did hve 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 falter' d, 
 And let him live unhang' d — and still unalter'd. 
 
 Until he got a sage bush of a beard, 
 
 Wherein an Attic owl might roost — a trail 
 
 Of bristly hair — that, honour' d and unshear'd, 
 Grew downward like old women and cow's tail : 
 
 Being a sign of age — some gi-ey appear' d, 
 
 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 — doom'd, when his days were done, 
 To leave the very city of his fame 
 Without an Ali to keep up his name. 
 
 F 2
 
 as THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 Therefore he chose a ladj 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 drumm'd 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 mothery, and ladies fair 
 Will grow like beer ; so did that stag-eyed dame : 
 
 Ben Ali, hoj)iug for a son and heir, 
 
 £oi/ed 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 knoweth what to-morrow will brino- forth. 
 
 To-morrow came, and with to-moiTow's sun 
 A little daughter to this world of sins. 
 
 J/is-s-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 cui'se and swear, 
 
 Pulling his beard because he had no heu\ 
 
 Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down 
 This his paternal rage, and thus addrest : 
 
 " Oh ! Most Serene ! why dost thou stamp and frown. 
 And box the compass of the royal chest ?
 
 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 69 
 
 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 ample sack 
 Wherein a woman might be poked : a few 
 
 Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd 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 lopp'd from many an elf 
 Were stuck at his head-quarters 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 fears. 
 Came with the sack the lady to enclose j 
 
 In vain from 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.
 
 70 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 
 
 Aud 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 little daughter ! 
 
 She's shot from off the shoulders of a black, 
 
 Like bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back. 
 
 The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fill' d 
 All that the waters oped, as down it fell ; 
 
 Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd 
 A ring above her, like a water-knell ; 
 
 A moment more, and all its face was still' d. 
 And not a giiilty heave was left to tell 
 
 That imderneath its calm and blue transparence 
 
 A dame lay drowned in her sack, like Clarence. 
 
 But heaven beheld, and awful witness bore. 
 The moon in black eclipse deceased that night, 
 
 Like Desdemona smother'd by the Moor ; 
 The lady's natal star with pale affright 
 
 Fainted and fell — and what were stars before, 
 Tuni'd comets as the tail was brought to light ; 
 
 And all look'd downward on the fatal wave. 
 
 And made their own reflections on her grave. 
 
 Next night, a head — a little lady head, 
 
 Push'd through the waters a most glassy face, 
 
 With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread, 
 Comb'd by live ivory, to show the space
 
 THE STAG-EYED LADY. 71 
 
 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 aqualine nose above the stream, and gazed. 
 
 She oped her lips — lips of a gentle blush, 
 
 So pale, it seem'd 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 they would break all hearts with pity : 
 
 THE WATER PERI'S SONG. 
 
 Farewell, farewell to my mother's own daughter. 
 The child that she w^et-nursed is lapp'd in the w^ave 1 
 
 The Mussel-man coming to fish in this water. 
 
 Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave. 
 
 This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier. 
 This greyish Bath cloak is her funeral pall, 
 
 And, stranger, stranger ! this song that you heai* 
 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 — 
 
 She's a corpse, the poor body ! and hes in this basin. 
 And sleeps in the water that washes her face.
 
 72 
 
 LYCUS THE CEXTAUR/'^ 
 
 FROM AN TTNEOLLED MANUSCKIPT OF APOLLONirS CrEIUS. 
 
 THE AEGUMENT. 
 
 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 Centaur. 
 
 Who hath ever been lui-ed and bound by a spell 
 
 To wander, fore-damn' d, in that circle of hell 
 
 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 — to vanish to nought. 
 
 Or put on new semblance 1 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 brighten'd together ! 
 
 * When this poem was republished in "The Plea of the Midsummer 
 Fairies," the following dedication was added to it : — 
 
 TO J. H. EEYXOLDS, ESQ. 
 
 ^ly 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 with us 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.
 
 LYCUS THE CEXTAUR. 73 
 
 For I loved them in teiTor, and constantly dreaded 
 
 That the earth where I 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 horrid, — and drank of the stream 
 
 Like a first taste of blood, lest as water I quafF'd 
 
 Swift poison, and never should breathe from the draught, — 
 
 Such di'ink as her own monarch husband drain' d up 
 
 When he pledged her, and Fate closed his eyes in the 
 
 cup. 
 And I pluck'd 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 pluck'd in the dusk 
 An apple, juice-gushing and fragrant of musk ; 
 But by daylight my fingers were crimson' d 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 leaf-hidden wood^^ecker shriek'd at the sight ; 
 And oh ! such an agony thrill' d in that note. 
 That my soul, startling up, beat its wings in my throat. 
 As it long'd to be free of a body whose hand 
 AVas doom'd to work torments a Fury had plann'd ! 
 
 There I stood without stir, yet how willing to flee. 
 As if rooted and horror-turn'd 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 pull'd me back to the brink j
 
 74 LYCUS THE CEITTAUR. 
 
 I sprang from the rock, from its pinnacle height, 
 
 But fell on the grass with a grasshopper's flight ; 
 
 I ran at my fears — they were fears and no more, 
 
 For the bear would not mangle my limbs, nor the boar. 
 
 But moan'd — all their brutalised flesh could not smother 
 
 The horrible truth, — we were kin to each other ! 
 
 They were mournfully gentle, and group'd for relief. 
 All foes in their skin, but all friends in their grief : 
 The leopard was there, — baby-mild in its featm-e ; 
 And the tiger, black-barr'd, with the gaze of a creature 
 That knew gentle pity ; the bristle-back' d boar, 
 His innocent tusks stain'd with mulberiy 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 ; 
 \Miile all groan'd 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 ;
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 Cries swallow' d abnij^tly — deep animal tones 
 
 Attuned to strange passion, and full-utter'd groans ; 
 
 All shuddering weaker, till hush'd in a pause 
 
 Of tongues in mute motion and wide-yawning jaws ; 
 
 And I guess'd that those horrors were meant to tell o'er 
 
 The tale of their woes ; but the silence told more, 
 
 That writhed on their tongues ; and I knelt on the sod, 
 
 And pray'd with my voice to the cloud-stirring god, 
 
 For the sad congregation of supplicants there, 
 
 That uptuni'd to his heaven brute faces of prayer ; 
 
 And I ceased, and they utter'd a moaning so deep, 
 
 That I wept for my heart-ease, — but they could not weep, 
 
 And gazed with red eyeballs, all wistfully diy, 
 
 At the comfort of tears in a stag's human eye. 
 
 Then I motion' d them round, and, to soothe their distress, 
 
 I caress'd, and they bent them to meet my caress, 
 
 Their necks to my arm, and their heads to my palm, 
 
 And with poor grateful eyes suffer'd meekly and calm 
 
 Those tokens of kindness, withheld by hard fate 
 
 From returns that might chill the warm pity to hate ; 
 
 So they passively bow'd — save the serpent, that lea2)t 
 
 To my breast like a sister, and iiressingly crept 
 
 In embrace of my neck, and with close kisses blister'd 
 
 My lips in rash love, — then drew backward, and glister'd 
 
 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, 
 Turn'd 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. 
 And dash'd off bright tears, till their fingers were wet, 
 And then wiped their lids with long tresses of jet :
 
 76 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 But I fled — though they stretch' d out their hands, all 
 
 entangled 
 With hair, and blood-stain'd of the breasts they had 
 
 mangled, — 
 Though they call'd — and perchance but to ask, had I seen 
 Their loves, or to tell the vile wrongs that had been : 
 But I stay'd 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 flow'd 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 roam'd in that circle of hoiTors, and Fear 
 Walk'd with me, by hills, and in valleys, and near 
 Cluster' d trees for their gloom — not to shelter from heat — 
 But lest a brute-shadow should grow at my feet ; 
 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 gi'ew 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 hoiTors that drouth 
 Engenders of slime in the lan'^'hf 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,
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 77 
 
 Manj-handed, that blent in one phantom of fight 
 Like a Titan, and threatfuUy warr'd with the hght ; 
 I have heard the wild shriek that gave signal to close, 
 When they rush'd on that shadowy Python of foes, 
 That met with sharp beaks and wide gaping of jaws, 
 With flappings of wings, and fierce grasping of claws. 
 And whirls of long tails : — I have seen the quick flutter 
 Of fragments dissever' d, — and necks stretch' d 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 follow' d their wings. 
 
 Thus they fled — not forgotten — but often to grow 
 Like fears in my eyes, when I walk'd 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 w^on 
 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-di-eam'd 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 
 Those fond earnest eyes that wQjp ever uplifted 
 Towards me, and wink'd as the water-weed drifted 
 Between ; but the fish knew that presence, and plied 
 Their long cui-vy tails, and swift darted aside.
 
 78 LYCUS THE CEXTAUR. 
 
 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 look'd 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 dash'd 
 My limbs in the water, and suddenly splash'd 
 The cool drops around me, yet clung to the brink, 
 Chill'd 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 remember'd 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, — may-be, — clasp' d 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 
 Bow'd, 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
 
 LYCUS THE CEXTAUE. 
 
 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 ? 
 Because of her rival, — even Her whose witch-face 
 I had slighted, and therefore was doom'd in that place 
 To roam, and had roam'd, where all hoiTors 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 like a blight ; and they told me the tale 
 Of Scylla, — and Picus, imprison'd to speak 
 His shiill-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 fai- 
 I had read of my sorrow, and lay in the hush 
 Of deep meditation, — when lo ! a light ciaish 
 Of the reeds, and I turn'd and look'd round in the night 
 Of new sunshine, and saw, as I sipp'd of the light 
 Narrow-winking, the realised 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 toiTents of hair, that W' ent flowing and flowing 
 In falls to her feet, and the blue waters roll'd 
 Down her limbs like a garment, in many a fold. 
 Sun-spangled, gold-broider'd, and fled far behind. 
 Like an infinite train. So she came and reclined 
 In the reeds, and I hunger'd to see her unseal 
 The buds of her eyes that would ope and reveal 
 The blue that was in them ; — ^they oped and she raised 
 Two orbs of pm-e crystal, and timidly gazed 
 With her eyes on my eyes ; but their colour and shine 
 Was of that \vhich they look'd on, and mostly of mine —
 
 80 LYCUS THE CEXTAUR. 
 
 For she loved me, — except when she blush' d, and they sank, 
 
 Shame-humbled, to number the stones on the bank, 
 
 Or her play-idle fingers, while lisping she told me 
 
 How she put on her veil, and in love to behold me 
 
 AVould 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 w^atching for mine 'gainst the midsummer skies. 
 
 But now they w^ere heal'd, — my heart, it still dances 
 
 When I think 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. 
 
 And none knoweth 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 pluck'd with her tresses 1 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 dro^^-n 
 
 For need of her mercy, — even he whose twin-brother 
 
 W^ill miss him for ever ; and the sorrowful mother 
 
 Imploreth in vain for his body to kiss 
 
 And cling to, all diipping 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 whisper'd 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 drown'd 
 
 For my absence, — her arms were the arms that sought 
 
 round 
 And claspt me to nought ; for I gazed and became 
 Only true to my falsehood, and had but one name
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 81 
 
 For two loA^es, and call'd 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 rae ! 
 
 Thus our bliss had endured for a time-shorten' d 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-task'd 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 ; — and the gaze of their eyes 
 Was sad, — and the bend of their brows, — and their cries 
 Were seen, but I heard not. The warm touch of tears 
 Travel!' d down my cold cheeks, and I shook till my fears 
 Awaked me, and lo ! I was couch' d in a bower. 
 The growth of long summers rear'd up in an hour ! 
 Then I said, in the fear of my 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 thinish 1 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, 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 LYCUS THE CENTAUE. 
 
 Even Circe the Cruel, that came like a Death 
 
 Which I fear'd, 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 plann'd how to thrall me with beauty, and bind 
 
 My soul to her charms, — and her long tresses play'd 
 
 From shade into shine and from shine into shade, 
 
 Like a day in mid-autumn, — first fair, how fair ! 
 
 With long snaky locks of the adder-black 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 roll'd. 
 
 And brighten' d, and suddenly blazed into gold 
 
 That she comb'd into flames, and the locks that fell down 
 
 Turn'd dark as they fell, but I slighted then- brown, 
 
 Nor loved, till I saw the light ringlets shed wild, 
 
 That innocence wears when she is but a child ; 
 
 And her eyes, — Oh I ne'er had been witch'd with their shine. 
 
 Had they been any other, my ^gle, than thine ! 
 
 Then I gave me to magic, and gazed till I madden'd 
 In the full of their light, — but I sadden'd and sadden'd 
 The deeper I look'd, — till I sank on the snow^ 
 Of her bosom, a thing made of terror and woe, 
 And answer'd its throb with the shudder of fears, 
 And hid my cold eyes from her eyes with my tears. 
 And strain' d her white arms with the still languid weight 
 Of a fainting distress. There she sat like the Fate 
 That is nurse unto Death, and bent over in shame 
 To hide me from her — the true JEgle — that came 
 With the words on her lips the false witch had fore-given 
 To make me immortal — for now I was even
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 83 
 
 At the portals 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. 
 
 Oh, would it had flown from my body for ever, 
 
 Ei'e I listen'd 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 perifih'd in horror — and heard the farewell 
 
 Of that voice that was drown' d in the dash of the stream ! 
 
 How fain had I follow' d, and plunged with that scream 
 
 Into death, but my being indignantly lagg'd 
 
 Through the brutalised flesh that I painfully dragg'd 
 
 Behind me : — " Circe ! 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 Natm'e's dishonour with me 
 
 Uninscribed ! " — But she listen'd 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 ask'd of the wave, 
 
 What monster I was, and it trembled and gave 
 
 The true shape of my grief, and I turn'd with my face 
 
 From all waters for ever, and fled through that place. 
 
 Till with horror more strong than all magic I pass'd 
 
 Its bounds, and the world was before me at last. 
 
 There I wander' d in sorrow, and shunn'd 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 ; 
 
 g2
 
 84 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 And I saw the white smoke of their altars ascending, 
 
 That show'd where the hearts of the many were blending, 
 
 And the wind in my face brought shrill voices that came 
 
 From the trumpets that gather'd whole bands in one fame 
 
 As a choiiis of man, — and they stream' d from the gates 
 
 Like a dusky libation pour'd out to the Fates. 
 
 But at times there were gentler processions of peace 
 
 That I watch'd 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 muiTnur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks : 
 
 But the willows unbosom'd their secret, and never 
 
 I retm-n'd to a spot I had startled for ever, 
 
 Though I oft long'd 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 shunn'd me by flight, 
 The- men in their horror, the women in fright ; 
 None ever remain'd save a child once that sported 
 Among the wild bluebells, and playfully courted 
 The breeze ; and beside him a sj)eckled snake lay 
 Tight strangled, because it had hiss'd him away 
 From the flower at his finger ; he rose and drew near 
 Like a Son of Immortals, one born to no fear,
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 85 
 
 But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure bright 
 
 To grow to large manhood of merciful might. 
 
 H'e came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel, 
 
 The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel, 
 
 And question'd my face with wide eyes ; but when under 
 
 My lids he saw tears, — for I wept at his wonder. 
 
 He stroked me, and utter'd such kindliness then. 
 
 That the once love of women, the friendship of men 
 
 In past sorrow, no kindness e'er came like a kiss 
 
 On my heart in its desolate day such as this ! 
 
 And I yearn'd at his cheeks in my love, and down bent, 
 
 And lifted him up in my arms with intent 
 
 To kiss him, — but he cruel-kindly, alas ! 
 
 Held out to my lips a pluck'd handful of gi-ass ! 
 
 Then I di-opt him in horror, but felt as I fled 
 
 The stone he indignantly hurl'd at my head. 
 
 That dissever' d my ear, — but I felt not, whose fate 
 
 Was to meet more distress in his love than his hate ! 
 
 Thus I wander' d, companion'd of grief and forlorn 
 Till I wish'd 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 m-n 
 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 1 — or how bear 
 The steeds once the pride of my eyes and the care 
 Of my hands ? Then I turn'd me self-banish'd, and came 
 Into Thessaly here, where I met with the same
 
 86 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 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 roll'd her wild eyes 
 Against heaven, and so vanish'd. — The gentle and wise 
 Lose their thoughts in deep studies, and others their ill 
 In the mirth of mankind where they mingle them still. * 
 
 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 — ■♦- — 
 
 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 chilling superstition most 
 
 On young and ignorant natures — as it wont 
 
 To haunt the peaceful churchyard 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 
 
 '* Althougli " Lycus " lias never met with very warm admirers, owing, 
 perhaps, to its classical origin and style (indeed, in a letter I have of his, 
 simple John Clare confesses he does not understand a word of it), I incline 
 to hold with tbe following opinion from a letter written to my father by 
 Hartley Coleridge, in 1831. 
 
 "I wish you would write a little more in the style of * Lycus the 
 Centaur,' or ' Eugene Aram's Dream.' In whatever you attempt you excel. 
 Then why not exert your best and noblest talent, as well as that wit, which 
 I would never wish to be dormant. I am not a graduate in the Academy 
 of Compliment, but I think ' Lycus ' a work absolutely unique in its line, 
 such as no man has written, or could have written, but yourself."
 
 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 87 
 
 Their downy plumes, — sailing 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 open'd gate. 
 
 And there they stand — with haughty necks before 
 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 ; — 
 
 Because that Wealth, which ha.s no bliss beside, 
 May wear the 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-stor}^ 
 
 The aged priest goes shaking his grey hair 
 In meekest censuring, and turns his eye 
 
 Earthward in grief, and heavenward in pray'r. 
 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 ?
 
 88 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame 
 Of this ungodly shine of human pride, 
 
 And sadly blends his reverence and blame 
 In one gi'ave bow, and passes with a stride 
 
 Impatient : — many a red-hooded dame 
 
 Turns her pain'd head, but not her glance, aside 
 
 From wanton dress, and marvels o'er again. 
 
 That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. 
 
 " 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, 
 
 Kinof Solomon's not half so fine as these.' " 
 
 Then her meek partner, who has nearly run 
 
 His eai'thly course, — " Nay, Goody, let youi' 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." 
 
 " 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 bow'd
 
 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 And curtsey'd to ! — last Sabbath after pray'r^ 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 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-bedizen'd beadle flames along, 
 
 And gentle peasant clad in buff and green, 
 
 Like a meek cowslip in the spring serene ; 
 
 And blushing maiden — modestly array'd 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Thus, as good Christians ought, they all draw 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 heav'n has won them all, 
 
 — Saving those two, that tarn aside and pass, 
 
 In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass.
 
 90 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT 
 
 Ah me ! to see theii- silken manors trail' d 
 In purple luxuries — with restless gold, — 
 
 Flaunting the grass where widowhood has wail'd 
 In blotted black, — over the heapy mould 
 
 Panting wave-wantonly ! They never quail' d 
 How the warm vanity abused the cold ; 
 
 Nor saw the solemn faces of the gone 
 
 Sadly uplooking through transparent stone : 
 
 But swept their dwellings with unquiet light, 
 Shocking the awful presence of the dead ; 
 
 Where gracious natm-es 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 veiy pity to bereaved death. 
 
 Now in the church, time-sober'd minds resign 
 To solemn pray'r, and the loud chaunted hymn,- 
 
 With glowing picturings of joys divine 
 
 Painting the mist-light 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-colour'd panes ; 
 
 Soiling the virgin snow wherein God hath 
 Enrobed his angels, — and with absent eyes 
 
 Hearing of Heav'n, and its directed path, 
 
 Thoughtful of slippers, — and the glorious skies
 
 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 91 
 
 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 : 
 
 " Oh, 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 ! Oh, that the young soul took 
 Its virgin passion from the glorious face 
 
 Of fair religion, and address'd its strife, 
 
 To w^in the riches of eternal- life ! 
 
 " Doth the vain heart love gloiy that is none. 
 
 And the poor excellence of vain attire ? 
 Oh go, and di'own yom- 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 ; 
 And the faint soul down-darkens into night, 
 And dies a burning martyrdom to light. 
 
 " Oh go, and gaze, — when the low winds of ev'n 
 Breathe hymns, and Nature's many forests nod 
 
 Their gold-crown'd heads ; and the rich blooms of heav'n 
 Sun-ripen'd give their blushes up to God ; 
 
 And mountain-rocks 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 !
 
 92 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 " Yet suns shall perish — stai-s shall fade away — 
 Day into darkness — darkness into death — 
 
 Death into silence ; the warm light of day, 
 
 The blooms of summer, the rich glowing 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." 
 
 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 
 
 Its grace — then soberly with chasten' d tread, 
 They meekly press towards the gusty door, 
 
 With humbled eyes that go to graze upon 
 
 The lowly grass — like him of Babylon. 
 
 The lowly grass ! — water-constant mind ! 
 
 Fast-ebbing holiness ! — soon-fading grace 
 Of serious thought, as if the gushing wind 
 
 Through the low porch had wash'd it from the face 
 For ever ! — How they lift their eyes to find 
 
 Old vanities ! — Pride wins the very j^lace 
 Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now 
 With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow ! 
 
 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
 
 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 Of jewel-sj^rinkled locks. — But where are they, 
 
 The graceless haughty ones that used to wait 
 With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen' d eye 1 — 
 None challenge the old homage bending by. 
 
 In vain they look for the ungracious bloom 
 Of rich apparel where it glow'd before, — 
 
 For Vanity has faded all to gloom. 
 
 And lofty Pride has stiffen d to the core, 
 
 For impious Life to tremble at its doom, — 
 Set for a warning token evermore. 
 
 Whereon, as now, tlie giddy and the wise 
 
 Shall gaze with lifted hands and wond'ring eyes. 
 
 The aged priest goes on each sabbath morn. 
 But shakes not sorrow under his grey hair ; 
 
 The solemn clerk goes lavender'd and shorn 
 Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair ; — 
 
 And ancient lips that pucker' d 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. 
 
 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 stranger, 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.
 
 94 
 
 HYMN TO THE SUN. 
 
 Giver of glowing light 1 
 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 turn'd to worshipping and song ! 
 
 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 flow'rs 
 
 At morning hours. 
 Give 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.
 
 95 
 
 MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Unfathomable Night ! how dost thou sweep 
 Over the flooded earth, and darkly hide 
 The mighty city under thy full tide ; 
 
 Making a silent palace for old Sleep, 
 
 Like his own temple under the hush'd deep, 
 Where all the busy day he doth abide, 
 And forth at the late dark, outspreadeth wide 
 
 His dusky wings, whence the cold water sweep ! 
 
 How peacefully the living millions lie ! 
 
 Lull'd unto death beneath his poppy spells ; 
 
 There is no breath — no living stir — no cry — 
 
 No tread of foot — no song — no music-call — 
 Only the sound of melancholy bells — 
 
 The voice of Time — smwivor of them all ! 
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD.* 
 
 I. 
 Oh, 'tis a touching thing, to make one weep, — 
 A tender infant with its curtain' d eye, 
 Breathing as it would neither live nor die 
 With that unchanging countenance of sleep ! 
 As if its silent dream, serene and deep. 
 Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky 
 
 * This and the following sonnet were written to the infant son of the 
 late Rev. Edward Rice, Master of Christ's Hospital.
 
 96 TO A SLEEPmG CHILD. 
 
 So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie 
 With no more Hfe than roses — just to keep 
 The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. 
 blossom boy ! so calm is thy repose, 
 So sweet a compromise of life and death, 
 'Tis pity those fair buds should e'er unclose 
 For memory to stain their inward leaf. 
 Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief. 
 
 TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 
 
 Thine eyelids slept so beauteously, I deem'd 
 
 No eyes could wake so beautiful as they : 
 
 Thy rosy cheeks in such still slumbers lay, 
 
 I loved their peacefulness, nor ever dream'd 
 
 Of dimples : — for those parted lips so seem'd, 
 
 I never thought a smile could sweetlier play, 
 
 Nor that so graceful life could chase away 
 
 Thy graceful death, — till those blue eyes upbeam'd. 
 
 Now slumber lies in dimpled eddies drown' d, 
 
 And roses bloom more rosily for joy. 
 
 And odorous silence ripens into sound, 
 
 And fingers move to sound. — All-beauteous boy I 
 
 How thou dost waken into smiles, and prove. 
 
 If not more lovely, thou art more like Love !
 
 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 bring 
 Illuminate visions to the eye of rest,— 
 Or rich romances from the florid West, — 
 Or to the sea, for mystic whispering, — 
 Still by thy charm' d 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. 
 
 MR MARTIN'S PICTURES AND THE BONASSUS. 
 
 A LETTER FROM MRS, WINIFRED LLOYD TO HER FRIEND MRS. PRICE, 
 AT THE PARSONAGE HOUSE AT , IN MONMOUTHSHIRE. 
 
 My DEAR Mrs. Price, 
 
 This is to let you know that me and Becky and 
 little Humphry are safe arrived in London, where we have 
 been since Monday. My darter is quite inchanted with the 
 metropalus and longs to be intraduced to it satiety, which 
 please God she shall be as soon as things are ready to make 
 her debutt in. It is high time now she should be brought 
 into the world being twenty yeai's old come Midsummer k 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 MR. MARTIN'S PICTURES AND THE BONASSUS. 
 
 very-big for her size. You knows, Mrs. Price, that with her 
 figure and accumpHshments she was quite berried in Wales, 
 but I hopes when the country is scowered off she will shine 
 as bright as the best & make rare havock among the mail 
 sects. She has learned the pinaforte and to draw, and does 
 flowers and shells, as Mr. Owen says, to a mirrikle, for I 
 spares no munny on her to make her fit for any gentleman's 
 wife, when he shall please to ax her. I took her the other 
 day to the Bullock's Museum to see Mr. Martin's expedition 
 of picters — because she has such a pretty notion of painting 
 herself — and a very nice site it was thof it cost half-a-crown. 
 I tried to get the children in for half-price but the man said 
 that Becky was a full-gTOwn lady, and so she is sure enuff*, so 
 I could only beat him down to take a sixpence ofi" little 
 Humphiy. 
 
 The picters are hung in a parler up-stairs (Becky calls it 
 a drawing room) and you see about a dozen for your munny 
 which brings it to about a penny a piece, & that is not dear. 
 The first on the left hand as you go in — and on the right 
 coming out — is called Revenge. It represents a man and 
 woman with a fire breaking out at their backs — Becky thought 
 it was the fire of London — but the show gentleman said it 
 was Troy that was burned out of revenge, so that was a 
 very good thought to paint. Then there was Bell Shazzar's 
 Feast as you read of it in the Bible, with Daniel interrupting 
 the handwriting on the wall — with the cunning men & the 
 king & all the nobility. Becky said she never saw such 
 bewtiful painting — and sure enuff they were the finest 
 cullers I ever set eyes on, blews, & pinks and purples & 
 greens, all as bright as fresh sattin and velvet, and no doubt 
 they had court sutes all span new for the Banket. As for 
 Humphry there was no getting him from a picter of a Welsh 
 Bard because he knew the ballad about it & saw the whole
 
 MR. MARTIN'S PICTURES AND THE BONASSUS. 99 
 
 core of Captain Edwards's sodgers coming down the hill, 
 with their waggin' train and all, quite nateral. To be sure 
 their cullers were very bewtiful, but there was so many 
 mountings piled atop of one another and some going out of 
 sight into heaven that it made my neck ake to look after 
 them. Next to that there was a storm in Babylon,* but not 
 half so well painted Becky said as the rest. There was none 
 hardly of those smart bright cullers only a bunch of flowers 
 in a garden, that Becky said would look bewtiful on a chaney 
 teacup. Howsomever some gentlemen looked at it a long 
 while and called it clever and said they preferred his 
 architecter work to his painting & he makes very handsum 
 bildings for sartin. They said too that this picter was quieter 
 than all the rest — but how that can be, God he knows, 
 for I could not hear a pin's diff'ereuce betwixt them — and 
 besides that it was in better keeping which I suppose means 
 it is sold to a Lord. The next was only a lady very well 
 dressed and walking in a landskip. But oh, ]\Irs. Price, how 
 shall I tell you about the burning of Herculeum ! Becky 
 said it put her in mind of what is written in the Revelations 
 about the sky being turned to blood, and indeed it seemed to 
 take all the culler out of her face when she looked at it. It 
 looked as if all the world was going to be burnt to death 
 with a shower of live coals ! Oh dear to see the pore things 
 running about in sich an earthquack as threw the pillers off 
 their legs — and all the men of war in distress, beating their 
 bottoms, & going to rack and ruin in the arber. It is a 
 shocking site to see only in a picter, with so many people in 
 silks and sattins and velvets having their things so scorched 
 & burnt into holes ! Mrs. Price ! what a mercy we was 
 not born in Yesuvus & there is no burning mountings in 
 
 * The storming of Babylon : Mrs. Lloyd must have got her catalogue by 
 hearsay. 
 
 n2
 
 100 ME. MARTIN'S PICTUEES AND THE BONASSUS. 
 
 Wales ! — only think to be holding our sheelds over our heads 
 to keep off the hot sinder^, and almost sufFercated to death 
 with brimstun. It puts one in a shiver to think of it. 
 
 There is another pictui'e of a burning mounting with 
 Zadok* hanging upon a rock — Becky knows the story & 
 shall tell it you — but it looked nothing after the other, 
 though the criketal gentleman, you knows of, said it was a 
 much better painting. But there is no saying for people's 
 tastes — as Mr. Owen says, the world does not dine upon one 
 dinner — but I have forgot one more & that is Mac Beth and 
 the three Whiches, with such a ridgment of Hilanders that I 
 wonder how they got into one picter. Becky said the band 
 ought to be playing bag Pipes instead of Kittle drums, but 
 no doubt Mr. Martin knows better than Becky, and I am 
 sure from what I heard in the North that either Kittles or 
 Drums would sound better than bag Pipes. 
 
 We are going to-moiTOw to the play, and any other sites 
 we may see you shall hear. Till then give my respective 
 complements to Mr. Price with a kiss from Beck & Humphry 
 and remane. 
 
 Your faithful humble sarvent 
 
 WixiFKED Llotd. 
 
 P.S. I forgot to say that after we had seen Mr. Martin's 
 expedition, we went from the Bullock's to the Bonassus — as 
 it is but a step from wan to the other. The man says it is a 
 perfect picter, & so it is for sartin, and ought to be painted. 
 It is like a bull only quite different, and comes from the 
 Appellation Mountings. My Humphry thought it must 
 have been catched in a pound, and I wundered the child 
 could make sich a nateral idear, but he is a sweet boy and 
 veiy fore ward in his laming. He was eyely delited at the 
 
 * Mrs. Lloyd means Zadak, in the " Tales of the Genii."
 
 PRESENCE OF MIND IX A GHOST. 101 
 
 site you may be sure, but Becky being timersome shut her 
 eyes all the time she was seeing it. But saving his pushing 
 now & then the anymil is no ways veracious & eats nothing 
 but vegeatables. The man showed us some outlandish sort 
 of pees that it lives upon but he gave it two hole pales of 
 rare carruts besides. It must be a handsum customer to the 
 gi-een Grocer and a pretty penny I wan-ant it costs for 
 vittles. But it is a wonderful work of Natur, and ought to 
 make man look to his ways as Mr. Lloyd says. Which of 
 our infiddles could make a Bonassus 1 let them tell me that, 
 Mrs. Price. I would have carried him home in my eye to 
 describe to you & i\Ir. Price, but we met Mrs. Striker the 
 butcher's lady & she drove him quite out of my head. 
 Howsomever as you likes carosities I shall send his playbill 
 that knows more about him than I do, though there's nothing 
 like seeing him with wan's one eye's. I think if the man 
 would take him down to Monmouth in a Carry Wan he 
 would get a good many hapence by showing him. Till then 
 I remane once more 
 
 Your faithful humble sarvent 
 
 Winifred Lloyd. 
 
 [I discovered the following scrap of grim dry humour among other 
 papers of my father's. From the appearance of the writing, I conclude 
 it was of some of these early years.] 
 
 PRESENCE OF MIND IN A GHOST. 
 
 It has been much questioned amongst the curious if 
 there be such things (or nothings) as Ghosts ; but whether 
 or not, and leaving this Argument to the Learned, — the 
 following may be relied upon as a wonderful instance of 
 presence of mind in an apparition.
 
 102 PRESENCE OF MIND IN A GHOST. 
 
 In the year 1421, the widow of Ralph Cranfield, of 
 Dipmore End, in the parish of Sandhurst, Berkshire, was 
 one midnight alarmed by a noise in her bed-chamber, and 
 looking up she saw at her bed-foot the appearance of 
 a skeleton (which she verily believed was her Jiusband) 
 nodding and talking to her on its fingers, or finger-bones, 
 after the manner of a dumb person. [And the moonlight 
 shone through the ribs as if through a trellis, making a 
 barred shadow upon the counterpane.]* Whereupon she 
 was so smitten with fear that after striving to scream aloud, 
 which she could not by reason of her fright, she fell back- 
 ward as in a swoon : yet not so insensible but she could 
 see that the figiu-e was greatly agitated and distressed, and 
 would have clasped her, but on seeing her loathing, it 
 desisted — only moving its jaw upwai'd and downward, as if 
 it would cry for help but could not for want of its paii;s of 
 speech. 
 
 At last, she growing more and more faint and likely to die 
 of fright, the skeleton suddenly, and as if at a thought, began 
 to swing round its hand (which was loose at the wrist) with 
 a brisk motion ; and the finger-bones, being hard and long, 
 and striking sharply against each other, made a loud noise 
 like the springiog of a watchman's rattle ; at which alarm 
 the neighbours ininning hastily in, and stoutly armed as 
 against thieves and mm^derers, the Spectre suddenly 
 departed, t 
 
 * This sentence is barely legible, having been scratched through on 
 second thoughts. 
 
 t I cannot discover whether this ingenious ghost was the offspring of my 
 father's brain, or the hero of some legend of Sandhurst, wht-re my father 
 resided, as a young man, for some period with his uncle, the late Mr. 
 Sands.
 
 1823. 
 
 THE LONDON MAGAZINE AND ANNUALS. 
 
 [My father tliis year contributed to the "London," besides the usual 
 "Lion's Head," "Fair Ines"— "Ode to Autumn"— "To a Cold 
 Beauty" — and Sonnets to "Silence" — "An Enthusiast "—" Death " 
 —and "Keats' Endymion."] 
 
 THE LION'S HEAD. 
 
 A.R's poem has been burnt, as he requested, with a 
 multitude of others. "It looked indifferent well," as Sir 
 Andrew Aguecheek has it, " in a flame-coloured stock." 
 
 The Elegy on Dr. Hutton is well written by Mr. 
 
 Carstairs. 
 
 M.'s Ode on the Martyrs who were burnt in the rain of 
 Queen Mary is original, but wants fire. 
 
 "The Sketch of a Plan for abolishing Beggars" — by 
 making them Gentlemen — is humane but Utopian. 
 
 [I suspect the following Epigram on a picture in the Academy, called 
 "The Doubtful Sneeze," is also my father's.] 
 
 The Doubtful Sneeze ! a failure quite — 
 A winker half, and half a gaper — 
 Alas, to paint on canvas here 
 What should have been on tissue paper.
 
 104 
 
 THOUGHTS ON SCULPTURE. 
 
 There is something sublime in the pale repose of fine 
 sculptm-e : colour is as noise and motion. — Harlequin is 
 motley and active — but a Statue is a thing only of light 
 and shade ; and stillness and silence are its proper attributes, 
 and the first inspiration of its presence. 
 
 On entering the repositoiy of the Elgin Marbles, the 
 voice is instantly subdued to a whisper, and the foot is 
 restrained in its tread ; there is no occasion for the written 
 request of the students to preserve silence — it will keep 
 itself, the best peace-oflicer of the place. We seem to be, 
 not among imitations, but petrifactions of life, — feel as if 
 noise, or mirth, or ungentle motion, were an insult to their 
 constrained quietness. The most impassioned, the most 
 ruffled, are as mute as Niobe when she tm-ned to stone : even 
 that snorting horse, wild and fiery as he may once have been, 
 diste^ds only a breathless nostril to the air, and is fixed for 
 ever. If he move not now, he will never move more, so 
 much has he the look of fierce intent. Theseus sits too, as 
 if he would never rise again ; but in him you might fancy 
 it merely the fault of his will. This repose seems the 
 proper mood of a statue. It should be pale in act, as pale 
 in substance — either above or beneath all violence — too 
 rock-like to be rudely acted on, or too delicate and aerial, 
 too sylph-Hke for touch — too pm-e even (as it seems) to be 
 stained by the light. I remember a female figure of this 
 nature, which might have been a personification of silence, — 
 a marble metaphor of peace. Alone, and still, and hushed, 
 it stood in the dark of a long passage, like an embodied
 
 FAIR INES. 105 
 
 twilight, — not dead, but with such a breathless life as we 
 conceive in a solemn midnight apparition ; — passionless, yet 
 not incapable of passion, as if only there was no cause mighty 
 enough in this world to disturb her divine rest. There she 
 stood, with her blank eyes,* gazing no one knew whither — not 
 asleep, — but as in one of those dreams which make up the 
 life of gods, blissful, serene, and eternal — herself almost a 
 dream, she seemed so pale, and shadowy, and unreal — as 
 unreal as if only framed out of moonlight, or (what is quite 
 possible) only the fanciful creation of my own theory. 
 
 FAIR INES. 
 
 SAW ye not fair Ines ? 
 She's gone into the West, 
 To dazzle when the sun is down. 
 And rob the world of rest : 
 She took our daylight with her, 
 The smiles that w^e love best, 
 With morning blushes on her cheek. 
 And pearls upon her breast. 
 
 turn again, fair Ines, 
 
 Before the fall of night. 
 
 For fear the moon should shine alone. 
 
 And stars unrivall'd bright ; 
 
 * These blank eyes (wherein there is no indication of the pupil) are the 
 true eyes in sculpture. They seem to hold no communion with your own, 
 but to gaze, not on points, but on all space, like the eyes of gods, or of 
 prophets looking into the future.
 
 106 FAIK INES. 
 
 And blessed will the lover be 
 
 That walks beneath their light, 
 
 And breathes the love against thy cheek 
 
 I dare not even write ! 
 
 Would I had been, fair Ines, 
 
 That gallant cavalier. 
 
 Who rode so gaily by thy side. 
 
 And whisper' d 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 ? 
 
 I saw thee, lovely Ines, 
 
 Descend along the shore, 
 
 With bands of 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 1 
 
 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.
 
 TO A FALSE FRIEND. 107 
 
 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 ! 
 
 The smile that blest one lover's heart 
 
 Has broken many more ! 
 
 [The following poem is ^v^itten on the same sheet of paper as the 
 original copy of "Fair Ines." It was never published during my 
 father's life— so 1 have decided on inserting it here.] 
 
 TO A FALSE FRIEND. 
 
 Our hands have met, but not our hearts ; 
 
 Our hands will never meet again. 
 
 Friends, if we have ever been, 
 
 Friends we cannot now remain : 
 
 I only know I loved you once, 
 
 I only know I loved in vain ; 
 
 Our hands have met, but not our hearts j 
 
 Our hands will never meet again ! 
 
 Then farewell to heart and hand ! 
 
 I would our hands had never met : 
 
 Even the outward form of love 
 
 Must be resign' d with some regret. 
 
 Friends, we still might seem to be. 
 
 If I my wrong could e'er forget 
 
 Our hands have join'd but not our hearts : 
 
 I would our hands had never met !
 
 108 
 
 ODE. 
 
 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, 
 Pearhng his coronet of golden corn. 
 
 Wliere 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 noon-day, 
 And tear with horny beak their lustrous eyes. 
 
 Where are the blooms of Summer ? — In the west. 
 Blushing their last to the last sunny hours. 
 When the mild Eve by sudden Night is j)rest 
 Like tearful Proserpine, snatch' d from her flow'rs 
 
 To a most gloomy breast. 
 Wliere is the pride of Summer, — the gi'een prime, - 
 The many, many leaves all twinkling ? — Three
 
 ODE. 109 
 
 On the moss'd elm ; three on the naked lime 
 Trembling, — and one npon the old oak tree ! 
 
 Where is the Dryad's immortality ? — 
 Gone into mournful cypress and dark yew, 
 Or wearing the long gloomy Winter through 
 
 In the smooth holly's green eternity. 
 
 The squirrel gloats o'er his accomplish' d hoard. 
 
 The ants have brimm'd their garners with ripe gi'ain, 
 
 And honey bees have stored 
 The sweets of summer in their luscious cells ; 
 The swallows all have wing'd 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 wither'd world looks drearily, 
 Like a dim picture of the drowned past 
 In the hush'd mind's mysterious far-away. 
 Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last 
 Into that distance, grey upon the grey. 
 
 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 wither'd everywhere 
 To make her bower, — and enough of gloom ; 
 There is enough of sadness to invite, 
 If only for the rose that died, whose doom
 
 110 SONNET. 
 
 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 from her bowl ; 
 Enough of fear and shadowy despair. 
 To frame her cloudy prison for the soul ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 DEATH. 
 
 It is not death, that — sometime — in a sigh 
 
 This eloquent breath shall 'take its speechless flight ; 
 
 That — sometime — 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 lapp'd 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.
 
 Ill 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 SILENCE. 
 — ■♦■ — 
 
 There is a silence where hath been no sound, 
 
 There is a silence where 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 hush'd — 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 hysena, 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. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 WRITTEN IN KEATS' "EXDYMION." 
 
 I SAW pale Dian, sitting by the brink 
 Of silver falls, the ovei-flow of fountains 
 From cloudy steeps ; and I gi^ew sad to think 
 Endymion's foot was silent on those mountains 
 And he but a hush'd name, that Silence keeps 
 In dear remembrance, — lonely, and forlorn.
 
 112 SONNET. 
 
 Singing it to herself until she weeps 
 Tears, that perchance still glisten in the morn 
 And as I mused, in dull imaginings, 
 There came a flash of garments, and I knew 
 The awful Muse by her harmonious wings 
 Charming the air to music as she flew — 
 Anon there rose an echo through the vale 
 Gave back Endymion in a dreamlike tale. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO AN ENTHUSIAST. 
 
 Young ardent soul, graced with fair Nature's truth. 
 
 Spring warmth of heart, and fervency 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 resign'd 
 
 The passionate fire and fierceness of thy youth : 
 
 For as the current of thy life shall flow, 
 
 Gilded by shine of sun or shadow-stain' d. 
 
 Through flow'ry valley or unwholesome fen, 
 
 Thrice blessed in thy joy, or in thy woe 
 
 Thrice cursed of thy race, — thou art ordain'd 
 
 To share beyond the lot of common men.
 
 113 
 
 TO A COLD BEAUTY. 
 
 Lady, woiildst thou heiress be 
 To Winter's cold and cruel part ? 
 
 When he sets the rivere 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 wind, 
 
 But thou wilt wrong the summer air. 
 Breathing it to words unkind, — 
 
 Breath which only should belong 
 
 To love, to sunlight, and to song ! 
 
 When the little buds unclose, 
 
 Red, and white, and pied, and blue. 
 
 And that virgin flow'r, the rose. 
 Opes her heart to hold the dew. 
 
 Wilt thou lock thy bosom up 
 
 With no jewel in its cup 1 
 
 Let not cold December sit 
 
 Thus in Love's peculiar throne : 
 
 Brooklets are not prison'd now. 
 But crystal frosts are all agone. 
 
 And that which hangs upon the spray, 
 
 It is no snow, but flow'r of May !
 
 114 SERENADE. 
 
 [I find the original MS. of tliis dated 1823. I have been unable t< 
 trace its appearance anywhere dui'ing my father's life .] 
 
 SERENADE 
 
 Ah, sweet, thou little knowest how 
 
 I wake and passionate watches keep ; 
 And yet while I address thee now, 
 
 Methinks thou smilest in thy sleep. 
 'Tis sweet enough to make me weep, 
 
 That tender thought of love and thee, 
 That while the world is hush'd so deep. 
 
 Thy soul's perhaps awake to me ! 
 
 Sleep on, sleep on, sweet bride of sleep 
 
 With golden visions for thy dower. 
 While I this midnight vigil keep. 
 
 And bless thee in thy silent bower ; 
 To me 'tis sweeter than the power 
 
 Of sleep, and fairy dreams unfurl' d. 
 That I alone, at this still hour, 
 
 In patient love out watch the world. 
 
 [The "Old Ballad" which follows is also dated 1823 in my father's 
 common-place book. I have been unable to find where it was pub- 
 lished. The air to which it is given is that of an old song that I 
 remember hearing my mother repeat often. Its plot is similar to the 
 ballad of " Binnorie," and it has a burden somewhat of the same sort. 
 As far as I can remember, the first verse begins : 
 
 There was a King in the ISTorth Countree, 
 
 Down — Down — Downderry — Down. 
 There was a King in the North Countree 
 And he had daughters one two and three, 
 
 The Bough it shall bend to me, &c.]
 
 115 
 
 OLD BALLAD. 
 
 Air — " There was a King in the North Countree." 
 
 There was a Fairy lived in a well, 
 And she pronounced a magical spell ; 
 " Whoever looks in this wave," she said, 
 " Shall see the lady that he's to wed ! " 
 
 A King came by with his hunting-spear 
 And stoop' d to look in the waters clear ; 
 He laid by the brim his signet of gold, 
 And gave his Brother his crown to hold. 
 
 But while he knelt and was looking down, 
 His Brother stood and tried-on the crown ; 
 The pearls were bright, and the rubies brave, 
 So he tumbled his brother into the wave. 
 
 " Oh Brother, oh Brother, you've got my ring 
 And the lawful crown that made me king ; 
 But your heart shall fail, and your hand shall quake, 
 And the head that wears my jewels shall ache ! " 
 
 The murderer stood and look'd from the brink, 
 " The sun is so hot, I should like to drink ! " 
 But lo ! as he stoop'd with a silver cup. 
 His head went down, and his heels flew up ! 
 
 " Oh ! Brother, oh ! Brother, — I've got your crown. 
 But the weight of the jewels has pull'd me down. 
 You shall be crown' d in the skies again, — 
 But I shall be mark'd on the brow like Cain ! " 
 
 i2
 
 116 OLD BALLAD. 
 
 Down he sank in tlie dismal wave, 
 As cold as death, and dark as the grave ; 
 But when he came to the stones at last, 
 The Faiiy canght him, and held him fast. 
 
 She took him into her crystal hall 
 And there he saw his face in the wall ; 
 She look'd rosy, but he look'd white, 
 And all the tapers were burning bright. 
 
 The King leap'd down from his Fairy throne, 
 With eyes that brighter than diamonds shone ; 
 His left hand balanced a golden globe, 
 But his right hand lifted his purple robe. 
 
 " Oh Brother ! oh Brother ! bend down your knee^ 
 But kneel to Heaven, and not to me. 
 For God may frown on your grievous sin, 
 But I'm too happy you push'd me in. 
 
 Come hither, come hither, you're welcome now, 
 To my crown of gold that decks your brow ; 
 There's smiles worth heav'n on my true-love's face, 
 And she has made me King of this place ! " 
 
 [The following lines, suggested by a bunch of English grapes, were 
 written about this time— as well as the two Sonnets which succeed 
 them — and which have never been printed before.] 
 
 We did not wear a leafy crown. 
 And darkly glance to darker glance. 
 Under the green leaf and the brown. 
 Wooing the eyes of maids of France,
 
 SONNET. li: 
 
 With very bloomy down : 
 
 We stain'd not hands with purple blood 
 
 In golden Arno's pleasant vale, 
 
 Where the proud Brothers quench' d the stain, 
 
 And saw two murderers in the flood 
 
 With faces guilty-pale : 
 
 Nor on the sunny hills of Spain 
 
 We used to drink the sun and twine 
 
 Long amorous tendrils to entrap 
 
 The careless finger of maid to linpjer 
 
 And pluck us from the trembling vine 
 
 To brim her dimpled lap. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Love, I am jealous of a worthless man 
 Whom — for his merits — thou dost hold too dear 
 No better than myself, he lies as near 
 And precious to thy bosom. He may span 
 Thy sacred waist and with thy sweet breath fan 
 His happy cheek, and thy most willing ear 
 Invade with words and call his love sincere 
 And true as mine, and prove it — if he can : — 
 Not that I hate him for such deeds as this- — 
 He were a devil to adore thee less, 
 Who wears thy favour, — I am ill at ease 
 Rather lest he should e'er too coldly press 
 Thy gentle hand : — This is my jealousy 
 Making myself suspect but never thee !
 
 118 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Love, see thy lover humbled at thy feet, 
 
 Not in servility, but homage sweet, 
 
 Gladly inclined : — and with my bended knee 
 
 Think that my inward spirit bows to thee — 
 
 More proud indeed than when I stand or climb 
 
 Elsewhere : — there is no statue so sublime 
 
 As Love's in all the world, and e'en to kiss 
 
 The pedestal is still a better bliss 
 
 Than all ambitions. ! Love's lowest base 
 
 Is far above the reaching of disgi-ace 
 
 To shame this posture. Let me then draw nigh 
 
 Feet that have fared so nearly to the sky, 
 
 And when this duteous homage has been given 
 
 I will rise up and clasp the heart in Heaven.
 
 1824. 
 
 [For this year I have been unable to trace clearly mnch of my father s 
 wi-iting. "The Forsaken," however, which is noted in the common- 
 place book as "for head of Msideline," I imagine, from its date, must 
 have appeared in some annual about this time, as also the song following 
 it, which is marked "for Ackermann's." I have reason to believe 
 that the next song, * * Lady, leave thy silken thread, " sent to the 
 "Times" by the late Mr. Shoberl, with a letter which I give beloAV,* 
 should be assigned to this date.] 
 
 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 ? 
 
 * "the late THOMAS HOOD. 
 
 "The author of the following very beautiful song was the late 
 Thomas Hood, who published it with a nom de guerre, when he was not 
 known to literature. I have reason to believe that many exquisite produc- 
 tions by this highly-gifted writer must be lying, like wild-flowers, scattered 
 and unnoticed, which I fear it is impossible now to gather into his wreath. 
 That it may not prove so, and that in an edition of his collected works will 
 be preserved all his anonymous and graceful snatches, is the wish of 
 
 "May 19, 1845. " Frkderick Shobkrl, Juu."
 
 120 SONG. 
 
 My Mother rests beneath the sod, — 
 Her rest is calm and very deep : 
 I wish'd that she could see our loves, — 
 But now I gladden in her sleep. 
 
 Last night unbound my raven locks, 
 The morning saw them tm-n'd to grey, 
 Once they were black and well beloved, 
 But thou art changed, — and so are they 1 
 
 The useless lock I gave thee once, 
 
 To gaze upon and think of me, 
 
 Was ta'en with smiles, — but this was torn 
 
 In soiTOw that I send to thee I 
 
 SONG. 
 
 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 eai'th 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.
 
 SONG. 121 
 
 The sun may set, but constant lovo 
 Will shine when he's away ; 
 
 So that dull night is never night, 
 And day is brighter day. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Lady, leave thy silken thread 
 
 And flowery tapestrie : 
 There's living roses on the bush. 
 
 And blossoms on the tree ; 
 Stoop where thou wilt, thy careless hand 
 
 Some random bud will meet ; 
 Thou canst not tread, but thou wdlt find 
 
 The daisy at thy feet. 
 
 'Tis like the birthday of the world, 
 
 When earth was born in bloom ; 
 The light is made of many dyes. 
 
 The air is all perfume ; 
 There's crimson buds, and white and blue — 
 
 The very rainbow showers 
 Have turn'd to blossoms where they fell, 
 
 And sown the earth with floweiu 
 
 There's fairy tulips in the east, 
 
 The garden of the sun ; 
 The very streams reflect the hues, 
 
 And blossom as they run :
 
 122 BIRTHDAY VERSES. 
 
 While Morn opes like a crimson rose, 
 Still wet with pearly showers ; 
 
 Then, lady, leave the silken thread 
 Thou twinest into flowers ! 
 
 [Of the "Birthday Verses"— "I love Thee" — "Lines" — and the 
 sonnet * ' to Wordsworth " I have not been able to discover the first 
 puhhcation. For want ot better indications of their date, I have been 
 led to attribute them to this period, from the appearance of the paper 
 on which they are transcribed, and the style of the hand in which they 
 are written.] 
 
 BIRTHDAY VERSES. 
 
 Good morrow to the golden morning, 
 Good morrow to the world's delight — • 
 
 I've come to bless thy life's beginning. 
 Since it makes my own so bright ! 
 
 I have brought no roses, sweetest, 
 I could find no flowers, dear, — 
 
 It was when all sweets were over 
 Thou wert born to bless the year.* 
 
 But I've brought thee jewels, dearest, 
 In thy bonny locks to shine, — 
 
 And if love shows in their glances. 
 They have learn'd that look of mine ! 
 
 ■* My mother's birthday was the 6th November.
 
 123 
 
 I LOVE THEE. 
 
 I LOVE thee — I love thee ! 
 
 'Tis all that I can say ; — 
 It is my vision in the night, 
 
 My dreaming in the day ; 
 The very echo of my heart, 
 
 The blessing when I pray : 
 I love thee — I love thee ! 
 
 Is all that I can say. 
 
 I love thee — I love thee ! 
 
 Is ever on my tongue ; 
 In aU my proudest poesy 
 
 That chorus still is sung ; 
 It is the verdict of my eyes, 
 
 Amidst the gay and young : 
 I love thee — I love thee ! 
 
 A thousand maids among. 
 
 I love thee — I love thee ! 
 
 Thy bright and hazel glance, 
 The mellow lute upon those lips. 
 
 Whose tender tones entrance ; 
 Biit most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs 
 
 That still these words enhance, 
 I love thee — I love thee ! 
 
 Whatever be thy chance.
 
 124 
 
 LINES. 
 
 Let us make a leap, my dear, 
 In our love, of many a year, 
 And date it very far away, 
 On a bright clear summer day, 
 When the heart was like a sun 
 To itself, and falsehood none ; 
 And the rosy lips a part 
 Of the very loving heart, 
 And the shining of the eye 
 But a sign to know it by ; — 
 When my faults were all forgiven, 
 And my life desei-ved of Heaven. 
 Dearest, let us reckon so, 
 And love for all that long ago ; 
 Each absence count a year complete, 
 And keep a bh'thday when we meet. 
 
 FALSE POETS AND TRUE. 
 
 TO WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Look how the lark soars upward and is gone, 
 Turning a spirit as he nears the sky ! 
 His voice is heard, but body there is none ""' 
 To fix the vague excursions of the eye. 
 
 These lines are repeated in the fourth verse of " Hero and Leander.
 
 FALSE POETS AND TRUE. 125 
 
 So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die 
 
 Obscured, and hid by death's obUvious shroud, 
 
 And Earth inherits the rich melody 
 
 Like raining music from the morning cloud. 
 
 Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud 
 
 Their voices reach us through the lapse of space : 
 
 The noisy day is deafen' d by a crowd 
 
 Of undistinguish'd birds, a twittering race ; 
 
 But only lark and nightingale forlorn 
 
 Fill up the silences of night and morn. 
 
 [This unfinished fragment, and " Guido and Marina," which was pub- 
 lished in an annual after my father's death, appear to me to belong 
 to this period also.] 
 
 " Farewell — Farewell " — it is an awful word 
 When that the quick do speak it to the dead ; 
 For though 'tis brief upon the speaker's lips, 
 'Tis more than death can answer to, and hath 
 No living echo on the living ear. 
 
 'Tis awful to behold the midnight stars 
 
 They say do rule the destinies of men. 
 
 Gazing upon us from that point of space. 
 
 Where they were set even from their lustrous birth. 
 
 With a most sure foreknowledge of our doom 
 
 Watching its consummation.
 
 126 
 
 GUIDO AND MARINA. 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 [Guido, having giyen himself up to the pernicious study of magic and 
 astrology, casts his nativity, and resolves that at a certain hour of a certain 
 day he is to die. Marina, to wean him from this fatal delusion, which 
 hath gradually wasted him away, even to the verge of death, advances the 
 hour-hand of the clock. He is supposed to be seated beside her in the 
 garden of his palace at Venice.] 
 
 Guido. Clasp me again ! My soul is very sad ; 
 And hold thy lips in readiness near mine, 
 Lest I die suddenly. Clasp me again ! 
 'Tis such a gloomy day ! 
 
 Mar. Nay, sweet, it shines. 
 
 Guido. Nay, then, these mortal clouds are in mine eyes. 
 Clasp me again ! — ay, with thy fondest force. 
 Give me one last embrace. 
 
 Mar. Love, I do clasp thee ! 
 
 Guido. Then closer — closer — for I feel thee not ; 
 Unless thou art this pain around my heart. 
 Thy lips at such a time should never leave me. 
 
 Mar. What pain — what time, love ? Art thou ill ? Alas ! 
 I see it in thy cheek. Come, let me nurse thee. 
 Here, rest upon my heart. 
 
 Guido. Stay, stay, Marina. 
 
 Look ! — when I raise my hand against the sun, 
 Ts it red with blood ? 
 
 Mar. Alas ! my love, what wilt thou 1 
 
 Thy hand is red — and so is mine — all hands 
 Show thus against the sun. 
 
 Guido. All Uving men's.
 
 GCriDO AND MARINA. 127 
 
 Marina, but not mine. Hast never heard 
 How death first seizes on the feet and hands, 
 And thence goes freezing to the veiy heart ? 
 
 Mar. Yea, love, I know it ; but what then ? — the hand 
 I hold is glowing. 
 
 Guido. But my eyes ! — my eyes ! — 
 
 Look there, Marina — there is death's own sign. 
 I have seen a corpse. 
 
 E'en when its clay was cold, would still have seem'd 
 Alive, but for the eyes — such deadly eyes ! 
 So dull and dim ! Marina, look in mine ! 
 
 Mar. A.J, they are dull. No, no — not dull, but bright : 
 I see myself within them. Now, dear love. 
 Discard these horrid fears that make me weep. 
 
 Guido. Marina, Marina — where thy image lies. 
 There must be brightness — or perchance they glance 
 And glimmer like the lamp before it dies. 
 Oh, do not vex my soul with hopes impossible ! 
 My hours are ending. [Clock strikes. 
 
 Mar. Nay, they shall not ! Hark ! 
 
 The hour — four — five — hark ! — six ! — the very time ! 
 And, lo ! thou art alive ! My love — dear love — 
 Now cast this cruel phantasm from thy brain — 
 This wilful, wild delusion — cast it off" ! 
 The hour is come — and gone ! What ! not a word ! 
 What, not a smile, even, that thou livest for me ! 
 Come, laugh and clap your hands as I do — come. 
 Or kneel with me, and thank th' eternal God 
 For this blest passover ! Still sad ! still mute ! — 
 Oh, why art thou not glad, as I am glad. 
 That death forbears thee ? Nay, hath all my love 
 Been spent in vain, that thou art sick of life 1 
 
 Guido. Marina, I am no more attach'd to death
 
 128 GUIDO AND MARINA. 
 
 Than Fate hath doomed me. I am his elect. 
 That even now forestalls thy little light, 
 And steals with cold infringement on my breath : 
 Already he bedims my spiritual lamp, 
 Not yet his due — not yet — quite yet, though Time, 
 Perchance, to warn me, speaks before his wont : 
 Some minutes' space my blood has still to flow — 
 Some scanty breath is left me still to spend 
 In very bitter sighs. 
 
 Bat there's a point, true measured by my pulse, 
 Beyond or short of which it may not live 
 By one poor throb. !Marina, it is near. 
 Mar. Oh, God of heaven \ 
 
 Guido. Ay, it is very near. 
 
 Therefore, cling now to me, and say farewell 
 While I can answer it. Marina, speak ! 
 Why tear thine helpless hair ? it will not save 
 Thy heart from breaking, nor pluck out the thought 
 That stings thy brain. Oh, surely thou hast known 
 This truth too long to look so like Despair ? 
 
 Mar. 0, no, no, no ! — a hope — a little hope — 
 I had erewhile — but I have heard its knelL 
 Oh, would my life were measured out with thine — 
 All my years number' d — all my days, my hours, 
 My utmost minutes, all summ'd up with thine 1 
 Cruido. Marina — 
 
 Mar. Let me weep — no, let me kneel 
 
 To God — but rather thee — to spare this end 
 That is so wilful Oh, for pity's sake ! 
 Pluck back thy precious spirit from these clouds 
 That smother it with death. Oh ! turn from death, 
 And do not woo it with such dark resolve. 
 To make me widow' d.
 
 GUIDO AND MARINA. 129 
 
 Guido. I have lived my term. 
 
 Mar. No — not thy term — no ! not the natural tenn 
 Of one so young. Oh ! thou hast spent thy years 
 In sinful waste upon unholy — 
 
 Guido. Hush ! 
 
 Marina. 
 
 Mar. Nay, I must. Oh ! cursed lore, 
 That hath supplied this spell against thy life. 
 Unholy learning — devilish and dark — 
 Study ! 0, God ! 0, God ! — how can thy stars 
 Be bright with such black knowledge 1 Oh, that men 
 Should ask more light of them than guides their steps 
 At evening to love ! 
 
 Guido. Hush, hush, oh hush ! 
 
 Thy words have pain'd me in the midst of pain. 
 True, if I had not read, I should not die ; 
 For, if I had not read, I had not been. 
 All our acts of life are pre-ordain' d, 
 And each pre-acted, in our several spheres, 
 By ghostly duplicates. They sway our deeds 
 By their performance. What if mine hath been 
 To be a prophet and foreknow my doom ? 
 If I had closed my eyes, the thunder then 
 Had roar'd it in my ears ; my own mute brain 
 Had told it with a tongue. AVhat must be, must. 
 Therefore I knew when my full time would fall ; 
 And now — to save thy widowhood of tears — 
 To spare the very breaking of thy heart, 
 I may not gain even a brief hour's reprieve ! 
 What seest thou yonder 1 
 
 Mar. "Where 1 — a tree — the sun 
 
 Sinking behind a tree. 
 
 Guido. It is no tree, 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 Marina, but a shape — the awful shape 
 That comes to claim me. Seest thou not his shade 
 Darken before his steps 1 Ah me ! how cold 
 It comes against my feet ! Cold, icy cold ! 
 And blacker than a pall. 
 
 Mar. My love ! 
 
 Guido. Oh heaven 
 
 And earth, where are ye ? Marina — [Guroo dks. 
 
 Mar. I am here ! 
 
 What wilt thou ? dost thou speak ?—Methought I heard thee 
 Just whispering. He is dead 1 — God ! he's dead ! 
 
 [This and the followiDg poem (the "Ode to Clapham Academy") 
 appeared during this year in the "New Monthly "—which my father 
 subsequently edited, hut which at this time had only reached its tenth 
 volume.] 
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 --♦— 
 
 Immortal Imogen, crown' d 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 prison' d and long-twined 
 By 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, 
 Mock'd by its inverse shadow, dark and deep — 
 That seem'd a still intenser night to make. 
 Wherein the quiet waters sank to sleep, — 
 
 I
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 131 
 
 And, whatsoe'er was prison'd in that keep, 
 A monstrous Snake was warden : — round and round 
 In sable ringlets I beheld him creep. 
 Blackest amid black shadows, to the gi'ound, 
 Whilst his enormous head the topmost turret crown'd. 
 
 From whence he shot fierce light against the stars. 
 Making the pale moon paler with affright ; 
 And with his ruby eye out-thi'eaten'd Mars — 
 That blazed in the mid-heavens, hot and bright — 
 Nor slept, nor wink'd, but with a steadfast spite 
 Watch'd their wan looks and tremblings in the skies ; 
 And that he might not slumber in the night, 
 The curtain-lids were pluck'd from his large eyes. 
 So he might never drowse, but watch his secret prize. 
 
 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 bnd with gold upon its wing 
 Will perch upon the grate — the gentle bird 
 Is safe in leafy dell, and will not bring 
 Freedom's sweet key-note and commission-word 
 Learn'd of a fairy's Hps, for pity stiiT'd — 
 Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest ! 
 Watch'd by that cruel Snake and darkly heard.
 
 132 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 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 enthrall' d by the old Sin. 
 
 But there is none — no knight in panoply, 
 Nor Love, intrench'd 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 
 There lilies be — and fairer than all these, 
 A solitary Swan her 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.
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 133 
 
 And forth she paddles in the very noon 
 Of solemn midnight like an elfin thing, 
 Charm'd into being by the argent moon — 
 Whose silver light for love of her fair wing 
 Goes with her in the shade, still worshipping 
 Her dainty plumage : — all around her grew 
 A radiant 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, 
 Redeem'd from sleepy death, for beauty's sake. 
 By old ordainment : — silent as she lay, 
 Touch'd by a moonlight wand I saw her wake. 
 And cut her leafy slough, 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-born 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, 
 Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start 
 Turns her impatient head from side to side 
 In imiversal terrors — all too wide 
 To watch ; 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 ;
 
 134 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 Alas ! for what rai-e 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 crown' d 
 With prickly spears, and on his doubtful face 
 Gleam his imwearied 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-swelling, though she dies ! 
 
 She droops — she sinks — she leans upon the lake. 
 Fainting again into a lifeless flower ; 
 But soon the chilly springs anoint and wake 
 Her spirit from its death, and with new power 
 She sheds her stifled soitows 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 addi-est 
 To magic converse with the air, and bound 
 The many monster eyes, all slumber-di'own'd : —
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 135 
 
 So on the turret-top that watchful Snake 
 Pillows his giant head, and lists profound, 
 As if his wratliful spite would never wake, 
 Charm'd 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 efiormous tears into the lake immense. 
 
 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 wi'ong — 
 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, transfigm-ed, not entomb'd, 
 
 By magic spells. Alas ! who ever knew
 
 136 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 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-open'd 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 creatui'e, like the fair son of a king, 
 Draws to the lattice in his jewell'd 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 listens, the mysterious song, 
 Woven with timid particles of speech. 
 Twines into passionate words that grieve along 
 The melancholy notes, and softly teach 
 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.
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 137 
 
 "Ah ! Love, my hope is swooning in my heart, — '" 
 " Ay, sweet, my cage is strong and hung 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 ! — " 
 " 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 will come to thee and sing beneath. 
 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 numb'd to dulness by the fairy skill 
 Of that sweet music (all more wild and shrill 
 For intense fear) that charm' d him as he lay— ^ 
 Meanwhile the lover nerves his desperate will, 
 Held some short throbs by natural dismay, 
 Then down the serpent-track begins his darksome way. 
 
 Now dimly seen — now toiling out of sight. 
 Eclipsed and cover' d by the envious wall ;
 
 138 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 Now fair and spangled in the sudden light, 
 And cUnging with wide arms for fear of fall ; 
 Now dark and shelter' d by a kindly pall 
 Of dusky shadow from his wakeful foe ; 
 Slowly he winds adown — dimly and small, 
 Watch' d by the gentle Swan that sings below, 
 Her hope increasing, still, the larger he doth grow. 
 
 But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace 
 The mai'ble 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 spirit, 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 hush'd, the charm 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 }3lumy 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 !
 
 THE TWO SWAXS. 139 
 
 She di'ops 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 play'd 
 In tender flushes, still the baffled Snake 
 Circled them round continually, and bay'd 
 Hoarsely and loud, forbidden to invade 
 The sanctuary ring — his sable mail 
 Roll'd darkly through the flood, and writhed and made 
 A shining track over the waters pale, 
 Lash'd into boiling foam by his enormous tail. 
 
 And so they sail'd into the distance dim. 
 Into the very distance — small and white, 
 Like snowy blossoms of the spring that swim 
 Over the brooklets — foUow'd 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, 
 Lock'd in embrace of sweet unutterable joy ! 
 
 Then came the Morn, 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 ;
 
 140 ODE ON" A DISTANT PROSPECT 
 
 Wherewith that sable Serpent far away- 
 Fled, Hke a part of night — delicious sighs 
 From waking blossoms purified the day, 
 And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray. 
 
 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 little 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 tm-n'd om' table-beer ! 
 
 There I was birch' d ! there I was bred ! 
 There like a little Adam fed 
 
 From Learning's woeful tree ! 
 The weary tasks I used to con ! — 
 The hopeless leaves I wept upon ! — 
 
 Most fruitless leaves to me ! — 
 
 * No connexion with any other Ode.
 
 OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 141 
 
 The summon'd class ! — the awful bow ! — 
 I wonder who is master now 
 
 And wholesome anguish sheds ! 
 How many ushers now employs, 
 How many maids t6 see the boys 
 
 Have nothing in their heads ! 
 
 / 
 
 And Mrs. S * "• ■"• ?— Doth she abet 
 (Like Pallas in the parlour) yet 
 
 Some favour' d two or three, — 
 The little Crichtons of the horn-. 
 Her muffin-medals that devour. 
 
 And swill her prize — bohea ? 
 
 Ay, there's the playgi'ound ! there's the lime, 
 Beneath whose shade in summer's prime 
 
 So wildly I have read ! — 
 Who sits there 7iow, 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 1 
 
 Hal Baylis 1 blithe Carew 1 
 
 Alack ! they're gone — a thousand ways ! 
 And some are serving in " the Greys," 
 And some have perish'd young ! —
 
 142 ODE ON A DISTANT PEOSPECT 
 
 Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
 
 Hal Baylis drives the wane of Hfe ; 
 
 And blithe Carew — is hung ! 
 
 Grave Bowers teaches ABC 
 To savages at Owjiyee ; 
 
 Poor Chase is with the worms ! — 
 All, all are gone — the olden breed ! — 
 New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 
 
 " And push us from our forms ! " 
 
 Lo 1 where they scramble forth, and shout, 
 And leap, and skip, and mob about, 
 
 At play where we have play'd ! 
 Some hop, some run, (some fall,) some twine 
 Their crony arms ; some in the shine, — 
 
 And some are in the shade ! 
 
 Lo there what mix'd conditions run ! 
 The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; 
 
 And Fortune's favour' d care — 
 The wealthy-born, for whom she hath 
 Mac-Adamised the future path — 
 
 The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 
 
 Some brightly starr'd — some evil bom, — 
 For honour some, and some for scorn, — 
 
 For fair or foul rfenown ! 
 Good, bad, indifFrent — none may lack ! 
 Look, here's a White, and there's a Black ! 
 
 And there's a Creole brown !
 
 OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 143 
 
 Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
 And wish their ' frugal sires would keep 
 
 Their only sons at home ; ' — 
 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 at fives ! and five who stoop 
 
 The marble taw to speed ! 
 And one that curvets in and out, 
 Reining his fellow Cob about,. — 
 
 Would I were in his stead! 
 
 Yet he would gladly halt and drop 
 That boyish harness off, to swop 
 
 With this world's heavy van — 
 To toil, to tug. 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 regal dow^n ! 
 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 1 Dost think thy sire 
 More happy than his son ?
 
 144 ODE O'S A PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 
 
 That manhood's mirth ? — Oh, go thy ways 
 To Drury-laiie when — — — "^ plays, 
 And see how forced our fun ! 
 
 Thy taws are brave ! — thy tops are rare ! — 
 Our tops are spun with coils of care, 
 
 Our dumps are no dehght ! — 
 The Elgin marbles are but tame. 
 And 'tis at best a sorry game 
 
 To fly the Muse's kite ! 
 
 Oui' 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 hreaking-up ! 
 
 * This blank exists in the original.
 
 1825. 
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES, AND ANNUALS. 
 
 [This year, in conjunction with John Hamilton RejTiolds, my father 
 published anonymously a volume of " Odes and Addresses to Great 
 People." It would, I think, be impossible to separate the respective 
 Odes — I am nearly sure that "Maria Darlington," "Dymoke," 
 " Elliston," and perhaps "Dr. Ireland," were addressed by Reynolds. 
 The little volume reached a second, and shortly after a third edition — 
 each being ushered in by a few words in the shape of a jpreface.] 
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 
 
 ' * Catching all the oddities, the whimsies, the absurdities, and the 
 littleness of conscious greatness by the way." — Citizen of the World. 
 
 ADDRESS. 
 
 The present being the first appearance of this little Work, 
 some sort of Address seems to be called for from the Author, 
 Editor, and Compiler, — and we come forward in prose, totally 
 overcome, like a flurried manager in his every-day clothes, 
 to solicit public indulgence — protest an indelible feeling of 
 reverence — bow, beseech, promise, — and " all that." 
 
 To the persons addressed in the Poems nothing need be 
 said, as it would be only swelling the book, (a custom which 
 we detest,) to recapitulate in prose w^hat we have said in 
 verse. To those unaddressed an apology is due ; — and to 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 
 
 them it is very respectfully offered. Mr. Hunt, for his 
 Permanent Ink, deserves to have his name recorded in his 
 own composition — Mr. Colman, the amiable King's Jester, 
 and Oath-blaster of the modern Stage, merits a line — Mr. 
 Accum, whose fame is potted — Mr. Bridgman, the maker of 
 Patent Safety Coffins — Mr. Kean, the great Lustre of the 
 Boxes — Sir Humphry Davy, the great Lamplighter of the 
 Pits — Sir William Congreve, one of the proprietors of the 
 Portsmouth Rocket — yea, several others call for the Muse's 
 approbation ; — but our little Volume, like the Adelphi 
 House, is easily filled, and those who are disappointed of 
 places are requested to wait until the next performance. 
 
 Having said these few words to the uninitiated, we leave 
 our Odes and Addresses, like Gentlemen of the Green Isle, to 
 hunt their own fortunes ; — and, by a modest assurance, to 
 make their way to the hearts of those to whom they have 
 addressed themselves. 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 A Second Edition being called for, the Author takes the 
 opportunity of expressing his 'gi'ateful thanks to his Readers 
 and Reviewers, for the kind way in which they have gene- 
 rally received his little Book. Many of those who have been 
 he-Oded in the following pages have taken the verse-offerings 
 in good part 3 and the Author has been given to understand 
 that certain "Great People," who have been kept "out of 
 situations," have, like Bob Acres, looked upon themselves as 
 very ill-used Gentlemen. It is rather hard that there should 
 not be room for all the Great ; — but this little conveyance, — 
 a sort of light coach to Fame, — ^like other conveyances, while 
 it has only four in, labours under the disadvantage of having 
 
 J
 
 ODES AXD ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 147 
 
 twelve out. The Proprietor apprehends he must meet' the 
 wants of the Pubhc by starting an extra coach : in which 
 case Mr. Colman (an anxious Licenser) and Mr. Hunt (the 
 best maker of speeches and blacking in the City and Liberty 
 of Westminster) shall certainly be hooked for places. To the 
 latter Gentleman, the Author gratefully acknowledges the 
 compliment of a bottle of his permanent ink : it will be, 
 indeed, pleasant to write an Address to Mr. Wilberforce in 
 the liquid of a beautiful jet Black, which the Author now 
 meditates doing. Odes, written in permanent ink, will 
 doubtless stand a chance of running a good race with 
 Gray's ! 
 
 A few objections have been made to the present Volume, 
 which the Author regrets he cannot attend to, without 
 serious damage to the whole production. The Address to 
 Maria Darlington is said by several ingenious and judicious 
 persons to be riamby-pamhy. — This is a sad disappointment to 
 the Writer, as he was in hopes he had accomplished a bit of 
 the right Shenstonian. The verses to the Champion of 
 England are declared irreverent, — and those to Dr. Ireland, 
 and his Partners in the Stone Trade, are held out as an 
 improper interference with sacred things ; these Addi-esses 
 are certainly calumniated : the one was really written as an 
 affectionate inquiiy after a gi'eat and reverend Warrior, now 
 in rural retirement ; and the other was intended as a kindly 
 advertisement of an exhibition, which, although cheaper than 
 the Tower, and nearly as cheap as Mrs. Salmon's Wax-work, 
 the modesty of the Proprietors will not permit them suffi- 
 ciently to puff. 
 
 To the univei-sal objection, — that the Book is overrun with 
 puns, — the Author can only say, he has searched every page 
 without being able to detect a thing of the kind. He can 
 only promise, therefore, that if any respectable Reviewer will 
 
 l2
 
 148 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 
 
 point the vermin out, they shall be carefully trapped and 
 thankfully destroyed. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 From the kindness with which this little volume has been 
 received, the Authors have determined upon presenting to 
 the Public " more last Baxterish words ; " and the Reader 
 will be pleased therefore to consider this rather as a Preface 
 or Advertisement to the volume to come, than a third Address 
 in prose, explanatory or recommendatory of the present 
 portion of the Work. It is against etiquette to introduce 
 one gentleman to another thrice ; and it must be confessed, 
 that if these few sentences were to be billeted upon the first 
 volume, the Public might overlook the Odes, but would have 
 great reason to complain of the Addi-esses. 
 
 So many Great Men stand over, like the coiTCspondents to 
 a periodical, that they must be "continued in our next." 
 These are certainly bad times for paying debts ; but all 
 persons having any claims upon the Authors, may rest 
 assured that they w^ill ultimately be paid in full. 
 
 No material alterations have been made in this third 
 Edition, — with the exception of the introduction of a few new 
 commas, which the lovers of punctuation will immediately 
 detect and duly appreciate ; — and the omission of the three 
 puns,* which, in the opinion of all friends and reviewers, were 
 detrimental to the correct humour of the publication. 
 
 * I have read, and had the two editions read repeatedly, but have failed 
 to detect any of these omissions, unless one of thein is the elision of the 
 word " washing" in Bridget Jones's letter, as pointed out in a note there.
 
 149 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM, 
 
 THE AERONAUT. 
 
 ** Up with me ! — up with me into the sky ! " 
 
 Wordsworth — 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 upcmTd 
 Hath borne me from this little world, 
 
 And all that in it lies ! — 
 
 Away ! — away ! — the bubble fills — 
 Farewell 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 behind !■— 
 
 Ah me ! my brain begins to swim ! — 
 The world is growing rather dim ; 
 
 The steeples and the trees — 
 My wife is getting very small ! 
 I cannot see my babe at all ! — 
 
 The Dollond, if you please ! —
 
 150 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, 
 Lord ! what a Lilliput it is. 
 
 That little world of Mogg's I — 
 Are those the London Docks 1 — that channel. 
 The mighty Thames 1 — a proper kennel 
 
 For that small Isle of Dogs ! — 
 
 What is that seeming tea-urn there 1 
 That fairy dome, St. Paul's ! — I swear. 
 
 Wren must have been a Wren ! — 
 And that small stripe ? — it 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 1 
 Look, Graham, for a little stone 
 
 Mac Adamized to dust ! 
 
 Look at the horses ! — less than flies ! — 
 Oh, what a w^aste 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. 151 
 
 Oh ! Graham, how the upper air 
 Alters the standards of compare ; 
 
 One of om* silken flags 
 Would cover London all about— 
 Nay then — let's even empty out 
 
 Another brace of bags I 
 
 Now for a glass of bright champagne 
 Above the clouds ! — Come, let us drain 
 
 A bumper as we go ! — - 
 But hold ! — for God's sake do not cant 
 The cork away — unless you 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 httle 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.
 
 152 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM, 
 
 " The world recedes ! — it disappears ! 
 Heav'n opens on my eyes — my ears 
 
 With buzzing noises ring ! " — 
 A fig for Southey's Laureat lore ! — 
 What's Rogers here ? — Who cares for Moore 
 
 That hears the Angels sing ! — 
 
 A fig for earth, and all its minions ! — 
 We are above the world's opinions, 
 
 Graham ! we'll have our own ! — 
 Look what a vantage height we've got ! — 
 Now do you think Sir Walter Scott 
 
 Is such a Great Unknown 1 
 
 Speak up, — or hath he hid his name 
 
 To crawl through "subways" unto fame, . 
 
 Like Williams of CornhiU ?— 
 Speak up, my lad ! — when men nm small 
 We'U show what's little in them all, 
 
 Receive it how they will I — 
 
 Think now of Irving ! — shall he preach 
 The princes down, — shall he impeach 
 
 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 Gifibrd such a Gulliver 
 
 In Lilliput's Review, 
 That like Colossus he should stride 
 Certain small brazen inches wide 
 
 For poets to pass through %
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 153 
 
 Look down ! the world is but a spot. 
 Now say — Is Blackwood's low or not, 
 
 For all the Scottish tone ? 
 It shaU not weigh us here — not where 
 The sandy burden's lost in air — 
 
 Our lading — where is't flown ? 
 
 Now, — like you Croly's verse indeed — 
 In heaven — where one cannot read 
 
 The "Warren" on a wall? 
 What think you here of that man's fame ? 
 Though Jerdan magnified his name, 
 
 To me 'tis very small ! 
 
 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 couch' d 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. 
 
 Graham, Graham, how I blame 
 The bastard blush, — the petty shame. 
 
 That used to fret me quite, — 
 The little sores I cover'd then. 
 No sores on earth, nor sorrows when 
 
 The world is out of sisrht !
 
 154 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 My name is Tims. — I am the man 
 That North's unseen diminish'd clan 
 
 So scm-vily abused ! 
 I am the very P. A. Z. 
 The London's Lion's small pin's head 
 
 So often hath refused ! 
 
 Campbell — (you cannot see him here) — 
 Hath scora'd my lays : — do his appear 
 
 Such gi-eat eggs from the sky ? — 
 And Longman, and his lengthy Co. 
 Long only in a little Eow, 
 
 Have thrust my poems by ! 
 
 What else ? — I'm poor, and much beset 
 With damn'd 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 ! 
 
 What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man ! 
 Nay, worlds of wealth ? — Oh, if you can 
 
 Spy out, — the Golden Ball ! 
 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-rent of the globe 1 — 
 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 !
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 155 
 
 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 ! 
 Like Birds of Paradise the clouds 
 
 Are winging on the wind ! 
 But what is grander than their range 1 
 More lovely than their sun-set change '? — 
 
 The free creative mind I 
 
 Well ! the Adults' School 's in the air ! 
 The greatest men ai'e lesson' d there 
 
 As well as the Lessee ! 
 Oh could Earth's EUistons 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," 
 
 'Twould 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 ! 
 
 Of us ! are we gone out of sight 1 
 Lessen'd ! diminish'd ! vanish'd quite ! 
 
 Lost to the tiny town ! 
 Beyond the Eagle's ken — the grope 
 Of Dollond's longest telescope ! 
 
 Graham ! we're going down !
 
 156 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 
 
 Ah me ! I've touch'd a string that opes 
 The auy 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 bm-nt 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 1 
 
 I've smoked my last cigar ! 
 
 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. • 
 
 — -f— 
 ** 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,-
 
 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 157 
 
 To thee, — how much for thy commodious plan, 
 Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing ! 
 The Bristol mail 
 Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd 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 scatter'st 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 James, 
 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.
 
 158 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM, 
 
 Thou stood' st thy trial, Mac ! and shaved the road 
 From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode 
 So well, that paviors threw their rammers by, 
 Let down their tuck'd 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. 
 
 To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily ; — 
 Thou hast smooth' d, alas, the path to the Old Bailey ! 
 And to the stony bowers 
 Of Newgate, to encourage the approach. 
 By caravan or coach, — 
 Hast strew' d 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 unconquer'd fame ! 
 Where'er we take, even at this time, om- 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 /oZZo2(;'cZ, Mac ! thy j)lan : — 
 For he, we know, 
 (History says so,) 
 Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak
 
 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 159 
 
 • 
 
 The smoothest Greek ! 
 
 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 winged 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^aters which can wet a man to sing ! 
 
 Which, like thy fame, " from granite basins burst, 
 
 Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst 1 " 
 
 That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might 
 Vouchsafe ; — and Mr. Cadell may, God wot, 
 Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot, — 
 Cadell's a w^ayward 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 to"wn, — 
 And publish' d, 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," —
 
 160 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 
 
 (Blair is a Scottish name,) 
 Wliat are they, but thy own good roads, M*Adam ? 
 
 ! indefatigable labourer 
 In the paths of men ! when thou shalt 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, — 
 Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise ! 
 But he, our great Mac Parent, err'd, 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 redeem' d 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 evil ways, 
 Reborn in Scotland, should be first to mend 'em !
 
 161 
 
 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY, 
 IN NEWGATE. 
 
 " Sermons in stones." — ^5 you like It. 
 " Out ! out ! damned spot ! " — Macbeth. 
 
 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 works — of course you buy of Barton, 
 
 Beside the young /ry's bookseller. 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 fruit-^ 
 Protestant nuns ! I like their stiff support 
 Of virtue — and I like to see them clad 
 With such a difi'erence — 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 ! 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO 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 sadden'd down to tea-green, or 
 
 Olive — and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess ; 
 
 And yellow is a convict by its dress ! 
 
 They're all the devil's liveries, 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 Pittite hues will sadden there. 
 
 Whereas the Foxite 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 — 
 Broivn studies scripture, and bids woman 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 1
 
 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. lo3 
 
 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 " qiiarters ? 
 
 Your classes may increase, but I must grieve 
 
 Over your pupils at their bread-and-waters ! 
 
 Oh, tho' it cost you rent — (and rooms run high !) 
 
 Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 save the vulgar soul before it's spoil'd ! 
 Set up your mounted sign without the gate — 
 And there inform the mind before 'tis soil'd ! 
 'Tis sorry writing on a greasy slate ! 
 Nay, if you would not have your labours foil'd, 
 Take it inclining tow'rds a virtuous state. 
 Not prostrate and laid flat — else, woman meek ! 
 The upright pencil will but hop and shriek ! 
 
 Ah, who can tell how 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 Tawdry's habits to deprive her ; 
 
 To tame the wild- fowl-ways of Jenny Diver !
 
 164 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 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, thro' 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 — 
 
 It is too late for scouring to begin 
 
 When virtue's raveU'd 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 Mistress 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-brimm'd eye ; 
 
 I like your carriage, and your silken grey. 
 
 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. 
 0, come abroad into the wholesome air, 
 And take your moral place, before Sin seats
 
 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 155 
 
 Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. 
 Suppose some morals raw ! the true receipt's 
 To di-ess them in tlie pan, but do not try 
 To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 Put on your decent bonnet, and come out ! 
 Good lack ! the ancients did not set up schools 
 In jail — but at the Porch ! hinting, no doubt. 
 That Vice should have a lesson in the rules 
 Before 'twas whipt by law. — 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 BarrjTiiore, 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 dninken dollar ; 
 Teach her that " flooring Charleys " is a game 
 Unworthy one that bears a Christian name. 
 
 come and teach our children — that ar'n'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 youth together — meanwhile Newgate low'rs 
 Ev'n like a black cloud at the close of day, 
 To shut them out from any more blue sky : 
 Think of these hopeless wretches, Mrs. Fry !
 
 166 ODE TO RICHAKD MARTIX, ESQ., M.P. 
 
 You are not nice — go into their retreats, 
 And make them Quakers, if jou will. — 'Twere best 
 They wore straight collars, and their shirts sans 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 clieqiie to Vice ! 
 
 In brief, — Oh teach the child its moral rote, 
 Not in the way from which 'twill not depart, — 
 But out — out — out ! Oh, bid it walk remote ! 
 And if the skies are closed against the smart, 
 Ev'n let him wear the single-breasted coat, 
 For that ensureth singleness of heart, — 
 Do what you will, his every want supply, 
 Keep him — but out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., 
 
 M.P. FOR GALWAY. 
 
 'Martin in this has proved himself a very good man ! " — Bojciana. 
 
 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 !
 
 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., M.T. 1G: 
 
 Thou Wilberforce of hacks ! 
 
 Of whites as well as blacks, 
 
 Pyebald and dapple gray, 
 
 Chesnut and bay — 
 
 No poet's eulogy thy name adorns ! 
 
 But oxen, from the fens, 
 
 Sheep — in their pens, 
 Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns ! 
 Thou art sung on brutal pipes ! 
 
 Drovers may 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 Jarvj'- thou hast summon' d oft, 
 Enforcing mercy on the coai-se Yahoo, 
 That thought his horse the courser of the two — 
 
 Whilst Swift smiled down aloft ! — 
 worthy pair ! for this, when he inhabit 
 Bodies of birds — (if so the spirit shifts 
 From flesh to feather) — when the clown uplifts 
 His hand against the sparrow's nest, to grab it, — 
 He shall not harm the Martins and the SivifU ! 
 
 Ah ! when Dean Swift was quich, how he enhancec! 
 The horse ! — and humbled biped man like Plato !
 
 1G8 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., M.P. 
 
 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 Southej 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 wanton rowelling and whip's abuse — 
 Look at the ancients' Muse ! 
 Look at their Carmen ! 
 
 0, 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 pick'd for victual. 
 Or some man painted in a bloody vein — 
 Gods ! is there no Horse-spital ! 
 That such raw shows must sicken the humane ! 
 Sure Mr. Whittle 
 Loves thee but little. 
 To let that poor horse linger in his p«?ie / 
 
 build a Brookes's Theatre for horees ! 
 wipe away the national reproach — 
 
 And find a decent Vulture for their corses 1 
 And in thy funeral track 
 Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach ! 
 
 Steeds that confess " the luxury of wo ! "
 
 ODE TO THE GEEAT UNKNOWN. ICD 
 
 True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, 
 
 And many a wi'etched hack 
 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 ! 
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 "0 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 hand-writing on a waU —
 
 170 ODE TO THE GREAT U^KIN^OWN. 
 
 A popular nonentity, 
 Still call'd 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 which. 
 
 Nobody — in a niche ; 
 
 Every one's hoax ! 
 
 Maybe Sir Walter Scott — 
 Perhaps not ! 
 V/hy dost thou so conceal, and puzzle curious folks '? 
 
 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 talisman ! 
 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 
 Another strange state captive in the north, 
 
 Constable-guarded in an iron mask —
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 171 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 th3^self so truly to thyself, 
 
 Thou Zimmerman made practical I 
 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, — 
 The whole world's literary Absentee ! 
 
 Ah ! wherefore hast thou fled, 
 Thou learned Nemo — wise to a degi-ee. 
 
 Anonymous L. L. 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 1 
 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 !
 
 172 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 I hope thou hast an ahbi well plann'd, 
 An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand. 
 
 Tho' thou hast newlj turn'd thy private holt 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 born 
 To be Unknown. — Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, 
 At Captain Coram' s charitable wicket, 
 
 Pinn'd 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 Waverly — first of thy breeding ; 
 
 I like 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 gauntlets' ring — 
 Oh better far than all that anvil clang 
 
 It was to hear thee touch the famous string
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 173 
 
 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 Dick Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson 
 
 That slew the Ganger ; 
 And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major ; 
 And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, 
 
 That Scottish Witch of Endor, 
 That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, 
 To tell a great man's fortune — or to make it ! 
 
 I like thy Antiquaiy. 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 ! 
 
 I hke long-arm'd Rob Roy. — His very charms 
 Fashion'd 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 posthumous prosperity. 
 Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)
 
 17 i ODE TO THE GIIEAT UNKNOW:?^. 
 
 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 jRoi/ I " 
 
 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, 
 
 WTio can pass by 
 Xor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand 1 
 There be Old Bailey Jarvies on the stand ! 
 
 I like thy Landlord's Tales !— I like that Idol 
 Of love and Lammermoor — the blue-eyed maid 
 That led to church the mounted cavalcade, 
 
 And then puU'd up with such 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 nearest of Du crows ! 
 
 I like St. Leonard's Lily — drench' d with dew I 
 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 
 I like that girded chieftain of the ranters. 
 Beady to preach down heathens, or to gi^apple.
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 17.") 
 
 With one eye on his sword, 
 And one upon the Word, — 
 How lie would cram the Caledonian Chapel ! 
 I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dap])]e 
 His raven steed with blood of many a corse — 
 I like dear Mre. Headrigg, that unravels 
 
 Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse — 
 She is so like 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 unclaim'd dividends of fame, 
 Forego the smiles of literary houi'is — 
 Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise. 
 
 And all the Carse of Cowrie's, 
 When thou might' st have thy statue in Cromai-ty — 
 
 Or see thy image on Italian trays, 
 Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparte, 
 
 Be painted by the Titian of R.A.'s, 
 Or vie in sign-boards with the Royal Guelph ! 
 
 Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, 
 Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself 
 
 To other Englands with Australian roamei-s— - 
 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
 
 176 ODE TO THE GREAT U:NtKNOWN. 
 
 It is not to invite 
 
 The world's decision, for thy fame is tried, — 
 
 And thy fair deeds are scatter d far and wide. 
 Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon' d, — 
 
 From men in trencher caps to trencher scholai's 
 In crimson collars. 
 And learned Serjeants in the forty-second ! 
 Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon' d ? 
 Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, 
 Defying distance and its dim control ; 
 
 Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon'd worth 
 A brace of Miltons for capacious soul — 
 
 Perhaps studied in the whalers, further 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, 
 Envelop' d in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs ? 
 Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, 
 Some hopeless Imp, like Riquet with the Tuft, 
 Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff' d, 
 Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs ? 
 
 What in this masquing age 
 Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy ?
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. u: 
 
 What but the critic's page "? 
 Oue hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye ; 
 Another hath a wen, — he won't show where ; 
 
 A third has sandy hair, 
 A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, 
 Things for a vile reviewer to espy ! 
 Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose, — 
 
 Finally, this is dimpled. 
 Like a pale crumpet ftice, or that is pimpled, 
 Things for a monthl}^ critic to expose — 
 Nay, what is thy own case — that being small, 
 Thou choosest 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 vile literary caravan — 
 Shown for a shilling 
 Would be thy killing. 
 Think of Crachami'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 ! 
 
 since it was thy fortune to be bom 
 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
 
 178 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE. 
 
 Amuse and charm thy lonely hom's forlorn — 
 Still Scottish story daintily adorn, 
 
 Be still a shade — and when this age is fled, 
 When we poor sons and daughters of reality 
 
 Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, 
 And Time destroys our mottoes of moraUty — 
 The lithogTaphic 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 EXGLAXD. 
 
 * ' Arma Virumque cano ! " — Virgil. 
 
 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 1 — 
 
 Is your gauntlet ta'en up, which you lately flung down ? 
 
 Are you — who that day rode so mail'd 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 ? 
 
 What's become of the cup 1 Great tin-plate worker ! say ! 
 
 Cup and ball is a game which some peo^Dle deem fim ! 
 Oh ; three golden halls haven't lured you to play 
 
 Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one ?
 
 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE. 179 
 
 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 barndoor, and all ; — 
 
 You show to the parish that peace is your lot. 
 
 And plenty, — though absent from Westminster Hall ! 
 
 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 Knight, 
 Instead of your brow, put yom' beer in the casque ! 
 
 How delightful to sit by your beans and your peas, 
 With a goblet of gooseberry gallantly clutch' d, 
 
 And chat of the blood that had deluged the Pleas, 
 
 And drench' d the King's Bench, — if the glove had been 
 touch'd ! 
 
 If Sir Columbine Daniel, with knightly pretensions. 
 
 Had snatch'd your "best doe," — he'd have flooded the 
 floor ; — 
 Nor would even the best of his crafty inventions, 
 " Life Preservers," have floated him out of his gore ! 
 
 n2
 
 180 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE. 
 
 Oh, you and your horse ! what a couple was there ! 
 
 The man and his hacker, — to win a great fight ! 
 Though the trumpet was loud, — you'd an undisturb'd air ! 
 
 And the nag snufF'd 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 Tnail,- 
 
 Whether caution or courage inspired him that day, 
 For though he retreated, he never turn'd tail. 
 
 By my life, he's a wonderful charger ! — The best ! 
 
 Though not for a Parthian corps ! — yet for you ! — 
 Distinguish' d 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 tailpiece for Bewick ! — or piebald for Poole, 
 
 To bear him in safety from Elliston'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 you come to the Hummums to sleep, 
 May you lie " like a warrior taking his rest ! "
 
 181 
 
 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 tliou'st left the stage, 
 To toddle down the hill of life, 
 And taste the flannell'd ease of age, 
 Apart from pautomimic strife — 
 "Retired— [for Young would call it so] — 
 The world shut out " — in Pleasant Row ! 
 
 And hast thou really wash'd at last 
 
 From each white cheek the red half-moon ! 
 
 And all thy public Clownship cast. 
 
 To play the private Pantaloon 1 
 
 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, Heav'n 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.
 
 182 ODE TO JOSEPH GPJMALDI, SENIOR. 
 
 Or, damme ! namby pamby Pool, — 
 Or any other clown or fool ! 
 
 Go, Dibdin — all that bear the name. 
 Go Byeway 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 ! 
 
 Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made 
 His grey hairs scarce in private peace — 
 Had Waithman sought a rural shade — 
 Or 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 Ponder's End — 
 Or Lady Morgan taken leave 
 Of Letters — still I might not grieve ! 
 
 But, Joseph — everybody's Jo I — 
 
 Is gone — and grieve I will and must ! 
 
 As Hamlet did for Yorick, so 
 
 Will I for thee (though not yet dust), 
 
 And talk as he did when he miss'd 
 
 The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd ! 
 
 Ah, where is now thy rolling head ! 
 Thy winking, reehng, drunken eyes,
 
 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 183 
 
 (As old Catullus would have said,) 
 Thy oven-mouth, that swallow' d pies — 
 Enormous hunger — monstrous drowth ! — 
 Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth ! 
 
 Ah, where thy ears, so often cuffd ! — 
 Thy funny, flapping, filching hands ! — 
 Thy partridge body, always stuff' d 
 With waifs, and strays, and contrabands ! — 
 Thy foot — like Berkeley's Foote — 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 leap'd in lamplight air ! 
 Caper'd — and bounced — and strode away ! — 
 That years should tame the legs — alack ! 
 I've seen spring through an Almanack ! 
 
 But bounds will have their bound — the shocks 
 Of Time will cramp the nimblest toes ; 
 And those that frisk' d 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 mean 
 To moralize, though I am grown 
 Thus sad, — Thy going seem'd to beat 
 A muffled drum for Fun's retreat !
 
 184 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 
 
 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 Munden ! " 
 A third departure some insist on, — 
 Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston ! — 
 
 Nay, then, let Sleeping Beauty sleep 
 With ancient " Dozey " to the dregs — 
 Let Mother Goose wear moui-ning deep, 
 And put a hatchment o'er her eggs ! 
 Let Farley weep — for Magic's man 
 Is gone — his Christmas Caliban ! 
 
 Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain. 
 As though they walk'd behind thy bier, — 
 For since thou wilt not play again, 
 What matters, — if in heav'n 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 lamplight 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 ? 
 
 For who like thee could ever stride ! 
 Some dozen paces to the mile ! — 
 The motley, medley coach provide — 
 Or like Joe Frankenstein compile 
 
 * One of the old actors — still a performer (but in private) of Old Eapid. 
 — Note to original edition.
 
 TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ. IW/J 
 
 The vegetable man complete ! — 
 A proper Covent Garden feat ! 
 
 Oh, who hke thee could ever drink, 
 
 Or eat, — swill— swallow — bolt — and choke ! 
 
 Nod, weep, and hiccup — sneeze and wink ? — 
 
 Thy very yawn was quite a joke ! 
 
 Though Joseph, Junior, acts not ill, 
 
 " There's no Fool like the old Fool " still ! 
 
 Joseph, farewell ! dear funny Joe ! 
 We niet 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 not Boors ! 
 
 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 nm-se 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 !
 
 186 TO SYLVAK"US UKBAN", ESQ. 
 
 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 I — as Byron of his infant said, — 
 " Knowledge of objects " in thine eye to trace ; 
 
 To see the miid 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 ! " 
 
 Eich is thy page in soporific things, ^ — 
 Composing compositions, — ^lulling men, — 
 
 Faded oM 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, — hatch' d, — husbanded, — and wived,- 
 Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side ! 
 
 The sacred query, — the remote response, — • 
 The march of serious mind, extremely slow, — 
 
 The graver's cut at some right aged sconce, 
 Famous for nothing many years ago ! 
 
 B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write 
 
 " Comus," obscured beneath some Ludlow lid ;- 
 And C, next month, an answer doth indite, 
 
 Informing B. that Mr. Milton did !
 
 TO SYLVANUS UEBAI^, ESQ. 187 
 
 X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea, 
 
 Caught upon Martin Luther years agone ; — 
 
 And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee, 
 Long dead, that gather' d 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. 
 
 Go on, Sylvanus ! — Bear a w^ary eye. 
 
 The churches cannot yet be quite run out ! 
 
 Some parishes must yet have been pass'd 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 lively, though but seldom red. 
 
 Go on ! and thrive ! Demurest of odd fellows I 
 Bottling up dulness in an ancient binn ! 
 
 Still live ! still prose ! — continue still to tell us 
 
 Old truths ! no strangers, though we take them in !
 
 188 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING 
 COMPANY. 
 
 *' Archer. How many are there, Scrub ? 
 Scrub. Five-and-f'orty, sir." — Beaux 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 fu'm for the wholesale distilling of grime — 
 
 Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety — 
 
 That make washing public — and wash in society — 
 
 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 " simmers sang " so endear'd to the Scot — 
 
 If your hands may stand still, or your steam without 
 
 danger — 
 If your suds will not cool, and a mere simple stranger 
 Both to you and to washing, may put in a rub, — 
 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, 
 
 * Geysers : — the boiling springs in Iceland.
 
 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 189 
 
 But to droop like sad willows that lived b}'" a stream, 
 
 Which the sun has suck'd up iuto 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 grey, 
 
 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 billow so early, 
 
 Look'd 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 betray' d her — as though she had trod on her soap I 
 
 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 damp'd 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 revell'd in slop — 
 
 She that paddled in water, must walk upon sand, 
 
 And sigh for her deeps like a turtle on land ! 
 
 * Query, purhj ?— Printer's Devil.
 
 190 ADDEESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 LOj then, the poor laundress, all wTetched she stands, 
 Instead of a counterpane, wringing her hands ! 
 All haggard and pinch' d, 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, 
 Where once she watch' d heaven, fearing God and the rain— 
 Or gazed o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross' d. 
 Till the lines wander' d idle from pillar to post ! 
 Ah, where are the playful young pinners — ah, where 
 The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air — 
 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 pinn'd, 
 That blew into shape, and embodied the wind ! 
 There was white on the grass — there was white on the spray- 
 Her garden — it look'd like a garden of May ! 
 But now all is dark — not a shirt's on a shrub — 
 You've ruin'd her prospects in life, Mr. Scrub ! 
 You've ruin'd 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 dry ! 
 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 recal, with foul faces, the source of their want — 
 When she thinks of their poor little mouths 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 ciu*ses your bones, Mr. Scrub 1
 
 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASlimG COMPANY. 191 
 
 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 drowth and despair, 
 When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare — 
 When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl, 
 And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd 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 froth' d 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 — 
 
 LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE 
 
 FROM BRIDGET JONES TO THE XOBLEMEN 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 Alreddy without your new schools 
 For washing to sit L^p,— and push the Old Tubs from their 
 
 stools ! 
 But your just like the Raddicals, — for upsetting of the Sudds 
 When the world wagg'd well enufif-and Wommen wash'd 
 
 your old dirty duds,
 
 192 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steam 
 
 Tndins, that's Flat, — 
 But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and gentle- 
 
 manny for all that — 
 1 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 
 
 sum Smoak — 
 And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you 
 
 never had but Two 
 In my time to draw you About to Fairs — and hang you, you 
 
 know that's true ! 
 And for All your fine Perspectuses, — howsomever you be- 
 
 which 'em. 
 Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at 
 
 Mitchum, 
 Thof I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one 
 
 another to Do — 
 It ant as if a Bird'seye Hankicher can take a Birds-high 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 pinners and small things as lillywhit 
 
 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 — 
 But when Folks talks of washing, it ant for you too Speak, — 
 As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak ! 
 Thinks I, when I heard it — Well thear's a Pretty go ! 
 That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the 
 
 marks, and Huddling 'em up so !
 
 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 193 
 
 Till Their frends comes and owns them, like drownded 
 
 corpeses in a Vault, 
 But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel — and That ant you)- 
 
 Fault, 
 Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has Larn'd, — 
 For if it warnt for Washing, — and whare Bills is concarnd, 
 What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans Headi- 
 
 cation. 
 And Their Being maid Schollards of Sundays— fit for any 
 
 Cityation ? 
 
 Well, what I says is this— when every Kittle has its 
 
 spout, 
 Theirs no nead for Companys to puff steam 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 xShen-if 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 washing * 
 
 balls, — 
 But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bear Faced Scmbbs 
 As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steam 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 Worn men is to get Their Beau-He ! 
 They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose there 
 
 wiU be !) 
 
 * This word is omitted in the later edition. 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 
 
 And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for their 
 
 Goods, 
 When you and your Steam has ruined (G — d forgive mee) 
 
 their lively Hoods, 
 Poor Women as was born to Washing in their youth ! 
 And now must go and Lam 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 confind Folk 
 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. Chamber, and that's what we must ! 
 God nose you oght to have more Concern for our Sects, 
 When you nose you have suck'd 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 mob caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers 
 And prettily jear'd At, you great Horse God-meril things, ant 
 
 you now by your next door nayhbours — 
 Lawk, I thinks I see you with your Sleaves tuckt up 
 No more like Washing than is drownding of a Pupp — 
 And for all Your Fine Water Works going round and round 
 They'll scruntch 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 Providince, which your a doing, — nor not fit 
 
 It should.
 
 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 195 
 
 For man warnt maid for Wommens starvation, 
 
 Nor to do away Laundrisses as is Links of Creation — 
 
 And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hot- 
 
 tinpot 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) nyther 
 
 Bybills or Good Tracks, 
 Or youd no better than Taking the Close off one's Backs — 
 And let your neighbours Oxin an Asses alone, — 
 And every Thing thats hern, — and give every one their 
 
 Hone! 
 
 Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for 
 
 herself. 
 And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf. 
 But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen a-be 
 And pull off 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 Crismass cum — and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall, 
 Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare 
 Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good 
 
 in his Harm Chare — 
 Besides Miss-Matching Larned 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 along of Steem 
 Which warnt meand by Nater for any sich skeam — 
 But thats your Losses and youl have to make It Good, 
 And I cant say I'm sony, afore God, if you shoud, 
 
 o 2
 
 196 ODE TO CAPTAII^ PARRY. 
 
 For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways 
 Without taking ourn, — aye, and Moor to your Prayg/' 
 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 tlie North Pole I do challenge thee !" 
 
 Lovers Labour's Lost. 
 
 Parry, my man ! has thy brave leg 
 Yet struck its foot against the peg 
 
 On which the world is spun ? 
 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, 
 
 The follovang additional lines were inserted in the third edition : — 
 
 "You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Mack- Adam's 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 Watchemen, 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 Pm awares, 
 Or be Watermen now, (nut Water wommen) and roe people up and 
 
 down Huugerfjid stares."
 
 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 197 
 
 Or held at Icy Bay, 
 Hast thou still miss'd the proper track 
 For homeward Indian men that lack 
 
 A bracing by the way 1 
 
 Still hast thou wasted toil and trouble 
 On nothing but the North-Sea Bubble 
 
 Of geographic scholar ? 
 Or found new ways for ships to shape, 
 Instead of winding round the Cape, 
 
 A short cut through the collar ! 
 
 Hast found the way that sighs were sent to * 
 
 The Pole — though God knows whom they went to ! 
 
 That track reveal'd to Pope — 
 Or if the Arctic w^aters sally, 
 Or terminate in some blind alley, 
 
 A chiUy path to grope ? 
 
 Alas ! though Boss, in love with snows, 
 Has painted them couleur de rose, 
 
 It is a dismal doom. 
 As Claudio saith, to Winter thrice, 
 " In. regions of thick-ribbed 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. 
 
 Aud waft a sijih from Indus to the Pole."— J?^isa to Ahclard.
 
 198 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 Tide to sit. 
 And prate about the mundane spit, 
 
 And babble of Cook's track — 
 He'd roast the leather ofi" his toes. 
 Ere he would trudge through polar snows. 
 
 To plant a British Jack ! 
 
 Oh, not the proud licentious gi'eat, 
 That travel on a carpet skate. 
 
 Can value oils 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 thourt now — while I am writing- 
 Feeling a bear's wet giinder biting 
 
 About thy frozen spine ! 
 Or thou thyself art eating whale, 
 Oily, and underdone, and stale, 
 
 That, haply, cross'd thy line !
 
 ODE TO CAPTAIN PAKRY. 199 
 
 But I'll not dream such dreams of ill — 
 Rather will I believe thee still 
 
 Safe cellar' d in the snow, — 
 Reciting many a gallant story 
 Of British kings and British glory, 
 
 To crony Esquimaux — 
 
 Cheering that dismal game where Night 
 Makes one slow move from black to white 
 
 Through all the tedious year, — 
 Or smitten by some fond frost fair, 
 That comb'd out crj^stals from her hair. 
 
 Wooing a seal-skin dear ! 
 
 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 hair, an oily fleece ! 
 
 As though 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 furnish'd with a dozen furs, 
 
 Think of thine icy dome !
 
 200 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 Think of the children born to blubber ! 
 Ah me 1 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 I 
 Gallons of sperm — not rectified ! 
 
 And pails of water-ice ! 
 
 Oh, canst thou fast and then feast thus ? 
 Still come away, and teach to us 
 
 Those blessed alternations — 
 To-day, to run our dinners fine, 
 To feed on air and then to dine 
 
 With Civic <;!!orporations — 
 
 To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling. 
 And then to take a half-year's filling 
 
 In P. N.'s pious Row — 
 When ask'd to hock and haunch o' ven'son. 
 Through something w^e have worn our pens on 
 
 For Longman and his Co. 
 
 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]
 
 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 201 
 
 There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, 
 Have talk'd of poles — ^yet, after all, 
 
 What has the public learu'd 1 
 And Hunt's account must still defer, — 
 He sought the poll at Westminster — 
 
 And is not yet return d I 
 
 Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul. 
 
 Is play'd in snow towns near the Pole, 
 
 And how the fur-man deals 1 
 And Eldon doubts if it be true, 
 That icy Chancellors really do 
 
 Exist upon the seals ? 
 
 Barrow, by well-fed office-grates, 
 Talks of his own bechristen'd 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 mer I 
 
 come away, and set us right. 
 And, haply, throw a northern light 
 
 On questions such as these : — 
 Whether, when this drown'd world was lost, 
 The surfliix waves were lock'd in frost, 
 
 And turu'd to Icy Seas 1 
 
 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 pugilistic war I
 
 202 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 Tell us, is Winter champion there, 
 As in our milder fighting air ? 
 
 Say, what are Chilly loans ? 
 What cures they have for rheums beside, 
 And if their hearts get ossified 
 
 From eating bread of bones 1 
 
 Whether they are such dwarfs — the quicker 
 To circulate the vital liquor, — ^* 
 
 And then, from head to heel — 
 How short the Methodists must choose 
 Their dumpy envoys not to lose 
 
 Their toes in spite of zeal ? 
 
 Whether 'twill soften or sublime it 
 To preach of Hell in such a climate — 
 
 Whether may Wesley hope 
 To win their souls — or that old function 
 Of seals — with the extreme of unction — 
 
 Bespeaks them for the Pope ? 
 
 Whether the lamps will e'er be ^'leam'd " 
 Where six months' " midnight oil " is burn'd, 
 
 Or letters must defer 
 With people that have never conn'd 
 An A. B. C, but live beyond 
 
 The Sound of Lancaster ! 
 
 O come away at any rate — 
 Well hast thou earn'd a downier state, 
 With all thy hardy peers — 
 
 * Buffon.
 
 ODE TO E. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 203 
 
 Good lack, thou must be glad to smell dock, 
 And rub thy feet with opodeldoc, 
 After such frosty years. 
 
 Mayhap, some gentle dame at last, 
 Smit by the perils thou hast pass'd. 
 
 However coy before. 
 Shall bid thee now set up thy rest 
 In that Br^est Harbour, woman's breast. 
 
 And tempt the Fates no more ! 
 
 ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ., 
 
 THE GREAT LESSEE ! 
 
 *' Rover. Do you know, you villain, that I am this moment the greatest 
 man living ?" — Wild Oats. 
 
 Oh ! Great Lessee ! Great Manager ! Great Man ! 
 Oh, Lord High EUiston ! Immortal Pan 
 Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane ! 
 Macready's master ! Westminster's high Dane ! 
 (As Gal way Martin, in the House's walls, 
 Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls) 
 Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring ! 
 Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring ! 
 Drury's Aladdin ! Whipper-in of actors ! 
 Kicker of rebel preface-malefactors 1 
 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 reform'd of Ralces 1
 
 >4 ODE TO E. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 
 
 Oh, Lord High Elliston ! lend me an ear ! 
 (Poole is away, and Williams shall keep clear) 
 While I, in little slips of prose, not verse. 
 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 !* 
 
 But 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 ! 
 
 Though 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 enrich'd the subject stage. 
 
 Thou hadst, than other Kings, more peace -and-plenty ; 
 
 Ours but one Bench could boast, but thou hadst twenty ; 
 
 But the times chan2;ed — and Booth-actinoj 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. 
 Charles had his royal ribaldry restored. 
 And in a downright neighbourhood drank and whored ; 
 
 * Additional lines in third edition : — 
 
 "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 Euttrtainmeut not for Man but Horse."
 
 ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 205 
 
 Rochester there in dirty ways again 
 
 Revell'd — and Hved once more in Drury Lane : 
 
 But thou, R. W. ! kept thy moral ways, 
 
 Pit-lecturing 'tvvixt the farces and the plays, 
 
 A lamplight Irving to the butcher-boys 
 
 That soil'd the benches and that made a noise : — * 
 
 " 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 ! — 
 Crown'd was thy head in Drury Lane Theatre ! 
 Gentle George Robins saw that it was good, 
 And renters cluck' d around thee in a brood. 
 King thou w^ert 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 tm-nest from the Dead and Dun, 
 Hook's in thine eye, to w^rite thy plays, no doubt, 
 And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out ! 
 
 Oh, w^orthy of the house ! the King's commission ! 
 Isn't thy condition " a most bless'd 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 — 
 
 * Additional lines iu third edition : — 
 
 ''Rebuking— half a Robert, half a Charles, — 
 The well-biird man that call'd for promised Carles. 
 ' Sir- have you yet to know ! Hush — hear me out I 
 A man — pray silence —may be down with gout, 
 Or want — or, sir — aw !— listen ! — may be fated, 
 Being iu debt, to be incarcerated !' "
 
 206 ODE TO R. W. ELLISTOJ^, ESQ. 
 
 Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments, 
 
 Without the danger of newspaper comments — 
 
 Tellest Macreadj, 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 — * 
 
 Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot — and kiss'd 
 
 The pearly whiteness of a Stephen's wi'ist — 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Go on ! addi'essing pits in prose and worse ! 
 
 Be long, be slow, be anything but terse — 
 
 Kiss to the gallery the hand that's gloved — 
 
 Make Bunn the Great, and Winston the Beloved,t 
 
 * Additional lines in third edition : — 
 
 " (To prove, no doubt, the endless free-list ended, 
 And all, except the public press, suspended. ) " 
 
 t Additional lines in third edition : — 
 
 ** 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,
 
 ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 20/ 
 
 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 Elliston ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON 
 
 ON HER llETURN TO THE STAGE. 
 
 ' ' It was Maria ! — 
 
 And better fate did Maria deserve than to have her banns forbid — 
 She had, since that, she told me, strayed as far as Rome, and walked 
 round St. Peter's once — and returned back — ." 
 
 See the whole story in Sterne and the newspapers. 
 
 Thou art come back again to the stage 
 
 Quite as blooming as when thou didst leave it : 
 And 'tis well for this fortunate age 
 
 That thou didst not, by going off, grieve it ! 
 It is pleasant to see thee again — 
 
 Right pleasant to see thee, by Hercle, 
 Unmolested by pea-colom-'d Hayne ! 
 
 And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley ! 
 
 Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light 
 (Not my Foote — I speak by connection) 
 
 As the snow on some mountain at night. 
 
 Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone. 
 
 Warn from the benches all the rabble rout ; 
 Say ' those are mine — in parliament or out ! ' — 
 Swing cats, for in this house there's surely space, 
 Oh, Beasley for such pastime plann'd the place ! 
 Do anything ! — Thy frame, thy fortune, nourish ! 
 Laugh and grow fat ! be eloquent and flourish I "
 
 208 ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTOX. 
 
 The Pit is in raptures to free thee, 
 The Boxes impatient to greet thee, 
 
 The Galleries quite clam'rous to see thee. 
 And thy scenic relations to meet thee ! 
 
 Ah, where was thy sacred retreat 1 
 
 Maria ! ah, where hast thou been, 
 With thy two little wandering Feet, 
 
 Far away from all peace and pea-green ! 
 Far away from Fitzhardinge the bold, 
 
 Far away from himself and his lot ! 
 I envy the place thou hast stroll' d, 
 
 If a stroller thou art — which thou'rt not 
 
 Sterne met thee, poor wandering thing, 
 
 Methinks, at the close of the day — 
 When thy Billy had just slipp'd his string. 
 
 And thy little dog quite gone astray — 
 He bade thee to sorrow no more — 
 
 He wish'd thee to lull thy distress 
 In his bosom — he couldn't do more. 
 
 And a Christian could hardly do less !. 
 
 Ah, me ! for thy small plaintive pipe, 
 
 I fear we must look at thine eye — 
 That eye — forced so often to wipe 
 
 That the handkerchief never got dry !* 
 Oh sure 'tis a barbarous deed 
 
 To give pain to the feminine mind — 
 But the wooer that left thee to bleed 
 
 Was a creatiu-e more killing than kind ! 
 
 * In the third edition : — 
 
 ' ' I would it were my luck to wipe 
 That hazel orb thoroughly dry ! "
 
 ODE TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 209 
 
 The mail that could tread on a worm 
 
 Is a brute — and inhuman to boot ; 
 But he merits a much harsher term 
 
 That can wantonly tread on a Foote ! 
 Soft mercy and gentleness blend 
 
 To make up a Quaker — but he 
 That spurn' d thee could scarce be a Friend, 
 
 Though he dealt in that Thou-ing of thee ! 
 
 They that loved thee, Maria, have flown ! 
 
 The friends of the midsummei: hour I 
 But those friends now in anguish atone, 
 
 And mourn o'er thy desolate bow'r. 
 Friend Hayne, the Green Man, is quite out, 
 
 Yea, utterly out of his bias ; 
 And the faithful Fitzhardinge, no doubt, 
 
 Is counting his Ave Marias ! 
 
 Ah, where wast thou driven away, 
 
 To feast on thy desolate woe ? 
 We have witness' d thy weeping in play. 
 
 But none saw the earnest tears flow — 
 Perchance thou wert truly forlorn, — 
 
 Though none but the fairies could mark 
 Where they hung upon some Berkeley thorn, 
 
 Or the thistles in Biirderop Park ! 
 
 Ah, perhaps, when old age's white snow 
 Has silver'd the crown of Hayne's nob — 
 
 For even the greenest will grow 
 
 As hoary as "White-headed Bob — ^"
 
 210 ODE TO W. KITCHENEE, M.D. 
 
 He'll wish, in the days of his prime, 
 He had been rather kinder to one 
 
 He hath left to the malice of Time — 
 A woman — so weak and undone ! 
 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D., 
 
 AUTHOR OF "the COOK's OKACLE," "OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL 
 MUSIC," "the ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE," 
 "practical OBSERVATIONS ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND 
 SPECTACLES," " THE* HOUSEKEEPER'S LEDGER," AND "THE PLEA- 
 SURE OF MAKING A WILL." 
 
 " I rule the roast, as Milton says ! " — Caleb Quotem. 
 
 Hail ! multifarious man ! 
 Thou Wondrous, Admirable Kitchen Crichton ! 
 
 Born to enlighten 
 The laws of Optics, Peptics, Music, Cooking — 
 Master of the Piano — and the Pan — 
 As busy with the kitchen as the skies ! 
 
 Now looking 
 At some rich stew through Galileo's eyes, — 
 Or boiling eggs — timed to a metronome — 
 
 As much at home 
 In sj)ectacles 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 CaUiope from " Calipee ! " 
 
 How few there be 
 Could cleave the lowest for the highest stories, 
 
 (Observatories,)
 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENEE, M.D. 211 
 
 And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator. 
 However cooTcs synonymous with Kater * 1 
 
 Alas ! still let me say. 
 
 How few could lay 
 The carving knife beside the tuning fork, 
 Like the proverbial Jack 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 garnish'd 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 of 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 dr^wn out," 
 While all thy tame stuff^l leopards listen' d round I 
 
 Oh, rather thy whole proper 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 !) 
 Scanning our kitchen, and our vocal ranges. 
 As though it were the same to sing or fry — 
 
 * Captain Kater, the moon's surveyor.
 
 212 ODE TO ^Y. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 'Na.j, so it is — hear how Miss Paton's throat 
 
 Makes "fritters " of a note !* 
 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 — 
 Keceipts to be devour' d, as well as read, 
 The Culinary Art in gingerbread — 
 The Kitchen's Eaten Grammar ! 
 
 Oh, very pleasant is thy motley page — ■ 
 Aye, very pleasant in its chatty vein — 
 So — in a kitchen — would have talk'd Montaigne, 
 
 That merry Gascon — humourist, and sage ! 
 
 Let slender minds with single themes engage. 
 Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,t — 
 
 Or Lovelass upon Wills, — Thou goest on 
 
 Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson ! 
 Thy brain is iike a rich Kaleidoscope, 
 
 Stuffd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, 
 And ever shifting on from change to change, 
 
 ■•* Additional lines in third edition : — 
 
 *' And how Tom Cook (Fryer and Singer born 
 
 By name and nature) oh ! how night and morn 
 He for the nicest public taste duth dish up 
 The good things from that Pan of mu.iic— Bishop ! " 
 
 t Additional lines in third edition : — 
 
 "Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon, — or 
 Hume on — ' Twice three make foui.' '
 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENErx, M.D. 213 
 
 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 ai;t, of coiu'se, th' E^jitome of all 
 That spying — frying — singing — mix'd Society 
 Of Scientific Friends, who used to meet 
 Welsh Rabbits — and thyself — in Warren Street ! 
 
 Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni, 
 Where learned visitors discoursed — and fed 1 
 
 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 h?rd ! 
 There famed M'Adam from his manual toil 
 Relax'd — and freely own'd he took thy hints 
 
 On " making Broth with Flints'" — 
 There Parry came, and show'd thee polar oil 
 For melted butter — Combe with his medullary 
 
 Notions about the Skulleri/, 
 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 Del/— 
 There, once a month, came Campbell and discuss'd 
 His own — and thy own — " Magazine of Taste " — 
 
 There Wilberforce the Just 
 Came, in his old black suit, till once he traced
 
 214 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 Thy sly advice to Poachers of Black Folks, — 
 That " do not break their yolks,'"' — 
 Which hufF'd him home, in grave disgust and haste ! 
 
 There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore 
 Thy Patties — thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore, 
 Who call'd 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 ! " 
 There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry — 
 There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on 
 
 His sine Quay non, — 
 There ISIartin v/ould drop in on Monday eves. 
 Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breat! 
 
 'Gainst cattle days and death, — 
 Answer'd 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 Marshal Tureen ! " 
 
 Great was thy Evening Cluster ! — often graced 
 With Dollond — Burgess — and Sir Humphry Davy \ 
 Twas there M'Dermot first inclined to Taste, — 
 There Colburn learn'd the art of making paste 
 For pufts — 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 stalk'd with holy humour heated, 
 (Who wrote alight-horse play, which Yates completed)—
 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 215 
 
 And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, 
 And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, — 
 Madame Valbreqiie thrice honour'd thee, and came 
 With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle, — ^' 
 And even Irving spared a night from fame, 
 And talk'd — till thou didst stop him in the middle, 
 To serve round Tetvah-diddle ! t 
 
 Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye ! 
 
 So let them : — thou thyself art still a Host ! 
 Dibdin — Cornaro — Newton — Mi-s. Fry ! 
 Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec ! — Lovelass and Weber, 
 Mathews in Quot'em — Moore's fire-worshipping Gheber- 
 Thrice-worthy Worthy ! seem by thee engross'd ! 
 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 Doctor Darling ! 
 Look at the Civic Palate — nay, the Bed 
 
 Which set dear Mrs. Opie on supplying 
 " Illustrations of Lying ! " 
 Ninety square feet of down from heel to head 
 
 It measured, and I dread 
 Was haunted by a terrible night Mare, 
 A monstrous burthen on the corporation ! — 
 Look at the Bill of Fare for one day's share, 
 
 * Additional lines in third edition : — 
 
 "The Dibdins, — Tcm, Charles, Frognall, came with tuns 
 Of poor old books, old puns ! " 
 
 t The Doctor's composition for a nicjht-cap.
 
 !1G ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 Sea-turtles by the score — oxen by droves. 
 Geese, turkeys, by the flock — fishes and loaves 
 
 Countless, as when the Lilliputian 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 seems to rest ! — ) 
 x\nd what is thy reward 1 — Hath London given 
 Thee public thanks for thy important service t 
 
 Alas ! not even 
 The tokens it bestow'd 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 engross'd on vellum : — Reason urges 
 That he who rules our cookery — that he 
 Who edits soups and gravies, ought to be 
 A Citizen, w^here sauce can make a Burqess !
 
 217 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND 
 JOHN IRELAND, D.D., 
 
 Charles Fynes Clinton, LL.D. I Wm. Harry Ed. Bentinck, M.A. 
 
 Thomas Cadston, D.D. 
 
 HowEL Holland Edwards, M.A 
 
 Joseph Allen, M.A. 
 
 Lord Henry Fitzroy, M.A. 
 
 The Bishop op Exeter. 
 
 JaiMes Webber, B.D. 
 William Short, D.D. 
 James Touhnay, D.D. 
 Andrew Bell, D.D. 
 George Holcombe, D.D. 
 
 The Dean and Chapter of Westminster. 
 
 Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough. 
 
 Chlzen of the World. 
 
 Oh, veiy reverend Dean and Chapter, 
 
 Exhibitors of giant men, 
 Hail to each surphce-back'd 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. 
 
 Oh, reverend showmen, rank and file, 
 
 Call in your shillings, two and two ; 
 March with them up the middle aisle. 
 
 And cloister them from public view. 
 Yours surely are the dusty dead. 
 
 Gladly ye look from bust to bust, 
 And set a price on each great head. 
 
 And make it come down with the dust. 
 
 Oh, as I see you walk along 
 
 In ample sleeves and ample back.
 
 218 ADDRESS TO THE DEAI\^ AND 
 
 A pursy and well-order'd throng, 
 
 Thoroughly fed, thoroughly black ! 
 In vain I strive me to be dumb, — 
 
 You keep each bard like fatted kid, 
 Grind bones for bread like Fee-faw-fum ! 
 
 And drink from skulls as Byron did ! 
 
 The profitable Abbey is 
 
 A sacred 'Change for stony stock, 
 Not that a speculation 'tis — 
 
 The profit's founded on a rock. 
 Death and the Doctore in each nave 
 
 Bony investments have inurn'd. 
 And hard 'twould be to find a grave 
 
 From which " no money is return'd ! " 
 
 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 talisman of Wealth 
 
 Which puddling chemists sought of old 
 Till ruin'd out of hope and health — 
 
 The Tomb's the stone that turns to gold ! 
 
 Oh, licensed cannibals, ye eat 
 
 Your dinners from yom- own dead race, 
 
 Think Gray, preserved — a " funeral meat," 
 And Dry den, devil' d — after grace, 
 
 * "Since this poem uas written, Doctor Ireland and those in authority 
 under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying to the English peoi^le 
 to know that while butcher's meat is rising tombs are falling." — Note in 
 third Edition.
 
 CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTEE. 219 
 
 A relish ; — and you take your meal 
 
 From Rare Beu Jonson underdone, 
 Or, whet your holy knives on Steele, 
 
 To cut away at Addison ! 
 
 Oh say, of all this famous age. 
 
 Whose learned bones your hopes expect, 
 Oh have ye number'd Kydal's sage, 
 
 Or Moore among your Ghosts elect 1 
 Lord Byron was not doom'd to make 
 
 You richer by his final sleep — 
 Why don't ye warn the Great to take 
 
 Their ashes to no other heap ! 
 
 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 barter' d, ere he's cold. 
 
 All interest in bis " bone repose 1 " 
 
 Rare is your show, ye righteous men I 
 
 Priestly Politos,— rare, I ween ; 
 But should ye not oiitside the Den 
 
 Paint up what in it may be seen ? 
 A long green Shakspeare, with a deer 
 
 Grasp'd in the many folds it died in, — 
 A Butler stuif' d from ear to ear. 
 
 Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dryden !
 
 220 ADDRESS TO THE DEAX AND CHAPTER. 
 
 Paint Garrick up like Mr. Paap, 
 
 A Giant of some inches high ; 
 Paint Handel up, that organ chap, 
 
 With you, as grinders, in his eye ; 
 Depict some plaintive antique thing, 
 
 And say th' original may be seen ; — 
 Blind Milton ^ith 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 ! 
 
 (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 — 
 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 funk'd ! — 
 Walk in, and see th' illustrious dumb, 
 
 The Cheapest House for the defunct 1"
 
 ODE TO H. BODKm, ESQ. 221 
 
 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 Clow^ns 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-trunk — 
 
 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, ESQ., 
 
 5ECEETARY 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 ! 
 
 Great overseer of overseers. 
 
 And Dealer in old rags ! 
 Thy public duty never fails, 
 
 Thy ardoui' never flags !
 
 222 ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. 
 
 " Oh, when I take my walks abroad, 
 How many Poor " — I miss ! 
 
 Had Doctor Watts walk'd now-a-days 
 He would have written this ! 
 
 So well thy Vagrant-catchers prowl, 
 So clear thy caution keeps 
 
 The path — 0, Bodkin, sure thou hast 
 The eye that never sleeps ! 
 
 No Belisarius pleads for alms, 
 No Benbow, lacking legs ; 
 
 The pious man in black is now 
 The only man that begs ! 
 
 Street-Handels are disorganized, 
 
 Disbanded every band ! — 
 The silent scrapei- at the door 
 
 Is scarce allow' d 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 batter'd tatter'd hat, 
 And show his dangling sleeve, alas ! 
 
 There seem'd no 'arm in that !
 
 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. 223 
 
 Oh ! was it such a sin to air 
 
 His true bhie naval rags, 
 Glory's own trophy, like St. Paul, 
 
 Hung round with holy flags 1 
 
 Thou knowest best. I meditate, 
 
 My Bodkin, no offence ! 
 Let us, henceforth, but nui^se 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." 
 
 Of course thou art, what Hamlet meant — 
 
 To wretches the last friend ; 
 What ills can mortals have, they can't 
 
 With a bare Bodkin end 1 
 
 [I have been unable to trace the first appearance of the following, bi>t 
 fancy it belongs to this period.] 
 
 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. 
 
 "WHO'LL SERVE THE KING?" 
 AX ILLUSTIIATION. 
 
 What little urchin is there never 
 Hath had that early scarlet fever, 
 
 Of martial trappings caught 1 
 Trappings well call'd — because they trap 
 And catch full many a country chap 
 
 To ffo where fields are foucrht !
 
 224 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. 
 
 What little urchin with a rag- 
 Hath never made a little flag, 
 
 (Our plate will show the manner,) 
 And wooed each tiny neighbour still, 
 Tommy or Harry, Dick or Will, 
 
 To come beneath the banner ? 
 
 Just like that ancient shape of mist 
 In Hamlet, crying, " 'List, 'list ! " 
 
 Come, who will serve the king, 
 And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead 
 And cut off Boneyparty's head ? — 
 
 And all that sort of thing. 
 
 So used I, ^'hen I was a boy. 
 To march with military toy, 
 
 And ape the soldier-life ; — 
 And with a whistle or a hum, 
 I thought myself a Duke of Drum 
 
 At least, or Earl of Fife. 
 
 With gun of tin and sword of lath, 
 Lord ! how I walk'd in glory's path 
 
 With regimental mates, 
 By sound of trump and rub-a-dubs, 
 To 'siege the w^ashhouse — charge the tubs- 
 
 Or storm the garden-gates ! 
 
 Ah me ! my retrospective soul ! 
 As over memoiy's muster-roll 
 
 I cast my eyes anew. 
 My former comrades all the while 
 Ptise up before me, rank and file. 
 
 And form in dim review.
 
 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. 22o 
 
 Ay, there they stand, and dress in hne, 
 Lubbock, and Fenn, and David Vine, 
 
 And dark " Jamakey Forde ! " 
 And limping Wood, and " Cocky Hawes," 
 Our captain always made, because 
 
 He had a real sword ! 
 
 Long Lawrence, Natty Smart, and Soame, 
 Who said he had a gun at home, 
 
 But that was all a brag ; 
 Ned Ryder, too, that used to sham 
 A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb 
 
 That would hold up the flag ! 
 
 Tom Anderson, and " Dunny White," 
 Who never right-abouted right, 
 
 For he was deaf and dumb ; 
 Jack Pike, Jem Crack, and Sandy Gray, 
 And Dicky Bird, that w^ouldn't play 
 
 Unless he had the drum. 
 
 And Peter Holt, and Charley Jepp, 
 A chap that never kept the step — 
 
 No more did " Surly Hugh ; " 
 Bob Harrington, and " Fighting Jim " — 
 We often had to halt for him. 
 
 To let him tie his shoe. 
 
 " QuaiTelsome Scott," and Martin Dick, 
 That kill'd the bantam cock, to stick 
 
 The plumes within his hat ] 
 Bill Hook, and little Tommy Grout 
 That got so thump'd for calling out 
 
 " Eyes right ! " to " Squinting Matt." 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. 
 
 Dan Simpson, that, with Peter Dodd, 
 Was always in the awkward squad. 
 
 And those two greedy Blakes, 
 That took our money to the fair 
 To buy the corps a trumpet there, 
 
 And laid it out in cakes. 
 
 Where are they now 1 — an open war 
 With open mouth declaring for ? — 
 
 Or fall'n in bloody fray ? 
 Compell'd to tell the truth I am, 
 Their fights all ended with the sham, — 
 
 Their soldiership in play. 
 
 Brave Soame sends cheeses out in trucks, 
 And Martin sells the cock he plucks. 
 
 And Jepp now deals in wine ; 
 Harrington bears a lawyer's bag. 
 And warlike Lamb retains his flag, 
 
 But on a tavern sign. 
 
 They tell me Cocky Hawes's sword 
 Is seen upon a broker's board ; 
 
 And as for " Fighting Jim," 
 In Bishopsgate, last Whitsuntide, 
 His unresisting cheek I spied 
 
 Beneath a quaker brim ! 
 
 Quarrelsome Scott is in the church. 
 For Ryder now your eye must search 
 
 The marts of silk and lace — 
 Bird's drums are fiU'd with figs, and mute. 
 And I — I've got a substitute 
 
 To soldier in my place !
 
 THE DEATH BED. 227 
 
 [In this year (in which my father was married) I have placed one or 
 two poems, which certainly were not written before this time — nor yet 
 can I think very much after. The first among these is ' ' The Death 
 Bed." I remember very well that my father had no copy of this, and 
 had lost sight of it until when, after his return to England, he found it 
 as a newspajier cutting in a scrap-book of Miss Lamb's — the sister of 
 his old friend Elia,] 
 
 THE DEATH BED/^ 
 
 We watch' d her breathing through the night, 
 
 Her breathing soft and low, 
 As in her breast the wave of life 
 
 Kept heaving to and fro. 
 
 So silently we seem'd to speak, 
 
 So slowly moved about. 
 As we had lent her half our powers 
 
 To eke her living out. 
 
 ^■' I cannot refrain from quoting entire the elegant Latin translation of 
 these lines which appeared in the "Times" shortly after my father's 
 death. I have since learned they are from the pen of the K.ev. H. Kynaston, 
 Master of St. Paul's School. 
 
 Nocte nos totS, gemitus cientem 
 
 Vidimus lenes, ubicunque vivax 
 
 -ffistus hue illuc tremulos agebat 
 
 Pectore fl actus. 
 
 Vocibus sic nos inhiare raris, 
 Sic pedem visi tenulsse, tanquam 
 Ilia sic posset refici, novamque 
 Ducere vitam. 
 
 Spemque nos inter dubii metumque 
 Ludimur — jam tunc obiisse mortem 
 Visa dormitans, morieus obire est 
 Visa soporem. 
 
 Nam simul tristem repar^rat ortum 
 Lux, quiescentes oculos resignans 
 Ilia jam soles alios, suumque 
 
 Lumen habebat. 
 
 Q2
 
 228 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 Our fears our hopes behed — 
 
 We thought her dying when she slept, 
 And sleeping when she died. 
 
 For when the morn came dim and sad, 
 And chill with early showers. 
 
 Her quiet eyelids closed — she had 
 Another morn than ours."^ 
 
 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Still glides the gentle streamlet on, 
 With shifting cun-ent new and strange 
 The water, that was here, is gone, 
 But those gi'een shadows never change. 
 
 Serene or ruffled by the storm, 
 On present waves, as on the past. 
 The miiTor'd grove retains its form. 
 The self-same trees their semblance cast. 
 
 The hue each fleeting globule wears. 
 That drop bequeaths it to the next ; 
 One picture still the surface bears. 
 To illustrate the munnur'd text. 
 
 * This poem, besides being lost sight of as mentioned above, has 
 undergone much that is strange. The editor of a collection of English 
 poetry calmly dropt out the two middle verses as " ingenious ; " and Mrs. 
 Stowe inserted it in "Dred" with so much American assimilativeness 
 that it might have passed for her own, and was indeed set to music as one 
 of the "Songs from Dred, by Mrs. Beecher Stowe."
 
 SONG. 229 
 
 So, love, however time may flow, 
 Fresh hours pursuing those that flee, 
 One constant image still shall show 
 My tide of Ufe is true to thee. 
 
 SONG* 
 
 There is dew for the flow' ret 
 
 And honey for the bee. 
 And bowers for the wild bird, 
 
 And love for you and me. . 
 
 There are tears for the many 
 
 And pleasures for the few ; 
 But let the world pass on, dear, 
 
 There's love for me and you. 
 
 There is care that will not leave us, 
 
 And pain that will not flee ; 
 But on our hearth unalter'd 
 
 Sits Love — 'tween you and me. 
 
 Our love it ne'er was reckon' d, 
 
 Yet good it is and true, 
 It's half the world to me, dear, 
 
 It's all the world to you. 
 
 * The first two verses of this poem were written by my father, the two 
 last were added by Barry Cornwall, at my mother's request, with a view to 
 its being published with music.
 
 VERSES IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 Far above the hollow 
 Tempest, and its moan, 
 Singeth bright Apollo 
 In his golden zone, — 
 Cloud doth never shade him, 
 Nor a storm invade him, 
 On his joyous throne. 
 
 So when I behold me 
 In an orb as bright, 
 How thy soul doth fold me 
 In its throne of light ! 
 Sorrow never paineth. 
 Nor a care attaineth, 
 To that blessed height.
 
 1826. 
 
 [In this year appeared the First Series of "Whims and Oddities" — 
 " By one of the Authors of Odes and Addresses to Great People, and 
 the Designer of the Progress of Cant." It was thus inscribed — 
 
 "DEDICATION", TO THE REVIEWERS. 
 
 " Wliat is a modern Poet's fate ? 
 To write his thoughts upon a slate, — 
 The critic spits on what is done, — 
 Gives it a wipe, — and all is gone." 
 
 There were two editions of the First Series— prefaced respectively by 
 the "Addresses," here given. 
 
 The volume was to a great extent made up of reprints from the 
 " London " and other books, to which my father had contributed.] 
 
 WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In presenting his Whims and Oddities to the Public, the 
 Author desires to say a few words, which he hopes will not 
 swell into a Memoir. 
 
 It happens to most persons, in occasional lively moments, 
 to have their little chirping fancies and brain-crotchets, that 
 skip out of the ordinary meadow-land of the mind. The 
 Author has caught his, and clapped them up in paper and 
 print, like grasshoppers in a cage. The judicious reader will 
 look upon the trifling creatures accordingly, and not expect 
 from them the flights of poetical winged horses.
 
 2S2 WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 At a future time, the Press may be troubled with some 
 things of a more serious tone and pui-pose, — which the 
 Author has resolved upon publishing, in despite of the 
 advice of certain critical friends. His forte, they are pleased 
 to say, is decidedly humorous : but a gentleman cannot 
 always be breathing his comic vein. 
 
 It will be seen, from the illustrations of the present work,* 
 that the Inventor is no artist ; — in fact, he was never "meant 
 to draw " — any more than the tape- tied curtains mentioned 
 by Mr. Pope. Those who look at his designs, with Ovid's 
 Love of Art, will therefore be disappointed; — his sketches 
 are as rude and artless to other sketches, as IngTam's rustic 
 manufacture to the polished chair. The designer is quite 
 aware of their defects : but when Raphael has bestowed 
 seven odd legs upon four Apostles, and Fuseli has stuck in a 
 gTcat goggle head without an owner ; — when Michael Angelo 
 has set on a foot the wrong way, and Hogarth has painted in 
 defiance of all the laws of nature and perspective, he does 
 hope that his own little enormities may be forgiven — that 
 his sketches may look interesting, like Lord Byron's Sleeper, 
 "with all their errors." 
 
 Such as they are, the Author resigns his pen-and-ink 
 fancies to the pubHc eye. He has more designs in the wood; 
 and if the present sample should be relished, he will cut 
 more, and come again, according to the proverb, with a New 
 Series. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The first edition of Whims and Oddities being exhausted, 
 
 I am called forward by an importunate publisher to make 
 
 * To be found at the conclusion of the Second Series of " Hood's Own."
 
 WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 233 
 
 my best bow, and a new address to a discerning and indul- 
 gent public. Unaflfectedly flattered by those who have 
 bought this little work, and still more bound to those who 
 have bound it, I adopt the usual attitude of a Thanksgiver, 
 but with more than the usual sincerity. Though my head is 
 in Cornhill, my hand is not on my Cheapside in making these 
 professions. There is a lasting impression on my heart, 
 though there is none on the shelves of the publisher. 
 
 To the Reviewers in general, my gratitude is eminently 
 due for their very impartial friendliness. It 'v^ould have 
 sufficed to reconcile me to a far gi-eater portion than I have 
 met with, of critical viper-tuperation. The candid journalists, 
 who have condescended to point out my little eiTors, desei-ve 
 my particular thanks. It is comely to submit to the hand 
 of taste and the arm of discrimination, and with the head of 
 deference I shall endeavom' to amend (with one exception) in 
 a New Series. 
 
 I am informed that certain monthly, weekly, and very 
 every-day critics, have taken great offence at my puns : — and 
 I can conceive how some Gentlemen with one idea must be 
 pei'plexed by a double meaning. To my own notion a pun is 
 an accommodating word, like a farmer's horse, — with a pillion 
 for an extra sense to ride behind ; — it will caiTy single, how- 
 ever, if required. The Dennises are merely a sect, and I had 
 no design to please, exclusively, those verbal Unitarians. 
 
 Having made this brief explanation and acknowledgment, 
 I beg leave, like the ghost of the royal Dane, to say " Fare- 
 well at once," and commend my remembrance and my book 
 together, to the kindness of the com-teous reader.
 
 284 LETTER FROM ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
 
 [This letter from Allan Cunningliam was written in acknowledgment 
 of this first series of " Whims and Oddities."] 
 
 Dear Hood, 
 
 Had I behaved honestly to my owii heart, this note 
 would have been with you long ago ; for much have I laughed 
 over your little book, and often have I silently vowed to 
 compel my sluggish nature to tell you how much I liked it. 
 There was. enough of wit visible at first reading to ensure a 
 second, and at the second so many new points appeared that 
 I ventured on a third, and with the fourth I suppose I shall 
 go on discovering and laughing. I was an early admirer of 
 your verses. I admired them for other and higher qualities 
 than what you have displayed in your odes ; but I believe a 
 smile carries a higher market price than a sigh, and that a 
 laugh brings more money than deeper emotion. Even on 
 your own terms I am glad to see you publicly. I think you 
 might mingle those higher qualities with your wit, your 
 learning, and your humour, and give us still more pleasing 
 odes than them that you have done. But, " Hka man wears 
 his ain belt his ain gait." 
 
 Give my respects to Mrs. Hood. I shall have the honour 
 of personally assuring her that I esteem her for her own sake, 
 as well as for that of her facetious husband, when I can make 
 my escape from the bondage of a Romance which at present 
 employs all my leisure hours. I remain, dear Hood, 
 
 your faithful friend, 
 
 Allan Cunningham.
 
 235 
 
 A RECIPE— FOR CIVILISATION. 
 
 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 B.omo-[/eniiis, or a Genius of a Man ! In the Poem, 
 his CULINARY ENTHUSIASM, as usual— 6oi/s over/ and makes it seem 
 written, as he describes himself (see The Cook's Oracle) — 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 Econo- 
 mist, and Death-bed Attorney ! — I have celebrated the Author elsewhere 
 with approbation ; and cannot now place him upon the table as a Poet, 
 — without still 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 woman, 
 
 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, the' we 
 
 Since Esop's days have lost the key ; 
 
 Nor yet to hint dumb men, — and, still, not 
 
 Beasts that could gossip though they will not. 
 
 But play at dummy like the monkeys. 
 
 For fear mankind should make them flunkies. 
 
 Neither can man be known by featm*e 
 
 Or form, because so like a creature, 
 
 That some grave men could never shape 
 
 Which is the aped and which the ape,
 
 236 A EECIPE— FOR CIVILISATION. 
 
 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 who cooks is not a brute, — 
 
 But Equus brutiun 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 breeding 
 
 Ai'e still distinguish' d as they eat, 
 
 And raw in manners, raw in meat, — 
 
 Look at the polish'd nations, hight 
 
 The civilised — the most polite 
 
 Is that which beai's 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 collops raw, 
 
 And, like a wild beast, cares as little 
 
 To dress her person as her victual, — 
 
 For gowns, and gloves, and caps, and tippets,
 
 A RECIPE-FOR CIVILISATION. 237 
 
 Are beauty's sauces, spice, and sippets, 
 
 And not by shamble bodies put on, 
 
 But those who roast and boil their mutton ; 
 
 So Eve and Adam wore no dresses 
 
 Because they lived on water-cresses, 
 
 And till they learn'd 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, 
 
 For 'tis th' effect of what we eat 
 
 To make a man look like his meat. 
 
 As insects show their food's complexions ; 
 
 Thus fopling clothes are like confections. 
 
 But who, to feed a jaunty coxcomb, 
 
 Would have an Abyssinian ox come ? 
 
 Or serve a dish of 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 oiu* 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 err'd to think the near gate 
 
 To take man's soul, was battering Ear gate, 
 
 When reason should have work'd her course 
 
 As men of war do — when their force
 
 238 A RECIPE— FOPt CIVILISATION. 
 
 Can't take a town by open courage, 
 They steal an entry with its forage. 
 What reverend bishop, for example, 
 Could preach hom'd Apis from his temple 1 
 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 of beef and spice," — 
 And raise them such a savoury smother, 
 No negTo would devour his brother. 
 But tm*n his stomach round as loth 
 As Persians, to the old ' black ' broth, — 
 For knowledge oftenest makes an entry. 
 As well as true love, thro' 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 0. 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, 
 
 * Cook to the late Sir John Banks.
 
 A RECIPE— FOR CIVILISATION. . 239 
 
 AUow'd 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 
 Till they could keep a more exact table — 
 For nature has her proper courses, 
 And wild men must be back'd like horses. 
 Which, jockeys know, are never fit 
 For riding till they've had a bit 
 I' 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. 
 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 spai'eness 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, veil'd her back, too, from the heat- 
 As for her gravies and her sauces.
 
 240 . LOVE. 
 
 (Tho' they reform'd 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 ! — 
 
 LOVE. 
 
 Love ! what art thou, Love ? the ace of hearts, 
 Trumping earth's kings and queens, and all its suits ; 
 
 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." 
 
 Love ! what art thou. Love 1 a wicked thing. 
 Making green misses spoil their work at school ? 
 
 A melancholy man, cross-gartering 1 
 
 Grave ripe-faced wisdom made an April fool 1 
 
 A youngster tilting at a wedding-ring 1 
 A sinner, sitting on a cuttie stool 1 
 
 A Ferdinand de Something in a hovel, 
 
 Helping Matilda Rose to make a novel ? 
 
 Love ! what art thou, Love 1 one that is bad 
 With palpitations of the heart — like mine —
 
 "THE LAST MAN." 241 
 
 A poor bewilder' d maid, making so sad 
 A necklace of her garters — fell design ! 
 
 A poet, gone unreasonably mad, 
 
 Ending his sonnets with a hempen line 1 
 
 Love ! — but whither, now 1 forgive me, pray ; 
 
 I'm not the first that Love hath led astray. 
 
 "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-chanting 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 timbers' foot 
 And pitch'd down his greasy bags. — 
 
 Good Lord ! how blythe the old beggar was ! 
 At pulling out his scraps, — 
 The very sight of his broken orts 
 Made a work in his wrinkled chaps : 
 "Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bu'd, 
 And have a taste of my snaps !" 
 
 VOL. I. ]
 
 2i2 "THE LAST MAN." 
 
 Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast, 
 
 I slided, and by him stood ; 
 
 But I wish'd 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 side," — 
 
 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 theiJi, and they won't harm me ; 
 
 Let the proud and the rich be cravens !" 
 
 I did not like that strange beggar man. 
 
 He look'd so up at the heavens. 
 
 Anon he shook out his empty old poke ; 
 
 " There's the crumbs," saith he, " for the ravens I 
 
 It made me angiy to see his face, 
 
 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 gi'een water-cress, 
 
 My drink is not of the brook !" 
 
 Full manners-like he tender' d the di'am ; 
 
 Oh, it came of a dainty cask ! 
 
 But, whenever it came to his turn to pull, 
 
 " Yom' leave, good Sir, I must ask ; 
 
 But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve. 
 
 When a hangman sups at my flask !"
 
 "THE LAST MAK" 243 
 
 And then he laugh'd 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 wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones 
 
 That w^ere lying about the heath ! 
 
 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 
 That almost makes me weep, 
 For as I pass'd from tovra to town 
 The folks were all stone-asleep, — 
 But when I saw thee sitting aloft. 
 It made me both laugh and leap !" 
 
 Kow a curse (I thought) be on his love, 
 
 And a curse upon his mirth, — 
 
 An 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 w^e sat and boused again 
 
 Till the sun was in mid-sky, 
 
 ^\lien, just as the gentle west- wind came, 
 
 "We hearken' d a dismal ciy ; 
 
 " Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man, 
 
 " Till these horrible dogs go by ! "
 
 244 "THE LAST MAK" 
 
 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 adown at the gallows' foot 
 
 And there his haunches they tore ! 
 
 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 turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man, 
 And his tears di'opt one by one ! 
 
 And with curses sore he chid at the hounds, 
 
 Till the last di'opt 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 cozie barn 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 gi-eat. 
 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 sLeds.
 
 ''THE LAST MAN." 245 
 
 But the beggar man made a mumping face, 
 
 And knock' d at every gate : 
 
 It made me curse to hear how he whined, 
 
 So our fellowship turn'd to hate, 
 
 And I bade him walk the world by himself. 
 
 For I scorn' d so humble a mate ! 
 
 So he turn'd right and / turn'd 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 properer vest ; 
 
 It was pm-ple velvet, stitch'd 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 ! — 
 
 But Joan was dead and under the mould, 
 
 And every buxom lass ; 
 
 In vain I watch' d, at the window pane. 
 
 For a Christian soul to pass ; — 
 
 But sheep and kine wander'd 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 lapp'd in a scarlet cloal:. 
 And a crown he had like a King ; 
 So he stept right up before my gate 
 And danced me a saucy fling !
 
 246 "THE LAST MAN." 
 
 Heaven mend us all I — but, within my mind, 
 I had kill'd him then and there ; 
 To see him lording so braggart-like 
 That was born 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 juiy, 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 doff'd 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 grum^iled a weaiy deal. 
 
 And made many crooked mouths. 
 
 So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot. 
 
 And blinded him in his bags ; 
 
 'Twas a weaiy job to heave him up, 
 
 For a doom'd man always lags ; 
 
 But by ten of the clock he was off his legs 
 
 In the wind and airing his rags I
 
 "TPIE LAST MAN." 247 
 
 So there he hung and there I stood, 
 
 The LAST MAN left ahve, 
 
 To have my own will of all the earth : 
 
 Quoth I, now I shall thrive ! 
 
 But \vhen was ever honey made 
 
 With one bee in a hive ! 
 
 My conscience began to gnaw my heart, 
 
 Before the day was done, 
 
 For the other men's lives had all gone out, 
 
 Like candles in the sun ! — 
 
 But it seem'd 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 w^ere any good soul alive 
 
 To do the like by me ! 
 
 But the wild dogs came with terrible s^^eed, 
 
 And bay'd me up the tree ! 
 
 My sight w^as 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 I 
 
 But the beggar man, where was he ? — 
 
 There was nought 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 ! —
 
 248 "THE LAST MAIN"." 
 
 I've buried my babies one by one, 
 And dug the deep hole for Joan, 
 And cover'd 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 hfe, 
 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 diink it to the dregs, — 
 . For there is not another man alive. 
 In the world, to pull my legs !
 
 24y 
 
 THE BALLAD OF SALLY BROWN, AND BEN 
 THE CARPENTER.* 
 
 I HAVE never been vainer of any verses than of my part 
 in the following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical 
 nurses, has an enviable renown, and Campbell's Ballads 
 enjoy a snug genteel popularity. "Sally Brown" has been 
 favoured, perhaps, with as wide a patronage as the Moral 
 Songs, though its circle may not have been of so select a 
 class as the friends of " Hohenhnden." But I do not desire 
 to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The 
 lamented Emery, drest as Tom Tug, sang it at his last 
 mortal benefit at Covent Garden ; and, ever since, it has 
 been a great favourite with the watermen of Thames, who 
 time their oars to it, as the wheny-men of Venice time 
 theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the wateiTQen, it 
 went naturally to Vauxhall; and, overland, to Sadler's 
 Wells. The Guards — not the mail coach, but the Life 
 Guards — picked it out from a fluttering hundred of others — 
 all going to one air — against the dead wall at Kuightsbridge. 
 Cheap Printers of Shoe Lane and Cow-cross (all pu-ates !) 
 disputed about the copyright, and published their own 
 editions ; and in the mean time, the Author, to have made 
 bread of his song, (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient 
 case !) must have sung it about the street. Such is the lot 
 of Literatm-e ! the profits of "Sally Brown" were divided 
 by the Balladmongers : it has cost, but has never brought 
 me, a half-penny. 
 
 * This ballad originally appeared in a ** Lion's Head" in the "London," 
 but I have allowed it to remain with " Whims and Oddities," for the sake 
 of the introductory remarks.
 
 250 FAITHLESS SALLY BRO^YX. 
 
 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 fetch' d a walk one day, 
 They met a press-gang crew ; 
 
 And Sally she did faint away, 
 Whilst Ben he was brought to. 
 
 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. 
 
 " jind is he gone, and is he gone 1 " 
 She cried, and wept outright : 
 
 " Then I will to the water side. 
 And see him out of sight."
 
 FAITHLESS SALLY BROWIT. iiol 
 
 A waterman came up to her, 
 
 " Nm7, 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 ! 
 
 " ! 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 born beneath 
 
 The Virgin and the Scales, 
 So I must curse my cruel stars. 
 
 And walk about in Wales." 
 
 Now Ben had sail'd to many a ]3lace 
 
 That's underneath the world ; 
 But in two years the ship came home, 
 
 And all her sails were furl'd. 
 
 But when he call'd on Sally Brown, 
 
 To see how she got on, 
 He found she'd got another Ben, 
 
 Whose Christian name was John.
 
 252 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 « SaUy Brown, 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 turn'd, and so he chew'd 
 His pigtail till he died. 
 
 His death, which happen' d in his berth, 
 
 At forty-odd befell : 
 They went and told the sexton, and 
 
 The sexton toU'd the bell. 
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 On Hounslow heath — and close beside the ror.d, 
 As western travellers may oft have seen, — 
 A little house some years ago there stood, 
 
 A minikin abode ; 
 And built like ^Ir. Birkbeck's, all of wood ; 
 The walls of white, the window-shutters green ; — 
 Four wheels it had at North, South, East, and West, 
 
 (Tho' now at rest)
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 253 
 
 On wliich 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 furnish' d, by his toil. 
 Some dusty gi-eens, for him and his old woman ; — 
 And five tall hollyhocks, in 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 I 
 
 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 turn'd themselves, like other folks, to reading ; 
 But setting out where others nigh have done, 
 
 And being ripen' d 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,
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 Or Paley ethical, or learned Person, — 
 
 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 dotage, 
 
 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 gTim, — 
 If talking Trees and Birds reveal'd to him, 
 She saw the flight of Faiiyland's fly-waggons, 
 
 And magic-fishes swim 
 In puddle ponds, and took old crows for dragons, — 
 Both were quite drunk from the enchanted flagons , 
 When, as it fell upon a summer's day, 
 As the old man sat a feeding 
 
 On the pld babe-reading, 
 Beside his open street-and-parlour door, 
 
 A hideous roar 
 Proclaim'd a drove of beasts was coming by the way. 
 
 Long-horn' d, and short, of many a difierent 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, —
 
 A FAIRY TALE. 255 
 
 When, — whether from a fly's maHcious 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, 
 Kick'd out a passage thro' 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, — 
 Back'd his beef-steaks 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 ftible. 
 
 The old man, half a scholar, half a dunce. 
 
 Could not peruse, — who could ? — two tales at once, 
 
 And being huff'd 
 At what he knew was none of Riquet's Tuft, 
 
 Bang'd-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,
 
 256 A FAIRY TALE. 
 
 And quaintly wondering if magic shifts 
 Could o'er a common pumpkin so prevail, 
 To turn it to a coach, — what pretty gifts 
 Might come of cabbages, and curly kale ; 
 Meanwhile she never heard her old man's wail, 
 Nor turn'd, till home had turn'd 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 house ! 
 The change was quite amazing ; 
 It made her senses stagger for a minute, 
 The riddle's explication seem'd to harden ; 
 But soon her superannuated nous 
 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 ! "
 
 257 
 
 "LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG/' 
 
 Seems, at first sight, an unreasonable demand. May I 
 profess no tenderness for Belinda without vowing an at- 
 tachment to Shock ? Must I feel an equal wamith towards 
 my bosom friend and his gi'eyhound '? Some countiy gentle- 
 men keep a pack of dogs. Am I expected to divide my 
 personal regard for my Lord B. amongst all his celebrated 
 fox -hounds 1 
 
 I may be constitutionally averse to the whole canine 
 species ; I have been bitten, perhaps, in my infancy by a 
 mastiff, or pinned by a bull-dog. There are haiTowing tales 
 on record of hydrophobia, of human barkings, and inhuman 
 smotherings. A dog may be my bugbear. Again, there are 
 differences in taste. One man may like to have his hand 
 licked all over by a grateful spaniel ; but I would not have 
 my extremity served so — even by the human tongue. 
 
 But the proverb, so arrogant and absolute in spirit, be- 
 comes harmless in its common application. The terais are 
 seldom enforced, except by persons that a gentleman is not 
 likely to embrace in his affection — rat-catchers, butchers and 
 bull-baiters, tinkers and blind mendicants, beldames and 
 witches. A slaughterman's tulip-eared puppy is as likely to 
 engage one's hking as his chuckle-headed master. When a 
 courtier makes friends with a drover, he will not be likely to 
 object to a sheep-dog as a third party in the alliance. 
 
 "Love me," says Mother Sawyer, " love my dog." 
 
 Wlio careth to dote on either a witch or her familiar ? 
 The proverb thus loses half of its oppression ; in other cases, 
 it may become a pleasant fiction, an agreeable confession. I 
 forget what pretty Countess it was, who made confession of 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 "LOVE ME, LOVE MY DOG." 
 
 her tenderness for a certain sea-captain, by her abundant 
 caresses of his Esquimaux wolf-dog. The shame of the 
 avowal became milder (as the virulence of the small-pox is 
 abated after passing thi'ough the constitution of a cow) by 
 its transmission thi'ough the animal. 
 
 In like manner, a formal young Quaker and Quakeress — 
 perfect strangers to each other, and who might otherwise have 
 sat mum-chance together for many hours — fell suddenly to 
 romping, merely through the maiden's playfulness with 
 Obadiah's terrier. The dog broke the ice of formality, — and, 
 as a third party, took off the painful awkwardness of self- 
 introduction. 
 
 Sir Ulic Mackilligut, when he wished to break handsomely 
 with Mistress Tabitha Bramble, kicked her cur. The dog 
 broke the force of the affront, and the knight's gallantry was 
 spared the reproach of a direct confession of disgust towards 
 the spinster ; as the lady took the aversion to herself only 
 as the bi-ute's ally. 
 
 My stepmother Hubbard and myself were not on visiting 
 terms for many years. Not, we flattered ourselves, through 
 any hatred or uncharitableness, disgraceful between relations, 
 but from a constitutional antipathy on the one side, and a 
 doting affection on the other— to a dog. My breach of duty 
 and decent respect was softened down into my dread of 
 hydrophobia : my second-hand parent even persuaded herself 
 that I was jealous of her regard for Bijou. It was a com- 
 fortable self-delusion on both sides, — but the scapegoat died, 
 and then, having no reasonable reason to excuse my visits, 
 we came to an open rupture. There was no hope of another 
 favourite. My stepmother had no general affection for the 
 race, but only for that particular cur. It was one of those 
 incongruous attachments, not accountable to reason, but 
 seemingly predestined by fate. The dog was no keepsake
 
 "LOVE ME, LOYE MY DOG." 259 
 
 — no favourite of a deai* deceased friend ; — ugly as the brute 
 was, she loved him for his ovm sake, — not for any fondness 
 and fidelity, for he was the most ungrateful dog, under kind- 
 ness, that I ever knew, — not for his vigilance, for he was 
 never wakeful. He was not useful, like a tm-nspit ; nor 
 accomplished, for he could not dance. He had not personal 
 beauty even, to make him a welcome object ; and yet, if my 
 relation had been requested to display her jewels, she would 
 have pointed to the dog, and have answered, in the very 
 spirit of Cornelia, — "There is my Bijou." 
 
 Conceive, Reader, under this endearing title, a hideous 
 dwarf-mongrel, half pug and half terrier, with a face like a 
 frog's — his goggle-eyes squeezing out of his head : — a body 
 like a ban-el-churn, on four short bandy legs, — as if, in his 
 puppyhood, he had been ill-nursed, — terminating in a tail like 
 a rabbit's. There is only one sound in nature similar to his 
 barking : — to hear his voice, you would have looked, not for 
 a dog, but for a duck. He was fat, and scant of breath. It 
 might have been said, that he was stuffed alive ; — but his 
 loving mistress, in mournful anticipation of his death, kept 
 a handsome glass case to hold his mummy. She intended, 
 like Queen Constance, to " stuff out his vacant garment with 
 his form ; " — to have him ever before her, " in his habit as 
 he lived ; " — but that hope was never realized. 
 
 In those days there were dog-stealers, as well as slave- 
 dealers, — the kidnapping of the canine, as of the Negro victim, 
 being attributable to his skin. 
 
 One evening. Bijou disappeared. A fiTiitless search was 
 made for him at all his accustomed haimts, — but at daybreak 
 the next morning, — stripped-naked of his skin, — with a mock 
 paper frill, — and the stump of a tobacco-pipe, stuck in his 
 nether jaw, — he was discovered, set upright against a post ! 
 My stepmother's gi'ief was ungovernable. Tears, which 
 
 s2
 
 260 A DKEAM. 
 
 she had not wasted on her deceased step-children, were shed 
 then. In her first transport, a reward of ,£100 was offered 
 for the apprehension of the mui'derers, but in vain. 
 
 The remains of Bijou, such as they were, she caused to be 
 deposited under the lawn. 
 
 I forget what popular poet was gratified with ten gaiineas 
 for writing his epitaph ; but it was in the measure of the 
 "Pleasures of Hope." 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 In the figiu-e above,* — (a medley of human faces, wherein 
 certain features belong in common to different visages, the 
 eyebrow of one, for instance, forming the mouth of another,) 
 — I have tried to typify a common characteristic of dreams, 
 namely, the entanglement of divers ideas, to the waking mind 
 distinct or incongruous, but, by the confusion of sleep, insepa- 
 rably raveUed up, and knotted into Gordian intricacies. For, 
 as the equivocal feature in the emblem belongs indifferently 
 to either countenance, but is appropriated by the head that 
 happens to be presently the object of contemplation; so, in a 
 dream, two separate notions will naturally involve some con- 
 vertible incident, that becomes, by turns, a symptom of both 
 in general, or of either in particular. Thus are begotten the 
 most extravagant associations of thoughts and images, — 
 unnatui'al connexions, like those maniages of forbidden 
 relationships, where mothers become cousin to their own sons 
 or daughters, and quite as bewildering as such genealogical 
 embarrassments. 
 
 I had a dismal dream once, of this nature, that will serve 
 
 * See " Hood's Own,'' Second Series, p. 422,
 
 A DREAM. 261 
 
 well for an illustration, and which originated ni the failure of 
 my first, and last, attempt as a dramatic writer. Many of 
 my readers, if I were to name the piece in question, would 
 remember its signal condemnation. As soon as the Tragedy 
 of my Tragedy was completed, I got into a coach, and rode 
 home. My nerves were quivering with shame and mortifi- 
 cation. I tried to compose myself over " Paradise Lost," but 
 it failed to soothe me. I flung myself into bed, and at 
 length slept — but the disaster of the night still haunted my 
 dreams ; I was again in the accursed theatre, but with a 
 difference. It was a compound of the Drury-Lane Building 
 and Pandemonium. There were the old shining green pillars, 
 on either side of the stage, but above, a sublimer dome than 
 ever overhung mortal playhouse. The wonted families were 
 in keeping of the forespoken seats, but the first companies 
 they admitted were new and strange to the place. The first 
 and second tiers, 
 
 "Witli dreadful faces thronged, and fiery arms," 
 
 showed like those purgatorial circles sung of by the ancient 
 Florentine. Satan was in the stage-box. The pit, dismally 
 associated with its bottomless namesake, was peopled with 
 fiends. Mehu scowled from the critic's seat. Belial, flushed 
 with wine, led on with shout and cat-call the uproar of the 
 one-shilling infernals. My hair stood upright with dread and 
 horror ; I had an appalling sense, that more than my dramatic 
 welfare was at stake — that it was to be not a purely literary 
 ordeal. An alarming figure, sometimes a newspaper reporter, 
 sometimes a devil, so prevaricating are the communications of 
 sleep, was sitting, with his note-book, at my side. My play 
 began. As it proceeded, sounds indescribable arose from the 
 infernal auditory, increasing till the end of the first act. The 
 familiar cry of " Choose any oranges ! " was then intermingled
 
 262 A DREAM. 
 
 with the murmurings of demons. The tumult grew with the 
 progress of the play. The last act passed in dumb show, the 
 horned monsters bellowing, throughout, like the wild bulls of 
 Basan. Prongs and flesh-hooks showered upon the stage. 
 Mrs. Siddons — the human nature thus jumbling with the 
 diabolical — was struck by a brimstone ball. Her lofty 
 brother, robed in imperial purple, came forward towards the 
 orchestra to remonstrate, and was received like the Arch- 
 devil in the Poem : 
 
 "he hears 
 On all sides, from innumerable tongues, 
 A dismal universal hiss, the sound 
 Of public scorn." 
 
 He bowed to the sense of the house, and withdrew. My 
 doom was sealed ; the recording devil noted down my 
 sentence. A suffocating vapour, now smelling of sulphur, 
 and now of gas, issued from the unquenchable stage-lamps. 
 The flames of the Catalonian Castle, burning in the back 
 scene, in compliance with the catastrophe of the piece, blazed 
 up with horrible import. My flesh crept all over me. I 
 thought of the everlasting torments, and at the next moment, 
 of the mon'ow's paragraphs. I shrunk from the comments of 
 the Morning Post, and the hot marl of Malebolge. The sins 
 of authorship had confounded themselves, inextricably, with 
 the mortal sins of the law. I could not disentangle my own 
 from my play's perdition. I was damned : but whether 
 spiritually or di-amatically, the twilight intelligence of a 
 dream was not clear enough to determine. 
 
 Another sample, wherein the preliminaries of the dream 
 involved one portion, and implicitly forbade the other half of 
 the conclusion, was more whimsical. It occun-ed when I was 
 on the eve of marriage — a season, when, if lovers sleep 
 sparingly, they dream profusely. A very brief slumber
 
 A DREAM. 263 
 
 sufficed to carry me in the night-coach to Bognor, It had 
 been concerted, between Honoria and myself, that we should 
 pass the honeymoon at some such place upon the coast. The 
 purpose of my solitary journey was to procure an appropriate 
 dwelling, and which, we had agreed, should be a little pleasant 
 house, wdth an indispensable look-out upon the sea. I chose 
 one accordingly ; a pretty villa, with bow- windows, and a 
 prospect delightfully marine. The ocean murmur sounded 
 incessantly from the beach. A decent elderly body, in 
 decayed sables, undertook, on her part, to promote the 
 comforts of the occupants by every suitable attention, and, 
 as she assured me, at a very reasonable rate. So far, the 
 nocturnal faculty had served me truly. A day-dream could 
 not have proceeded more orderly ; but, alas ! just here, when 
 the dwelling was selected, the sea view secured, the rent 
 agi-eed upon,— when every thing was plausible, consistent, and 
 rational, — the incoherent fancy crept in and confounded all, — 
 by marrying me to the old woman of the house ! 
 
 A large proportion of my dreams have, like the preceding, 
 an origin more or less remote in some actual occmTence. 
 But, from all my observ^ation and experience, the popular 
 notion is a mistaken one, that our dreams take their subject 
 and coloiu' from the business or meditations of the day. It 
 is true that sleep frequently gives back real images and 
 actions, like a mirror ; but the reflection returns at a longer 
 interval. It extracts from pages of some standing, like the 
 " Retrospective Review." The mind, released from its con- 
 nexion with external associations, flies off, gladly, to novel 
 speculations. The soul does not carry its tasks out of school. 
 The novel, read upon the pillow, is of no more influence than 
 the bride-cake laid beneath it. The charms of Di Vernon 
 have faded, with me, into a vision of Dr. Faustus ; the bridal 
 dance and festivities, into a chace by a mad bullock.
 
 2G4 A DEEAM. 
 
 The sleeper, like the felon, at the putting on of the night- 
 cap, is about to be turned off from the affairs of this world. 
 The material scaffold sinks under him ; he drops — as it is 
 expressively called — asleep ; and the spirit is transported, we 
 know not w'hither ! 
 
 I should like to know that, by any earnest application of 
 thought, we could impress its subject upon the midnight 
 blank. It would be worth a day's devotion to Milton, — 
 " from morn till noon, from noon till dewy eve," — to obtain 
 but one glorious vision from the " Paradise Lost;" to Spenser, 
 to purchase but one magical reflection — a Fata Morgana — of 
 the " Faery Queen ! " I have heard it affirmed, indeed, by a 
 gentleman, an especial advocate of Early Rising, that he could 
 procure whatever dream he wished ; but I disbelieve it, or he 
 would pass far more hours than he does in bed. If it were 
 possible, by any process, to bespeak the night's entertain- 
 ment, the theatres, for me, might close their uninviting doors. 
 Who would care to sit at the miserable parodies of " Lear," 
 "Hamlet," and " Othello,"— to say nothing of the "Tempest," 
 or the "Midsummer Night's Phantasy," — that could com- 
 mand the representation of either of those noble dramas, 
 with all the sublime personations, the magnificent scenery, 
 and awful reality of a dream ? 
 
 For horrible fancies, merely, nightmares and incubi, there 
 is a recipe extant, that is cm'rently attributed to the late 
 Mr. Fuseli. I mean a supper of raw pork ; but, as I never 
 slept after it, I cannot speak as to the effect. 
 
 Opium I have never tried, and, therefore, have never ex- 
 perienced such magnificent visions as are described by its 
 eloquent historian. I have never been buried for ages under 
 pyramids ; and yet, methinks, have suffered agonies as intense 
 as his could be, from the commonplace inflictions. For ex- 
 ample, a night spent in the counting of interminable numbers
 
 A DREAM. 265 
 
 — an Inquisitorial penance — everlasting tedium — the Mind's 
 treadmill ! 
 
 Another writer, in recording his homble dreams, describes 
 himself to have been sometimes an animal pm-sued by hounds ; 
 sometimes a bird, torn in pieces by eagles. They are flat 
 contradictions of my Theory of Dreams. Such Ovidian Meta- 
 morphoses never yet entered into my experience. I never 
 translate myself. I must know the taste of rape and hemp- 
 seed, and have cleansed my gizzard with small gravel, before 
 even fancy can tm-n me into a bird. I must have another 
 nowl upon my shoulders, ere I can feel a longing for "a bottle 
 of chopt hay, or your good dried oats." My own habits and 
 prejudices, all the symptoms of my identity, cling to me in 
 my dreams. It never happened to me to fancy myself a 
 child or a woman, dwarf or giant, stone-blind, or deprived of 
 any sense. 
 
 And here, the latter part of the sentence reminds me of 
 an intereresting question, on this subject, that has greatly 
 puzzled me, and of which I should be glad to obtain a satis- 
 factory solution, viz. : — How does a blind man dream ? I 
 mean a person with the opaque crystal from his birth. He 
 is defective in that very faculty, which, of all others, is most 
 active in those night passages, thence emphatically called 
 Visions. He has had no acquaintance with external images, 
 and has, therefore, none of those transparent pictures, that, 
 like the slides of a magic lantern, pass before the mind's eye, 
 and are projected by the inward spiritual light upon the utter 
 blank. His imagination must be like an imperfect kaleido- 
 scope, totally unfurnished with those parti-colom-ed fragments, 
 whereof the complete instrument makes such interminable 
 combinations. It is difi&cult to conceive such a man's di-eam. 
 
 Is it a still benighted wandering — a pitch-dark night progress 
 — made known to him by the consciousness of the remaining
 
 266 A DREAM. 
 
 senses 1 Is he still pulled through the universal blank, by 
 an invisible power, as it were, at the nether end of the string? 
 — regaled, sometimes, with celestial voluntaries and unknown 
 mysterious fragi'ances, answering to om- romantic flights ; at 
 other times, with homely voices and more familiar odom'S ; 
 here, of rank-smelling cheeses ; there, of pungent pickles or 
 aromatic drugs, hinting his progress through a metropolitan 
 street. Does he over again enjoy the grateful roundness of 
 those substantial droppings from the invisible passenger, — 
 palpable deposits of an abstract benevolence, — or, in his 
 nightmares, suffer anew those painful concussions and 
 corporeal buffetings, from that (to him) obscure evil prin- 
 ciple, the Parish Beadle ? 
 
 This question I am happily enabled to resolve, through the 
 information of the oldest of those blind Tobits that stand in 
 fresco against Bunhill Wall ; the same who made that notable 
 comparison, of scarlet, to the sound of a trumpet. As I un- 
 derstood him, harmony, with the gravel-blind, is prismatic as 
 well as chromatic. To use his own illustration, a wall-eyed 
 man has a palette in his ear, as well as in his mouth. Some 
 stone-blinds, indeed, — dull dogs, — without any ear for colour, 
 profess to distinguish the different hues and shades by the 
 touch ; but that, he said, was a slovenly, uncertain method, and 
 in the chief article of Paintings not allowed to be exercised. 
 
 On my expressing some natural sui-prise at the aptitude of 
 his celebrated comparison, — a miraculously close likening, to 
 my mind, of the known to the unknown, — he told me, the 
 instance was nothing, for the least discriminative among 
 them could distinguish the scarlet colour of the mail guards 
 liveries, by the sound of their horns : but there were others, 
 so acute their faculty ! that they could tell the very features 
 and complexion of their relatives and familiars, by the mere 
 tone of their voices. I was much gratified with this explana-
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 267 
 
 tiou ; for I confess, hitherto, I was always extremely puzzled 
 by that narratiA'e in the " Tatler," of a young gentleman's 
 behaviour after the operation of couching, and especially at 
 the wonderful promptness with which he distinguished his 
 father from his mother — his mistress from her maid. But it 
 appears that the blind are not so blind as they have been 
 esteemed in the vulgar notion. What they cannot get in one 
 way they obtain in another : they, in fact, realize what the 
 author of Hudibras has ridiculed as a fiction, for they set Tip 
 
 "communities of senses, 
 To chop and change intelligences. 
 As Rosicrucian Virtuosis 
 Can see with ears — and hear with noses." 
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 Alack ! 'tis melancholy theme to think 
 How Learning doth in inigged states abide, 
 And, like her bashful owl, obscm-ely blink, 
 In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied ; 
 Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride. 
 Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen. 
 But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide. 
 In midst of foggy moors and mosses green, 
 In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen ! 
 
 This College looketh South and West alsoe, 
 Because it hath a cast in windows twain ; 
 Crazy and crack'd 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,
 
 268 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain 
 StoiTQetli, he puts, " once more unto the breach," — 
 Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each. 
 
 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, *' Cbilknt tnkm m la ^nk : " 
 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. 
 
 For some are meant to right illegal wrongs. 
 And some for Doctors of Divinitie, 
 Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues. 
 And soe 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. 
 
 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 m'chins' cnimbs 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.
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 2G9 
 
 Alsoe, he schools some tame famihar fowls, 
 ^Vllel•eof, 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 ; 
 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. 
 
 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 di-ead : 
 Large, as a dome for learning, seems 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, 
 
 And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows 
 O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue, 
 That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows 
 A mongi-el tint, that is ne brown ne blue ; 
 His nose, — it is a coral to the view ; 
 Well nourish' d with Pierian Potheen, — 
 For much he loves his native mountain dew ; — 
 But to depict the dye would lack, I ween, 
 A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green. 
 
 As for his coat, 'tis such a jerkin short 
 
 As Spencer had, ere he composed his Tales ;
 
 270 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 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 hosierie : — 
 Two sandals, without soles, complete his cap-a-pie. 
 
 Nathless, for dignity, he now doth lap 
 His function in a magisterial gown, 
 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 adown. 
 He tm-ns the garment of the other side. 
 Hopeful that so the holes may never be espied ? 
 
 And soe he sits, amidst the little pack, 
 That look for shady or for smmy 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 wiU follow soon, 
 And with forebodings of near wrath and storms 
 They sit, like timid hares, all trembling on their forms. 
 
 Ah ! luckless wight, who cannot then repeat 
 " Corduroy Colloquy,"— or " Ki, Kse, Kod,"— 
 Full soon his tears shall make his turfy seat 
 More sodden, tho' already made of sod. 
 For Dan shall whip him with the word of God, —
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 271 
 
 Severe by rule, and not by nature mild, 
 He never spoils the child and sj^ares the rod, 
 But spoils the rod and never spares the child, 
 And soe with holy rule deems he is reconciled. 
 
 But surely the just sky -will never wink 
 At men who take delight in childish thi'oe, 
 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 design' d for their distress — 
 A melancholy place, that is all bottomlesse 1 
 
 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 untrain'd 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 then.' bloody hands. 
 In mm-der'd English write Rock's murderous commands. 
 
 But ah ! what shrilly cry doth now alarm 
 The sooty fowls that dozed upon the beam. 
 All sudden fluttering from the brandish'd arm, 
 And cackling chorus with the human scream ; 
 Meanwhile, the scom'ge plies that unkindly seam 
 In Phelim's brogues, which bares his naked skin, 
 Like traitor gap in warlike fort, I deem,
 
 272 THE lEISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 That falsely lets the fierce besieger in, 
 Nor seeks the Pedagogue by other coui'se to win. 
 
 No parent dear he hath to heed his cries ; — 
 Alas ! his parent dear is far aloof, 
 And deep in Seven-Dial cellar lies, 
 Killed by kind cudgel-play, or gin of proof, 
 Or climbeth, catwise, on some London roof, 
 Singing, perchance, a lay of Erin's Isle, 
 Or, whilst he laboui's, weaves a fancy-woof. 
 Dreaming he sees his home — his Phelim's smile ; 
 Ah me 1 that luckless imp, who weepeth all the while ! 
 
 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, 
 AYherein, alas ! no sugar' d juices dwell ? 
 For this, the while one stripling's sluices di'ain. 
 Another weepeth over chilblains fell. 
 Always upon the heel, yet never to be well ! 
 
 Anon a third, — for his delicious root. 
 Late ravish' d from his tooth by elder chit, 
 So soon is human violence afoot, 
 So hardly is the harmless biter bit ! 
 Meanwhile, the tyi'ant, 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 cui's than one.
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 273 
 
 For lo ! the Pedagogue, with sudden di'ub, 
 Smites his scald head, that is ah'eady sore, — 
 (Supei-fluous 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 moistm-e, o'er and o'er, 
 His muddy cheek, that grows more foul thereby. 
 Till all his rainy face looks grim as rainy sky. 
 
 So Dan, by dint of noise, obtains a peace, 
 And with his natural untender knack. 
 By new distress, bids former grievance cease. 
 Like tears di'ied 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 soak'd in brine. 
 
 Now all is hush'd, and, with a look profound. 
 The Dominie lays ope the leai-ned page ; 
 (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. 
 
 Anon he turns to that Homeric war, 
 
 How Troy was sieged like Londonderry town ;
 
 4 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 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' ring up and down : 
 Because, at once, in seven cities born ; 
 And so, of parish rights, was, all his days, forlorn. 
 
 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, 
 Confess'd not to those heathen hes and shes ; 
 But thro' the clouds of the Olympic cope 
 Beheld St. Peter, with his holy keys. 
 And own'd their love was naught, and bow'd to Pope, 
 Whilst all their purblind race in Pagan mist did grope. 
 
 From such quaint themes he turns, at last, aside, 
 To new philosophies, that still are green, 
 And shows what rail-roads have been track'd to guide 
 The wheels of great political machine ; 
 If English com should grow abroad, I ween. 
 And gold be made of gold, or paper sheet ; 
 How many pigs be born to each spalpeen ; 
 And ah 1 how man shall thrive beyond his meat, — 
 With twenty souls alive, to one square sod of peat ! 
 
 Here, he makes end ; and all the fiy of youth. 
 That stood around with serious look intense. 
 Close up again their gaping eyes and mouth. 
 Which they had open'd to his eloquence. 
 As if their hearino: were a threefold sense.
 
 THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER. 
 
 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. 
 
 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, wdiilst all their mates in merry sunshine bask. 
 
 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, — 
 For Phelim's gone to tend his step-dame's cow ; 
 Ah ! Phelim's step-dame is a canker'd crone ! 
 Whilst other twain play at an Irish row. 
 And, with shiUelah small, break one another's brow I 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 T 2
 
 276 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 
 
 Ov plucks the fragrant leek for pottage gi*een, 
 With that crisp curly herb, call'd Kale in Aberdeen. 
 
 And so he wisely spends the fruitful hours, 
 Link'd each to each by labour, like a bee ; 
 Or rules in Learning's hall, or trims her bow'rs ; — 
 Would there were many more such wights as he, 
 To sway each capital academie 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! "
 
 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 277 
 
 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 ! 
 
 " Oh, Nelly Gray ! Oh, Nelly Gray ! 
 
 Is this your love so warm 1 
 The love that loves a scarlet coat 
 
 Should be more uniform ! " 
 
 Said she, " I loved a soldier once, 
 
 For he was blythe and brave ; 
 But I will never have a man 
 
 With both legs in the grave ! 
 
 " Before 3-ou had those timber toes, 
 
 Your love I did allow, 
 But then, you know, you stand upon 
 
 Another footing now ! " 
 
 "Oh, Nelly Gray ! Oh, Nelly Gray ! 
 
 For all your jeering speeches, 
 At duty's call, I left my legs, 
 
 In Badajos's breacJies ! " 
 
 " Why then," said she, " you've lost the feet 
 
 Of legs in war's alarms. 
 And now you cannot wear j^our shoes 
 
 Upon your feats of arms ! "
 
 278 FAITHLESS NELLY GRAY. 
 
 " Oh, 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 ! 
 For you will be my death ; — alas ! 
 
 You will not be my Nell I " 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 leg's ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 A dozen men sat on his corpse, 
 To find out why he died — 
 
 And they bmied Ben in four cross-roads, 
 With a stake in his inside !
 
 THE AVATER LADY. 279 
 
 [The following poems appeared in annuals and elsewhere as specified 
 in the notes.] 
 
 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 staid awhile, to see her throw 
 Her tresses back, that all beset 
 The fair horizon of her brow 
 With clouds of jet. 
 
 I staid a little while to view 
 Her cheek, that w^ore in place of red 
 The bloom of water, tender blue,t 
 Daintily sj^read. 
 
 I staid 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 staid a little more, 
 Alas ! she never comes a^rain ! 
 I throw my flowers from the shore, 
 And watch in vain. 
 
 * From the " Forget-me-Not " for 1826. 
 
 + A little water-colour sketch by Severn (given to my mother by Keats) 
 probably suggested these lines. The nymph's complexion is of a pale blue 
 (instead of ordinary flesh tint), as here described.
 
 280 AUTUMK 
 
 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 ! 
 
 AUTUMN.* 
 
 The Autumn is old, 
 The sere leaves are flying ; 
 He hath gather'd up gold. 
 And now he is dying ; — 
 Old Age, begin sighing I 
 
 The vintage is ripe. 
 The harv^est is heaping ; — 
 But some that have sow'd 
 Have no riches for reaping ; — 
 Poor wretch, fall a- weeping ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 * From " Friendship's Offering," 1826.
 
 281 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.* 
 
 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 wink too soon, 
 Nor brought too long a day, 
 But now, I often wish the night 
 Had borne my breath away ! 
 
 I remember, I remember. 
 The roses, red and white. 
 The violets, and the lily-cups, 
 Those flowers made of light ! 
 The lilacs where the robin built. 
 And where my brother set 
 The laburnum on his birth-day, — 
 The tree is living yet ! 
 
 I remember, I remember 
 
 Where I was used to swing, 
 
 And thought the ah* 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 ! 
 
 ♦ From "Friendship's Oflfering," 1826.
 
 282 DEATH'S RAMBLE. 
 
 1 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. 
 
 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 chaniel. 
 
 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 with his deadly darts. 
 
 This goblin of gTisly bone ? 
 He dabbled and spill'd man's blood, and he kill'd 
 
 Like a butcher that kills his own. 
 
 * Tills originally appeared in tlie "Literary Gazette." Mr. Jerdan, to 
 whom I am much indebted for help in this edition, tells me that it was 
 suggested by an argument relative to the authorship of the "Devil's "Walk/ 
 mentioned accidentally in connection with Holbein's " .Dance of Death." 
 
 The poem was subsequently published separately, with coloured illustra- 
 tions, by Hullinandel.
 
 DEATH'S RAMBLE. 283 
 
 The first he slaughter'd it made him laugli 
 
 (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 make them stiflfer. 
 
 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. 
 
 Fox Death only wars on the quick. 
 
 Death saw a toll-man taking a toll. 
 
 In the spirit of his fraternity ; 
 But he knew that sort of man would extort, 
 
 Though summon' d 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 1
 
 284 ADDEESS TO ME. CEOSS, OF EXETEE CHAI^GE. 
 
 Death saw a patient that pull'd 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 mark'd 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 a dump. 
 For he quickly laid them flat with a spade, 
 
 To wait for the final trump ! 
 
 [The next poem is from the "New Monthly Magazine," then edited 
 by Campbell. The friendship spoken of between my father and the 
 beast is no fable. I have often heard him speak of it.l 
 
 ADDRESS TO MR CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE, 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE ELEPHANT. 
 
 ** 'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more." 
 
 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 BufFon inquisitor
 
 ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE. 285 
 
 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 hisf 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, — 
 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-story. 
 Where 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 Monkeys pout :
 
 286 ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE. 
 
 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 Kang'roo wrings its soitj short forepaws ; 
 
 Shrieks come from the Macaws ; 
 The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head, 
 
 And pineth for the dead ; 
 The Boa TVTithes 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 the 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 ; 
 
 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. 
 
 * The Marr family murdered by "Williams. See De Quincy's "Murder 
 as a Fine Art."
 
 ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE. 28; 
 
 Their sluices all unclosed, — 
 
 And discorajjosed 
 Compositors went fretting to their cases, 
 
 That grief has left its traces ; 
 The poor old Beef-eater has gone much greyer, 
 
 With sheer regret ; 
 
 And the Gazette 
 Seems the least trouble of the beasts' Purveyor. 
 
 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 * * * "*, t 
 Nor, though F ********* lay on his small bier, 
 
 Be melancholy. 
 But when will such an elephant appear 1 
 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 w^ere snatched ; 
 
 Barnes — might be matched ; 
 
 And Time fill up the gap 
 Were Parsloe laid upon the green eai'th'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 ! 
 
 t Probably " Croly "—the '* F." I am at a loss to discover.
 
 288 THE POET'S POETIOK 
 
 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 hke the Beast's the sorry life Fve led I — 
 
 A sort of show 
 Of my poor public self and my sagacity, 
 
 To profit the rapacity 
 Of certain folks in Paternoster Row, 
 A slavish toil to win an upper story — 
 
 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 I 
 
 [I suspect from its internal evidence that the following poem was 
 written somewhere about this time,] 
 
 THE POET'S PORTION. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 What is mine — a treasury — a dower — 
 A magic talisman of mighty power 1, 
 
 A poet's wide possession of the earth. 
 He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth
 
 THE POET'S PORTIOX. 289 
 
 Before its budding — ere the first red streaks, 
 And Winter cannot rob him of their cheeks. 
 
 Look — if his dawn be not as other men's ! 
 Twenty bright flushes — ere another kens 
 The first of sunlight is abroad — he sees 
 Its golden 'lection of the topmost trees, 
 And opes the splendid fissures of the morn. 
 
 "VATien do his fruits delay, when doth his corn 
 Linger for harvesting 1 Before the leaf 
 Is commonly abroad, in his pil'd sheaf 
 The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. 
 
 No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, 
 But he will sip it first — before the lees. 
 'Tis his to taste rich honey, — ere the bees 
 Are busy with the brooms. He may forestall 
 June's rosy advent for his coronal ; 
 Before th' expectant buds upon the bough. 
 Twining his thoughts to bloom upon his brow. 
 
 Oh ! blest to see the flower in its seed, 
 
 Before its leafy presence; for indeed 
 
 Leaves are but wings on which the summer flies, 
 
 And each thing perishable fades and dies, 
 
 Escap'd in thought ; but his rich thinkings be 
 
 Like overflows of immortality : 
 
 So that what there is steep'd shall perish never. 
 
 But live and bloom, and be a joy for ever. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR 
 
 [I cannot trace the first appearance of this Ode, but I tliink there 
 cau be little doubt of its being my father's.] 
 
 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR, 
 
 ON THE PTJBLICATIOX OF HIS "VISIT TO OXFORD." 
 
 * ' Now, Night descending, the proud scene is o'er, 
 But lives in Settle's numbers one day n)ore." 
 
 Pope — On the Lord Mayor''s Show. 
 
 WoETHY Mayor ! — I mean to say Ex-Mayor ! 
 Chief Luddite of the ancient town of Lud ! 
 Incumbent of the City's easy chair ! — 
 Conservator of Thames from mud to mud ! 
 
 Great river-bank director ! 
 
 And dam-inspector ! 
 Great guardian of small sprats that swim the flood ! 
 Lord of the scarlet gown and fuiTy cap ! 
 
 King of Mogg's map ! 
 Keeper of Gates that long have " gone their gait ! " 
 Warder of London stone and London Log ! 
 Thou fii'st and greatest of the civic great, 
 
 Magog or Gog ! — 
 
 Honorable Ven 
 
 (Forgive this little liberty between us), 
 Augusta's first Augustus ! — Friend of men 
 
 Who wield the pen ! 
 
 Dillon's Maecenas ! 
 
 * See the published work of the Rev. Mr. Dillon, the Lord Mayor's 
 Chaplain, who, in his zealous endeavour to stamp immortality upon the 
 civic expedition to Oxford, has outrun every production in the annals of 
 burlesque, even the long renowned "Voyage from Paris to St. Cloud." It 
 was entitled "The Lord Mayor's Visit to Oxford in the month of July, 
 1826, written by the desire of the party by the Chaplain to the Mayoralty."
 
 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 291 
 
 Patron of learning where she ne'er did dwell, 
 Where literature seldom finds abettors, 
 Where few — except the postman and his bell — 
 
 Encourage the hell-lettres I — 
 Well hast thou done. Right Honorable Sir — 
 Seeing that years are such devouring ogresses, 
 And thou hast made some little journeying stir, — 
 To get a Nichols to record thy Progresses ! 
 
 Wordsworth once wrote a trifle of the sort ; 
 
 But for diversion, 
 For truth — for nature — everything in short — 
 I own I do prefer thy own " Excm'sion." 
 
 The stately story 
 
 Of Oxford glory — - 
 The Thames romance — ^yet nothing of a fiction — 
 Like thine own stream it flows along the page — 
 
 " Strong, without rage," 
 In diction worthy of thy jurisdiction ! 
 To future ages thou wilt seem to be 
 
 A second Parry ; 
 
 For thou didst carry 
 Thy navigation to a fellow crisis. 
 He penetrated to a Frozen Sea, 
 And thou — to where the Thames is turned to his ! * 
 
 I like thy setting out ! 
 Thy coachman and thy coachmaid boxed together ! t 
 
 * The Chaplain doubts the correctness of the Thames being turned into 
 the Isis at Oxford : of course he is right— according to the course of the 
 river, it must be the Isis that is turned into the Thames. 
 
 t "As soon as the female attendant of the Lady Maj'oress had taken 
 her seat, dressed with becoming neatness, at the side of the well- looking 
 coachman, the carriage drove away." — Visit, 
 
 r 2
 
 292 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 
 
 I like thy Jarvey's serious face — in doubt 
 Of " four fine animals " — no Cobbetts either ! * 
 I like the slow state pace — the pace allowed 
 The best for dignity f — and for a crowd, 
 
 And very July weather, 
 So hot that it let ofi* the Hounslow powder ! X 
 I like the She- Mayor's proffer of a seat 
 To poor Miss Magnay, fried to a white heat ; § 
 'Tis well it didn't chance to be Miss Crowder ! 
 
 I like the steeples with their weathercocks on. 
 
 Discerned about the hour of three, P. M. j 
 
 I like thy party's entrance into Oxon, 
 
 For oxen soon to enter into them ! 
 
 I like the ensuing banquet better far. 
 
 Although an act of cinielty began it ; — 
 
 For why — before the dinner at the Star — 
 
 Why was the poor Town-clerk sent off to _?j?a7i it ? 
 
 I like your learned rambles not amiss, 
 Especially at Bodley's, where ye tarried 
 The longest — doubtless because Atkins carried 
 Letters (of coui'se from Ignorance) to Bliss ! || 
 
 * " The coachman's countenance was reserved and thoughtful, indicating 
 full consciousness of the test by which his equestrian skill would this day 
 be tried." — Visit. 
 
 f *' The carriage drove away ; not, however, with that violent and ex- 
 treme rapidity which rather astounds than gratifies the beholders ; but at that 
 steady and majestic pace, which is always an indication of real greatness." 
 
 X "On approaching Hounslow, there was seen at some distance a huge 
 volume of dark smoke." The Chaplain thought it was only a blowing up for 
 rain, but it turned out to be the spontaneous combustion of a powder-mill. 
 
 § ' ' The Lady Mayoress, observing that they (the Magnays) must be some- 
 what crowded in the chaise, invited Miss Magnay to take the fourth seat." 
 
 11 "The Rev. Dr. Bliss, of St. John's College, the Registrar of the Univer- 
 sity, to whom Mr. Alderman Atkins had letters of introduction." — Page 32.
 
 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 293 
 
 The other Halls were scrambled through more hastily ; 
 
 But I like this — 
 I like the Aldermen who stopped to drink 
 Of Maudlin's " classic water " very tastily, '"' 
 Although I think— what I am loth to think — 
 Except to Dillon, it has proved no Castaly ! 
 
 I like to find thee finally afloat ; 
 
 I like thy being barged and Water-Bailiff' d. 
 
 Who gave thee a lift 
 To thy state-galley in his own state-boat. 
 I like thy small sixpennyworths of largess 
 Thrown to the urchins at the City's charges ; 
 I like the sun upon thy breezy fanners, 
 Ten splendid scarlet silken stately banners ! 
 Thy gilded bark shines out quite transcendental ! 
 
 I like dear Dillon still, 
 
 Who quotes from " Cooper's Hill," 
 And Birch, the cookly Birch, gi'own sentimental ; t 
 I like to note his civic mind expanding 
 And quoting Denham, in the watery dock 
 
 Of Iffley lock- 
 Plainly no Locke upon the Understanding ! 
 
 I like thy civic deed 
 
 At Runnymede, 
 Where ancient Britons came in arms to barter 
 Their lives for right — Ah, did not Waithman grow 
 
 Half mad to show 
 
 * *' The buttery was next visited, in which some of the party tasted the 
 classic water." — Page 57. 
 
 t "Mr, Alderman Birch here called to the recollection of the party the 
 beautiful lines of Sii- John Denham on the river Thames : — ' Tho' deep yet 
 clear,' &c." — Page 90.
 
 294 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOE. 
 
 Where his renowned forefathers came to bleed — 
 And freebom Magnay triumph at his Charter .? 
 I Hke full well thy ceremonious setting 
 The justice-sword (no doubt it wanted whetting !) 
 On London Stone ; but I don't like the waving 
 Thy banner over it,* for I must own 
 
 Flag over stone 
 Beads like a most superfluous piece of paving ! 
 
 I like thy Cliefden treat ; but I'm not going 
 To run the civic story through and through, 
 But leave thy barge to Pater Noster Row-ing, 
 
 My plaudit to renew. — • 
 Well hast thou done, Right Honorable rover, 
 To leave this lasting record of thy reign, 
 A reign, alas ! that very soon is " over 
 And gone," according to the Rydal strain ! 
 
 'Tis piteous how a mayor 
 
 SHps through his chair. 
 I say it with a meaning reverential. 
 But let him be rich, lordly, wise, sentential, 
 Still he must seem a thing inconsequential — 
 A melancholy truth one cannot smother ; 
 
 For why ? 'tis very clear 
 
 He comes in at one year, 
 
 To go out by the other ! 
 This is theu' Lordships' universal order ! — 
 But thou shalt teach them to preserve a name — 
 Make future Chaplains chroniclers of fame ! 
 And every Lord Mayor his own Recorder ! 
 
 * "It was also a part of the ceremony, -which, though important, is 
 simple, that the City banner should wave over the stone." — Page 144.
 
 1827. 
 
 [In this year appeared the Second Series of ""WHiims and Oddities," 
 dedicated to Sir Walter Scott. It ran to a tliird edition — as wiU be 
 seen by the following Prefaces.] 
 
 WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE SECOND SERIES. 
 
 In the absence of better fiddles, I have ventured to come 
 forward again with my little kit of fancies. I trust it will 
 not be found an unworthy sequel to my first performance ; 
 indeed, I have done my best, in the New Series, innocently 
 to imitate a practice that prevails abroad in duelling — I 
 mean, that of the Seconds giving Satisfaction. 
 
 The kind indulgence that welcomed my Volume hereto- 
 fore, prevents me from reiterating the same apologies. The 
 Public have learned, by this time, from my rude designs, 
 that I am no great artist, and from my text, that I am no 
 great author, but humbly equivocating, bat-like, between 
 the two kinds; — though proud to partake in any charac- 
 teristic of either. As for the first particular, my hope 
 persuades me that my illustrations cannot have degenerated, 
 so ably as I have been seconded by Mr. Edward Willis, who, 
 like the humane Walter, has befriended my offspring in the 
 Wood. 
 
 In the Uterary part I have to plead guilty, as usual, to
 
 296 WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 
 
 some verbal misdemeanors ; for which, I must leave my 
 defence to Dean Swift, and the other great European and 
 Oriental Pundits. Let me suggest, however, that a pun is 
 somewhat like a cherry : though there may be a slight 
 outward indication of partition — of duplicity of meaning — 
 yet no gentleman need make two bites at it against his own 
 pleasure. To accommodate certain readers, notwithstanding, 
 I have refrained from putting the majority in italics. It is 
 not every one, I am aware, that can Toler-ate a pun like 
 my Lord Norbury. 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE THIRD EDITION. 
 
 It is not usual to have more than one grace before meat, 
 one prologue before a play — one address before a work, — 
 Cerberus and myself are perhaps the only persons who have 
 had three prefaces. I thought, indeed, that I had said my 
 last in the last impression, but a new Edition being called 
 for, I came forward for a new exit, after the fashion of Mr. 
 Romeo Coates — a Gentleman, notorious, like Autumn, for 
 taking a great many leaves at his departure. 
 
 As a literary parent, I am highly gratified to find that the 
 elder volume of Whims and Oddities does not get snubbed, 
 as happens with a first child, at the birth of a second j but 
 that the Old and New Series obtain fresh favom' and friends 
 for each other, and are likely to walk hand in hand like 
 smiling brothers, towards posterity. 
 
 Whether a third volume will transpire is a secret still 
 "warranted undrawn" even to myself; — there is, I am aware, 
 a kind of nonsense indispensable, — or sine qua ?i07i-sense— 
 that always comes in welcomely to relieve the serious discus- 
 sions of graver authors, and I flatter myself that my per-
 
 WHIMS AND ODDITIES. 297 
 
 formances may be of this nature ; but having parted with 
 so many of my vagaries, I am doubtful whether the next 
 November may not find me sobered down into a pohtical 
 economist. 
 
 [In 1832 the two Series were repubhshed, together with a fresh 
 Address,] 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 When I last made my best bow in this book, I imagined 
 that the public, to use a nautical phrase, had " parted from 
 their best bower ; " but it was an agTceable mistake. The 
 Fii-st and Second Series, being now, like Colman's "Two 
 Single Gentlemen rolled into one," a request is made to me 
 to furnish the two-act piece with a new prologue. Possibly, 
 as I have declared the near relationship of this work to the 
 Comic Annual, the publisher wishes, by this unusual number 
 of Prefaces, to connect it also with the Odes and Addresses. 
 At all events, I accede to his humom-, in spite of a reasonable 
 fear that, at this rate, my Sayings w^ill soon exceed my 
 Doings. 
 
 To tell the truth, an Author does not much disrelish the 
 call for these " more last words ; " and I confess at once that 
 I affix this preliminary postscript, with some pride and 
 pleasure. A modern book, like a modern race-horse, is apt 
 to be reckoned aged at six years old; and an Olympiad 
 and half have nearly elapsed since the birth of my first 
 editions. It is pleasant, therefore, to find, that what was 
 done in black and wdiite has not become quite grey in the 
 intei-val ; — to say nothing of the comfort, at such an advanced 
 age, of still finding friends in public, as well as in private, 
 to put up with one's Whims and Oddities. 
 
 Seriously, I feel very grateful for the kindness which has
 
 298 BIANCA'S DREAM. 
 
 exhausted three impressions of this work, and now invites 
 another. Come what may, this httle book will now leave 
 four imprints behind it, — and a horse could do no more. 
 
 T. Hood. 
 "VTiNCHMORE Hill, January^ 1832. 
 
 BIANCA'S DREAM. 
 
 A VENETIAN STORY. 
 
 BiANCA ! — fair Bianca ! — who could dwell 
 
 With safety on her dark and hazel gaze, 
 Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell, 
 
 Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days ? 
 The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell. 
 
 She tum'd 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 own, 
 
 And beaux were tmu'd to flambeaux where she came ; 
 
 All hearts indeed were conquer' d bat 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." 
 
 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 ;
 
 BIANCA'S DREAM. 299 
 
 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. 
 
 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 that Love had made him smart 
 
 All over — and not merely round his heart. 
 
 In vain he labour' d thro' the sylvan park 
 Bianca haunted in — that where she came, 
 
 Her learned eyes in wandering might mark 
 The twisted cypher of her maiden name, 
 
 Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark : 
 No one was touch'd or troubled by his flame, 
 
 Except the Dryads, those old maids that grow 
 
 In trees, — like wooden dolls in embryo. 
 
 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 mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit. 
 
 And slash'd his suit so that it match' d his sleeve, 
 
 Till he grew silent at the vesper star, 
 
 And quite despairing, hamstring' d his guitar.
 
 300 BIANCA'S DREAM. 
 
 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 pei-petual heat ; 
 
 And oft he long'd internally to pour 
 His flames and glowing lava at her feet, 
 
 But when his bm^nings he began to spout, 
 
 She stopp'd his mouth, — and put the crater out. 
 
 Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men. 
 So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key 
 
 Suspended at death's door — so pale — and then 
 He tiu-n'd as nervous as an aspen tree ; 
 
 The life of man is three-score years and ten. 
 But he was perishing at twenty-three. 
 
 For people truly said, as gTief grew stronger, 
 
 "It could not shorten his poor life — much longer." 
 
 For why, he neither slept, nor drank, nor fed, 
 Nor relish' d 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 ]
 
 BIANCA'S DREAM. 301 
 
 And so poor Sappho, when her boy was cold, 
 
 Drown'd her salt tear-drops in a Salter flood, 
 Their fame still breathing, tho' their death be past, 
 For those old suitors lived beyond their last. 
 
 So Julio went to drown, — when life was dull. 
 But took his corks, and merely had a bath ; 
 
 And once, he pull'd a trigger at his skull, 
 But merely broke a window in his wrath ; 
 
 And once, his hopeless being to annul. 
 
 He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath — 
 
 A line so ample, 'twas a queiy whether 
 
 'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether. 
 
 Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust 
 .His sorrows through — '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 di'eary spunging-house to He, 
 
 Where even all our personals must go 
 
 To pay the debt of Nature that we owe ! 
 
 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 compass'd 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.
 
 802 BIAITCA'S DREAM. 
 
 Meanwhile, Bianca dream' d — 'twas once when Night 
 Along the darken' d plain began to creep, 
 
 Like a young Hottentot, whose eyes are bright, 
 Altho' in skin as sooty as a sweep : 
 
 The flow'rs had shut their eyes — the zephyr light 
 Was gone, for it had rock'd the leaves to sleep, 
 
 And all the little birds had laid their heads 
 
 Under their wings — sleeping in feather beds. 
 
 Lone in her chamber sate the dark-eyed maid, 
 By easy stages jaunting through her prayers, 
 
 But list'ning side-long to a serenade. 
 
 That robb'd the saints a little of their shares ; 
 
 For Julio underneath the lattice play'd 
 His Deh Vieni, and such amorous airs, 
 
 Born only underneath Italian skies, 
 
 Where every fiddle has a Bridge of Sighs. 
 
 Sweet was the tune — the words were even sweeter — 
 Praising her eyes, her lips, 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, 
 
 JuUo — the weeping water-man Aquarius. 
 
 Now, after listing to such landings rare, 
 'Twas very natural indeed to go — 
 
 What if she did postpone one little pray'r- 
 To ask her mirror " if it was not so ? "
 
 BIANCA'S DREAM. 303 
 
 '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 show'd her front face though it "gave her back." 
 
 And long her lovely eyes were held in thi-all, 
 By that dear page where first the woman reads : 
 
 That Julio was no flatt'rer, none at all, 
 
 She told herself — and then she told her beads ; 
 
 Meanwhile, the nerves insensibly let fall 
 Two cm-tains fairer than the lily breeds ; 
 
 For Sleep had crept and kiss'd her unawares, 
 
 Just at the half-way milestone of her pray'rs. 
 
 Then like a di'ooping rose so bended she. 
 Till her bow'd head upon her hand reposed ; 
 
 But still she plainly saw, or seem'd to see. 
 That fair reflection, tho' her eyes were closed, 
 
 A beauty bright as it was wont to be, 
 
 A portrait Fancy painted while she dozed : 
 
 'Tis very natural, some people say, 
 
 To di'eam of what we dwell on in the day. 
 
 Still shone her face — yet not, alas ! the same, 
 
 But 'gan some di*eary touches to assume, 
 And sadder thoughts, with sadder changes came — 
 
 Her eyes resign'd 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.
 
 304 BIANCA'S DEEAM. 
 
 And 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 tresses 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. 
 
 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 call'd In and Out, 
 
 Who all day watching first and second rater, 
 
 Quaintly unbend themselves — but grow no straighter. 
 
 So Time with 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 awiy her "winsome maiTow." 
 
 In truth it was a change ! — she had obey'd 
 The holy Pope before her chest grew narrow, 
 
 But spectacles and palsy seem'd to make her 
 
 Something between a Glassite and a Quaker. 
 
 Her grief and 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, though growing double ?
 
 BIANCA'S DREAM. 305 
 
 The fancy madden'd her ; but now the dream, 
 Grown thin by getting bigger, like a bubble, 
 Biu"st, — but still left some fragments of its size, 
 That, like the soapsuds, smarted in her eyes. 
 
 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 dozen more ; 
 
 A warning voice that clench'd Bianca's fears, 
 
 Such strokes referring doubtless to her years. 
 
 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 chamis would inin ; 
 At forty all the maid began to fail. 
 
 And thought no higher, as the late dream cross'd her, 
 
 Of single blessedness, than single Gloster. 
 
 And so Bianca changed ; — the next sweet even, 
 
 With Julio in a black Venetian bark, 
 Row'd slow and stealthily —the hour, eleven. 
 
 Just sounding from the tower of old St. Mark : 
 She sate with eyes turn'd quietly to heav'n. 
 
 Perchance rejoicing in the grateful dark 
 That veil'd her blushing cheek, — for Julio brought her, 
 Of course, to break the ice upon the water. 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 BIANCA'S DREAM. 
 
 But what a puzzle is one's serious mind 
 To open ; — oysters, when the ice is thick, 
 
 Are not so difificult and disinchned ; 
 And Juho 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. 
 
 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 agility. 
 
 "Be thou my park, and I will be thy dear," 
 (So he began at last to speak or quote ;) 
 
 " 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." 
 
 This, with more tender logic of the kind. 
 He pour'd into her small and shell-like ear. 
 
 That timidly against his lips inclined ; 
 
 Meanwhile her eyes glanced on the silver sphere
 
 BIANCA'S DREAM. 307 
 
 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 : — 
 
 Bidding adieu to all her sparks — the stars, 
 
 That erst had woo'd and worshipp'd in her train, 
 
 Saturn and Hesperus, and gallant ^lars — 
 Never to flirt with heavenly eyes again. 
 
 Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars, 
 Bianca did not watch these signs in vain, 
 
 But tum'd to Julio at the dark eclipse, 
 
 With words, like verbal kisses, on her lips. 
 
 He took the hint full speedily, and back'd 
 
 By love, and night, and the occasion's meetness, 
 
 Bestow'd a something on her cheek that smack'd 
 (Though quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness ; 
 
 That made her think all other kisses lack'd 
 
 Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness 
 
 Being used but sisterly salutes to feel, 
 
 Insipid things — like sandwiches of veaL 
 
 He took her hand, and soon she felt him wTing 
 
 The pretty fingers all instead of one ; 
 Anon his stealthy arm began to cling 
 
 About her waist that had been clasp'd by none ; 
 Their dear confessions I forbear to sing. 
 
 Since cold description would but be outrun ; 
 For bliss and Irish watches have the power, 
 In twenty minutes, to lose half an hour ! 
 
 x2
 
 308 
 
 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 sm-e is transcendental ; 
 Some bit of masticating bone, 
 That ought to help to clear a shelf. 
 But lets its proper work alone. 
 And only seems to g-naw itself ; 
 In fact, of any grave attack 
 On victuals there is little danger, 
 'Tis so like coming to the rack, 
 As well as going to the manger. 
 
 Old Hunks — it seem'd a fit retort 
 
 Of justice on his grinding ways — 
 
 Possess' d 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 thi'ob ; 
 
 But if he warm'd it on the hob. 
 
 Why then they only twitch'd the quicker. 
 
 One tooth — I wonder such a tooth 
 Had never kill'd him in his youth — 
 One tooth he had with many fangs. 
 That shot at once as many pangs.
 
 A TRUE STORY. 309 
 
 It had an 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 ackers still to ackers ! 
 
 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 ; 
 
 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 — although he held his jaw. 
 
 Many a tug he gave his gum. 
 
 And tooth, but still it would not come ; 
 
 Though tied by string to some firm thing. 
 
 He could not draw it, do his best 
 
 By draw'rs, although he tried a chest. 
 
 At last, but after much debating. 
 
 He join'd a score of mouths in waiting,
 
 310 A TEUE STOEY. 
 
 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 rush'd. 
 
 While eyes and mouth together gush'd ; 
 
 At last arrived our hero's tm-n, 
 
 \\nio plunged his hands in both his pockets, 
 
 And down he sat prepared to learn 
 
 How teeth are charm' d 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 ; 
 One chord seem'd 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 backwai'd 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 numb'd his miser-wit.
 
 A TRUE STORY. 311 
 
 But in this slip he saw a hit 
 
 To save, at least, his purse from bleeding ; 
 
 So when the dentist sought his fees, 
 
 Quoth Hunks, " Let's finish, if you please." — 
 
 " How, finish ! why it's out ! "— " Oh ! no— 
 
 I'm none of your beforehand tippers, 
 
 'Tis you are out, to argue so ; 
 
 My tooth is in my head no doubt, 
 
 But as you say you pull'd it out. 
 
 Of com-se it's there — between your nippers." 
 
 *' Zounds ! sir, d'ye think I'd sell the truth 
 
 To get a fee ? no, wi-etch, I scorn it." 
 
 But Hunks still ask'd to see the tooth. 
 
 And swore by gum ! he had not drawn it. 
 
 His end obtain'd, 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 
 AVhen, planted right against the stile, 
 There stood his foeman, Mike Maloney, 
 A vagrant reaper, Irish-born, 
 That help'd to reap our miser's corn, 
 But had not help'd to reap his money,
 
 312 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 A fact that Hunks remember'd quickly ; 
 His whistle all at once was quell' d, 
 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 
 Till well 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 word before he used the sickle ; 
 But mercy was not long attendant : 
 From words at last he took to blows 
 And aim'd a cut at Hunks's nose, 
 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 veiy nick. 
 
 To put Maloney to the scamper. 
 
 But still compassion met a damper ; 
 
 There lay the sever'd nose, alas ! 
 
 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 I 
 
 Away ran Hodge to get assistance,
 
 A TRUE STORY. 313 
 
 With nose in hand, which Hunks ran after, 
 But somewhat at unusual distance. 
 
 In many a httle 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, 
 
 Physician — surgeon — drug-decocter ; 
 
 Thus Hunks was forced to go once more 
 
 Where 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 look'd and saw the case 
 Plain as the nose not on his face. 
 " ! 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 strapp'd 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 
 Look'd half so like a ghost as Hunks, 
 Or surgeon half so like a devil 
 Prepared for some infernal revel :
 
 314 A TRUE STORY. 
 
 His huge black eye kept rolling, rolling, 
 
 Just like a bolus in a box, 
 
 His fury seem'd above controlling, 
 
 He bellow' d like a hunted ox : 
 
 " Now, swindling wi'etch, I'll show thee how 
 
 We treat such cheating knaves as thou j 
 
 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 sciuwy 
 
 And cruel way of venting passion ; 
 
 The snubbing folks in this new fashion 
 
 Seem'd quite to turn him toj^sy tmwy ; 
 
 He utter'd 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 ! 
 
 In fancy he beheld his snout 
 
 Tum'd upward like a pitcher's spout ; 
 
 There was another gi'ievance 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
 
 A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 315 
 
 To cause a very serious flinching ; 
 In short, he paid and had the feature 
 Replaced as it was meant by nature ; 
 For though by this 'twas cold to handle, 
 (No corpse's could have felt more hon-id,) 
 And white just like an end of candle, 
 The doctor deem'd and proved it too, 
 That noses from the nose will do 
 As well as noses from the forehead ; 
 So, fix'd by dint of rag and lint. 
 The part was bandaged up and muffled. 
 The chair unfasten' d. Hunks arose. 
 And shuffled out, for once unshuffled ; 
 And as he went these words he snuffled — 
 " Well, this is ' paying through the nose.' " 
 
 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. 
 
 Aye, come, let us turn our attention behind, 
 
 Like those critics whose heads are so heavy, I fear. 
 
 That they cannot keep up with the mai'ch of the mind. 
 And so turn face about for reviewins: the rear.
 
 3ie A PAKTHIAN GLANCE. 
 
 Looking over Time's crupper and over his tail, 
 Oh, what ages and pages there are to revise ! 
 
 And as farther our back-searching glances prevail. 
 Like the emmets, " how little we are in our eyes ! " 
 
 What a sweet pretty innocent, half-a-yard long. 
 
 On a dimity lap of true nm'sery make ! 
 I can fancy I hear the old lullaby song 
 
 That was meant to compose me, but kept me awake. 
 
 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 di'eamt they were driving them in ! 
 
 Infant soitows are strong — infant pleasures as weak — 
 But no grief was allow' d to indulge in its note ; 
 
 Did you ever attempt a small " bubble and squeak," 
 Through the Dalby's Carminative down in your throat 1 
 
 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 
 
 " Heads or tails," with a child, an unpleasantish game ! 
 
 Then an lu'chin — I see myself urchin indeed — 
 
 With a smooth Sunday face for a mother's delight ; 
 
 Why should weeks have an end ? — I am sure there was need 
 Of a Sabbath, to follow each Saturday-night. 
 
 Was your face ever sent to the housemaid to sci-ub 1 
 Have you ever felt huckaback soften' d with sand ? 
 
 Had you ever your nose towell'd up to a snub, 
 
 And your eyes knuckled out with the back of the hand?
 
 A PARTHIAN GLANCE. 317 
 
 Then a school-boy — 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 ! 
 
 What a figure it cut when as Norval I spoke ! 
 
 With a lanky right leg duly planted before ; 
 Whilst I told of the chief that was kill'd by my stroke, 
 
 And extended mij arms as " the arms that he wore ! " 
 
 Next a Lover — Oh ! say, were you ever in love % 
 With a lady too cold — and your bosom too hot % 
 
 Have you bow'd to a shoe-tie, and knelt to a glove, 
 Like a heaii that desired to be tied in a knot % 
 
 With the Bride all in white, and yom- body in blue. 
 Did you walk up the aisle — the geuteelest of men % 
 
 When I think of that beautiful vision anew. 
 Oh ! I seem but the hiffijn of what I was then ! 
 
 I am wither' d and worn by a premature care, 
 And 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 wi'iting for bays !
 
 318 
 
 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 
 
 There's some is born with their straight legs by natur — 
 
 And some is born with bow-legs from the first — 
 
 And some that should have grow'd a good deal straight er, 
 
 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 warp'd my legs. — 
 'Twas aU along of Poll, as I may say. 
 That foul'd my cable when I ought to slip ; 
 But on the tenth of May, 
 When I gets under weigh, 
 Down there in Hertfordshire, 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 wam'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
 
 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 319 
 
 I just makes free to cut a bro^ai 'un's cable. 
 But ridiug isn't in a seaman's natur — 
 So I whips out a toughisli end of yam, 
 And gets a kind of sort of a land-waiter 
 
 To splice me, heel to heel. 
 
 Under the she-mare's keel, 
 And off I goes, and leaves the inn a-stam ! 
 
 My eyes ! how she did pitch ! 
 And wouldn't keep her own to go in no line, 
 Though I kept bowsing, bowsing at her bow-line, 
 But always making lee-way to the ditch, 
 And yaw'd her head about all sorts of ways. 
 
 The devil sink the craft ! 
 And wasn't she trimendous 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 1) — 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 ! 
 
 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 burth though howsomdever,
 
 320 A SAILOR'S APOLOGY FOR BOW-LEGS. 
 
 Because the yarn, you see, kept getting tauter, — 
 Says I — I wish this job was rather shorter ! 
 
 The chase had gain'd 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 swell' d, and swell' d, 
 
 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 to split. 
 And her tarnation hull a-growing rounder 1 
 
 Well, there — off Hartford Ness, 
 We lay both lash'd and water-logg'd together, 
 
 And can't contrive a signal of distress ; 
 Thinks I, we must ride out this here foul weather. 
 Though sick of riding out — and nothing less ; 
 AVhen, 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 consarn, 
 
 A-standing by the water. 
 If I get on another, I'll be blow'd ! — 
 And that's the way, you see, my legs got bow'd !
 
 ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ. 321 
 
 [The following appeared in the " Literary Gazette."] 
 
 ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.^ 
 
 BLAdLSMITH AXD JOINER (WITHOUT LICENSE) AT GRETNA GREEN. 
 
 Ah me ! what causes such complaining breath, 
 
 Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow ? 
 It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death, 
 For laying Laiug low ! 
 From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe — 
 A shrill and persevering loud lament, 
 Echoed by Mi-s. J.'s Establishment 
 " 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, 
 And all the nineteen scholars of Miss Jones 
 With the two parlour-boardei-s and th' apprentice — 
 So universal this mis-timed event is — 
 Are joining sobs and groans ! 
 The shock confounds all hymeneal planners 
 
 And drives the sweetest from their sweet behaviours : 
 The girls at Manor House forget their manners, 
 
 And utter sighs like pavioius ! 
 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 ! 
 
 • On the 3rd iust., died in Springfield, near Gretna Green, David Laing, 
 aged seventy-two, who had for thirty-five years officiated as high-priest at 
 Gretna Green. He caught cold on his way to Lancaster, to give evidence 
 on the trial of the "Wakefields, from the effects of which he never recovered, 
 —Newspapers, July, 1827. See •' Ode to Gibbon Wakefield," p. 443. 
 
 VOL. I. Y
 
 322 ELEGY ON DAVID LAIJ^G, ESQ. 
 
 Along the northern route 
 The road is water' d by postilions' eyes ; 
 
 The topboot paces pensively about, 
 And yellow jackets are all strained with sighs ; 
 There is a sound of gi-ieving 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 way-worn horses seem so glad to slip — 
 
 And think upon the dollars 
 That used to m'ge his gaUop— quicker ! quicker ! 
 All hope is fled, 
 For Laing is dead — 
 Vicar of Wakefield— Edward Gibbon's vicar ! 
 
 The banisters 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 heu-egses 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 Im-e young ladies from their Chamhaud. 
 
 Sleep— David Laing— sleep 
 In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee !
 
 SONNET. 323 
 
 Over 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 shouldst have gone thy ways 
 In chaise and pair — and lain in Pere-la-Chaise ! 
 
 [The next, a Sonnet, appeared in the '' Literary Souvenir" in 1827. 
 My father's high estimate of " Immortal Will's " writing will be seen 
 from an Essay in the " Xew Monthly" for 1842, and "The Plea of the 
 Fairies."] 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 WRITTEN" IN A VOLUME OF RHAKSPEARE. 
 
 How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky 
 
 The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled ! 
 
 Hues of all flow'rs, 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, 
 
 And warms their scutcheons with a glance of gold ! — 
 
 Such is the memory of poets old, 
 
 WTio on Parnassus-hill have bloom'd elate ; 
 
 Now they are laid under their marbles cold, 
 
 And tum'd to clay, whereof they were create ; 
 
 But god Apollo hath them all enroll' d, 
 
 And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate ! 
 
 Y 2
 
 324 A EETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 
 
 [The following Poem also appeared in the "Literary Souvenir " for 
 this year, together with the Ballad which comes after it.] 
 
 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 tear-di'op 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 aU 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 cajDering, 
 
 And harness'd to the law ! 
 
 My kite — how fast and far it flew ! 
 Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, di-ew 
 
 My pleasure from the sky ! 
 'Twas paper'd o'er with studious themes. 
 The tasks I wrote — my present dreams 
 
 Will never soar so high !
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE RE VIEW. 32i 
 
 My joys are wingless all and dead ; 
 My dumps are made of more than lead ; 
 
 My flights soon find a fall ; 
 My fears prevail, my fancies droop, 
 Joy never cometh with a hoop, 
 
 And seldom with a call ! 
 
 My football's laid upon the shelf; 
 I am a shuttlecock myself 
 
 The world knocks to and fro ; — 
 My archery is all unlearn'd. 
 And grief against myself has tm-n'd 
 
 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 pain'd 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 gi-een 
 
 As clothed the playgi'ound tree ! 
 All things I loved are alter' d so, 
 Nor does it ease my heart to know 
 
 That change resides in me !
 
 326 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 
 
 Oh for the garb that mark'd the boy, 
 The trousers made of corduroy, 
 
 Well ink'd with black and red ; 
 The crownless hat, ne'er deem'd an ill — 
 It only let the sunshine still 
 
 Repose upon my head ! 
 
 Oh for the riband round the neck ! 
 The careless dogs'-ears apt to deck 
 
 My book and collar both ! 
 How can this formal man be styled 
 Merely an Alexandrine child, 
 
 A boy of larger gi'owth ? 
 
 Oh for that small, small beer anew ! 
 
 And (heaven's own type) that mild sky-blue 
 
 That wash'd my sweet meals down ; 
 The master even ! — and that small Tm-k 
 That fagg'd me ! — worse is now my work — 
 
 A fag for all the town ! 
 
 Oh for the lessons learn'd by heart ! 
 Ay, thoiigh the very birch's smart 
 
 Should mark those hours again ; 
 I'd " kiss the rod," and be resign'd 
 Beneath the stroke, and even find 
 
 Some sugar in the cane ! 
 
 The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed ! 
 The Fairy Tales in school-time read. 
 
 By stealth, 'twixt verb and noun ! 
 The angel form that always walk'd 
 In all my dreams, and look'd and talk'd 
 
 Exactly like Miss Brown !
 
 BALLAD. 32/ 
 
 The omne bene — Christmas come ! 
 The prize of merit, won for home — 
 
 Merit had i^rizes 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 Hke rams' ! 
 The meeting sweet that made me thrill, 
 The sweetmeats, almost sweeter still, 
 
 No ' satis ' to the 'jams ! ' — 
 
 When 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 tear-di^op from my eye, 
 
 To cast a look behind ! 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 It was not in the Winter 
 
 Oiur loving lot was cast ; 
 It was the Time of Roses, — 
 
 We pluck' d them as we pass'd ! 
 
 That churlish season never frown'd 
 
 On early lovers yet : — • 
 Oh, no — the world was newly crown' d 
 
 With flowers when first we met !
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 
 
 'Twas twilight, and I bade you go, 
 
 But still you held me fast ; 
 It was the Time of Roses, — 
 
 We pluck'd them as we pass'd. — 
 
 What else could peer thy glowing cheek, 
 
 That tears began to stud 1 
 And when I ask'd the like of Love, 
 
 You snatch' d a damask bud ; 
 
 And oped it to the dainty core. 
 
 Still glowing to the last. — 
 It was the Time of Roses, 
 
 We pluck'd them as we pass'd ! 
 
 [This Poem is also from the " Literary Souvenir." Tom Woodgate, 
 of Hastings, was no ideal personage, but a regular old salt, with whom 
 my father, ever passionately fond of the sea, had spent many a plea- 
 sant hour on the waters.] 
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, 
 
 OF HASTINGS. 
 
 Tom ; — are you still within this land 
 Of livers — still on Hastings' sand. 
 
 Or roaming on the waves 1 
 Or has some billow o'er you rolled, 
 Jealous that earth should lap so bold 
 
 A seaman in her graves 1 
 
 On land the rushlight lives of men 
 Go out but slowly ; nine in ten,
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 
 
 By tedious long decline — 
 Not so the jolly sailor sinks, 
 Who founders in the wave, and drinks 
 
 The apoplectic brine ! 
 
 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 good- will"' 
 A little hunting thing — but still 
 
 To thee a flag of pride ? 
 
 Does that hard, honest hand now clasp 
 The tiller in its careful grasp — 
 
 With every summer breeze 
 When ladies sail, in lady-fear — 
 Or, tug the oar, a gondolier 
 
 On smooth Macadam seas ? 
 
 Or are you where the flounders keep. 
 Some dozen briny fathoms deep. 
 
 Where sand and shells abound — 
 With some old Triton on your chest. 
 And twelve grave mermen for a 'quest, 
 
 To find that you are — drown'd 1 
 
 iviy father made Wood gate a present, in the shape of a small flag.
 
 330 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 
 
 Swift is the wave, and apt to bring 
 A sudden doom — perchance I sing 
 
 A mere funereal strain ; 
 You have endm-ed the utter strife — 
 And are — the same in death or life — 
 
 A good man ' in the main ' ! 
 
 Oh, no — I hope the old brown eye 
 Still watches ebb, and flood, and sky ; 
 
 That still the brown old shoes 
 Are sucking brine up — pumps indeed I — 
 Your tooth still full of ocean weed. 
 
 Or Indian — which you choose. 
 
 I like you, Tom ! and in these lays 
 Give honest worth its honest praise. 
 
 No puff at honour's cost ; 
 For though you met these words of mine, 
 All letter-learning was a line 
 
 You, somehow, never cross' d ! 
 
 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 may we float awhile together, 
 
 As comrades on this ink ! 
 
 Many a scudding gale we've had 
 Together, and, my gallant lad. 
 
 Some perils we have pass'd ; 
 When huge and black the wave career' d, 
 And oft the giant surge appear'd 
 
 The master of our mast ; —
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 331 
 
 'Twas thy example taught me how 
 To climb the billow's hoary brow, 
 
 Or cleave the raging heap — 
 To boimd along the ocean wild, 
 With danger — only as a child 
 
 The waters rock'd to sleep. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I yeam 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." 
 
 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.
 
 332 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 
 
 It is no fable — that old strain 
 Of syrens ! — so the witching main 
 
 Is singing — and I sigh ! 
 My heart is all at once inclined 
 To seaward — and I seem to find 
 
 The waters in my eye ! 
 
 Methinks I see the shining beach ; 
 The meny 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 ! 
 
 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 ! 
 
 My tiller dwindles to a pen — 
 My craft is that of bookish men — 
 
 My sail — let Longman tell ! 
 Adieu, the wave, the wind, the spray ! 
 Men — maidens — chintzes — fade away ! 
 
 Tom Woodgate, fare thee well !
 
 TIME, HOPE, Als^D MEMORY. 333 
 
 [Tliis appears in "Friendship's Offering" for 1827, as also do the 
 poem entitled " Flowers," and the BalJad Avliich follows it.] 
 
 TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY. 
 
 I HEARD a gentle maiden, in the spring, 
 Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing : 
 " Fly through the world, and I will follow thee. 
 Only for looks that may turn back on me ; 
 
 " Only for roses that your chance may throw — 
 Though wither' d — I will wear them on my brow, 
 To be a thoughtful fragrance to my brain, — 
 Warm'd with such love, that they will bloom again. 
 
 " Thy love before thee, I must tread behind, 
 Kissing thy foot-prints, though to me unkind ; 
 But trust not all her fondness, though it seem, . 
 Lest thy true love should rest on a false dream. 
 
 " Her face is smiling, and her voice is sweet ; 
 
 But smiles betray, and music sings deceit ; 
 
 And words speak false ; — yet, if they welcome prove, 
 
 I '11 be their echo, and repeat their love. 
 
 " Only if waken'd to sad truth, at last. 
 The bitterness to come, and sweetness past ; 
 When thou art vext, then turn again, and see 
 Thou hast loved Hope, but Memory loved thee."
 
 334 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 I WILL not have the mad Clytie 
 Whose head is turn'd by the sun ; 
 The tulip is a courtly quean, 
 Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 
 The cowslip is a countiy wench. 
 The violet is a nun ; — 
 But I will woo the dainty rose. 
 The queen of every one. 
 
 The pea is but a wanton witch, 
 In too much haste to wed, 
 And clasps her rings on every hand ; 
 The wolfsbane I should di^ead ; 
 Nor will I dreary rosemarye, 
 That always mourns the dead ; — 
 But I will woo the dainty rose. 
 With her cheeks of tender red. 
 
 The lily is all in white, like a saint, 
 
 And so is no mate for me — 
 
 And the daisy's cheek is tipp'd with a blush, 
 
 She is of such low degree ; 
 
 Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves. 
 
 And the broom's betroth'd to the bee : — 
 
 But I will plight with the dainty rose. 
 
 For fairest of all is she.
 
 335 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 She's up and gone, the graceless gii-1, 
 
 And robb'd my failing years ! 
 My blood before was thin and cold 
 
 But now 'tis turn'd to tears ; — 
 My shadow falls upon my gTave, 
 
 So near the brink I stand, 
 She might have stay'd 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 widen'd 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 will turn again 
 
 To meet her father's will !
 
 336 RUTH. 
 
 [This Poem appears in the " Forget-Me-Not." 
 
 EUTH. 
 
 She stood breast high amid the corn 
 Clasp' d by the golden light of morn, 
 Like the sweetheart of the smi, 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush, 
 Deeply ripen'd ; — such a blush 
 In the midst of brown was bom, 
 Like red poppies gro^Ti with com. 
 
 Eound her eyes her tresses fell. 
 Which were blackest none could tell, 
 But long lashes veil'd 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 stooks. 
 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 PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 337 
 
 [In this year my father published the ** Plea of the Midsummer 
 Fairies," not a very successful venture at the time. Most of the minor 
 pieces contained in it had appeared before. It was ushered in by the 
 following dedication.] 
 
 TO CHARLES LAMB. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I THANK my literary fortune that I 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 affec- 
 tion points,, and honest respect, I am free to gratify my head and heart 
 by a sincere inscription. An intimacy and deaniess, 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 literature, save Elia 
 himself, will think disproportionate 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 following Poem, to celebrate by an allegory, 
 that immortality which Shakspeare has conferred on the Faiiy mytho- 
 logy 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 beautiful 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 linked them by so many delightful 
 associations 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. 
 
 VOL. I. Z
 
 338 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 '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. 
 
 Touch' d with the dewy sadness of the time. 
 
 To think how the bright months had spent their prime, 
 
 So that, wherever I address' d my way, 
 
 I seem'd to track the melancholy feet 
 
 Of him that is the Father of Decay, 
 
 And spoils at once the som- weed and the sweet ; — 
 
 Wherefore regretfully I made retreat 
 
 To some unwasted regions of my brain, 
 
 Charm' d with the light of summer and the heat, 
 
 And bade that bounteous season bloom again. 
 
 And sprout fresh flowers in mine own domain. 
 
 It was a shady and sequester'd scene, 
 Like those famed gardens of Boccaccio, 
 Planted with his own lam'els ever green. 
 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
 
 THE TLExV OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 339 
 
 Athwart the dappled path their dancing shades, — 
 With timid coneys cropping the green blades. 
 
 And there were crystal pools, peopled with fish, 
 Argent and gold ; and some of Tyrian skin, 
 Some crimson-barr'd ; — and ever at a wish 
 They rose obsequious till the wave grew thin 
 As glass upon their backs, and then dived in, 
 Quenching their ardent scales in watery gloom ; 
 Whilst others with fresh hues row'd forth to win 
 My changeable regard, — for so we doom 
 Things 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 faiiy errands come and go, 
 With accents magical ; — and all were tame. 
 And pecked at my hand where'er I came. 
 
 And for my sylvan company, in lieu 
 Of PamjDinea with her lively peers, 
 Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew. 
 All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears. 
 For she was gi'acious to my childish years. 
 And made me free of her enchant^ round ; 
 Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears, 
 And plants her court upon a verdant mound, 
 Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound. 
 
 z 2
 
 340 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 " 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 shi'iek, 
 Like a fray'd bird in the grey owlet's beak. 
 
 And lo ! upon my fix'd delighted ken 
 Appear' d the loyal Fays. — Some by degrees 
 Crept from the primrose buds that open'd 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 
 Dropp'd, like shed blossoms, silent to the grass. 
 Spirits and elfins small, of every class. 
 
 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 wash'd her car. 
 And still bedew'd it with a vaiious stain : 
 Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, 
 Who bears all fairy embassies afar. 
 
 But Oberon, that night elsewhere exiled. 
 Was absent, whether some distemper'd spleen
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 341 
 
 Kept him and his fair mate nnrcconciled, 
 
 Or warfare with the Gnome (whose race had been 
 
 Sometime obnoxious), kept him from his queen, 
 
 And made her now peruse the stariy skies 
 
 Prophetical, with such an absent mien ; 
 
 Howbeit, the tears stole often to her eyes. 
 
 And oft the Moon was incensed with her sighs — 
 
 "Which made the elves sport drearily, and soon 
 Their hushing dances langiiish'd to a stand, 
 Like midnight leaves, when, as the Zephyrs swoon, 
 All on their drooping stems they sink unfann'd, — 
 So into silence droop' d the fairy band. 
 To see their empress dear so pale and still, 
 Crowding her softly round on either hand. 
 As pale as frosty snowdrops, and as chill, 
 To whom the sceptred dame reveals her ill. 
 
 " Alas," quoth she, " ye know our fairy lives 
 Are leased upon the fickle faith of men j 
 Not measured out against Fate's mortal knives, 
 Like human gossamei-s, — we perish when 
 We fade and are forgot in worldly ken, — 
 Though poesy has thus prolong' d 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. 
 
 " 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, —
 
 342 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Whenever to the clouds I tried to seek, 
 Such leaden weight dragg'd these Icarian wings, 
 My faithless wand was wavering and weak. 
 And slimy toads had trespass'd in our rings — 
 The birds refused to sing for me — all things 
 Disown' d their old allegiance to our spells ; 
 The rude bees prick'd me with their rebel stings ; 
 And, when I pass'd, the valley-lily's bells 
 Rang out, methought, most melancholy knells. 
 
 " And ever on the faint and flagging aii' 
 
 A doleful spirit with a dreary note 
 
 Cried in my fearful ear, ' Prepare ! prepare ! ' 
 
 Which soon I knew came from a raven's throat. 
 
 Perch' d 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 ! — 
 
 " 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,
 
 THE PLEA OF THE :MIDSUMMER FAirvIES. 343 
 
 With wicked might grieved the primeval ball, 
 And this was sure the deadliest of them all ! 
 
 " 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 gather' d from Ceres' sheaves, 
 Entwined with certain sere and russet leaves. 
 
 " And lo ! upon a mast rear'd far aloft, 
 He bore a very bright and crescent blade, 
 The which he waved so dreadfully, and oft, 
 In meditative spite, that, sore dismay' d, 
 I crept into an acorn-cup for shade ; 
 Meanwhile the horrid effigy went by : 
 I trow his look was dreadful, for it made 
 The trembling birds betake them to the sky, 
 For every leaf was lifted by his sigh, 
 
 " And ever, as he sigh'd, his foggy breath 
 Blurr'd 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 lean'd his back against an antique oak, 
 Folding his wings, that were so fine and thin, 
 They scarce were seen against the Dryad's skin.
 
 344 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 Then what a fear seized all the little rout ! 
 Look how a flock of panic' d sheep will stare — 
 And huddle close — and start — and wheel about, 
 AVatching the roaming mongTcl here and there, — 
 So did that sudden Apparition scare 
 AU close aheap those small affi-ighted things ; 
 Nor sought they now the safety of the air, 
 As if some leaden spell withheld their wings ; 
 But who can fly that ancientest of Kings ? 
 
 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 wither'd leaves to ravish from the tree, — 
 Or crumbling battlements for thy defeat ? 
 Think but what vaunting monuments there be 
 Builded in spite and mockeiy of thee. 
 
 " fret away the fabric walls of Fame, 
 And grind down marble Csesars 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. 
 
 " Frail feeble sprites ! — the children of a dream ! 
 Leased on the sufferance of fickle men.
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. Ml 
 
 Like motes dependent on the sunny beam, 
 
 Living but in the sun's indulgent ken, 
 
 And when that hght withdraws, withdrawing then ; — 
 
 So do we flutter in the glance of youth 
 
 And fervid fancy, — and so perish when 
 
 The eye of faith growls aged ; — in sad truth, 
 
 Feeling thy sway, Time ! though not thy tooth ! 
 
 " Where be those old divinities forlorn, 
 That dwelt in trees, or haunted in a stream ? 
 Alas ! their memories are dimm'd and torn. 
 Like the remainder 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. 
 spare us then, — and these our pretty elves, — 
 We soon, alas ! shall perish of ourselves ! " 
 
 Now as she ended, with a sigh, to name 
 Those old Olympians, scatter'd by the whirl 
 Of Fortune's giddy wheel and brought to shame, 
 Methought a scornful and malignant curl 
 Show'd on the lips of that malicious churl, 
 To think what noble havocs he had made ; 
 So that I fear'd he all at once would hurl 
 The harmless fairies into endless shade, — 
 Howbeit he stopp'd awhile to whet his blade. 
 
 Pity it was to hear the elfins' wail 
 
 Rise 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,
 
 346 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 will here enlace 
 Till I have gain'd your pity for our race. 
 
 " 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 Faiiy band. 
 
 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, —
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 34! 
 
 And his voice was sweet, touch'd with the gloom 
 Of that sad theme that argued of his doom ! 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 feather' d throng, 
 And strain in rivalship each throbbing throat, 
 Singing in shrill responses aU day long, 
 Whilst the glad truant listens to our song. 
 
 '•' Wherefore, great King of Years, as thou dost love 
 The raining music from a morning cloud, 
 When vanish' d larks are carolling above, 
 To wake Apollo with their pipings loud ; — 
 If ever thou hast heard in leafy shroud 
 The sweet and plaintive Sappho of the dell, 
 Show thy sweet mercy on this little crowd, 
 And we will muffle up the sheepfokl bell 
 Whene'er thou listeuest to Philomel."
 
 348 THE PLEA OE THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 Then Satui-n 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 range 
 Through all things mutable, from change to change 
 
 " But wouldst thou hear the melodies of Time, 
 Listen when sleep and drowsy darkness roll 
 Over hush'd cities, and the midnight chime 
 Sounds from their hundi'ed 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 elegise the whole,' — 
 then I clap aloft my brave broad wings, 
 And make the wide air tremble while it rings ! " 
 
 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, so 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. 
 
 " The pastoral cowslips are our little pets. 
 And daisy stars, whose firmament is gi-een ;
 
 THE TLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 349 
 
 Pansies, and those veil'd nuns, meek violets, 
 Sighing to that warm world from which they screen ; 
 And golden daffodils, pluck'd for May's Queen ; 
 And lonely harebells, quaking on the heath ; 
 And Hyacinth, long since a fair youth seen. 
 Whose tuneful voice, turn'd fragrance in his breath, 
 Kiss'd by sad ZeiAijr, guilty of his death. 
 
 " The widow' d primi^ose weeping to the moon 
 And saffron crocus in whose chalice bright 
 A cool libation hoarded for the noon 
 Is kept — and she that purifies the light, 
 The vu'gin lily, faithful to her white. 
 Whereon Eve wept in Eden for her shame ; 
 And the most dainty rose, Aurora's spright. 
 Our every godchild, by whatever name — 
 Spare us our lives, for we did nurse the same ! " 
 
 Then that old Mower stamp'd his heel, and struck 
 His hm-tful scythe against the harmless ground, 
 Saying, " Ye foolish imps, when am I stuck 
 With gaudy buds, or like a wooer cro\vn'd 
 With flow'ry chaplets, save when they are found 
 Wither' d ? — \Vhenever have I pluck'd a rose, 
 Except to scatter its vain leaves around 1 
 For so all gloss of beauty I oppose, 
 And bring decay on every flow'r that blows. 
 
 " 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 heap'd gi-eat wrecks 
 
 Of yeai's on yeai's ? — then I bravely vex
 
 350 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 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." 
 
 Then saith another, " We are kindly things, 
 And like her offspring nestle with the dove, — 
 "Witness these hearts embroider' d on our wings. 
 To show our constant patronage of love : — 
 We sit at even, in sweet bow'rs 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. 
 
 " 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 little merry 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. 
 
 " then, if ever thou hast breathed a vow 
 
 At Love's dear portal, or at pale moon-rise 
 
 Onish'd 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,
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FATPJES. 351 
 
 Or glad thy fingers on his smooth soft skin, 
 For Love's dear sake, let us thy pity win ! " 
 
 Then Saturn fiercely thus : — "What joy have I 
 In tender babes, that have devour'd mine own, 
 Whenever to the light I heard them crj^ 
 Till foolish Rhea cheated me with stone ? 
 Whereon, till now, is my great hunger shown. 
 In monstrous dint 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 ! 
 
 '' For I am well nigh crazed and wild to hear 
 How boastfid fathers taunt me with their breed, 
 Saying, * We shall not die nor disappear, 
 But, in these other selves, ourselves succeed 
 Ev'n as ripe flowers pass into their seed 
 Only to be renew'd 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. 
 
 " 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 plann'd. 
 Ravishing hours in little minutes spann'd ; 
 But when they say farewell, and gi*ieve apart. 
 Then like a leaden statue I will stand. 
 Meanwhile their many tears encrust my dart. 
 And with a ragged edge cut heai-t from heart."
 
 352 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 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 
 Nm'sed in the liberty of old Sherwood, 
 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, 
 Dofi6.ng his cap, which was an acorn's cup : — 
 
 *' We be small foresters and gay, who tend 
 On trees, and all their furnitm-e 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, seeu. 
 Will bear black poisonous berries to her nest. 
 Lest man should cage the darlings of her breast. 
 
 " 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. 
 
 " Sometimes we scoop the squirrel's hollow cell, 
 And sometimes carve quaint letters on trees' rind,
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 353 
 
 That haply some lone musing wight may spell 
 
 Dainty Aminta, — Gentle Rosalind, — 
 
 Or chastest Laura, — sweetly call'd to mind 
 
 In sylvan solitudes, ere he lies down : — 
 
 And sometimes we enrich gi'cy stems with twined 
 
 And vagrant ivy, — or rich moss, whose brown 
 
 Burns into gold as the warm sun goes down. 
 
 " And, lastly, for mirth's sake and Christmas cheer. 
 We bear the seedling ben-ies, 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 om* lives for the Green Dryad's sake." 
 
 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, — 
 
 Wliich in the bleak air I would rather see, 
 
 Than flights of the most tuneful birds that be. 
 
 " 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 ciTimbled tower it seems to league withal, 
 King-like, worn down by its own coronal : —
 
 354 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 ; — 
 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 reckon'd a discarded thing." 
 
 Here in my dream it made me fret to see 
 
 How Puck, the antic, all this dreary while 
 
 Had blithely jested with calamity. 
 
 With mis-timed 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. 
 
 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 garner up his wheat, — 
 And rustic masonry to swallows fleet, — 
 The lapwing's cunning to preserve her nest, — 
 But most, that lesser pelican, the sweet
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 355 
 
 And shrilly ruddock, with its bleeding breast, 
 Its tender pitj of poor babes distrest. 
 
 " 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 silk- worm, pattern' d by ourselves : 
 Sometimes we travail on the summer shelves 
 Of early bees, and busy toils commence, 
 Watch'd of wise men, that know not we are elves. 
 But gaze and marvel at our stretch of sense, 
 And praise our human-like intelligence. 
 
 " Wherefore, by thy delight in that old tale. 
 And plaintive dirges the late robins sing. 
 What time the leaves are scatter' d 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." 
 
 " 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 pass'd 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 siu^'cy." 
 
 A A 2
 
 356 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 Then came an elf, right beauteous to behold, 
 Whose coat was like a brooklet that the sun 
 Hath all embroider'd 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. 
 
 Quoth he, — " We bear the gold and silver keys 
 
 Of bubbling springs and foimtains, that below 
 
 Course thro' the veiny earth, — which when they freeze 
 
 Into hard crysolites, we bid to flow, 
 
 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 tuned their smoothest madi'igals. 
 
 To sing to ladies in their banquet-halls. 
 
 " 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 ri\Tilet, that all forsook 
 
 The Naiad-lily, pining for her brook. 
 
 " Wherefore, by thy delight in cool green meads, 
 With living sapphires daintily inlaid, —
 
 THE TLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 357 
 
 111 all soft songs of waters and their reeds, — 
 And all reflections in a streamlet made, 
 Haply of thy own love, that, disarray' d. 
 Kills the fair lily with a livelier white, — 
 By silver trouts upspringing from green shade, 
 And winking stars reduplicate at night. 
 Spare us, j)oor ministers to such delight." 
 
 Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks 
 
 Moved not the spiteful Shade : — Quoth he," Yom- 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 neighbom-'d with a king that rivals me 
 
 In ancient might and hoary majesty. 
 
 "Whereas I ruled in Chaos, and still keep 
 
 The awful secrets of that ancient dearth, 
 
 Before the briny fountains of the deep 
 
 Brimm'd 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. 
 
 " Where now is Titan, with his cumbrous brood. 
 
 That scared the world ? — By this shai*p scythe they fell, 
 
 And half the sky was curdled with their blood : 
 
 So have all primal giants sigh'd farewell. 
 
 No wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell,
 
 35S THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIEIES. 
 
 Nor 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 ! " 
 
 Then saith the timid Fay — " Oh, mighty Time ! 
 Well hast thou wrought the cruel Titans' fall, 
 For they were stain' d with many a bloody crime : 
 Great giants work great wi'ongs, — but we are small, 
 For love goes lowly ; — but Oppression 's tall. 
 And with surpassing strides goes foremost still 
 "VVTiere love indeed can hardly reach at all ; 
 Like a poor dwarf o'erburthen'd with good will, 
 That labours to efface the tracks of ill. — 
 
 " Man even strives with Man, but we eschew 
 The guilty feud, and all fierce strifes abhor ; 
 Nay, we are gentle as the sweet heaven's dew. 
 Beside the red and horrid drops of war. 
 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 gi-acious heart is harden'd quite. 
 
 " 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 ; —
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. S59 
 
 So judge us by the helps we showed this morn, 
 To one who held his wretched days iu scoru. 
 
 '"Twas nigh sweet Amwell ; — for the Queen had task'd 
 Oui* skill to-day amidst the silver Lea, 
 Whereon the noontide sun had not yet bask'd ; 
 Wherefore some patient man we thought to see, 
 Planted in moss-grown 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. 
 
 " His face was ashy pale, and leaden care 
 Had sunk the levell'd arches of his brow. 
 Once bridges, for his joyous thoughts to fai'e 
 Over those melancholy springs and slow. 
 That from his piteous eyes began to flow. 
 And fell anon into the chilly stream ; 
 Which, as his mimick'd image show'd below, 
 Wrinkled his face with many a needless seam. 
 Making grief sadder in its own esteem. 
 
 " And lo ! upon the air we saw him stretch 
 His passionate arms ; and, in a wayward strain, 
 He 'gan to elegize that fellow wretch 
 That with mute gestures answer'd 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 ! '
 
 360 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIEIES. 
 
 " 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 sln-ewd 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. 
 
 " Therefore, as still he watch'd the water's flow, 
 Daintily we transform'd, 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 oui' pranks admire. 
 
 " And so he banish'd 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's grace, 
 
 He met a gentle haunter of the place. 
 
 Full of sweet wisdom gather' d from the brooks, 
 
 Who there discuss' d his melancholy case 
 
 With wholesome texts learn'd from kind nature's books, 
 
 Meanwhile he newly trimm'd his lines and hooks." 
 
 Herewith the Fairy ceased. Quoth Ariel now — 
 " Let me remember how I saved a man.
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIEIES. 361 
 
 Whose fatal noose was fasten' cl on a bough, 
 Intended to abridge his sad hfe'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 follow' d him in all his ways, 
 
 " Through brake and tangled copse, for much he loathed 
 
 All populous haunts, and roam'd in forests rude, 
 
 To hide himself from man. But I had clothed 
 
 My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pursued, 
 
 Where only foxes and wild cats intrude, 
 
 Till we were come beside an ancient tree 
 
 Late blasted by a storm. Here he renew' d 
 
 His loud complaints, — choosing that spot to be 
 
 The scene of his last horrid tragedy. 
 
 " It was a wild and melancholy glen, 
 Made gloomy by tall firs and cypress dark. 
 Whose roots, like any bones of buried men, 
 Push'd 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 moss-grown and gi'ey. 
 
 " But here upon his final desperate clause 
 Suddenly I pronounced so sweet a strain. 
 Like a pang'd nightingale, it made him pause, 
 Till half the frenzy of his grief was slain. 
 The sad remainder oozing from his brain
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 Thus Ariel ended, and was some time hush'd : 
 
 When with the hoary shape a fresh tongue pleads, 
 
 And red as rose the gentle Fairy blush' d 
 
 To read the records of her own good deeds : — 
 
 " It chanced," quoth she, " in seeking through the meads 
 
 For honied cowslij)s, sweetest in the morn, 
 
 Whilst yet the buds w^ere hung wdth dewy beads. 
 
 And Echo answer'd to the huntsman's horn. 
 
 We found a babe left in the swarths forlorn. 
 
 " 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 banish'd from a mother's petting. 
 To churlish nm-ture and the wide w^orld'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. 
 
 " His pretty pouting mouth, witless of speech. 
 Lay half-way open like a rose-lipp'd shell ; 
 And his young cheek was softer than a peach, 
 Whereon his tears, for romidness, could not dwell, 
 But quickly roll'd themselves to pearls, and fell. 
 Some on the grass, and some against his hand. 
 Or haply wander' d to the dimpled w^ell,
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 363 
 
 Which love beside his mouth had sweetly plann'd, 
 Yet not for tears, but mirth and smilings bland. 
 
 " 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 
 Soften'd betwixt two clouds, both clear and mild ; — ■ 
 Just touch'd with thought, and yet not over wise, 
 They show'd the gentle spirit of a child, 
 Not yet by care or any craft defiled. 
 
 " Pity it was to see the ardent sun 
 Scorching his helpless limbs — it shone so warm ; 
 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, 
 
 " And sends full soon a tender-hearted hind. 
 Who, wond'ring 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 nm-tured in his kindly cot : — 
 But how he prospcr'd let proud London quote, 
 How wise, how rich, and how renown'd he got. 
 And chief of all her citizens, I wot.
 
 364 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 " "Witness his goodly vessels on the Thames, 
 
 "WTiose holds were fraught with costly merchandise, — 
 
 Jewels from Ind, and pearls for com:tly 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 — 
 
 " The tender grasshopper, his chosen crest, 
 
 That all the summer, with a tunef?il wing, 
 
 Makes merry chirpings in its grassy nest, 
 
 Insphited with dew to leap and sing : — 
 
 So let us also live, eternal King ! 
 
 Partakers of the green and j)leasant 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 ! 
 
 "Enough of pleasm-e, and delight, and beauty, 
 
 Perish' d 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 om' removing." 
 
 Now here I heard a shrill and sudden cry. 
 And, looking up, I saw the antic Puck
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 365 
 
 Grappling with Time, who clutch'd him like a %, 
 Victim of his own sport, — the jester's luck ! 
 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 snatch' d him now, 
 Ciying, "Thou impish mischief, who art thou?" 
 
 " Alas ! " quoth Puck, " a httle random elf, 
 Born in the sport of nature, like a weed, 
 For simple sweet enjoyment of myself, 
 But for no other pui-pose, 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 meny mummers t-^^ain on holy tides. 
 
 " '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 curdling 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 pm-pose to fulfil, 
 
 We have not wit enough, and scarce the will. 
 
 " 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 :
 
 36G THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMEE FAIRIES. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Beshrew those sad interpreters of nature, 
 
 Who gloze her lively universal law, 
 
 As if she had not form'd 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 nm^se November on the lap of June. 
 
 '•'For ours are winging sprites, .like any bird. 
 That shim all stagnant settlements of gi'ief ; 
 And even in om- rest our hearts are stirr d. 
 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 ? hoary chief ! 
 Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape. 
 And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape."' 
 
 Then Satura thus : — shaking his crooked blade 
 O'erhead, which made aloft a lightning flash 
 In all the fairies' eyes, dismally fray'd ! 
 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, —
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 367 
 
 To hope my solemn countenance to wring 
 To idiot smiles ! — but I will prune thy wing ! 
 
 " Lo ! this most awful handle of my scythe 
 Stood once a May-pole, with a flowery crown, 
 Which rustics danced around, and maidens blithe. 
 To wanton pipings ; — but I pluck'd it down, 
 And robed the May Queen in a churchyard gown, 
 Turning her buds to rosemary and rue ; 
 And all their merry minstrelsy did drown. 
 And laid each lusty leaper in the dew ; — 
 So thou shalt fare — and every jovial crew I " 
 
 Here he lets 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 sighs and tears and very sluieks of woe ! — 
 Meanwhile, some moving argument I plann'd. 
 To make the stern Shade merciful, — when lo ! 
 He drops his fatal scythe without a blow ! 
 
 For, just at need, a timely Apparition 
 
 Steps in between, to bear the awful brunt ; 
 
 Making him change his hoiTible position, 
 
 To marvel at this comer, brave and blunt. 
 
 That dares Time's irresistible affront. 
 
 Whose strokes have scaiT'd even the gods of old ; — 
 
 Whereas this seem'd a mortal, at mere hunt 
 
 For coneys, lighted by the moonshine cold. 
 
 Or stalker of stray deer, stealthy and bold.
 
 368 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 Who, turning to the small assembled fays, 
 DofFs to the lily queen his coui'teous cap, 
 And holds her beauty for a while 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 ; 
 And then upon old Saturn turns askance. 
 Exclaiming, with a glad and kindly glance : — 
 
 " Oh, these be Fancy's revellers by night ! 
 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 then- convener, 
 Forth from their flowery chambers, nothing loth, 
 W^ith lulling tunes to charm the air serener, 
 Or dance upon the grass to make it gTcener. 
 
 " These be the pretty genii of the flow'rs. 
 
 Daintily fed with honey and pure dew — 
 
 Midsummer's phantoms in her dreaming 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." 
 
 what a cry was Saturn's then ! — it made 
 
 The fairies quake. " What care I for their pranks,
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 369 
 
 However they may lovers choose to aid, 
 
 Or dance their roundelays on flow'ry banks 1 — 
 
 Long must they dance before they earn my thanks, — 
 
 So step aside, to some far safer spot, 
 
 Whilst with my hungry 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." 
 
 Anon, he raised afresh his weapon keen ; 
 But still the gi-acious Shade disarm'd his aim, 
 Stepping with brave alacrity between. 
 And made his sere arm powerless and tame. 
 His be perpetual glory, for the shame 
 Of hoary Saturn in that gi-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. 
 
 Saying, " Thou seest a wretched queen before thee, 
 
 The fading power of a failing land. 
 
 Who for a kingdom kneeleth to implore thee, 
 
 Now menaced by this tyrant'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 own vile sand, 
 
 Which only times all ruins by its drift. 
 
 Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift. 
 
 " Or take him by that sole and gTizzled tuft, 
 That hangs upon his bald and barren crown ; 
 And we will sing to see him so rebuflf'd. 
 And lend our little mights to pull him down, 
 And make brave sport of his malicious frown, 
 
 VOL. I. B B
 
 370 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 untarnish'd by the fogs of Fate, 
 Time's famous rival till the final date ! 
 
 " shield us then from this usurping Time, 
 And we will visit thee in moonlight dreams ; 
 And teach thee tunes, to wed imto thy rhyme, 
 And dance about thee in all midnight gleams. 
 Giving thee glimpses of our magic schemes, 
 Such as no mortal's eye hath ever 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 ! 
 
 " And we'll distill thee aromatic dews, 
 
 To charm thy sense, when there shall be no flow'rs 
 
 And flavour' d syrups in thy di'inks infuse, 
 
 And teach the nightingale to haunt thy bow'rs, 
 
 And with oiu: games divert thy weariest hours, 
 
 With all that elfin wits can e'er devise. 
 
 And, this churl dead, there'll be no hasting hom-s
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 371 
 
 To rob thee of th}^ joys, as now joy flies : " — 
 Here she was stopp'd by Saturn's furious cries. 
 
 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 flow'rs turn pale, and droop : 
 Or fell the bearded com, till gleaners stoop 
 Under fat sheaves, — or blast the piny grove ; — 
 But here thou shalt not harm this pretty gi'oup, 
 Whose lives are not so frail and feebly wove, 
 But leased on Natm-e's loveliness and love. 
 
 " 'Tis these that free the small entangled fly, 
 Caught in the venom'd spider's crafty snare : — 
 These be the petty surgeons that apply 
 The healing balsams to the wounded hare. 
 Bedded in bloody fern, no creature's care ! — 
 These be providers for the orphan brood. 
 Whose tender mother hath been slain in air. 
 Quitting with gaping bill her darlings' food. 
 Hard by the verge of her domestic wood. 
 
 " 'Tis these befriend the timid trembling stag, 
 "WTien, 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 alarum'd ears. 
 So piteously they view all bloody morts ; 
 Or if the gunner, with his arm, appears. 
 Like noisy pyes and jays, with harsh reports, 
 They warn the wild fowl of his deadly sports. 
 
 B B 2
 
 I THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 " 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 wi'ong ; — 
 So do these charitable dwarfs redress 
 The tenfold ravages of giants strong. 
 To whom great malice and great might belong. 
 
 " Likewise to them are Poets much beholden 
 For secret favours in the midnight glooms ; 
 Brave Spenser quaff' d 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, — 
 And glanced this fair queen's witchery full oft, 
 And in her magic wain soar'd far aloft. 
 
 " 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 conn'd. 
 
 Where Puck hath been convened to make me mirth ; 
 
 I have had from Queen Titauia tokens fond, 
 
 And toy'd with Oberon's permitted wand. 
 
 " With figs and plums and Persian dates they fed me. 
 And delicate cates after my sunset meal,
 
 THE TLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 3/ 
 
 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. 
 
 " 'Twas they first school'd my young imagination 
 To take its flights like any new-fledged bird. 
 And show'd the span of winged meditation 
 Stretch'd wider than things grossly seen or heard. 
 With sweet swift Ariel how I soar'd and stirr'd 
 The fragrant blooms of spiritual bow'rs ! 
 'Twas they endear'd what I have still preferr'd, 
 Nature's blest attributes and balmy pow'rs, 
 Her hills and vales and brooks, sweet birds and flow'rs 
 
 " 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 gather'd in night's cool clime. 
 
 With studious verse trancing the dragon Time, 
 
 Strong as old Merlin's necromantic 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." 
 
 Look how a poison'd man turns livid black, 
 Drugg'd with a cup of deadly hellebore, 
 That sets his horrid features all at rack, — 
 So seem'd these words into the ear to pour 
 Of ghastly Saturn, answering with a roar
 
 374 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIEIES. 
 
 Of mortal pain and spite and utmost rage, 
 Wherewith his grisly arm he raised once more, 
 And bade the cluster' d sinews all engage. 
 As if at one fell stroke to wreck an age. 
 
 Whereas the blade flash' d on the dinted gTound, 
 Down through his steadfast foe, yet made no scar 
 ^ On that immortal Shade, or death-like wound ; 
 But Time was long benumb' d, and stood a-jar. 
 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. 
 
 Howbeit he vanish' d in the forest shade. 
 Distantly heard as if some grumbling pard, 
 And, like Nymph Echo, to a sound decay' d ; — 
 Meanwhile the fays cluster' d the gracious Bard, 
 The darling centre of their dear regard : 
 Besides of sundry dances on the green. 
 Never was mortal man so brightly starr'd. 
 Or won such pretty homages, I ween. 
 " Nod to him. Elves ! " cries the melodious queen. 
 
 " Nod to him, Elves, and flatter round about him. 
 And quite enclose him with your pretty crowd, 
 And touch him lovingly, for that, without him, 
 The silk- worm now had spun our dreary shroud ;— 
 But he hath all dispersed Death's tearful cloud, 
 And Time's dread effigy scared quite away : 
 Bow to him then, as though to me ye bow'd.
 
 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 375 
 
 And his dear wishes prosper and obey 
 Wherever love and wit can find a way ! 
 
 " '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 pm-ple 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 benis^n ! 
 
 ^' 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 ftir apart ; — 
 But bid the sacred swallow haunt his eaves, 
 To guard his roof from lighting and from thieves. 
 
 " 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, 
 For conscious ^vl'ong 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."
 
 376 THE PLEA OF THE MIDSUMMER FAIRIES. 
 
 Here she leaves off, and with a graceful hand 
 Waves thrice three splendid circles round his head ; 
 Which, though deserted by the radiant wand, 
 Wears still the gloiy which her waving shed, 
 Such as ei-st crown'd the old Apostle's head, 
 To show the thoughts, there harbour' d, were divine, 
 And on immortal contemplations fed : — 
 Goodly it was to see that glory shine 
 Around a brow so lofty and benign ! — ■ 
 
 Goodly it was to see the elfin brood 
 Contend for kisses of his gentle hand, 
 That had their mortal enemy withstood, 
 And stay'd their lives, fast ebbing with the sand. 
 Long while this strife engTiged 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. 
 
 And soon the rolling mist, that 'gan arise 
 From plashy mead and undiscover'd 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 disavow'd, 
 And shrank to nothing in the mist extreme. 
 Then flew Titania, — and her little crowd. 
 Like flocking linnets, vanish'd in a cloud.
 
 377 
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 TO S. T. COLERIDGE. 
 
 It is not Avitli a hope my feeble praise 
 
 Can add one moment's honour to thy o^ti, 
 
 That with thy mighty name I grace these lays ; 
 
 I seek to glorify myself alone : 
 
 For that some precious favour thou hast shown 
 
 To my Endeavour in a by-gone 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 thy thought, — if my bold pen 
 
 May thrust on contemplations more sublime . — 
 
 But I am thirsty for thy praise, for when 
 
 "We gain aj)plauses from the great in name, 
 
 We seem to be partakers of their fame. 
 
 Oh Bards of old ! what sorrows have ye suug, 
 And tragic stories, chronicled in stone, — 
 Sad Philomel restored her ravish' d tongue, 
 And transform'd Niobe in dumbness shown ; 
 Sweet Sappho on her love for ever calls, 
 And Hero on the drown'd Leander falls ! 
 
 Was it that spectacles of sadder plights 
 Should make our blisses relish the more high 1 
 Then all fair dames, and maidens, and true knights, 
 "Whose flourisli'd fortunes prosper in Love's eye. 
 Weep here, unto a tale of ancient grief. 
 Traced from the course of an old bas-relief.
 
 378 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 There stands Abydos ! — here is Sestos' steep, 
 Hard by the gusty margin of the sea, 
 Where sprinkling waves continually do leap j 
 x\nd 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. 
 
 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 fi'om his dewy height. 
 
 For Love hath fi'amed a ditty of regrets, 
 Tuned to the hollow sobbings on the shore, 
 A vexing sense, that with like music frets, 
 And chimes this dismal bm-then o'er and o'er, 
 Saying, Leander's joys are i3ast and spent. 
 Like stars extinguish'd in the firmament. 
 
 For ere the golden crevices of morn 
 
 Let in those regal luxuries 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. 
 
 Hark ! how the billows beat upon the sand ! 
 Like pawing steeds impatient of delay ; 
 Meanwhile their rider, ling' ring on the land, 
 Dallies with love, and holds farewell at bay 
 A too short span. — How tedious slow is grief ! 
 But parting renders time both sad and brief.
 
 HERO AXD LEANDER. 379 
 
 " Alas ! " he sigh'd, " that this first glimpsing light, 
 
 Which makes the wide world tenderly appear, 
 
 Should be the bm'ning 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/' 
 
 Their cheeks are white as blossoms of the dark. 
 Whose leaves close up and show the outward pale, 
 And those fair mirrors where their joys did spark, 
 All dim and tarnish'd with a dreary veil, 
 No more to kindle till the night's return. 
 Like stars replenish' d at Joy's golden urn. 
 
 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. 
 
 For what rich merchant but will j^ause in fear. 
 To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss 1 
 So Hero dotes upon her treasm^e 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. 
 
 She thinks how many have been sunk and drown d, 
 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.
 
 380 HEEO AXD LEAXDER. 
 
 Saying, "That honied fly I saw was thee, 
 Which Hghted on a water-hly's cup, 
 When, lo ! the flower, enamom-'d of my bee, 
 Closed on him suddenly and lock'd him up. 
 And he was smother' d in her di'enching dew ; 
 Therefore this day thy drowning I shall rue." 
 
 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 thaw'd by show'rs of rain. 
 
 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 ruin'd heart, 
 Nor yet their melodies will sound apart. 
 
 So brave Leander sunders from his bride ; 
 
 The wi'enching 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. 
 
 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 !
 
 HERO AXD LEAXDER. • 381 
 
 From which he leaps into the scooping brine, 
 That shocks his bosom with a double chill ; 
 Because, all hoiu-s, till the slow sun's decline, 
 That cold divorcer will be twixt them still ; 
 Wherefore he likens it to Styx' foul tide, 
 ^Vhere life grows death upon the other side. 
 
 Then sadly he confronts his two-fold 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 ! 
 
 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 passion' d hands that seem to pray 
 In dumb petition to the gods above : 
 Love praj's devoutly when it prays for love ! 
 
 Then with deep sighs he blows away the wave, 
 That hangs supei-fluous tears upon his cheek, 
 And bans his labour like a hopeless slave, 
 That, chain' d in hostile galley, faint and weak, 
 Plies on despairing through the restless foam, 
 Thoughtful of his lost love, and far-off home. 
 
 The drowsy mist before him chill and dank, 
 
 Like a dull lethargy o'erleans the sea. 
 
 When he rows on against the utter blank, 
 
 Steering as if to dim eternity, — 
 
 Like Love's frail ghost departing with the dawn ; 
 
 A failing shadow in the twilight di-awn.
 
 382 HERO AND LEAXDEE. 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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 embark'd upon that little boat ; 
 
 Nay ! — but two loves, two lives, a double fate, — 
 
 A perilous voyage for so dear a freight. 
 
 " If impious mariners be stain'd with crime, 
 Shake not in awful rage thy hoary locks ; 
 Lay by thy storms until another time. 
 Lest my frail bark be dash'd against the rocks : 
 rather smooth thy deeps, that he may fly 
 Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky ! 
 
 " Let all thy herded monsters sleep beneath. 
 
 Nor gore him with crook' d tusks, or wreathed horns ; 
 
 Let no fierce sharks destroy him with their teeth. 
 
 Nor spine-fish wound him with their venom' d thorns ; 
 
 But if he faint, and timely succour lack, 
 
 Let ruthful dolphins rest him on their back. 
 
 " Let no false dimpling whirlpools suck him in. 
 Nor slimy quicksands smother his sweet breath ; 
 Let no jagg'd coral tear his tender skin. 
 Nor moimtain billows bm-y him in death ; " — 
 And with that thought forestalling her own fears. 
 She drowned his painted image in her tears.
 
 HERO AND LEAXDER. 383 
 
 By this, the cUmbing Sun, with rest repair'd, 
 Look'd through the gold embrasures of tlie sky, 
 And ask'd the drowsy world how she had fared ; — 
 The drowsy world shone brighten'd in reply ; 
 And smiling off her fogs, his slanting beam 
 Spied young Leander in the middle stream. 
 
 His face was pallid, but the hectic morn 
 Had hung a lying crimson on his cheeks, 
 And slanderous sparkles in his eyes forlorn ; 
 So death lies ambush'd in consumptive streaks ; 
 But inward grief was writhing o'er its task, 
 As heart-sick jesters weep behind the mask. 
 
 He thought of Hero and the lost delight. 
 Her last embracings, and the space between ; 
 He thought of Hero and the futm-e night, 
 Her speechless rapture and enamoui-'d mien. 
 When, lo ! before him, scarce two galleys' s]3ace, 
 His thoughts confronted with another face ! 
 
 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. 
 
 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, 
 
 Fau' as the wave-bleach' d lily of the stream.
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 The veiy 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 of her eyes can give true evidence : 
 Like murder's witness swooning in the court, 
 His sight falls senseless by its own report. 
 
 Anon resuming, it declares her eyes 
 
 Are tint with azure, like two crystal wells 
 
 That drink the blue complexion of the skies, 
 
 Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells : 
 
 Her polish'd brow, it is an ample plain. 
 
 To lodge vast contemplations of the main. 
 
 Her lips might corals seem, but corals near. 
 Stray through her hair like blossoms on a bower 
 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, 
 Touch'd by the bloom of water, tender blue. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 poison'd through the ear ; 
 Therefore Leander's fears begin to urge. 
 This snowy swan is come to sing his dirge.
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 385 
 
 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 breath-blown dart 
 Shot sudden from an Indian's hollow cane, 
 With mortal venom fraught, and fiery pain. 
 
 Here then, poor wretch, how he begins to crowd 
 A thousand thoughts within a j)ulse's space ; 
 There seem'd so brief a pause of life alio w'd, 
 His mind stretch'd universal, to embrace 
 The whole wide world, in an extreme farewell, — 
 A moment's musino: — but an ao;e to tell. 
 
 For there stood Hero, widow'd at a glance, 
 The foreseen sum of many a tedious fact. 
 Pale cheeks, dim eyes, and wither'd countenance, 
 A wasted ruin that no wasting lack'd ; 
 Time's tragic consequents ere time began, 
 A world of sorrow in a tear-drop's span. 
 
 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 unwTong'd lie dumb, 
 Whilst Fear, and that it fears, together come. 
 
 As when the crew, hard by some j utty cape, 
 Struck pale and panick'd by the billows' roar, 
 Lay by all timely measures of escape. 
 And let their bark go driving on the shore ; 
 So fray'd Leander, drifting to his wreck. 
 Gazing on Scylla, falls upon her neck. 
 
 VOL. I. CO
 
 386 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 For he hath ail forgot the swimmer's art, 
 Tlie rower s cunning, and the pilot's skill, 
 Letting his arms fall down in languid part, 
 Sway'd by the waves, and nothing by his will. 
 Till soon he jars against that glossy skin, 
 Solid like glass, though seemingly as thin. 
 
 Lo ! how she startles at the warning shock, 
 And straightway girds him to her radiant breast, 
 More like 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. 
 
 His eyes are blinded with the sleety brine, 
 His ears are deafen'd 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. 
 
 Look how a man is lower'd 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 ; 
 Anon he is all gone, and nothing seen 
 But likeness of green turf and hillocks green. 
 
 And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping, 
 Over the verdant plain that makes his bed ; 
 And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping. 
 Like gamesome boys over the chui'chyard dead ; 
 The light in vain keeps looking for his face : — 
 Now screaming sea-fowl settle in his place.
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 387 
 
 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 ruin in a female shape ! 
 
 She says 'tis love hath bribed her to this deed, 
 The glancing of his eyes did so bewitch her. 
 bootless theft ! unprofitable "meed ! 
 Love's treasury is sack'd, but she no richer ; 
 The sparkles of his eyes are cold and dead, 
 And all his golden looks are turn'd to lead ! 
 
 She holds the casket, but her simple hand 
 Hath spill'd 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Down and still downward 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 sigh'd, tlie emerald wave ! 
 How could her pleasant home become his grave 1 
 
 c c 2
 
 HERO AXD LEANDEE. 
 
 Down and still downward through the dusky gTeen 
 She bore her treasure, with a face too nigh 
 To mark how life was alter' d in its mien, 
 Or how the light grew torpid in his eye, 
 Or how his pearly breath, unprison'd there, 
 Flew up to join the universal air. 
 
 She could not miss the throbbings of his heart, 
 Whilst her own pulse so wanton'd in its joy ; 
 She could not guess he struggled to depart. 
 And when he strove no more, the hapless boy I 
 She read his mortal stillness for content, 
 Feeling no fear where only love was meant. 
 
 Soon she alights upon her ocean-floor, 
 
 And straight unyokes her amis 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. 
 
 But sad marvel ! most bitter strange ! 
 What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale 1 
 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 ? 
 
 Her eyes, poor watchers, fix'd upon his looks. 
 Are grappled with a wonder near to grief. 
 As one, who pores on undecipher'd books. 
 Strains vain surmise, and dodges with belief; 
 So she keeps gazing with a mazy thought. 
 Framing a thousand doubts that end in nought.
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 389 
 
 Too stern inscrij^tiou 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. 
 
 Meanwhile she sits unconscious of her hap, 
 Nursing Death's marble effigy, which there 
 With heavy head lies pillow' d in her lap, 
 And elbows all unhinged ; — his sleeking hair 
 Creeps o'er her knees, and settles where his hand 
 Leans with lax fingers crook' d against the sand ; 
 
 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 bleach'd his face 
 Into cold marble, — with blue chilly shades, 
 Showing wherein the freezy blood pervades. 
 
 And o'er his steadfast cheek a furrow'd pain 
 Hath set, and stiffen' d, like a storm in ice, 
 Showing by drooping lines the deadly strain 
 Of mortal anguish ; — yet you might gaze twice 
 Ere Dea.th it seem'd, and not his cousin, Sleep, 
 That thi'ough those creviced lids did underpeep. 
 
 But all that tender bloom about his eyes, 
 
 Is Death's own violets, 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 kiss'd with such cold frosty nips.
 
 390 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 "■Sm^ely," quoth she, "he sleeps, the senseless thing, 
 Oppress' d and faint with toiling 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. 
 
 " 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 long'd such a twin-self should come, — 
 A lonely thing, till this sweet chance befel, 
 My heart kept sighing like a hollow shell. 
 
 " Here thou shalt live, beneath this secret dome, 
 
 An ocean-bow'r ; defended by the shade 
 
 Of quiet waters, a cool emerald gloom 
 
 To lap thee all about. Nay, be not fray'd, 
 
 Those are but shady fishes that sail by 
 
 Like antic clouds across my liquid sky ! 
 
 " Look how the sunbeam bm-ns upon their scales, 
 And shows rich glimpses of their 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. 
 
 " Lo ! those green pretty leaves with tassel bells, 
 My flow'rets those, that never pine for drowth ; 
 Myself did plant them in the dappled shells. 
 That drink the wave with such a rosy mouth, — 
 Pearls wouldst thou have beside 1 ciystals to shine ? 
 I had such treasures once, — now they are thine.
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 391 
 
 " 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 1 
 I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone 
 I heard the languages of ages gone ! 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 " 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 Avith barren caves ; 
 But I could talk to thee whole days and days, 
 Only to word my love a thousand ways. 
 
 " But if thy lips will bless me with their speech, 
 Then ope, sweet oracles ! and I '11 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 to give away my heart aright ! " 
 
 But cold and deaf the sullen creature lies 
 Over her knees, and with concealing clay, 
 Like hoarding Avarice, locks up his eyes. 
 And leaves her world impoverish'd of day ; 
 Then at his cruel lips she bends to plead. 
 But there the door is closed against her need.
 
 392 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 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 reach'd the ending of her song. 
 
 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 lock'd-up cabinets. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 uncover d eyes. 
 And seeing all within so drear and dark. 
 Her own bright soul dies in her like a spark. 
 
 Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess, 
 Undei; the swoon of holy divination : 
 And what had all surpass'd her simple guess. 
 She now resolves in this dark revelation ; 
 Death's very mystery, — oblivious death ; — 
 Long sleep, — deep night, and an entranced breath.
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 393 
 
 Yet life, though wounded sore, not wholly slain. 
 Merely obscured, and not extinguish'd, 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. 
 
 Then like the sun, awaken'd at new dawn, 
 With pale bewilder'd face she peers about. 
 And spies blurr'd images obscurely drawn, 
 Uncertain shadows in a haze of doubt ; 
 But her true grief gTows shapely by degrees, — 
 A perish' d creatm-e lying on her knees. 
 
 And now she knows how that old Murther 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 fond mates, — and oft in flowery lawns 
 Bereaves mild mothers of their milky fawns. 
 
 too dear knowledge ! pernicious earning ! 
 Foul curse engraven upon beauty's page ! 
 Ev'n now the sorrow of that deadly learning 
 Ploughs up her brow, like an untimely age 
 And on her cheek stamps verdict of death's tnith 
 By canker blights upon the bud of youth ! 
 
 For as unwholesome winds decay the leaf, 
 So her cheeks' rose is perish' d 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
 
 394 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 Whence being shed, the Uqiiid crystaUine 
 Drops straightway down, refusing to partake 
 In gross admixture with the baser brine, 
 But shrinks and hardens into pearls opaque. 
 Hereafter to be worn on arms and ears ; 
 So one maid's trophy is another's tears ! 
 
 " 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 miii'derer, and dear love's bale ! 
 Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete. 
 Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet 1 
 
 '' Lo ! what a lovely ruin thou hast made ! 
 Alas ! alas ! thou hast no eye to see. 
 And blindly slew'st him in misguided shade. 
 Would I had lent my doting sense to thee ! 
 But now I tm-n to thee, a willing mark, 
 Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark ! 
 
 " doubly cruel ! — twice misdoing spite 
 
 But I will guide thee with my helping eyes. 
 
 Or — walk the wide w^orld through, devoid of sight, — 
 
 Yet thou shalt know me by my many sighs. 
 
 Nay, then thou should'st have spared my rose, false Death, 
 
 And known Love's flow'r by smelling his sweet breath ; 
 
 " 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 but a shape of freezing bone. 
 Thy touching only turn'd my love to stone I
 
 HERO AXD LEANDEE. 
 
 " 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, 
 
 come and dig it in my sad heart's core — 
 That wound will bring a balsam for its sore ! 
 
 " For art thou not a sleep where sense of ill 
 Lies stingless, like a sense benumb' d with cold, 
 Healing all hurts only with sleep's good-will 1 
 So shall I slumber, and perchance behold 
 My living love in dreams, — happy night, 
 That lets me company his banish'd spright ! 
 
 " poppy Death ! — sweet poisoner of sleep ; 
 \\liere shall I seek for thee, oblivious drug. 
 That I may steep thee in my drink, and creep 
 Out of life's coil 1 Look, Idol ! how I hug 
 Thy dainty image in this strict embrace, 
 And kiss this clay-cold model of thy face ! 
 
 " Put out, put out these sun-consuming lamps, 
 
 1 do but read my sorrows by their shine ; 
 
 come and quench them with thy oozy 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 ! 
 
 " Away, away, this vain complaining breath, 
 It does but stir the troubles that I weep ; 
 Let it be hush'd and quieted, sweet Death ; 
 The wind nmst settle ere the wave can sleep, — 
 Since love is silent, I would fain be mute ; 
 Death, be gracious to my dying suit ! "
 
 396 HEKO AND LEANDER. 
 
 Thus far she pleads^ but pleading nought avails her, 
 For Death, her sullen biu^then, deigns no heed ; 
 Then with dumb craving arms, since darkness fails her. 
 She prays to heaven's fair light, as if her need 
 Inspired her there were Gods to pity pain, 
 Or end it, — but she lifts her arms in vain I 
 
 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. 
 
 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 character' d in gold ; 
 
 Or else, thou maid ! safe anchor'd on Love's neck. 
 Listing the hapless doom of young Leander, 
 Thou would' st 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. 
 
 Thus having travell'd on, and track'd the tale. 
 Like the due 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.
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 397 
 
 Then whilst the melancholy Muse withal 
 Eesumes her music in a sadder tone, 
 Meanwhile the sunbeam strikes upon the wall, 
 Conceive that lovely siren to live on, 
 Ev'n as Hope whisper'd the Promethean light 
 Would kindle up the dead Leander's spright. 
 
 "'Tis light," she says, "that feeds the glittering 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. 
 
 There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach 
 Of foamy 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. 
 
 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 list his breathing, but there is not anj, — 
 Then looks into his eyes where no light dwells ; 
 Light makes no pictures in such muddy wells.
 
 398 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 The hot sun parches his discover' d eyes, 
 
 The hot sun beats on his discolour'd limbs, 
 
 The sand is oozy whereupon he hes, . 
 
 Soiling his fairness ; — then away she swims. 
 
 Meaning to gather him a daintier bed, 
 
 Plucking the cool fresh weeds, brown, green, and red. 
 
 But, simple- witted thief, while she dives under. 
 Another robs her of her amorous theft ; 
 The ambush' d fishermen creep forth to plunder, 
 And steal the unwatch'd treasure she has left ; 
 Only his void impression dints the sands ; 
 Leander is purloin'd by stealthy hands ! 
 
 Lo ! how she shudders off the beaded wave. 
 Like Grief all over tears, and senseless falls, — 
 His void imprint seems hollow' d for her grave : 
 Then, rising on her knees, looks round and calls 
 On " Hero ! Hero ! " having learn'd this name 
 Of his last breath, she calls him by the same. 
 
 Then with her frantic hands she rends her hairs, 
 And casts them forth, sad keepsakes to the wind, 
 As if in plucking those she pluck' d her cares ; 
 But grief lies deeper, and remains behind 
 Like a barb'd arrow, rankling in her brain. 
 Turning her very thoughts to throbs of pain. 
 
 Anon her tangled locks are left alone. 
 And down upon the sand she meekly sits, 
 Hard by the foam, as humble as a stone. 
 Like an enchanted maid beside her wits, 
 That ponders with a look serene and tragic, 
 Stunn'd by the mighty mystery of magic.
 
 HERO AND LEANDEPv. 39S 
 
 Or think of Ariadne's utter trance, 
 
 Crazed by the flight of that disloyal traitor, 
 
 Who left her gazing on the green expanse 
 
 That swallow'd 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. 
 
 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 doom'd ! meanwhile the billows come, 
 
 And coldly dabble with her quiet feet. 
 
 Like any bleaching stones they wont to greet. 
 
 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 ^vreck'd and lost. 
 
 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 churls' report 
 
 Has throng'd the beach with many a ciu^ious face, 
 
 That peeps upon her from its hiding place. 
 
 And here a head, and there a brow half seen, 
 
 Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands 
 
 A mariner his crumpled cheeks doth lean 
 
 Over a rugged crest. Another stands, * 
 
 Holding his harmful arrow at the head, 
 
 Still check' d by human caution and strange dread.
 
 400 HERO AND LEANDER. 
 
 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. 
 
 And down the sunny beach she paces slowly. 
 With many doubtful pauses by the way ; 
 Grief hath an injQuence so hush'd 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge. 
 Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam ; 
 Some point to white eruptions of the surge : — 
 But she is vanish' d to her shady home. 
 Under the deep, inscrutable, — and there 
 Weeps in a midnight made of her own hair. 
 
 Now here, the sighing winds, before unheard. 
 Forth from their cloudy caves begin to blow 
 Till all the surface of the deep is stin-'d. 
 Like to the panting grief it hides below ; 
 And heaven is cover' d with a stormy rack. 
 Soiling the waters with its inky black.
 
 HERO A:^D LEAXDER. 4(»1 
 
 The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey, 
 And labours shoreward with a bending wing, 
 Eowing against the wind her toilsome way ; 
 Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling 
 Their dewy frost still fiu-ther on the stones, 
 That answer to the wind with hollow groans. 
 
 And here and there a fisher's far-off bark 
 Flies with the sun's last glimpse upon its sail, 
 Like a bright flame amid the waters dark, 
 Watch'd with the hope and fear of maidens pale ; 
 And anxious mothers that upturn their brows. 
 Freighting the gusty wind with frequent vows, 
 
 For that the hoiTid deep has no sure path 
 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, 
 Lender the dusky covert of his wing. 
 
 And so day ended. But no vesper spark 
 Hung forth its heavenly sign ; but sheets of flame 
 Play'd round the savage features of the dark. 
 Making night horrible. That night, there came 
 A weeping maiden to high Sestos' steep. 
 And tore her hair and gazed upon the deep. 
 
 And waved aloft her bright and ruddy torch, 
 AVhose flame the boastful wind so rudely fann'd, 
 That oft it would recoil, and basely scorch 
 The tender covert of her sheltering hand ; 
 Which yet, for Love's dear sake, disdain'd retire. 
 And, like a glorying martyr, braved the fire. 
 
 VOL. I. D J)
 
 402 HERO AND LEAXDER. 
 
 For that was Love's own sign and beacon guitle 
 Across the Hellesj)ont's wide weary space, 
 Wherein he nightly struggled with the tide : — 
 Look what a red it forges on her face, 
 As if she blush' d at holding such a light, 
 Ev'n in the unseen presence of the night ! 
 
 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 nttennost despair. 
 
 Saying, " Leander floats amid the surge. 
 
 And those are dismal waves that sing his dirge." 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Oh ! dost thou live under the deep deep sea ? 
 I thought such love as thine could never die ; 
 If thou hast gain'd an immoi-tality 
 From the kind pitying sea-god, so will I ; 
 And this false cruel tide that used to sever 
 Om- hearts, shall be our common home for ever !
 
 HERO AND LEANDER. 403 
 
 " 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." 
 
 One moment then, upon the dizzy verge 
 
 She stands ; — with face upturn' d against the sky ; 
 
 A moment more, upon the foamy sm-ge 
 
 She gazes, with a calm despairing eye ; 
 
 Feeling that awful pause of blood and breath, 
 
 Which life endures when it confronts with death ; — 
 
 Then from the giddy steep she madly springs, 
 Grasping her maiden robes, that vainly 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 ! 
 
 D D 2
 
 404 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 Spring it is cheery, 
 
 Winter is dreary, 
 Green leaves hang, but the bro\ni must fly ; 
 
 When he's forsaken, 
 
 Wither' d 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 1 
 
 June it is jolly. 
 
 Oh 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 ? 
 
 SONG. 
 
 FOR MUSIC. 
 
 A LAKE and a fairy boat 
 
 To sail in the moonlight clear, — 
 
 And menily we would float 
 
 From the dragons that watch us here I
 
 AUTUMK 405 
 
 Thy gown should be snow-white silk, 
 And strings of orient pearls, 
 Like gossamers dipt in milk, 
 Should twine with thy raven cuiis ! 
 
 Eed rubies should deck thy hands. 
 And diamonds should be thy dower — 
 But Fairies have broke their wands 
 And wishing has lost its power. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 The Autumn skies are flush'd with gold, 
 And fair and bright the rivers run ; 
 These are but streams of winter cold. 
 And painted mists that quench the sun. 
 
 In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, 
 In secret boughs no bird can shi'oud ; 
 These are but leaves that take to wing, 
 And wintry winds that pipe so loud. 
 
 '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.
 
 406 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 — f— 
 
 Sigh on, sad heart, for Love's eclipse 
 
 And Beauty's fairest queen. 
 Though 'tis not for my peasant hps 
 
 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 haii-. 
 
 Whose sudden beams surprise. 
 Might bid such himible hopes beware 
 
 The glancing of her eyes ; 
 Yet looking once, I look'd too long, 
 
 And if my love is sin. 
 Death follows on the heels of wrong. 
 
 And kills the crime w^ithin. 
 
 Her dress seem'd wove of lily leaves, 
 
 It was so pure and fine, — 
 lofty wears, and lowly weaves, — 
 
 But hodden-grey is mine ; 
 And homely hose must step apart, 
 
 WTiere garter' d princes stand, 
 But may he wear my love at heart 
 
 That wins her lily hand !
 
 BALLAD. 407 
 
 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 wrong'd 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 when I'm gone, e'en lofty pride 
 
 May say, of what has been, 
 His love was nobly born and died, 
 
 Though 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 ; 
 I will not wish thy better state 
 
 Was one of low degree. 
 But I must weep that partial fate 
 
 Made such a churl of me.
 
 408 
 
 ODE TO THE MOON. 
 
 Mother of light ! how fah-ly 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 
 Those cloudy summits thence to gaze below, 
 Like the wild Chamois from her Alpine snow, 
 Where hunter never climb' d, — secure from dread 1 
 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 the 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, 
 Cluster'd 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 ! — 
 
 Oh, thou art beautiful, howe'er it be ! 
 Huntress, or Dian, or whatever named ;
 
 ODE TO THE MOON. 409 
 
 And he, the veriest Pagan, that first framed 
 A silver idol, and ne'er worshipp'd thee ! — 
 It is too late — or thou should' st 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 gi'ateful for that simple boon, 
 In many a thoughtfid verse and anthem sweet, 
 And bless thy dainty face whene'er w^e meet. 
 
 In nights far gone, — ay, far away and dead, — 
 
 Before Care-fretted, with a lidless eye, — t 
 
 I was thy wooer on my little bed. 
 
 Letting the early hom^s of rest go by, J 
 
 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 di-eams, — 
 
 Thou wert the fairies' armourer, that kept 
 
 Their burnish' d 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 '. — 
 
 Why sighs ? — why creeping tears 1 — why clasped hands 1 — 
 
 Is it to count the boy's expended dow'r ? 
 
 That fairies since have broke their gifted wands ? 
 
 That young Delight, like any o'erblown flow'r, 
 
 * "Sprinkling" in the MS. 
 
 + ' ' Before Care fretted with his lidless eye — " in the MS. 
 
 t " And watch'd thy silver advent in the sky," in the MS.
 
 410 ODE TO THE MOOX. 
 
 Gave, one by one, its sweet leaves to the gi'ound ? — 
 Whj then, fan- 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 moss-grown tow'r, 
 Motto'd with stern and melancholy rhyme. 
 
 Why should I gi'ieve for this 1 — Oh I must yearn 
 
 Whilst Time, conspirator with Memory, 
 
 Keeps his cold ashes in an ancient urn. 
 
 Richly emboss'd with childhood's revelry. 
 
 With leaves and cluster' d fruits, and flow'rs eterne, — 
 
 (Eternal to the world, though not to me), 
 
 Aye there will those brave sports and blossoms be, 
 
 The deathless wreath, and undecay'd festoon, 
 
 When I am hearsed within, — 
 Less than the pallid primrose to the Moon, 
 That now she watches through a vapom* thin. 
 
 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, 
 And blessed thy fair face, Mother mild ! 
 Still shine, the soul of rivers as they i-un. 
 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 ! 
 
 * I find this thought somewhat diflferently worded in a fragment written 
 probably about 1824. 
 
 ' * I love thee, dearest, more than worlds can hold ; 
 Clasp t hands, and parted lips, and upraised eyes,
 
 411 
 
 THE EXILE. 
 
 The swallow with summer 
 
 Will wing o'er the seas, 
 The wind that I sigh to 
 
 Will visit thy trees. 
 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 clififs. 
 And dream upon thee ; 
 
 And throbbing heart— all solitary bursts 
 Of widow'd passion when it sighs alone 
 Beneath no eye but the * * moon's — 
 Under whose light so often and so oft 
 Our plighted shades have mingled into one — 
 More than the passionate silence of that hour 
 That made us cue for Memory and Hope ! "
 
 412 TO ja:n'e. 
 
 But the cloud spreads its wings 
 To the blue heav'n and flies. 
 
 "VVe never shall meet, love, 
 Except in the skies ! 
 
 TO JANE. 
 
 Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-mon-ow ; 
 The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine : — 
 Flowers I have none to give thee,* but I bon-ow 
 Their sweetness in a verse to speak for thine. 
 
 Here are red Roses, gather'd 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 1 
 
 Dost love sweet Hyacinth 1 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 pluck' d the Primrose at night's dewy noon ; 
 Like Hope, it show'd its blossoms in the night ; — 
 'Twas, like Endymion, watching for the Moon 1 
 And here are Sun-flowers, 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 ! 
 
 * Written on my mother's birthday, the 6th of November.
 
 ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 413 
 
 Here 's Daisies for the mom, 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 flowers I 
 
 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 mom, — 
 Tme honour's dearth, affection's death. 
 Neglectful pride, and cankering scorn. 
 With all the piteous tales that tears 
 Have water'd since the world was born. 
 
 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 heaven black with miser}^ 
 Why should birds sing such merry notes. 
 Unless they were more blest than we ?
 
 414 ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 
 
 No soiTow ever chokes their throats, 
 Except sweet nightingale ; for she 
 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 look'd on all 
 
 As creatures doom'd to fail ! 
 
 AVhy do buds ope except to die 1 
 
 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 cofi&n 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 ;
 
 ODE TO MELANCHOLY. 415 
 
 And for the 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 families 
 
 That sleep around its stem ! 
 
 How cold the dead have made these stones, 
 
 With natural drops kept ever wet ! 
 
 Lo ! here the best — the w^orst — the world 
 
 Doth now remember or forget, 
 
 Are in one common ruin hurl'd. 
 
 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 om- eyes, that we have set 
 
 Our love upon a rose's leaf, 
 
 Our hearts upon a violet 1 
 
 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. 
 
 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 stem as this :
 
 416 ODE TO MELA:N^CH0LY. 
 
 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 and bright will kiss — 
 
 The sunniest things throw sternest shade, 
 
 And there is ev'n a happiness 
 
 That makes the heart afraid ! 
 
 Now let us with a spell invoke 
 
 The full- orb' d moon to grieve om* eyes ; 
 
 Not bright, not bright, but, with a cloud 
 
 Lapp'd 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, , 
 
 As if the world held nothing base. 
 
 Of vile and mean, of fierce and bad ; 
 
 The same fair light that shone in streams, 
 
 The fairy lamp that charm' d the lad ; 
 
 For so it is, with spent delights 
 
 She taunts men's brains, and makes them mad. 
 
 All things are touch'd with Melancholy, 
 
 Born of the secret soul's mistrust, 
 
 To feel her fair ethereal wings 
 
 Weigh'd down with vile degraded dust ; 
 
 Even the bright extremes of joy 
 
 Bring on conclusions of disgust. 
 
 Like the sweet blossoms of the May,
 
 EXTRACT. 417 
 
 Whose fragrance ends in must, 
 
 give her, then, her tribute just, 
 
 Her sighs and tears, and musings holy ; 
 
 There is no music in this life 
 
 That sounds with idiot laughter solely ; 
 
 There's not a string attuned to mirth, 
 
 But has its chords of Melancholy. 
 
 [The following extract is from a letter of L. E. L.'s to my father's 
 very old and tried friend Mr. Jerdan, and speaks of the ' * Plea of the 
 Midsummer Fairies." Any memorial of the gifted poetess has a charm 
 of its own, apart from its value as a commentary on my father's 
 writings.] 
 
 I no not know when I have been so delighted as I have 
 with Mr. Hood, full of deep and natural thoughts, expressed 
 under the most poetical images ; similes as new as they 
 are exquisite; and as for the little pieces, never were any 
 so beautiful. The fault of the book is, that it is too fan- 
 tastic for general readers ; and after all, these make the 
 popularity of the poet. He is touched with the same mania 
 for the dainty simplenesses which are the mania of Lloyd 
 and Lamb — an affectation of imitating the older poets, which 
 no modem will now do. They half hold " with the strange 
 tale devoutly true," while your modern one knows he is 
 only "dallying, silly sooth." And as for classics, are they 
 
 not the gate over which B C hangs gibbeted, 
 
 and through which no bard of our times can hope to pass ; 
 There is a want of human interest, of those strong and 
 passionate feelings, which appeal to the heart more than 
 the fancy. Still Mr. Hood is a darling, and his book a 
 treasure. I quite agree in the selections you have made; 
 the " Ode to Melancholy " is as fine philosophy as it is 
 poetry. L. E. L. 
 
 VOL. r. E E
 
 418 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ON MISTRESS NICELY,* A PATTEEN FOR HOUSEKEEPERS. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SEEING MRS. DAVENPORT IN HER 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 reputation ; — 
 Thence in my Castle of Imagination 
 She dwells for evermore, the dainty dame, 
 To keep all airy draperies from shame, 
 And all dream-furniture 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. 
 
 By ev'ry sweet tradition of ti-ue hearts, 
 Graven by Time, in love with his own lore ; 
 By all old martyrdoms and antique smarts. 
 Wherein Love died to be alive the more ; 
 Yea, by the sad impression on the shore, 
 Left by the drown' d Leander, to endear 
 
 * In "The School of Reform," by T. Morton.
 
 SONNET. 419 
 
 That coast for ever, where the billow's roar 
 Moaneth for pity in the Poet's ear ; 
 By Hero's faith, and the foreboding tear 
 That quench'd her brand's last twinkle in its fall ; 
 By Sappho's leap, and the low rustling fear 
 That sigh'd around her flight ; I swear by all, 
 The world shall find such pattern in my |Lct, 
 As if Love's great examples still were lack'd. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO MY WIFE, 
 
 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 bliss, since love is with him in his fall ! 
 Such as our own pm'e passion still might frame. 
 Of this fair earth, audits delightful bow'rs. 
 If no fell sorrow, like the serpent, came 
 To trail its venom o'er the sweetest flow'rs ; — 
 But oh ! as many and such tears are ours, 
 As only should be shed for guilt and shame ! 
 
 EE 2
 
 420 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 ON RECEIVING A GIFT. 
 
 Look how the golden ocean shines above 
 
 Its pebbljf stones, and magnifies their girth ; 
 
 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, 
 
 Ev'n so om' tokens shine ; nav, 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 uptum'd by storm ? 
 
 Thus, sweet, thy gracious gifts are gifts of price, . 
 
 And more than gold to doting Avarice. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Love, dearest Lady, such as I would speak. 
 Lives not within the humom' 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 
 Amongst the perishable things that die. 
 Unlike the love which I would give and seek :
 
 LETTER FROM L. K. L. 421 
 
 Whose health is of no line — to feel decay 
 With cheeks' decay, that have a rosy prime. 
 Love is its own gi-eat 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. 
 
 [A copy of "The Plea" was sent to L. E. L., whose letter of 
 acknowledgment to my father, 1 give on account of the coincidence 
 of her mention of "Fair Ines," carried away across the sea from 
 friends upon the shore — a fate so like her own.] 
 
 My very best thanks, dear Sir : I scarcety know 
 whether to be most grateful for your kind gift, or delighted 
 with the gift itself. The fairies must indeed have broke 
 their wand if you do not wake some morning and find your- 
 self in a starry palace built by music, and filled with spirits 
 o' the air, waiting on your wish. Or at least they ought 
 to turn a sunflower into a chariot of gold, and carry you 
 in triumphal procession. 
 
 I do not venture to tell you of my praise ; I shall onty 
 speak of my pleasure. I have read and re-read till I believe 
 I know half the book. As for " Fair Ines," she is indeed 
 the "dearest of the dear ! " and I do so like the "Departm-e 
 of Summer;" — but I am enumerating, so with my best thanks 
 and wishes believe me, 
 
 Veiy sincerely, 
 Letitia Elizabeth Landon.
 
 422 ODES AND ADDEESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 
 
 [The next poem is from the "New Monthly" for this year.] 
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 
 
 TO THOMAS BISH, ESQ. 
 
 ' ' The oyster- woman locked her fish np, 
 And trudged away to cry ' no Bish — .'" — Hudibras. 
 
 My Bish, since fickle Fortune's dead. 
 Where throbs thy speculating head 
 
 That hatch' d such matchless stories 
 Of gaining, like Napoleon, all 
 Success on every capital, 
 
 And thirty thousand glories ? 
 
 Dost thou now sit when evening comes, 
 Wrapt in its cold and wintry glooms, 
 
 And dream o'er faded pleasures ? 
 See. numbers rise and numbers fall. 
 Hear Lottery's last funereal call 
 O'er all her vanish'd treasures '? 
 
 Thy head, distract *twixt weal and woe, 
 Feels the last Lottery like a blow 
 
 From malice — aimed at thee ; 
 
 No prizes pass in decent rank, 
 
 Nothing is left thee but a blank, 
 And worthy Mrs. B. 
 
 Perchance at times thy wits may strive 
 With cards to keep the game alive,
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 423 
 
 And mock the old arena, 
 By fighting Fortune at Ecarte, 
 Thou Charing Cross's Bonaparte 
 
 In little St. Helena. 
 
 Thou'rt out of luck — for to thy share, 
 Not as of old, falls blank despair ; 
 
 The thought oft gives the vapours. 
 In some ' cursed cottage of content ' 
 Thy baffled hopeless hours are spent 
 
 Spelling the daily papers. 
 
 No more thy name in column stares 
 On the lured reader unawares ; 
 
 The voice of Fame is o'er ! 
 No more it breathes thee into print ; 
 What is Fame's breath 1 There's nothing in't — 
 
 The merest puff — no more ! 
 
 The puff to others now belongs, 
 
 The Wrights have risen upon thy wrongs, 
 
 Rowlands to Hunts recoil ! 
 The wheel of Fortune, now forlorn. 
 Turns but to grind the roasted corn. 
 
 Greased with Macassar oil. 
 
 Election chances seemed a vent 
 For thy desires — but Parliament 
 
 Is not so easy won. 
 Numbers were once to thee a treat, 
 But now by numbers thou wert beat. 
 
 And Rowland Stephenson.
 
 424 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 
 
 At Drmy, too, the chance was thine ; 
 But thou shalt in past glory shine, 
 
 Not as the uncertain actor ; 
 Not as the man that opens wide 
 The floodgate for the pubhc tide, 
 
 But as the Great Contractor. 
 
 And when — but Heaven protract the day — 
 The time is come for Life's decay, 
 
 Prolonged shall be thy joys. 
 A favourite wheel shall carry thee, 
 And like thy darling Lottery, 
 
 Be drawn by Blue-coat boys. 
 
 A tumulus shall cover thee 
 And thine. A barrow it will be. 
 
 Sacred to thy one wheel. 
 And genuine tears, my Bish, from eyes 
 Of those who never got a prize. 
 
 At morn and eve shall steal.
 
 ODE. 425 
 
 [Mr, Jerdan gives me the following information as to this Ode, which 
 appeared in the " Literary Gazette " : — 
 
 "In Angust, 1827, 'The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies, Hero 
 and Leander, Lyons the Centaur, and other poems,' was favourably 
 reviewed in the ' Literary Gazette.' The volume was not so fortunate 
 in some other quarters, and Hood's revenge was addressed to the 
 editor of the ' L. G.' in the following."] 
 
 ODE. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 "I'll give him dash for dash." 
 
 Jerdan, farewell ! farewell to all 
 Who ever prais'd me, great or small ; 
 
 Your poet's course is run ! 
 A weekly — no, an every-day 
 Reviewer takes my fame away, 
 
 And I am all undone ! 
 
 I cannot live an author long ! 
 
 When I did write, I did wrong- 
 To aim at being great ; 
 
 A Diamond Poet in a pin 
 
 May twinkle on in peace, and win 
 No diamond critic's hate ! 
 
 No small inditer of reviews 
 Will analyse his tiny muse. 
 
 Or lay his sonnets waste ; 
 Who strives to prove that Richardson, 
 That calls himself a diamond one, 
 
 Is but a bard of paste ? 
 
 The smallest bird that wings the sky 
 May tempt some sparrow-shot, and die :
 
 426 ODE, 
 
 But midges still go free 1 
 The peace that shuns my board and bed 
 May settle on a lowlier head, 
 
 And dwell, "St. John, with thee ! " 
 
 I aim'd at higher growth ; and now 
 My leaves are whither' d on the bough, 
 
 I'm choked by bitter shi-ubs ! 
 Mr. F. C. W. ! 
 What can I christen thy review 
 
 But one of " Wormwood Scrubs 1 " 
 
 The veiy man that sought me once — 
 (Can I so soon be grown a dunce 1) 
 
 He now derides my verse ; 
 But who, save me, will fret to find 
 The editor has changed his mind, — 
 
 He can't have got a worse.
 
 1828. 
 
 [In the *' Amulet " for this year, "Town and Coimtiy " was pub- 
 lished under the title of "An Ode in Imitation of Horace." "The 
 Lament for the Decline of Chivalry" appeared in the " Bijou," with ii 
 quaint little heading^ by Stothard.] 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 ! WELL may poets make a fuss 
 
 In summer time, and sigh ^' rus ! " 
 
 Of London pleasures sick : 
 My heart is all at pant to rest 
 In gi-eenwood shades — my eyes detest 
 
 This endless meal of brick ! 
 
 What joy have I in June's return 1 
 My feet are parch' d, my eyeballs burn, 
 
 I scent no floweiy gust : 
 But faint the flagging zephyr springs,. 
 With dry Macadam on its wings, 
 
 And tm-ns me " dust to dust." 
 
 My sun his daily course renews 
 Due east, but with no Eastern dews ; 
 
 The path is dry and hot 1 
 His setting shows more tamely still, 
 He sinks behind no pui-ple hill, 
 
 But down a chimney's pot 1
 
 428 TOAVN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 ! but to hear the milkmaid blithe, 
 Or early mower wet his scythe 
 
 The dewy meads among ! — 
 My grass is of that sort, alas ! 
 That makes no hay — called span-ow-gras^ 
 
 By folks of vulgar tongue ! 
 
 ! but to smell the woodbines sweet ! 
 
 1 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 1 
 
 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 tree 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 hurdygurdists, and a poor 
 Street-Handel grinding at m}'- dooi", 
 
 Are all my " tuneful throng."'
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 420 
 
 Where are ye, early-purling streams, 
 Whose waves reflect the morniner 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. 
 
 Though never "oft' the stones." 
 
 Where are ye, pastoral pretty sheep, 
 That 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, 
 The Arcadian herdsman used to play 
 
 Sweetly, here soundeth not ; 
 But merely breathes unwholesome fumes, 
 ^leanwhile 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 beai- : 
 Shades — vernal shades ! — where wine is sold ! 
 And, for a turfy bank, behold 
 
 An Ingram's rustic chair !
 
 430 TOWN AND COUNTRY. 
 
 Where are ye, London meads and bowers, 
 And gardens redolent of flowers 
 
 Wherein the zephyr wons 1 
 Alas ! Moor Fields are fields no more. 
 See Hatton's Garden bricked all o'er, 
 
 And that bare wood — St. John's. 
 
 No pastoral scenes procure me peace ; 
 I hold no Leasowes in my lease, 
 
 No cot set round with trees : 
 No sheep-white hill my dwelling flanks ; 
 And omnium furnishes my banks 
 
 With brokers — not with bees. 
 
 ! well may poets make a fuss 
 
 In summer time, and sigh " rus ! " 
 
 Of city pleasures sick : 
 My heart is all at pant to rest 
 In greenwood shades — my eyes detest 
 
 That endless meal of brick !
 
 431 
 
 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 overwrought — 
 
 Is now all overcast ! 
 
 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 6clat ! 
 0, Time has pluck' d the plumy brow ! 
 And none engage at tourneys now 
 
 But those that 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 morn ? 
 
 No Percy branch now perseveres, 
 Like those of old, in breaking spears —
 
 432 LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY. 
 
 The name is now a lie ! — 
 Surgeons, alone, by any chance, 
 Are all that ever couch a lance 
 
 To couch a body's eye ! 
 
 j^as for Lion-Hearted Dick, 
 
 That cut the Moslems to the quick, 
 
 His weapon lies in peace : 
 0, it would warm them in a trice, 
 If they could only have a spice 
 
 Of his old mace in Greece 1 
 
 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 Salad'm, 
 
 But only grow the small I 
 
 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 puflfs.
 
 LAMENT FOR THE DECLINE OF CHIVALRY, 433 
 
 The curtal-axe is out of date ; 
 
 The good old crossbow 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, — 
 
 0, spits now domineer ! 
 The coat of mail is left alone, — 
 And where is all chain armour gone ? 
 
 Go ask a 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 barb. 
 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. 
 
 And scatter plumes about ? 
 Or blood — if they are in the vein 1 
 That tap will never run again — 
 
 Alas ! the Casque is out !
 
 434 EX POST-FACTO EPIGRAMS. 
 
 No ii'on- 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 laboin- through his case ! 
 
 Farewell, then, ancient men of might ! 
 Crusader, errant squire, and knight ! 
 
 Our coats and custom soften 
 To rise would only make you weep — 
 Sleep on, in rusty-iron sleep, 
 
 As in a safety coffin ! 
 
 [The following were printed in the " Literary Gazette. 
 EX POST-FACTO EPIGRAMS. 
 
 O'N THE DEATH OF THE GIRAFFE. 
 
 They say, God wot ! 
 
 She died upon the spot : 
 
 But then in spots she was so rich, — 
 
 I wonder which ? 
 
 OX THE REMOVAL OF A MENAGERIE. 
 
 Let Exeter Change lament its change, 
 Its beasts and other losses — 
 Another place thrives by its case, 
 Now Charing has two Crosses.
 
 THE LOGICIANS. 435 
 
 ["The Forget-me-not" for this year contained two poems — "The 
 Logicians" and "Death in the Kitchen" — written respectively to 
 illustrations by Stothard and Eichter. With the former poem, the 
 following note was sent to Mr. Ackermann : — 
 
 "Eobert Street. 
 •'My i>eau Sir, 
 
 " I have the pleasure of sending you "The Logicians." It being 
 rather a crabbed subject, and mj'self not over well, I have been longer 
 about it than I promised. The other subject is in progress, and you shall 
 Iiave it in proper trim, I hope, in two days. 
 
 " Yours very truly, 
 "R. Ackerraanu, Esq. " T. Hood."] 
 
 THE LOGICIANS. 
 
 AN ILLUSTRATION. 
 
 " Metaphysics were a large field in which to exercise the weapons logic 
 had put into their hands." — Scriblerus. 
 
 See here two cavillers, 
 
 Would-be unravellers 
 Of abstruse theory and questions mystical, 
 
 In tete-a-t^te, 
 
 And deep debate, 
 Wranpjling accordinf]^ to forms svUogistical. 
 
 Glowing and ruddy 
 The light streams in upon their deep brown study, 
 And settles on our bald logician's skull : 
 But still his meditative eye looks dull 
 
 And muddy, 
 For he is gazing inwardly, like Plato ; 
 
 But to the world without 
 And things about, 
 His eye is blind as that of a potato : 
 
 F F 2
 
 THE LOGICIANS. 
 
 In fact, logicians 
 See but by syllogisms — taste and smell 
 
 By propositions ; 
 And never let the common dray-horse senses 
 
 Draw inferences. 
 How wise his brow ! how eloquent his nose ! 
 The feature of itself is a negation ! 
 How gravely double is his chin, that shows 
 
 Double deliberation ; 
 His scornful lip forestalls the confutation ! 
 this is he that wisely with a major 
 And minor proves a greengage is no ganger ! — 
 
 By help of ergo, 
 That cheese of sage will make no mite the sager, 
 And Tam-us is no bull to toss up Virgo ! — 
 this is he that logically tore his 
 Dog into dogmas — following Aristotle — 
 Cut up his cat into ten categories, 
 And cork'd an abstract conjuror in a bottle I 
 this is he that disembodied matter, 
 And proved that incorporeal corporations 
 
 Put nothing in no platter. 
 And for mock tui-tle only supp'd sensations ! 
 
 this is he that palpably decided. 
 
 With grave and mathematical precision, 
 How often atoms may be subdivided 
 
 By long division ; 
 this is he that show'd I is not I, 
 And made a ghost of personal identity ; 
 Proved " Ipse " absent by an alibi. 
 And frisking in some other person's entity ;
 
 THE LOGICIANS. 43; 
 
 He sounded all philosophies in truth. 
 Whether old schemes or only supplemental : — 
 And had, by virtue of his wisdom-tooth, 
 A dental knowledge of tlie transcendental ! 
 
 The other is a shrewd severer wight, 
 
 Sharp argument hath worn him nigh the bone : 
 
 For why? he never let dispute alone, 
 
 A logical knight-errant. 
 That wrangled ever — morning, noon, and night, 
 From night to morn : he had no wife apparent 
 
 But Barbara Celarent ! 
 Woe unto him he caught in a dilemma. 
 For on the point of his two fingers full 
 He took the luckless wight, and gave with them a 
 Most deadly toss, like any baited bull. 
 Woe unto him that ever dared to breathe 
 A sophism in his angry ear ! for that 
 He took ferociously between his teeth. 
 And shook it — like a terrier with a rat ! — 
 In fact old Controversy ne'er begat 
 
 One half so cruel 
 And dangerous as he, in verbal duel ! 
 No one had ever so complete a fame 
 
 As a debater ; 
 And for art logical his name was gi'eater 
 
 Than Dr. Watts's name ! — 
 
 Look how they sit together ! 
 Two bitter desperate antagonists. 
 Licking each other with their tongues, like fists. 
 
 Merely to settle whether
 
 438 DEATH IN" THE KITCHEN. 
 
 This world of ours had ever a beginning — 
 
 Whether created, 
 
 Vaguely undated, 
 Or Time had any finger in its spinning : 
 When, lo ! — for they are sitting at the basement- 
 A hand, like that upon Belshazzar's wall. 
 
 Lets fall 
 A written paper through the open casement. 
 
 " foolish wits ! (thus iims the document) 
 To twist your brains into a double knot 
 On such a barren question ! Be content 
 That there is such a fair and pleasant spot 
 For your enjoyment as this verdant earth. 
 Go eat and drink, and give your hearts to mirth, 
 
 For vainly ye contend ; 
 Before you can decide about its birth. 
 
 The world will have an end ! " 
 
 DEATH IN THE KITCHEN. 
 
 ** Are we not here now ?" continued the corporal (striking the end of his 
 stick perpendicularly on the floor, so as to give an idea of health and 
 stability) — " and are we not " (dropping his hat upon the ground) " gone ? 
 — In a moment ! " — Tristram, Shandy. 
 
 Trim, thou art right ! — 'Tis sure that I, 
 And all who hear thee, are to die. 
 
 *rhe stoutest lad and wench 
 Must lose their places at the will 
 Of Death, and go at last to fill 
 
 The sexton's gloomy trench.
 
 DEATH m THE KITCHEN. 439 
 
 The dreary grave ! — 0, when I think 
 How close we stand upon its brink, 
 
 My inward spirit groans ! 
 My eyes are filled with dismal dreams 
 Of coffins, and this kitchen seems 
 
 A chamel full of bones ! 
 
 Yes, jovial butler, thou must fail, 
 As sinks the froth on thine own ale ; 
 
 Thy days will soon be done ! 
 Alas ! the common hoiu-s that strike, 
 Are knells, for life keeps wasting, like 
 
 A cask upon the run. 
 
 Ay, hapless scullion ! 'tis thy case, 
 Life travels at a scouring pace, 
 
 Far swifter than thy hand. 
 The fast-decaying frame of man 
 Is but a kettle or a pan 
 
 Time wears away with — sand ! 
 
 Thou needst not, mistress cook ! be told. 
 The meat to-morrow will be cold 
 
 That now is fresh and hot : 
 E'en thus our flesh will, by and by, 
 Be cold as stone : — Cook, thou must die ; 
 
 There's death within the pot. 
 
 Susannah, too, my lady's maid, 
 Thy pretty person once must aid 
 
 To swell the buried swarm ! 
 The " glass of fashion " thou wilt hold 
 No more, but gi'ovel in the mould, 
 
 That's not the " mould of form .^"
 
 440 DEATH IN THE KITCHEN. 
 
 Yes, Jonathan, that drives the coach. 
 He too will feel the fiend's approach — 
 
 The grave will pluck him down : 
 He must in dust and ashes lie. 
 And wear the churchyard hvery, 
 
 Grass green, tum'd up with brown. 
 
 How frail is our uncertain breath ! 
 
 The laundress seems full hale, but Death 
 
 Shall her " last linen " bring. 
 The groom will die, like all his kind ; 
 And e'en the stable boy will find 
 . This life no stable thing. 
 
 Nay, see the household dog — even that 
 The earth shall take ; — the very cat 
 
 Will share the common fall ; 
 Although she hold (the proverb saith) 
 A ninefold life, one single death 
 
 Suffices for them all ! 
 
 Cook, butler, Susan, Jonathan, 
 
 The girl that scours the pot and pan, 
 
 And those that tend the steeds — 
 All, all shall have another sort 
 Of service after this ; — in short — 
 
 The one the parson reads ! 
 
 The dreary grave ! — 0, when I think 
 How close we stand upon its brink. 
 
 My inward spirit groans ! 
 My eyes ai-e filled with dismal dreams 
 Of coffins, and this kitchen seems 
 
 A charnel full of bones !
 
 REFLECTIONS ON A NEW YEAR'S DAY. 441 
 
 [I ain not aware of the first appearance of this, but am inclined to 
 give it to 1828. J 
 
 REFLECTIONS ON A NEW YEAR'S DAY. 
 
 Yes, yes, it's very true, and very clear ! 
 By way of compliment and common chat, 
 It's veiy well to wish me a New Year ; 
 But wish me a new hat ! 
 
 Although not spent in luxury and ease, 
 
 In course a longer life I won't refuse ; 
 
 But while you're wishing, wish me, if you please, 
 
 A newer pair of shoes ! 
 
 Nay, while new things and wishes are afloat, 
 I own to one that I should not rebut — 
 Instead of this old rent, to have a coat 
 With more of the New Cut ! 
 
 yes, 'tis very pleasant, though I'm poor. 
 To hear the steeple make that meriy din ; 
 Except I wish one bell was at the door, 
 To ring new trousers in. 
 
 To be alive is very nice indeed. 
 Although another year at last departs ; 
 Only with twelve new months I rather need 
 A dozen of new shirts. 
 
 Yes, yes, it's very true, and very clear. 
 By way of compliment and common chat. 
 It's very well to wish me a New Year, 
 But wish me a new hat !
 
 442 GRIMALDI'S BENEFIT. 
 
 [On the 27tli of June, 1828, Grimaldi, an especial favourite *— of 
 whom I have heard my father speak in the most atfectionate terms, and 
 the recollection of whom prompted, no doubt, many of the sketches of 
 Clowns, struck off at odd moments, that were among my treasures as a 
 boy — returned to the stage for one night, after a retirement of some 
 three months or so. I believe my father wrote his retiring address, 
 either for this occasion, or his farewell in the previous April— perhaps 
 for both. The following paragraph appeared in the *' Literary 
 Gazette."] 
 
 GRIMALDI'S BENEFIT. 
 
 Our immense favourite, Grimaldi — under the severe pres- 
 sure of years and infirmities — is enabled, through the good 
 feeling and prompt liberality of Mr. Price, to take a benefit 
 at Drury Lane on Friday next ;^the last of Joseph Grimaldi ! 
 — Drury' s, Co vent Garden's, Sadler's, everybody's Joe : the 
 friend of Harlequin and Farley-kin — the town clown — greatest 
 of fools — daintiest of motleys — the true ami des enfans ! 
 
 The tricks and changes of life — sadder, alas ! than those of 
 pantomime — have made a dismal difference between the former 
 flapping, filching, laughing, bounding antic, and the present 
 Grimaldi. He has no spring in his foot — no mirth in his eye ; 
 the corners of his mouth droop mournfully earthward ; and 
 he stoops in the back like the weariest of Time's porters. 
 L' Allegro has done with him, and H Pensero claims him for 
 
 * In all his wanderings and changes there were two pictures which went 
 with my father everywhere, and hung in his study for the time being — the 
 one of Charles Lamb (for whom he entertained a brotherly affection), the 
 other of Joe Grimaldi — "Everybody's Joe/' as he calls him — but his Joe 
 in particular. 
 
 I cannot even say that I have "just seen " this "Virgil of Pantomime," 
 but so often have I heard of him as a child, so early was I set to read his 
 life, that I can hardly persuade myself at times that I never did look on 
 that laughter-provoking face — those garrulous limbs — that stentorian dumb- 
 show, which those who have seen Grimaldi never tire of trying to describe.
 
 ODE TO EDWARD GIBBON WAKEFIELD, ESQ. 443 
 
 its own ! It is said, besides, that his pockets are neither so 
 large nor so well stuffed as they used to be on the stage ; and 
 it is hard to suppose fun without funds, or broad grins in 
 narrow circumstances. 
 
 [Our recommendation of this benefit has also been pressed 
 upon our willing mind by the following characteristic note.] 
 I Pray publish in your ' Gazette,' that on Friday the 27th 
 instant, this inimitable clown will take his leave of the 
 boards, at Druiy Lane Theatre, in character. After that 
 night, the red and white features of Joe Grimaldi will belong 
 only to tradition ! Thenceforth he will be dead to his vocation, 
 — but the pleasant recollection of his admirable fooling will 
 still live, with childhood, with manhood, and with 
 
 T. Hood. 
 
 [The *' Ode to Edward Gibbon Wakefield," who in this year was tried 
 and convicted for the abduction of Miss Turner, probably appeared in a 
 newspaper. The copy I possess, at aU events, is a newspaper cutting.] 
 
 ODE TO EDWARD GIBBON WAKEFIELD, ESQ. 
 
 Oh, Mr. Gibbon ! — 
 I do not mean the Chronicler of Rome ; 
 He would have told thee loftily, that no man 
 In modern times may play the antique Roman, 
 And tear a Sabine virgin from her home : — 
 
 But Mr. Gibbon, 
 Thou, — with the surreptitious rib on. 
 What shall I say to thee, thou Jason, — nay. 
 What will our Wilberforce and Stephen say, 
 Thou cruel kidnapper of young xuhite woman ! 
 Were there no misses, — none 
 All on the start and ready for a run
 
 444 ODE TO EDWARD GIBBON WAKEFIELD, ESQ. 
 
 To Gretna Smithy — even by the mail, 
 
 That thou must go befooUng 
 A quiet maiden at her country schooling, 
 And stop her lessons with an idle tale, — 
 
 Sully the happy hue 
 Of her calm thoughts, and trouble her sky-blue — 
 Spoil her embroideries, and falsely wheedle 
 Her pretty hand from the delightful needle. 
 
 Merely to mar her piece, 
 Planting those stitches in her maiden heart, 
 That only should have made Rebecca smart. 
 Or robed young Isaac in a silken fleece 1 
 Was there no willing Love, 
 With roving eyes. 
 More gay than wise, 
 To bend with thy removal to remove ? 
 Could' st thou not calm the doubt 
 Of Foote twice asked in vain, and ask her out 1 
 There's Madame Vestris — but she has a mate. 
 
 And Paton hath as bad — 
 
 But thou might' st add 
 A single Cubitt to thy single state. 
 Take such, and welcome to more wives than Buncle, 
 Or gentle Olive, that Princess of No-Land, 
 She owns some great expectancies in Poland, 
 And has no follower — I mean no uncle ! 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS. 
 
 17^0 ^
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 
 
 8£C'D LD-URfl 
 
 SEP 2 4 1973 
 APR2 2il974 
 
 
 Form L9-Series 444 
 
 THE Lro^ ARY ^^ 
 LOS AiNOSLrli^
 
 3 1158 01030 4177 
 
 ^