THE ONLY AUTHORISED EDITION. 
 
 THE J;ARLY 
 POEMS AND SKETCHES 
 
 THOMAS HOOD, 
 
 INCLUDING 
 
 THE ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREA T MEN" 
 ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 HIS DAUGHTER. 
 
 The Bottle I top. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 E. MOXON, SON, & CO., DOVER STREET, W. 
 1869.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 THE present collection of the Early Poems and 
 Sketches of the late Thomas Hood, has been issued 
 to meet the growing demand for, and appreciation of 
 the writings of a man, now universally acknowledged 
 to be one of the greatest and most genial of modern 
 humorists. Although the contents of the present 
 volume are included in the Complete Edition of 
 Hood's Works, it was believed that a smaller and less 
 expensive series would be acceptable to a wider class 
 of readers. Early Poems, &c., the two series of 
 "Whims and Oddities," and the "Serious and Comic 
 Poems," have been arranged for that purpose, as 
 People's Editions. 
 
 There is another reason attaching more especially 
 to the present volume, that may be of interest to the 
 reading public, in the fact that these authorised 
 editions are the only ones edited and revised by his 
 children, and in which they have any substantial 
 interest. The law of Copyright remains in the same
 
 2 PREFACE. 
 
 state of " Copywrong " as when my father lived and 
 wrote so energetically upon its shortcomings. Con- 
 sequently, by the lapse of years, some of his works 
 will erelong be at the mercy of those he so aptly 
 called " Bookanecrs." To the grievances and injuries 
 of the Copyright law, so ably and humorously 
 chronicled by my father, he might have added that 
 of his heirs being reduced in protection of their just 
 rights to the level of vendors of quack medicines, in 
 advertising the original as the only genuine article, 
 and as he says, " It must be an ungrateful generation, 
 that in its love for cheap copies, can lose all regard 
 for ' the dear originals !'" * 
 
 FRANCES FREELING BRODERIF. 
 
 * See "Petition of Thomas Hood," Complete Works, vol. v. p. 366.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT BY THE PUBLISHERS. 
 
 Several weeks ago the copyright of the First Series of the 
 " Whims and Oddities" lapsed, and a London bookseller 
 issued it in a cheap form, as though it were the entire 
 work, and advertised his copies of the Author's drawings 
 as the original illustrations. As the copyright of the 
 Second Series of the " Whims and Oddities" and many 
 of the pieces in the present volume, does not expire for 
 a considerable period, the Publishers beg to advise the 
 public that no editions of the works of TJiomas Hood, 
 save those bearing their imprint, can possibly be com- 
 plete, or be of any pecuniary value to the family of the 
 Author. 
 
 44 Dover Street, JP1, 
 April 1869.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 ODE TO DR. KITCHENER .... 9 
 
 To HOPE. ...... ii 
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE . . . . .13 
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER .... 34 
 
 To A CRITIC ...... 39 
 
 TOCELIA. ...... 39 
 
 PRESENTIMENT . ..... 40 
 
 THE SEA OF DEATH ..... 48 
 
 To AN ABSENTEE ..... 49 
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR . .... 50 
 
 THE Two PEACOCKS OP BEDFONT . . . 66 
 
 HYMN TO THE SUN . .... 73 
 
 MIDNIGHT ...... 74 
 
 To A SLEEPING CHILD. I. . . . 74 
 
 II 75 
 
 To FANCY ...... 75 
 
 MR. MARTIN'S PICTURES AND THE BONASSUS . . 76 
 
 PRESENCE OF MIND IN A GHOST , 80 
 
 THOUGHTS ON SCULPTURE 82
 
 6 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGtt 
 
 FAIR INES ...... 83 
 
 To A FALSE FRIEND ..... 85 
 
 ODE. AUTUMN ...... 85 
 
 SONNET. DEATH ..... 88 
 
 SILENCE ..... 88 
 
 WRITTEN IN KEAT'S " ENDYMION " . 89 
 
 ,, To AN ENTHUSIAST . . . .89 
 
 To A COLD BEAUTY . . . . -9 
 
 SERENADE ...... 91 
 
 OLD BALLAD ...... 91 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY A BUNCH OF ENGLISH GRAPES . 93 
 
 SONNET. " Love, I am jealous of a worthless man " . 94 
 
 ,, " Love, see thy lover humbled at thy feet" . 94 
 
 THE FORSAKEN ...... 95 
 
 SONG. "The stars are with the voyager" . . 95 
 
 ,, " O Lady, leave thy silken thread " . . 96 
 
 BIRTHDAY VERSES ..... 97 
 
 I LOVE THEE ...... 97 
 
 LINES. " Let us make a leap, my dear " . . 98 
 
 FALSE POETS AND TRUE ..... 99 
 
 FRAGMENT. " 'Farewell Farewell' itisanawful word" 99 
 GUIDO AND MARINA ..... 100 
 
 THE Two SWANS . . . . .104 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY 114 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE : 
 
 ADDRESS . . . . . .118 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION . 119 
 PREFACE TO THE THIRD EDITION . . . 121 
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM, THE AERONAUT . . 122 
 
 ODE TO MR. M 'ADAM .... 129 
 
 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY, IN NEWGATE 133 
 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., M.P. FOR GALWAY 139 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN . . .141
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES to GREAT PEOPLE continued. 
 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE, THE CHAMPION CF 
 
 ENGLAND . . . . .150 
 
 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR . . 153 
 To SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ., EDITOR OF THE 
 
 "GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE" . . 157 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY 159 
 LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE FROM BRIDGET JONES 
 TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN FORM- 
 ING THE WASHING COMMITTEE . . 163 
 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY . . . .169 
 ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ., THE GREAT LESSEE ! 175 
 ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON ON HER RETURN 
 
 TO THE STAGE . . . 179 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. . . .162 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REV. JOHN IRELAND, 
 
 D.D 188 
 
 ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ., SECRETARY TO THE 
 SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION OF MENDI- 
 CITY ...... 192 
 
 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS . " . . . . 194 
 
 THE DEATH BED ..... 197 
 
 To MY WIFE ...... 198 
 
 SONG. " There is dew for the flow'ret " . . 199 
 
 VERSES IN AN ALBUM ..... 199 
 
 THE WATER LADY ..... 200 
 
 AUTUMN ....... 201 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER .... 2OI 
 
 ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, OF EXETER CHANGE, ON THE 
 
 DEATH OF THE ELEPHANT . . . 203 
 
 THE POET'S PORTION ..... 206 
 
 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR, ON THE PUBLICA- 
 TION OF HIS "VisiT TO OXFORD" . . 208 
 ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ. .... 213
 
 8 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 SONNET WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE . 215 
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW .... 215 
 
 BALLAD. " It was not in the winter" . . . 219 
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, OF HASTINGS . . 220 
 
 TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY .... 224 
 
 FLOWERS ....... 225 
 
 BALLAD. " She's up and gone, the graceless girl " . 225 
 
 RUTH ....... 226 
 
 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM ISLINGTON TO 
 
 WATERLOO BRIDGE, IN MARCH, 1821 . . 227 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM " THE LION'S HEAD " . . 248 
 
 A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT . . . 253 
 ODE TO M. BRUNEL . . . . .257 
 
 ANACREONTIC ...... 258 
 
 A WATERLOO BALLAD ..... 259 
 
 COCKLE v. CACKLE ..... 263
 
 HOOD'S EARLY POEMS AND 
 SKETCHES. 
 
 ODE TO DR. KITCHENER. 
 
 YE Muses nine inspire 
 
 And stir up my poetic fire ; 
 
 Teach my burning soul to speak 
 
 With a bubble and a squeak ! 
 Of Dr. Kitchener I fain would sing, 
 Till pots, and pans, and mighty kettles ring. 
 
 O 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 morn 
 From black to red began to turn," 
 Till midnight, when I went to bed, 
 And clapt my tewah-diddle* on my head. 
 
 Who is there cannot tell, 
 
 Thou leadest a life of living well ? 
 
 * The Doctor's composition for a nightcap.
 
 ODE TO DR. KITCHENER. 
 
 " 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 hungry 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 sun, 
 Shall live the endless echo of thy name. 
 But, as for thy more fleshy frame,
 
 TO HOPE. it 
 
 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 fry. 
 
 TO HOPE. 
 
 OH ! take, young seraph, take thy harp, 
 
 And play to me so cheerily ; 
 For grief is dark, and care is sharp, 
 
 And life wears on so wearily. 
 
 Oh ! take thy harp ! 
 Oh ! sing as thou 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, 
 With magic in its heaven-tuned string 
 
 The future bliss thy constant theme, 
 Oh ! then each little woe took wing 
 
 Away, like phantoms of a dream ; 
 As if each sound 
 That flutter'd round 
 
 Had floated over Lethe's stream ! 
 By all those bright and happy hours 
 We spent in life's sweet eastern bow'rs,
 
 12 TO HOPE. 
 
 Where thou wouldst sit and smile, and show, 
 Ere buds were come, where flowers would 
 
 grow, 
 
 And oft anticipate the rise 
 Of life'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 atmosphere ; 
 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 ? 
 But thou canst sing of love no more, 
 
 For Celia show'd that dream was vain ; 
 And many a fancied bliss is o'er, 
 
 That comes not e'en in dreams again. 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 How pleasures pass, 
 And leave thee now no subject, save 
 The peace and bliss beyond the grave! 
 Then be thy flight among the skies : 
 
 Take, then, oh ! take the skylark's wing, 
 And leave dull earth, and heavenward rise
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 13 
 
 O'er all its tearful clouds, and sing 
 
 On skylark's wing ! 
 Another life-spring there adorns 
 
 Another youth, without the dread 
 Of cruel care, whose crown of thorns 
 
 Is here for manhood's aching head 
 Oh ! there are realms of welcome day, 
 A world where tears are wiped away ! 
 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. KITCHENER has greatly recognised the genius 
 of his name by taking boldly the path to which it 
 points ; disregarding 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 
 kitchen 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, curry, catsup, cayenne, and the like. He has 
 
 * The Cook's Oracle ; containing Receipts for Plain Cookery, &c. ; the 
 whole being the Result of Experiments instituted in the Kitchen of a 
 Physician.
 
 I 4 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 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 Cook! Dr. 
 Kitchener has written a book ; and if he, good easy 
 man, should think to surprise any friend or acquaint- 
 ance 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 gentle- 
 man 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 
 situated," once met with a strong-hearted man who 
 remorselessly 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, with 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 Dugald Stuart, 
 in search oi the picturesque, or leaped double sen- 
 tences and waded through metaphors, in a gram- 
 matical 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, reviewing 
 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
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 15 
 
 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 mathematics into thin slices I have 
 not lost myself amongst the kick-shaws 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 substan- 
 tials, 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 im- 
 agination 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 shoulder of veal. " Minced collops " 
 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?" 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
 
 16 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 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 mulliga- 
 tawny soup, or of having your tongue neatly smothered 
 in your 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 per- 
 suaded to roast itself." The indolent man would 
 " sleep a fortnight " and even then would not be fit 
 for use. The lover would dream 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 continues with a whole bunch of intro- 
 ductions, 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 im- 
 possible 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.
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 17 
 
 Baxter," but are delighted, and ^delighted, 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 Mac- 
 beth'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 amusement. 
 
 The first preface tells us, inter alia, that he has 
 worked all the culinary problems which his book con- 
 tains, 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 snys, " he patiently pioneered 
 through, before he set about recording the results ot 
 his own experiments !" 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 terrors of a roasting 
 fire in the dog days, in defiance of the odoriferous 
 and calefacient repellants of roasting, boiling, fry- 
 ing, and broiling; moreover the author has sub- 
 mitted 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." 
 
 B
 
 1 8 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 We should like to see the Doctor, we confess, after 
 this extraordinary statement. To have superintended 
 the agitations of the pot, to have hung affectionately 
 over a revolving calf's heart to have patiently wit- 
 nessed the noisy marriage of bubble and squeak, 
 to have coolly investigated the mystery of a haricot, 
 appears within the compass of any old lady or gentle- 
 man, whose frame could stand the fire and whose 
 soul could rule the roast. But to have eaten the 
 substantial of four hundred and forty closely printed 
 pages is " a thing to read of, not to tell." It calls for 
 a man of iron interior, a man alieni appetens, sui pro- 
 fusus. It demands the rival of time ; an edax reriun ! 
 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 pursuit, and the most 
 pleasurable amusement of life. Much depends on 
 the age of your domestics ; for we are told that " it is 
 a good maxim to select servants not younger than
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 19 
 
 THIRTY." Is it so? Youth "them 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 intro- 
 duction 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 
 
 * This cook of a goose, or goose of a cook, whichever it may 
 be, strangely reminds us of the Doctor's own intense and enthu- 
 siastic bustle among the butter-boats. We fancy we see him, 
 and not the goose, "walking about, and flying here and there,
 
 20 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 thirst, and cool her heart, and all 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 
 your guests, and she will cry 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 
 WeckeSs 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 com- 
 mences thus : 
 
 " In the affairs of the mouth the strictest punctu- 
 ality is indispensable ; the gastronomer ought to be 
 as accurate an observer of time as the astronomer 
 the least delay produces fatal and irreparable mis- 
 fortunes." 
 
 It appearing, therefore, that delay is dangerous, 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, 
 
 being cooped in by the fire.'' By this time, we should suppose, 
 he must be about "roasted enough.''
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 21 
 
 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 un- 
 avoidable cause, except not coming at the appointed 
 hour; according to the laws of conviviality, a certifi- 
 cate from a sheriff's officer, a doctor, or an under- 
 taker, are the only pleas which are admissible. The 
 duties which invitation imposes do not fall only on 
 the persons invited, but, like all other social duties, 
 are reciprocal." 
 
 If you should, therefore, fortunately happen to be 
 arrested, or have* had the good luck to fracture a 
 limb, or, if better than all, you should have taken a 
 box in that awful threatre at which all must be pre- 
 sent once and for ever; you may be pardoned refus- 
 ing the invitation of some tiresome friend to take a 
 chop ; but there is no other excuse, no other avail- 
 able excuse, for absenting yourself; no mental inapti- 
 tude will save you. Late comers are thus rebuked : 
 
 "There are some who seldom keep an appoint- 
 ment ; 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
 
 22 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 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 
 ungovernable, and unconscious of everything but the 
 mity object of his contemplation, 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 ecstasies 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 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 con- 
 tains " Friendly Advice to Cooks and other servants;" 
 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. Kitch- 
 ener 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 everything 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
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 23 
 
 of her own pocket"" Have the dust removed," says 
 Dr. Kitchener, "regularly every fortnight!" What 
 dust? Not that, we trust, 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 down, by the 
 soot falling." Thus the Doctor, very properly, puts 
 the greater evil first. " Give notice to your em 
 ployers when the contents of your coal cellar are 
 diminished to a chaldron." Diminished! 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 par- 
 ticular in another of his directions : " The best rule 
 for marketing is to pay ready money for everything." 
 This is 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- 
 gruel 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 Chiffney are nothing to " a leg of mutton
 
 24 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 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 cauldron for the blanket, and thus re- 
 duce by steam. We should suppose a young gentle- 
 man, 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, when fallen into 
 poverty and decay, are quite unworthy of credit. 
 "When baking a joint of poor meat I have seen it 
 (what ?) start from the bone, and shrivel up scarcely to 
 be believed." 
 
 Roasting is the next object of Dr. Kitchener's 
 anxious care ; and if this chapter be generally read, 
 we shall not be surprised to see people in future 
 roasting their meat before their doors and in their 
 areas : for the Doctor says 
 
 " Roasting shotild 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 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 care- 
 fully as to the best method of cooking the fire. 
 "The fire that is but just sufficient to receive the 
 noble sirloin will 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 
 " everybody knows the advantage of slow boiling 
 slow roasting \s equally important." This is an axiom.
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 2$ 
 
 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 
 sorry 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 com- 
 pany 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 culinary. 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 blends the fanciful and the 
 substantial in one laughing and robust harmony. 
 
 The Doctor is profound on the subject of vege- 
 tables, and when we consider the importance of it, 
 we are not surprised to hear him earnestly exclaim, 
 " I should as soon think of roasting an animal alive, 
 as of boiling a -vegetable after it is dead" No one will 
 question that the one is quite as pardonable as the
 
 26 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 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 in- 
 digestible, 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 re- 
 marking, that a turbot is said to be better for not 
 being fresh, and that "lean juicy beef, mutton, or 
 veal form the basis of broth." 
 
 Gravies and sauces are not neglected. The Doctor 
 writes " However ' les pompeuses Bagatelles de la 
 cuisine masquee,' may tickle the fancy of demi con- 
 noisseurs, who, leaving the substance to pursue the 
 shadow, prefer wonderful and whimsical metamor- 
 phoses, and things extravagantly expensive, to those 
 which are intrinsically excellent in whose mouth, 
 mutton can hardly hope for a welcome unless ac- 
 companied 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 or hedgehogs. 
 
 "These travesties rather show the patience than 
 the science of the cook, and the bad taste of those 
 who prefer such 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."
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 27 
 
 We do not know what the Doctor understands as 
 "a big book;" but to our notions (and we are ex- 
 perienced 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 manuscript lost in 
 the printing. In truth a comparative scale of the 
 wasting of meat and prose during the cooking would 
 be no uninteresting performance. For our parts, we 
 can only remark from t experience, that these our ar- 
 ticles 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 
 alarmingly shrink up to a page or two when dressed 
 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 put- 
 ting into it everything that ever was eaten ; and sup- 
 posing every addition must be an improvement, they 
 frequently overpower the natural flavour of their plain 
 sauces, by overloading them with salt and spices, etc. : 
 but, remember, these will be deteriorated by any 
 addition, save only just salt enough to awaken the 
 palate the lover of ' piquance ' and compound flav- 
 ours may have recourse to the 'Magazine of Taste.'" 
 
 Again 
 
 " Why have clove and allspice, or mace and nut- 
 meg, in the same sauce? or marjoram, thyme, 
 and savory ? or onions, leeks eschallots and gar- 
 lick ? one will very well supply the place of the other, 
 and the frugal cook may save something consider-
 
 28 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 able 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 fourth from Chelsea, with a certain 
 portion of spring and rain water." 
 
 The Doctor himself, however, in spite of his cor- 
 rection 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, etc., 
 we find that we have the whole to go over again. To 
 our utter dismay, p. 142 begins anew with boiling! 
 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 danc- 
 Ang, 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 Mrs. 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, slily
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 29 
 
 enough, if you like it full-dressed score it superficially; 
 beat up the yolk of an egg, and rub it over the head 
 with a feather ; powder it, etc. 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, vege- 
 tables," etc., as we are by no means sure that our 
 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 were 
 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 baste it well." The 
 following occurs to us to be as difficult a direction to 
 fulfil as any of Sir Thomas Parkin's wrestling in- 
 structions : " Lay your pig back to back 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 per- 
 secuted 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
 
 30 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 
 
 of them. The Doctor dwells upon " the fine pale 
 red rose colour" of pickled salmon, till you doubt 
 whether he is not admiring a carnation. " 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 justly, " that the human executioner 
 does certain criminals the favour to hang them before 
 he breaks them on the wheel." 
 
 Of salmon the Doctor rather quaintly znAfosingly 
 observes, " 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," says the Doctor, " is the index 
 of their freshness." 
 
 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 
 gourmand 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 are placed in our shell, we should have no 
 objection to be astonished with a similar delicate 
 and titillating opening !
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 31 
 
 Giblet soup requires to be eaten with the fingers. We 
 were not aware that these handy instruments could be 
 used successfully in the devouring of gravies and soups. 
 
 "N.B. This is rather a family dish than a com- 
 pany one ; the bones cannot be well picked without 
 the help of a live pincers. Since Tom Coryat intro- 
 duced 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 
 
 " This soup was eaten by the committee of taste 
 with unanimous applause, and they pronounced it a 
 very satisfactory 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 parapher- 
 nalia of double relishes, a 'starved turtle' 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 com- 
 posed expressly for those ' who only live to eat,' I do 
 not know how it could have been made more agree- 
 able ; as it is, the lover of good eating will ' wish his 
 throat a mile long, and every inch of it palate.' " 
 
 Our 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 possession 
 of Mr. Michael Kelly !
 
 32 THE COOICS ORACLE. 
 
 We think the following almost a superfluous direc- 
 tion 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 observa- 
 tions : " Mem. You cannot make essence of anchovy 
 half so cheap as you can buy it." 
 
 The following passage is rather too close an imita- 
 tion of one of the puff directions in the " Critic :" 
 
 " To a pint of the cleanest and strongest rectified 
 spirit, (sold by Rickards, Piccadilly,) add two drachms 
 and a half of the sweet oil of orange peel, (sold by 
 Stewart, No. n, 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 substitute 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 boned!" 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
 
 THE COOK'S ORACLE. 33 
 
 piquance of this buttery-caseous relish," etc. Is not 
 this a little overdone ? 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 egg is for the yolk to be 
 seen blushing through the white, which should only 
 be just sufficiently 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 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 carry 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 Congreve's Jeremy says, " a 
 feast for an emperor." Who could starve with such 
 a larder of reading ?
 
 34 
 
 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 quivei, 
 Then melt in Time's dark-flowing river. 
 Gone the sweetly-scented breeze 
 That spoke in music to the trees ; 
 Gone for damp and chilly breath, 
 As if fresh blown o'er marble seas, 
 Or newly from the lungs of Death. 
 Gone its virgin roses' blushes, 
 Warm as when Aurora rushes 
 Freshly from the god's embrace, 
 With all her shame upon her face. 
 Old Time hath laid them in the mould ; 
 Sure he is blind as well as old,
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER, 35 
 
 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 negro breasts should hide 
 The lips that were so rosy red, 
 At morning and at even-tide ! 
 
 Delightful Summer ! then adieu 
 Till thou shalt visit us anew : 
 But who without regretful sigh 
 Can say, adieu, and see thee fly ? 
 Not he that e'er hath felt thy 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, 
 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
 
 36 TUX DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 
 
 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 
 
 Warm as young blood, and dazzling bright, 
 
 As if its source were in the sun ! 
 
 But say, hath Winter then no charms ? 
 Is there no joy, no gladness warms 
 His aged heart ? no happy wiles 
 To cheat the hoary one to smiles ? 
 Onward he comes the cruel North 
 Pours his furious whirlwind forth 
 Before him and we breathe the breath 
 Of 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,
 
 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 37 
 
 Or pilgrim stiffen'd in the storm. 
 Oh ! will not Mirth's light arrows fail 
 To pierce that frozen coat of mail ! 
 Oh ! will not joy but strive in vain 
 To light up those glazed eyes again ? 
 
 No ! take him in, and blaze the oak, 
 And pour the wine, and warm the ale ; 
 His sides 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 ? 
 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. 
 
 But hark ! those shouts ! that sudden din 
 Of little 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 court 
 '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.
 
 38 THE DEPARTURE OF SUMMER. 
 
 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 through 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 
 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,"
 
 TO CELIA. 39 
 
 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 ! 
 
 TO A CRITIC. 
 
 O 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 theyre firste sappyenesse ! 
 Even as Pinkes from littel Pipinges growe 
 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 growne 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 brighte hues of Lovelinesse indeede ! 
 
 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.
 
 40 PRESENTIMENT. , 
 
 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. 
 
 But still he saw the 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 FRAGMENT. 
 
 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
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 41 
 
 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 thoughts, silently, like the whisperings 
 of their own spirits 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 sorrow was 
 deep into darkness, and I could not win friendship 
 by friendship, nor love (though it still loved me) but 
 in heaven for it was purer than the pure air, and 
 had floated up to God. And I sat down upon a 
 tombstone with my unburied grief, 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 dust upon those flat dwellings, which 
 I kissed, for lips like it were there, and eyes where
 
 42 PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 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 chil- 
 dren coming up the path. The lambs lifted up their 
 heads as they passed and gazed, but fed again with 
 out stirring, for there was nothing to fear from such 
 innocent looks and so gentle voices ; there was 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 
 when 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, without read- 
 ing. 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
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 43 
 
 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 meth ought their father's 
 spirit passed into mine, and burned, 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 sorrowful cheeks into 
 dimples, for they are very 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 tenderest 
 are most torn because they are tenderest, and the 
 most beautiful are most blighted. Therefore this 
 little one shall be my 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 offspring. 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 full 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
 
 44 PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 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 very cheeks, blushing my own blood, and had 
 breathed blessings upon their 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 speechless, and with flowers so withering ? 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 further and still 
 further as I followed, till they stood upon the verge 
 of the churchyard. Then I saw, in the sunshine, 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 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 warn- 
 ing, 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
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 45 
 
 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 dark- 
 ened 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, and tears 
 gushed into all eyes as if they had been one, so that 
 I seemed drowned, and could see nothing except 
 their shadows in the light of my own spirit. In that 
 moment I heard the cries of my own children, calling 
 to me fainter and fainter, as if they died and I could 
 not save them; and I tried to stay them, but my
 
 46 PRESENTIMENT. 
 
 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 drowned 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 scald- 
 ing 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 con- 
 scious. Thus I lay for unknown time, and without 
 thought; and again awakening, I saw a dark figure 
 bending over me, and felt him grasp 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 neighbour, and recog- 
 nised 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 distress. 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 of Death that I had passed ; 
 and feeling that my hour was near, and recollecting 
 my home, I endeavoured to rise. But my strength
 
 PRESENTIMENT. 47 
 
 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 running 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 rush 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
 
 48 7 HE SEA OF DEATH. 
 
 my heart stopped with it. In another throb I was 
 with my children, and in another 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 children, 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. 
 
 -Methousfht 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 beautiful ! with bright unruffled hair 
 On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were
 
 TO AN ABSENTEE. 49 
 
 Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse ! 
 
 And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips, 
 
 Meekly apart, as if the soul intense 
 
 Spake out in dreams of its own innocence : 
 
 And so they lay in loveliness, and kept 
 
 The birth-night of their peace, that Life e'en wept 
 
 With very envy of their happy fronts ; 
 
 For there were neighbour brows 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 bitterness and scorn 
 
 Wretched, as they had breathed of this world's pain, 
 
 And so bequeathed it to the world again, 
 
 Through the beholder's heart in heavy sighs. 
 
 So lay they garmented in torpid light, 
 
 Under the pall of a transparent night, 
 
 Like solemn apparitions lull'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, though worlds should intervene. 
 
 Nay, thou art now so dear, methinks 
 The farther we are forced apart, 
 Affection's firm elastic links 
 But bind thee closer round the heart.
 
 So L YCUS THE CENT A UR. 
 
 For now we sever each from each, 
 I learn 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 ! 
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR.* 
 
 FROM AN UNROLLED MANUSCRIPT OF APOLLONIUS CURIUS. 
 
 THE ARGUMENT. 
 
 Lycus, detained by Circe in her magical dominion is beloved bv 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 lured 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, 
 
 * When this poem was republished in "The Plea of the Midsummer 
 Fairies," the following dedication was added to it : 
 
 TO J. II. REYNOLDS, ESQ. 
 
 My dear Reynolds, 
 
 You will remember "Lycus." It was written in the pleasant 
 spring-time of our friendship, and I am glad to maintain that association 
 by connecting your name with the poem. It will gratify me to find that 
 you regard it with the old partiality for the writings of each other, which 
 prevailed with us in those days. For my own sake, I must regret that your 
 pen goes now into tar other records than those which used to delight me. 
 Your true triend and brother, 
 
 T. HOOD.
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAL'S. 51 
 
 Things born of a wish to endure for a thought, 
 Or last for long ages to vanish to nought, 
 Or put on new semblance ? O Jove, I had given 
 The throne of a kingdom to know if that heaven, 
 And the earth and its streams were of Circe, or whether 
 They kept the world's birthday and brighten'd together! 
 For I loved them in terror, 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 quaft'd 
 Swift poison, and never should breathe from the 
 
 draught, 
 
 Such drink 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 woodpecker shriek'd at the 
 
 sight ; f 
 
 And oh ! such an agony thrill'd in that note, 
 That my soul, startling up, beat its wings in my throat,
 
 5.1 LYCUS THE CENTAUX. 
 
 As it long'd to be free of a body whose hand 
 
 Was 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 ; 
 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 feature ; 
 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 mulberry gore ; 
 And the laughing hyena but laughing no more ; 
 And the snake, not with magical orbs to devise 
 Strange death, but with woman's attraction of eyes ; 
 The tall ugly ape, that still bore a dim shine 
 Through his hairy eclipse of a manhood divine ; 
 And the elephant stately, with more than its reason, 
 How thoughtful in sadness ! but this is no season 
 To reckon them up from the lag-bellied toad 
 To the mammoth, whose sobs shook his ponderous 
 load.
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 53 
 
 There were woes of all shapes, wretched forms, when 
 
 I came, 
 
 That hung down their heads with a human-like shame ; 
 The elephant hid in the boughs, and the bear 
 Shed over his eyes the dark veil of his hair; 
 And the womanly soul turning sick with disgust, 
 Tried to vomit herself from her serpentine crust ; 
 While all 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 ; 
 Cries swallow'd abruptly 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 upturn'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 dry, 
 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,
 
 54 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 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 leapt 
 To my breast like a sister, and pressingly 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 dashed off bright tears, till their fingers were wet, 
 And then wiped their lids with long tresses of jet : 
 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
 
 LYCVS THE CENTAUR. 55 
 
 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 horrors, 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 grew to one monster that seized on the light, 
 Like the dragon that strangles the moon in the night ; 
 Fierce sphinxes, long serpents, and asps of the south ; 
 Wild birds of huge beak, and all horrors that drouth 
 Engenders of slime in the land of the pest, 
 Vile shapes without shape, and foul bats of the West, 
 Bringing Night on their wings ; and the bodies 
 
 wherein 
 
 Great Brahma imprisons the spirits of sin, 
 Many-handed, that blent in one phantom of fight 
 Like a Titan, and threatfully warr'd with the light ; 
 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 stretched to 
 
 utter 
 Long screamings of pain, the swift motion of blows,
 
 56 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 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 won 
 Was of heaven or hell till one day in the sun, 
 In its very noon-blaze, I could fancy a thing 
 Of beauty, but faint as the cloud-mirrors fling 
 On the gaze of the shepherd that watches the sky, 
 Half-seen and half-dream'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 were ever uplifted 
 Towards me, and wink'd as the water-weed drifted 
 Between ; but the fish knew that presence, and plied 
 Their long curvy tails, and swift darted aside. 
 
 There I gazed for lost time, and forgot all the 
 
 things 
 
 That once had been wonders the fishes with wings, 
 And the glimmer of magnified eyes that 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,
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 57 
 
 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 
 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
 
 58 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 I had slighted, and therefore was doom'd in that place 
 To roam, and had roam'd, where all horrors grew rank, 
 Nine days ere I wept with my brow on that bank; 
 Her name be not named, but her spite would not fail 
 To our love like a blight ; and they told me the tale 
 Of Scylla, and Picus, imprison'd to speak 
 His shrill-screaming woe through a woodpecker's beak. 
 
 Then they ceased I had heard as the voice of my 
 
 star 
 
 That told me the truth of my fortunes thus far 
 I had read of my sorrow, and lay in the hush 
 Of deep meditation, when lo ! a light crush 
 Of the reeds, and I 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 torrents of hair, that went 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 pure crystal, and timidly gazed 
 With her eyes on my eyes; but their colour and shine 
 Was of that which they look'd on, and mostly of mine 
 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
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 59 
 
 How she put on her veil, and in love to behold me 
 Would wing through the sun till she fainted away 
 Like a mist, and then flew to her waters and lay 
 In love-patience long hours, and sore dazzled her eyes 
 In watching for mine 'gainst the midsummer skies. 
 But now they were heal'd, O 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 ? Who listens her grief 
 Like a far fall of waters, or hears where her feet 
 Grow emphatic among the loose pebbles, and beat 
 Them together ? Ah! surely her flowers float adown 
 To the sea unaccepted, and little ones drown 
 For need of her mercy, even he whose twin-brother 
 Will miss him for ever ; and the sorrowful mother 
 Imploreth in vain for his body to kiss 
 And cling to, all dripping and cold as it is, 
 Because that soft pity is lost in hard pain ! 
 We loved, how we loved ! for I thought not again 
 Of the woes that were 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 
 For two loves, and called ever on ^Cgle, sweet maid 
 Of the sky-loving waters, and was not afraid
 
 6o LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 Of the sight of her skin ; for it never could be, 
 Her beauty and love were misfortunes to me ! 
 
 Thus our bliss had endured for a time-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 v 
 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 
 Wassad, and thebend of theirbrows, and their cries 
 Were seen, but I heard not. The warm touch of tears 
 Travell'd down my cold cheeks, and I shook till myfears 
 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 thrush ? and methought there drew 
 
 near 
 
 A form as of ./Egle, but it was not the face 
 Hope made, and I knew the witch-Queen of that place,
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR, 6 1 
 
 Even Circe the Cruel, that came like a Death 
 Which I fear'd, and yet fled not, for want of rny 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, O 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 their 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 ^Egle, 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,
 
 62 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 
 
 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 ^gle that came 
 With the words on her lips the false witch had fore- 
 given 
 
 To make me immortal for now I was even 
 At the portals of Death, who but waited the hush 
 Of world-sounds in my ear to cry welcome, and rush 
 With mj soul to the banks of his black-flowing river. 
 Oh, would it had flown from my body for ever, 
 Ere 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 perish'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 : " O Circe ! O mother of spite ! 
 Speak the last of that curse ! and imprison me quite 
 In the husk of a brute, that no pity may name 
 The man that I was, that no kindred may claim 
 The monster I am ! Let me utterly be 
 Brute-buried, and Nature's dishonour with me 
 Uninscribed!" But she 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,
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 63 
 
 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 ; 
 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 chorus 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
 
 64 LYCUS THE CENTAUR 
 
 That murmur'd between us and kiss'd them with looks; 
 But the willows unbosom'd their secret, and never 
 I return'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 speckled 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, 
 But with strength of black locks and with eyes azure 
 
 bright 
 
 To grow to large manhood of merciful might. 
 He came, with his face of bold wonder, to feel, 
 The hair of my side, and to lift up my heel, 
 And 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 grass ! 
 Then I dropt him in horror, but felt as I fled
 
 LYCUS THE CENTAUR. 65 
 
 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 urn 
 Where I was not, and still in fond memory turn 
 To his son even such as he left him. Oh, how 
 Could I walk with the youth once my fellows, but now 
 Like Gods to my humbled estate ? or how bear 
 The steeds once the pride of 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 
 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.* 
 
 * Although "Lycus" has 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 the 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 
 
 E
 
 66 
 
 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 
 
 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 has 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
 
 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 67 
 
 Of lifeless diamonds ; and for health denied, 
 
 With art, that blushes at itself, inspire 
 Their languid cheeks and flourish in a glory 
 That has no life in life, nor after-story. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame 
 Of this ungodly shine of human pride, 
 
 And sadly blends his reverence and blame 
 In one grave bow, and passes with a stride 
 
 Impatient : many a red-hooded dame 
 
 Turns her 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, 
 
 King Solomon's not half so fine as these.'" 
 
 Then her meek partner, who has nearly run 
 
 His earthly course, " Nay, Goody, let your text
 
 68 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 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 
 
 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 !
 
 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 69 
 
 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 turn aside and pass, 
 
 In velvet blossom, where all flesh is grass. 
 
 Ah me ! to see their 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 natures would their eyes benight 
 Nor wear their being with a lip too red, 
 
 Nor move too rudely in the summer bright 
 Of sun, but put staid sorrow in their tread, 
 
 Meting it into steps, with inward breath, 
 
 In very pity to bereaved death. 
 
 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
 
 70 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 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 
 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 win the riches of eternal life ! 
 
 " Doth the vain heart love glory that is none, 
 And the poor excellence of vain attire ? 
 
 Oh go, and drown your eyes against the sun, 
 The visible ruler of the starry quire, 
 
 Till boiling gold in giddy eddies run, 
 
 Dazzling the brain with orbs of living fire ; 
 
 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
 
 THE TWO FE A COCA'S OF BEDFONT. 71 
 
 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 ! 
 
 " Yet suns shall perish stars shall fade away 
 Day into darkness darkness into death 
 
 Death into silence ; the warm light of day, 
 
 The blooms of summer, the rich 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 ! O water-constant mind ! 
 
 Fast-ebbing holines*! 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 place 
 Of meekness, like a bird, and flutters now 
 With idle wings on the curl-conscious brow !
 
 72 THE TWO PEACOCKS OF BEDFONT. 
 
 And lo ! with eager looks they seek the way 
 
 Of old temptation at the lowly gate ; 
 To feast on feathers, and on vain array, 
 
 And painted cheeks, and the rich glistering state 
 Of jewel-sprinkled locks. But where are they, 
 
 The graceless haughty ones that used to wait 
 With lofty neck, and nods, and stiffen'd eye ? 
 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, the 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
 
 HYMN TO THE SUN. 73 
 
 Marking the spot, still tarries to declare 
 
 How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. 
 
 HYMN TO THE SUN. 
 
 GIVER of glowing light ! 
 Though but a god of other days, 
 
 The kings and sages 
 
 Of wiser ages 
 Still live and gladden in thy genial rays ! 
 
 King of the tuneful lyre, 
 Still poets' hymns to thee belong 
 
 Though lips are cold 
 
 Whereon of old 
 Thy beams all 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.
 
 74 
 
 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 survivor 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 
 So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie 
 With no more life than roses just to keep 
 The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath. 
 O blossom boy ! so calm is thy repose, 
 
 * This and the following sonnet were written to the infant son of the late 
 Rev. Edward Rice, Master of Christ's Hospital.
 
 TO FANCY. 75 
 
 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. 
 
 ii. 
 
 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 ! 
 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,
 
 76 MR. MARTIN'S PICTURES 
 
 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 MON- 
 MOUTHSHIRE. 
 
 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 intra- 
 duced 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 years old come Midsummer & 
 very big for her size. You knows, Mrs. Price, that 
 with her figure and accumplishments 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 gen- 
 tleman's wife, when he shall please to ax her. I took 
 her the other day to the Bullock's Museum to see Mr.
 
 AND THE BONASSUS. 77 
 
 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-grown lady, and so she is sure enuff, so I 
 could only beat him down to take a sixpence off little 
 Humphry. 
 
 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 ot 
 
 the Welsh Bard because he knew the ballad about it 
 
 & saw the whole 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.
 
 78 MR. MARTIN'S PICTURES 
 
 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 chancy 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 difference betwixt them 
 and besides that it was in better keeping which I sup- 
 pose means it is sold to a Lord. The next was only 
 a lady very well dressed and walking in a landskip. 
 But oh, Mrs. Price, how shall I tell you about the 
 burning o'f 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 ! O Mrs. Price ! what a 
 mercy we was not born in Vesuvus & there is no 
 burning mountings in Wales ! only think to be hold- 
 ing our sheelds over our heads to keep off the hot 
 
 * The storming of Babylon : Mrs Lloyd must have got her catalogue by 
 hearsay.
 
 AND THE BONASSUS. 79 
 
 sinders, and almost suffercated to death with brimstun. 
 It puts one in a shiver to think of it. 
 
 There is another picture 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-morrow 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 servant 
 
 WINIFRED LLOYD. 
 
 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 
 
 * Mrs. Lloyd means Zadak, in the "Tales of the Genii."
 
 8o PRESENCE OF MIND IN A GHOST. 
 
 could make sich a nateral idear, but he is a sweet 
 boy and very foreward in his laming. He was eyely 
 delited at the 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 cus- 
 tomer to the green Grocer and a pretty penny I 
 warrant 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 ? let them tell me that, Mrs. 
 Price. I would have carried him home in my eye to 
 describe to you & Mr. 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. 
 
 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 won- 
 derful instance of presence of mind in an apparition.
 
 PRESENCE OF MIND IN A GHOST. 81 
 
 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 husband) 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 figure was greatly agitated and 
 distressed, and would have clasped her, but on seeing 
 her loathing, it desisted only moving its jaw upward 
 and downward, as if it would cry for help but could 
 not for want of its parts 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 spring- 
 ing of a watchman's rattle ; at which alarm the neigh- 
 bours running hastily in, and stoutly armed as against 
 thieves and murderers, the Spectre suddenly de- 
 parted-t 
 
 * This sentence is barely legible, having been scratched through on second 
 thoughts. 
 
 t I cannot discover wnether this ingenious ghost was the offspring of my 
 father's brain, or the hero of some legend of Sandhurst, where my father 
 resided, as a young man, for some period with his uncle, (he late Mr. Sands. 
 
 F
 
 82 
 
 THOUGHTS ON SCULPTURE. 
 
 THERE is something sublime in the pale repose of 
 fine sculpture : colour is as noise and motion. Harle- 
 quin 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 repository 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-officer 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 turned to stone : eve.n 
 that snorting horse, wild and fiery as he may once 
 have been, distends 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 m sub- 
 stance either above or beneath all violence too 
 rock-like to be rudely acted on, or too delicate and 
 aerial, too sylph-like for touch too pure 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 mr-rble metaphor of
 
 FAIR INES. 83 
 
 peace. Alone, and still, and hushed, it stood in the 
 dark of a long passage, like an embodied twilight, 
 not dead, but with such a breathless life as we con- 
 ceive 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. 
 
 O 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 we love best, 
 With morning blushes on her cheek, 
 And pearls upon her breast. 
 
 O 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 
 I rophets looking into the futuf
 
 84 FAIR 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 ! 
 
 Alas, alas, fair Ines, 
 
 She went away with song, 
 
 With Music waiting on her steps, 
 
 And shoutings of the throng ; 
 
 But some were sad and felt no mirth, 
 
 But only Music's wrong, 
 
 In sounds that sang Farewell, Farewell, 
 
 To her you've loved so long. 
 
 Farewell, farewell, fair Ines, 
 That vessel never bore
 
 TO A FALSE fRIEND. 8$ 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 ; 
 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 ! 
 
 ODE. 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 I SAW old Autumn in the misty morn 
 Stand shadowless like Silence, listening
 
 86 ODE. 
 
 To silence, for no lonely bird would sing 
 Into his hollow ear from woods forlorn, 
 Nor lowly hedge nor solitary thorn ; 
 Shaking his languid locks all dewy bright 
 With tangled gossamer that fell by night, 
 Pearling his coronet of golden corn. 
 
 Where are the songs of Summer ? With the sun, 
 
 Oping the dusky eyelids of the south, 
 
 Till shade and silence waken up as one, 
 
 And Morning sings with a warm odorous mouth. 
 
 Where are the merry birds ? Away, away, 
 
 On panting wings through the inclement skies, 
 
 Lest owls should prey 
 
 Undazzled at 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 prest 
 Like tearful Proserpine, snatch'd from her flow'rs 
 
 To a most gloomy breast. 
 
 Where is the pride of Summer, the green prime, 
 The many, many leaves all twinkling ? Three 
 On the moss'd elm ; three on the naked lime 
 Trembling, and one upon 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 grain, 
 And honey bees have stored
 
 ODE. 87 
 
 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. 
 
 O go and sit with her, and be o'ershaded 
 Under the languid downfall of her hair ; 
 She wears a coronal of flowers faded 
 Upon her forehead, and a face of care ; 
 There is enough of 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 
 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 1
 
 88 
 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. 
 
 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,
 
 SONNETS. 89 
 
 Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, 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' " ENDYMION." 
 
 I SAW pale Dian, sitting by the brink 
 Of silver falls, the overflow of fountains 
 From cloudy steeps j and I grew 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, 
 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,
 
 90 TO A COLD BEAUTY. 
 
 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. 
 
 TO A COLD BEAUTY. 
 
 LADY, wouldst thou heiress be 
 To Winter's cold and cruel part ? 
 
 When he sets the rivers free, 
 
 Thou dost still lock up thy heart ; 
 
 Thou that shouldst outlast the snow, 
 
 But in the whiteness of thy brow. 
 
 Scorn and cold neglect are made 
 For winter gloom and winter 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?
 
 SERENADE. 91 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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 outwatch the world. 
 
 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 !"
 
 92 OLD BALLAD, 
 
 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 crowned in the skies again, 
 But I shall be mark'd on the brow like Cain !" 
 
 Down he sank in the dismal wave, 
 As cold as death, and dark as the grave ; 
 But when he came to the stones at last, 
 The Fairy caught 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.
 
 LINES ON A BUNCH OF GRAPES. 93 
 
 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 !" 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY A BUNCH OF 
 ENGLISH GRAPES. 
 
 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, 
 
 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 linger 
 
 And pluck us from the trembling vine 
 
 To brim her dimpled lap.
 
 94 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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. O ! Love's lowest base 
 
 Is far above the reaching of disgrace 
 
 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.
 
 95 
 
 THE FORSAKEN. 
 
 THE dead are in their silent graves, 
 And the dew is cold above, 
 And the living weep and sigh, 
 Over dust that once was love. 
 
 Once I only wept the dead, 
 
 But now the living cause my pain : 
 
 How couldst thou steal me from my tears, 
 
 To leave me to my tears again ? 
 
 My Mother rests beneath the sod, 
 Her rest is calm and very deep : 
 I 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 turn'd to grey, 
 Once they were black and well beloved, 
 But thou art changed, and so are they ! 
 
 The useless lock I gave thee once, 
 To gaze upon and think of me, 
 Was ta'en with smiles, but this was torn 
 In sorrow that I send to thee ! 
 
 SONG. 
 
 THE stars are with the voyager 
 
 Wherever he may sail ; 
 The moon is constant to her time ; 
 
 The sun will never fail ;
 
 96 SONG. 
 
 But follow, follow round the world, 
 The green earth and the sea, 
 
 So love is with the lover's heart, 
 Wherever he may be. 
 
 Wherever he may be, the stars 
 
 Must daily lose their light ; 
 The moon will veil her in the shade : 
 
 The sun will set at night. 
 The sun may set, but constant love 
 
 Will shine when he's away ; 
 So that dull night is never night, 
 
 And day is brighter day. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O 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 wilt 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 flowers.
 
 I LOVE THEE. 97 
 
 There's fairy tulips in the east, 
 
 The garden of the sun ; 
 The very streams reflect the hues, 
 
 .And blossoms as they run : 
 While Morn opes like a crimson rose, 
 
 Still wet with pearly showers ; 
 Then, lady, leave the silken thread 
 
 Thou twinest into flowers ! 
 
 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 1 
 
 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 learned that look of mine ! 
 
 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 ; 
 
 * My mothers's birthday was the Cth November. 
 
 G
 
 98 LIXES. 
 
 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 all 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 ; 
 But most, dear heart of hearts, thy proofs 
 
 That still these words enhance. 
 I love thee I love thee ! 
 
 Whatever be thy chance. 
 
 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,
 
 FRAGMENT. 99 
 
 And the shining of the eye 
 But a sign to know it by ; 
 When my faults were all forgiven, 
 And my life deserved of Heaven. 
 Dearest, let us reckon so, 
 And love for all that long ago ; 
 Each absence count a year complete, 
 And keep a birthday 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. 
 
 So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die 
 
 Obscured, and hid by death's oblivious 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. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 " FAREWELL Farewell " it is an awful word 
 When that the quick do speak it to the dead ; 
 
 * These lines are repeated in the fourth verse of " Hero and Leander.'
 
 ITO GUIDO AND MARINA. 
 
 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. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 GUIDO AND MARINA. 
 
 A DRAMATIC SKETCH. 
 
 [Guido, having given himself up to the pernicious study of magic and 
 astrology, casts his nativity, and resolves that at a certain nour of a certain 
 day he is to die. MARINA, to wean him from this latal 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.
 
 GUIDO AND MARINA. 101 
 
 Mar. What pain what time, love 1 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, 
 Is it red with blood ? 
 
 Mar. Alas ! my love, what wilt thou ? 
 
 Thy hand is red and so is mine all hands 
 Show thus against the sun. 
 
 Guido. All living men's, 
 
 Marina, but not mine. Hast never heard 
 How death first seizes on the feet and hands, 
 And thence goes freezing to the very 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. Ay, 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 !
 
 102 GUIDO AND MARINA. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Guido. Marina, I am no more attach'd to death 
 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. 
 
 But 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 ?
 
 GUIDO AND MARINA. 103 
 
 Mar. O, 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 ? 
 
 Gttido. 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. I have lived my term. 
 
 Mar. No not thy term no ! not the natural term 
 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 ! O, God ! O, God ! how can thy stars 
 Be bright with such black knowledge? 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
 
 104 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 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. What 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 ? 
 
 Mar. Where ? a tree the sun 
 
 Sinking behind a tree. 
 
 Guido. It is no tree, 
 
 Marina, but a shape the awful shape 
 That comes to claim me. Seest thou not his shade 
 Darken before his steps ? 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 [Gumo dies. 
 
 Mar. I am here ! 
 
 What wilt thou? dost thou speak? Methought I 
 
 heard thee 
 Just whispering. He is dead ? O God ! he's dead ! 
 
 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
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 105 
 
 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, 
 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 ground 
 Whilst his enormous head the topmast 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-threaten'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
 
 io6 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 For sweet escapement, but in darksome fears 
 They weep and pine away as if immortal years. 
 
 No gentle bird 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 lips, for pity stirr'd 
 Lest while he trembling sings, untimely guest ! 
 Watch'd by that cruel Snake and darkly heard, 
 He leave a widow on her lonely nest, 
 To press in silent grief the darlings of her breast. 
 
 No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark, 
 Will seek the fruitful perils of the place, 
 To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark 
 That bear that serpent-image on their face. 
 And Love, brave Love ! though he attempt the 
 
 base, 
 
 Nerved to his loyal death, he may not win 
 His captive lady from the strict embrace 
 Of that foul Serpent, clasping her within 
 His sable folds like Eve 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.
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 107 
 
 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. 
 
 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,
 
 108 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start 
 Turns her impatient head from side to side 
 In universal terrors all too wide 
 To watch ; and often to that marble keep 
 Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied 
 Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep 
 That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep. 
 
 And well she may, to spy that fearful thing 
 All down the dusky walls in circlets wound 
 Alas ! for what rare prize, with many a ring 
 Girding the marble casket round and round? 
 His folded tail, lost in the gloom protound, 
 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 unwearied eyes, red watchers of the place. 
 
 Alas ! of the hot fires that nightly fall, 
 No one will scorch him in those orbs of spite, 
 So he may never see beneath the wall 
 That timid little creature, all too bright, 
 That stretches her fair neck, slender and white, 
 Invoking the pale moon, and vainly tries 
 Her throbbing throat, as if to charm the night 
 With song but, hush it perishes in sighs, 
 And there will be no dirge sad-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
 
 THE TWO SWANS. 109 
 
 She sheds her stifled sorrows in a shower 
 Of tender song, timed to her falling tears 
 That wins the shady summit of that tower, 
 And, trembling all the sweeter for its fears, 
 Fills with imploring moan that cruel monster's ears. 
 
 And, lo ! the scaly beast is all deprest, 
 Subdued like Argus by the might of sound 
 What time Apollo his sweet lute addrest 
 To magic converse with the air, and bound 
 The many monster eyes, all slumber-drown'd : 
 So on the turret-top that watchful Snake 
 Pillows his giant head, and lists profound, 
 As if his wrathful 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 enormous 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 wrong 
 
 Hinting a piteous tale perchance how long 
 
 Thy unknown tears were mingled with the lake, 
 
 What time disguised thy leafy mates among
 
 no THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 And no eye knew what human love and ache 
 Dwelt in those dewy leaves, and heart so nigh to 
 break. 
 
 Therefore no poet will tmgently touch 
 The water-lily, on whose eyelids dew 
 Trembles like tears ; but ever hold it such 
 As human pain may wander through and through, 
 Turning the pale leaf paler in its hue 
 Wherein life dwells, transfigured, not entomb'd, 
 By magic spells. Alas ! who ever knew 
 Sorrow in all its shapes, leafy and plumed, 
 Or in gross husks of brutes eternally inhumed ? 
 
 And now the winged song has scaled the height 
 Of that dark dwelling, builded for despair, 
 And soon a little casement flashing bright 
 Widens self-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 creature, 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 lor him alone.
 
 THE TWO SWANS. in 
 
 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. 
 
 " 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! butthou 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 tearfully it glares !" 
 
 Full sudden at these words, the princely youth 
 Leaps on the scaly back that slumbers, still 
 Unconscious of his foot, vet not for ruth,
 
 112 THE TWO SWANS. 
 
 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 dirmy seen now toning out of signt, 
 Eclipsed and cover'd by the envious wall ; 
 Now fair and spangled in the sudden light, 
 And clinging 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 marble walls about which he must tread 
 Before his anxious foot may touch the base : 
 Long is the dreary path, and must be sped ! 
 But Love, that holds the mastery of dread, 
 Braces his 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 TWO SWANS. 113 
 
 The sable storm ; the plumy lovers quake 
 And feel the troubled waters pant and swell, 
 Heaved by the giant bulk of their pursuer fell. 
 
 His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, 
 Hiss horrible pursuit his red eyes glare 
 The waters into blood his eager breath 
 Grows hot upon their plumes : now, minstrel fair ! 
 She drops her ring into the waves, and there 
 It widens all around, a fairy ring 
 Wrought of the silver light the fearful pair 
 Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling 
 The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing. 
 
 Bending their course over the pale grey lake, 
 Against the pallid East, wherein light 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 follow'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 ! 
 
 H
 
 114 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 
 
 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 ; 
 Wherewith that sable Serpent far away 
 Fled, like 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 
 
 And turn'd our 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. 115 
 
 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 to 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 hour, 
 Her muffin-medals that devour, 
 
 And swill her prize bohea ? 
 
 Ay, there's the playground ! there's the lime, 
 Beneath whose shade in summer's prime 
 
 So wildly I have read ! 
 Who sits there now, and skims the cream 
 Of young Romance, and weaves a dream 
 Of Love and Cottage-bread ? 
 
 Who struts the Randall of the walk ? 
 Who models tiny heads in chalk ? 
 
 Who scoops the light canoe ? 
 What early genius buds apace ? 
 Where's Poynter ? Harris ? Bowers ? Chase ? 
 
 Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew ? 
 
 Alack ! they're gone a thousand ways I . 
 And some are serving in " the Greys," 
 
 And some have perish'd young ! 
 Jack Harris weds his second wife ; 
 Hal Baylis drives the wane of life ; 
 
 And blithe Carew is hung !
 
 116 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 
 
 Grave Bowers teaches ABC 
 To savages at Owhyee 
 
 Poor Chase is with the worms ! 
 All, all are gone the olden breed !-i 
 New crops of mushroom boys succeed, 
 
 " And push us from our forms/" 
 
 Lo ! 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 ran ! 
 The orphan lad ; the widow's son ; 
 
 And Fortune's favour'd care 
 The wealthy-born, for whom she hath 
 Mac-Adaniised the future path 
 
 The Nabob's pamper'd heir ! 
 
 Some brightly starr'd some evil born, 
 For honour some, and some for scorn, 
 
 For fair or foul renown ! 
 Good, bad, indifFrent none may lack ! 
 Look, here's a White, and there's a Black ! 
 
 And there's a Creole brown ! 
 
 Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep, 
 And wish their ' frugal sires would keep 
 
 Their only sons at home ; ' 
 Some tease the future tense, and plan 
 The full-grown doings of the man, 
 
 And pant for years to come !
 
 OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY. 117 
 
 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. O little fool ! 
 While thou canst be a horse at school, 
 
 To wish to be a man ! 
 
 Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing 
 To wear a crown, to be a king ! 
 
 And sleep on regal down ! 
 Alas ! thou know'st not kingly cares ; 
 Far happier is thy head that wears 
 
 That hat without a crown ! 
 
 And dost thou think that years acquire 
 New added joys ? Dost think thy sire 
 
 More happy than his son ? 
 That manhood's mirth ? Oh, go thy ways 
 To Drury-lane when * plays, 
 
 And she how forced our fun ! 
 
 Thy taws are brave ! thy tops are rare ! 
 Our tops are spun with coils of care, 
 
 Our dumps are no delight ! 
 The Elgin marbles are but tame, 
 And 'tis at best a sorry game 
 
 To fly the Muse's kite ! 
 
 * This blank exists in the original.
 
 Ii8 ODES AND ADDRESSES 
 
 Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, 
 Our topmost joys fall dull and dead 
 
 Like balls with no rebound ! 
 And often with a faded eye 
 We look behind, and send a sigh 
 
 Towards that merry ground ! 
 
 Then be contented. Thou hast got 
 The most of heaven in thy young lot ; 
 
 There's sky-blue in thy cup ! 
 Thou'lt find thy Manhood all too fast 
 Soon come, soon gone ! and Age at last 
 
 A sorry breaking-np / 
 
 ODES AND ADDRESSES TO GREAT PEOPLE. 
 
 " Catching all the oddities, the whimsies, the absurdities, and the littleness 
 of conscious greatness by the way." Citizen oj tfie 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 
 what we have said in verse. To those unaddressed 
 an apology is due; and to them it is very respect- 
 fully offered. Mr. Hunt, for his Permanent Ink, 
 deserves to have his name recorded in his own
 
 TO GREAT PEOPLE. 119 
 
 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 grateful thanks 
 to his Readers and Reviewers, for the kind way in 
 which they have generally received his little Book. 
 Many of those who have been be-Oded in the follow- 
 ing pages have taken the verse-offerings in good part ; 
 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 them- 
 selves 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 twelve
 
 120 ODES AND ADDRESSES 
 
 out. The Proprietor apprehends he must meet the 
 wants of the Public 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 booked 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 namby-pamby. 
 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 
 Addresses are certainly calumniated : the one was 
 really written as an affectionate inquiry after a great 
 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 GREAT PEOPLE. 121 
 
 To the universal 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 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 mjght overlook the Odes, but would have 
 great reason to complain of the Addresses. 
 
 So many Great Men stand over, like the corres- 
 pondents to a periodical, that they must be "con- 
 tinued 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 will 
 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
 
 122 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 the omission of the three puns,* whicn, in the opinion 
 of all friends and reviewers, were detrimental to the 
 correct humour of the publication. 
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM, 
 
 THE AERONAUT. 
 
 " Up with me ! up with me into the sky ! " 
 
 Wordsworth or. a Lark I 
 
 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 whin's of my cigar 
 And then, in Fancy's airy car, 
 
 Have with thee for the skies : 
 How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd 
 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 ! 
 
 * I have read, and had the two editions read repeatedly, but have failed 
 to detect any of these omissions, unless one of them is the elision of the 
 word " washing" in Uridget Jones's letter, as pointed out in a note there.
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 123 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Do, Graham, let me have a quiz, 
 Lord ! what a Lilliput it is, 
 
 That little world of Mogg's ! 
 Are those the London Docks ? that channel, 
 The mighty Thames ? a proper kennel 
 
 For that small Isle of Dogs ! 
 
 What is that seeming tea-urn there ? 
 That fairy dome, St. Paul's ! I swear, 
 
 Wren must have been a Wren ! 
 And that small stripe ? 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 ? 
 Look, Graham, for a little stone 
 
 Mac Adamized to dust ! 
 
 Look at the horses ! less than flies ! 
 Oh, what a waste it was of sighs 
 
 To wish to be a Mayor ! 
 What is the honour ? none at all, 
 One's honour must be very small 
 
 For such a civic chair !
 
 124 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Oh ! Graham, how the upper air 
 Alters the standards of compare ; 
 
 One of our silken flags 
 Would cover London all about 
 Nay then let's even empty out 
 
 Another brace of bags ! 
 
 Now for a glass of bright champagne 
 Above the 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 little mob's acclaim, 
 
 'Tis nothing but a hum ! 
 A few near gnats would trump as loud 
 As all the shouting of a crowd 
 
 That has so far to come !
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 12$ 
 
 Well they are wise that choose the near, 
 A few small buzzards in the ear, 
 
 To organs ages hence ! 
 Ah me, how distance touches all ; 
 It makes the true look rather small, 
 
 But murders poor pretence. 
 
 " The world recedes ! it disappears ! 
 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 ? 
 
 Speak up, or hath he hid his name 
 To crawl through " subways " unto fame, 
 
 Like Williams of Cornhill? 
 Speak up, my lad ! when men run small 
 We'll show what's little in them all, 
 
 Receive it how they will ! 
 
 Think now of Irving ! shall he preach 
 The princes down, shall he impeach 
 
 The potent and the rich, 
 Merely on ethic stilts, and I 
 Not moralize at two miles high 
 
 The true didactic pitch !
 
 126 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 Come : what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir? 
 Is Gifford such a Gulliver 
 
 In Lilliput's Review, 
 That like Colossus he should stride 
 Certain small brazen inches wide 
 
 For poets to pass through ? 
 
 Look down ! the world is but a spot. 
 Now say Is Blackwood's low or not, 
 
 For all the Scottish tone ? 
 It shall not weigh us here not where 
 The sandy burden's lost in air 
 
 Our lading where is't flown ? 
 
 Now, like you 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.
 
 CDE TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 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 sight ! 
 
 My name is Tims. I am the man 
 That North's unseen diminish'd clan 
 So scurvily abused ! 
 
 1 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 scorn'd my lays : do his appear 
 
 Such great eggs from the sky ? 
 And Longman, and his lengthy Co. 
 Long only in a little Row, 
 
 Have thrust my poems by ! 
 
 What else ? I'm poor, and much beset 
 With 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 !
 
 128 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 
 
 What's all the ground-rent of the globe? 
 Oh, Graham, it would worry Job 
 
 To hear its landlords prate ! 
 But after this survey, I think 
 I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink 
 
 From men of large estate ! 
 
 And less, still less, will I submit 
 To poor mean acres' worth of wit 
 
 I that have heaven's span 
 I that like Shakspeare's self may dream 
 Beyond the very clouds, and seem 
 
 An Universal Man ! 
 
 Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds ! 
 Like Birds of Paradise the clouds 
 
 Are winging on the wind ! 
 But what is grander than their range ? 
 More lovely than their sun-set change ? 
 
 The free creative mind ! 
 
 Well ! the Adults' School 's in the air ! 
 The greatest men are lesson'd there 
 
 As well as the Lessee ! 
 Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small 
 Behold the greatest stage of all, 
 
 How humbled they would be ! 
 
 " Oh would some Power the giftie gie em 
 To see themselves as others see 'em," 
 
 '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 !
 
 ODE TO MR. GRAHAM. 129 
 
 Of us ! are we gone out of sight ? 
 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 ! 
 
 Ah me ! I've touch'd a string that opes 
 The airy valve ! the gas elopes 
 
 Down goes our bright Balloon ! 
 Farewell the skies ! the clouds ! I smell 
 The lower world ! Graham, farewell, 
 
 Man of the silken moon ! 
 
 The earth is close ! the City nears 
 Like a burnt paper it appears, 
 
 Studded with tiny sparks ! 
 Methinks I hear the distant rout 
 Of coaches rumbling all about 
 
 We're close above the Parks ! 
 
 I hear the watchmen on their beats, 
 Hawking the hour about the streets. 
 
 Lord ! what a cruel jar 
 It is upon the earth to light ! 
 Well there's the finish of our flight ! 
 
 I've smoked my last cigar ! 
 
 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 
 
 " Let us take to the road ! " Beggar's Opera. 
 
 M'ADAM, hail ! 
 
 Hail, Roadian ! hail, Colossus ! who dost stand 
 Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land !
 
 130 ODE TO MR. WAD AM. 
 
 Oh universal Leveller ! all hail ! 
 To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, 
 
 The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going, 
 To thee, how much for thy commodious plan, 
 Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing ! 
 
 The Bristol mail 
 
 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,
 
 ODE TO MR. M'ADAAf. iy 
 
 Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 
 
 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's. 
 
 Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac ! and shaved the road 
 
 From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode 
 
 So well, that 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, our way, 
 Nought see we, but mankind in open air, 
 Hammering thy fame, as Chantrey would not dare ; 
 
 And with a patient care 
 Chipping thy immortality all day ! 
 Demosthenes, of old, that rare old man, 
 Prophetically/<7//<?wW, Mac ! thy plan : 
 For he, we know, 
 (History says so,)
 
 132 ODE TO MR. MADAM. 
 
 Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak 
 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 waters which can wet a man to sing ! 
 
 Which, like thy fame, " from granite basins burst, 
 
 Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?" 
 
 That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might 
 Vouchsafe ; and Mr. Cadell may, God wot, 
 Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot, 
 
 Cadell's a wayward wight ! 
 Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, 
 And I can throw, I think, a little light 
 Upon some works thou hast written for the town, 
 And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown ! 
 
 " Highways and Byewa) v s " 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;
 
 ODE TO MR. M'ADAM. 133 
 
 " Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair," 
 
 (Blair is a Scottish name,) 
 What are they, but thy own good roads M'Adam ? 
 
 O ! indefatigable labourer 
 
 In the paths of men ! when thou 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 ! 
 
 A FRIENDL Y EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY, 
 IN NEWGATE. 
 
 "Sermons in stones." As 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
 
 134 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 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 fry's bookseller, Friend Barton ! 
 
 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 courc. 
 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 difference just like good from bad ! 
 
 I like the sober colours not the wet ; 
 
 Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow 
 
 Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet 
 
 In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go 
 
 The others are a chaste, severer set, 
 
 In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go 
 
 They're moral standards, to know Christians by 
 
 In short, they are your colours, Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 As for the naughty tinges of the prism 
 
 Crimson's the cruel uniform of war 
 
 Blue hue of brimstone ! minds no catechism 
 
 And green is young and gay not noted for 
 
 Goodness, or gravity, or quietism, 
 
 Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or 
 
 Olive and purple's giv'n to wine, I guecs ; 
 
 And yellow is a convict by its dress !
 
 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 13$ 
 
 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 Piftite 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 
 Brown 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 ! 
 No I will be your friend and, like a friend, 
 Point out your very worst defect Nay, never 
 Start at that word ! But I must ask you why 
 You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry ? 
 
 Too well I know the price our mother Eve 
 
 Paid for her schooling : but must all her daughters 
 
 Commit a petty larceny, and thieve 
 
 Pay down a crime for "entrance" to your "quarters?" 
 
 Your classes may increase, but I must grieve 
 
 Over your pupils at their bread-and-waters !
 
 136 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 Oh, tho' it cost you rent (and rooms run high !) 
 Keep your school out of Newgate, Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 O 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 ! 
 
 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 immortal 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
 
 A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 137 
 
 Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time 
 It is too late for scouring to begin 
 When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime 
 Is worn away, and nothing sound remains ; 
 You'll tret 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. 
 O, come abroad into the wholesome air, 
 And take your moral place, before Sin seats 
 Her wicked self in the Professor's chair. 
 Suppose some morals raw ! the true receipt's 
 To dress them in the pan, but do not try 
 To cook them in the fire, good Mrs. Fry ! 
 
 Put on your decent bonnet, and come out ! 
 Good lack ! the ancients did not set up schools 
 In jail but at the Porch I hinting, no doubt, 
 That Vice should have a lesson in the rules 
 Before 'twas whipt by law. O come about, 
 Good Mrs. Fry ! and set up forms and stools 
 All down the Old Bailey, and thro' Newgate-street, 
 But not in Mr. Wontner's proper seat ! 
 
 Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you 
 That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolour ;
 
 I3& A FRIENDLY EPISTLE TO MRS. FRY. 
 
 Teach her it is not virtue to pursue 
 Ruin of blue, or any other colour 
 Teach her it is not Virtue's crown to rue, 
 Month after month, the unpaid drunken dollar ; 
 Teach her that "flooring Charleys" is a game 
 Unworthy one that bears a Christian name. 
 
 O come and teach our children that 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 ! 
 
 You are not nice go into their retreats, 
 And make them Quakers, if you 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 cheque 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 !
 
 139 
 
 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ., 
 
 M.P. FOR GALWAY. 
 
 "Martin in this has proved himself a very good man !" Boxiana. 
 
 How many sing of wars, 
 Of Greek and Trojan jars 
 The butcheries of men ! 
 The Muse hath a " Perpetual Ruby Pen !" 
 Dabbling with heroes and the blood they spill ; 
 But no one sings the man 
 That, like a pelican, 
 Nourishes Pity with his tender Bill. 
 Thou Wilberforce of hacks ! 
 Of whites as well as blacks, 
 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 1 
 Drovers may curse thee, 
 Knackers asperse thee, 
 And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes j 
 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 1 
 
 Bullocks don't wear 
 
 Oxide of iron !
 
 140 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, SQ. 
 
 The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon a oft, 
 
 Enforcing mercy on the course Yahoo, 
 
 That thought his horse the courser of the two 
 
 Whilst Swift smiled down aloft ! 
 O 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 Swifts! 
 
 Ah ! when Dean Swift was quick, how he enhanced 
 The horse ! and humbled biped man like Plato ! 
 But now he's dead, the charger is mischanced 
 Gone backward in the world and not advanced, 
 
 Remember Cato ! 
 Swift was the horse's champion not the King's 
 
 Whom Southey sings 
 
 Mounted on Pegasus would he were thrown ! 
 He'll wear that ancient hackney to the bone, 
 Like a mere clothes-horse airing royal things ! 
 Ah well-a-day ! the ancients did not use 
 Their steeds so cruelly ! let it debar men 
 From wanton rowelling and whip's abuse 
 Look at the ancients' Muse! 
 Look at their Carmen ! 
 
 O, Martin ! how thine eye 
 That one would think had put aside his 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
 
 ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ. 141 
 
 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 fane! 
 
 O build a Brookes' s Theatre for horses ! 
 O wipe away the national reproach 
 
 And find a decent Vulture for their corses ! 
 
 And in thy funeral track 
 Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach ! 
 
 Steeds that confess " the luxury of wo /" 
 True mourning steeds, in no extempore black, 
 
 And many a wretched hack 
 Shall sorrow for thee, sore with kick and blow 
 A.nd 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. 
 
 "O breathe not his name !" Moore. 
 
 THOU Great Unknown ! 
 I do not mean Eternity nor Death, 
 
 That vast incog ! 
 
 For I suppose thou hast a living breath, 
 Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown, 
 
 Thou man of fog ! 
 Parent of many children child of none ! 
 
 Nobody's son !
 
 142 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 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 wall 
 
 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 \ 
 Why 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 nothern light 
 In a dark lantern, Bogie in a crape
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 143 
 
 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 
 
 Still let me ask, 
 Hast thou no silver platter, 
 No door-plate, or no card or some such matter, 
 To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth ? 
 
 Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger 
 Of Curiosity with airy gammon ! 
 Thou mystery-monger, 
 Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon, 
 That people buy, and can't make head or tail of it ; 
 (Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it;) 
 Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical. 
 That lay their proper bodies on the shelf 
 Keeping thyself so truly to thyself, 
 
 Thou Zimmerman made practical ! 
 Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, 
 
 That, like the Nile 
 Hideth its source wherever it is bred, 
 
 But still keeps disemboguing 
 
 (Not disembroguing) 
 
 Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head 
 Thou disembodied author not yet dead, 
 The whole world's literary Absentee ! 
 
 Ah ! wherefore hast thou fled, 
 Thou learned Nemo wise to a degree, 
 
 Anonymous L. L. D. !
 
 144 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang 
 That do and inquests cannot say who did it ! 
 
 Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang ? 
 Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch or hid it ? 
 Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber ? Heaven forbid it ! 
 
 I should be very loth to see thee hang ! 
 I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd, 
 An innocent, altho' an ink -black hand. 
 
 Tho' thou hast newly turn'd thy private bolt on 
 The curiosity of all invaders 
 
 I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, 
 Who knows a little of the Holy Land, 
 
 Writing thy next new novel The Crusaders 
 
 Perhaps thou wert even 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 Waverley 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
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 145 
 
 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 
 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 Person. 
 I like Dick Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson 
 
 That slew the Gauger ; 
 And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major; 
 And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, 
 
 That Scottish Witch of Endor, 
 That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witcn, I take it, 
 To tell a great man's fortune or to make it ! 
 
 I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, 
 He makes me think of Mr. Britton, 
 Who has or had within his garden wall, 
 A miniature Stone Henge, so very small 
 
 The sparrows find it difficult to sit on ; 
 And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; 
 And Edie Ochiltree, that old Blue Beggar, 
 
 Painted so cleverly, 
 
 I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly ! 
 I like thy Barber him that fired the Beacon 
 But that's a tender subject now to speak on ! 
 
 I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. His very charms 
 Fashion'd him for renown ! In sad sincerity, 
 
 K
 
 146 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 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) 
 
 Bearing the name she bore, 
 A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy ! 
 But Roys can never die why else, in verity, 
 Is Paris echoing with " Vive le Roy /" 
 
 Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di 
 (Vernon, of course) shall often live again 
 Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, 
 
 Who can pass by 
 
 Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand ? 
 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 pull'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 Ducrows ! 
 
 I like St. Leonard's Lily drench'd with dew ! 
 I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, 
 That bloody-minded Graham shot and slew. 
 
 I like the battle lost and won, 
 
 The hurly burly's bravely done,
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 147 
 
 The warlike gallops and the warlike canters I 
 I like that girded chieftain of the ranters, 
 Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple, 
 With one eye on his sword 
 And one upon the Word, 
 How he would cram the Caledonian Chapel ! 
 I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dapple 
 
 His raven steed with blood of many a corse 
 I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels 
 
 Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse 
 She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels ! 
 
 I like thy Kenilworth but I'm not going 
 
 To take a Retrospective Re-Revie\v 
 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 houris 
 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 Cromarty 
 
 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 check by jowl with 
 
 Homer's, 
 
 Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself 
 To other Englands with Australian roamcrs 
 Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee 
 Displace the native wooden gods, or be 
 The China- Lar of a Canadian shelf !
 
 148 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 
 
 It is not modesty that bids thee hide 
 She never wastes her blushes out of sight : 
 It is not to invite 
 
 The world's decision, for thy fame is tried, 
 
 And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide, 
 Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon'd, 
 
 From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars 
 
 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 ?
 
 ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN. 149 
 
 What in this masquing age 
 Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy? 
 
 What but the critic's page ? 
 One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye ; 
 Another hath a wen, he 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 face, or that is pimpled, 
 Things for a monthly 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 herselt a show she tried 
 To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died! 
 
 O since it was thy fortune to be born 
 A dwarf on some Scotch Inch, and then to flinch 
 From all the Gog-like jostle of great men,
 
 150 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE. 
 
 Still with thy small crow pen 
 Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn 
 Still Scottish story daintily adorn, 
 
 Be still a shade and when this age is fled, 
 When we poor sons and daughters of reality 
 
 Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, 
 And Time destroys our mottoes of morality 
 The lithographic hand of Old Mortality 
 Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, 
 
 A featureless death's head, 
 And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE, 
 
 THE CHAMPION OF ENGLAND. 
 " Arma Vmimque 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? 
 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 ? Great tin-plate worker ! 
 
 say ! 
 Cup and ball is a game which some people deem 
 
 fun! 
 
 Oh ; three golden balls haven't lured you to play 
 Rather false, Mr. D., to all pledges but one ?
 
 ADDRESS TO MR. DYMOKE. 151 
 
 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 fromWestminster 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 your 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 j
 
 152 ADBRESS TO MR, DYMOKE. 
 
 Oh, you and your horse ! what a couple was there ! 
 
 The man and his backer, to win a great fight ! 
 Though the trumpet was loud, you'd an undisturb'd 
 
 air! 
 
 And the nag snufPd the feast and the fray sans 
 affright ! 
 
 Yet strange was the course which the good Cato bore 
 When he waddled tail-wise with the cup to his stall; 
 
 For though his departure was at the front door, 
 Still he went the back way out of Westminster Hall. 
 
 He went, and 'twould puzzle historians to say, 
 When they trust Time's conveyance to carry your 
 mail, 
 
 Whether caution or courage inspired him that day, 
 For though he retreated, he never 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!
 
 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 153 
 
 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 !" 
 
 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 
 
 "This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, 
 And to do that well craves a kind of wit." 
 
 Twelfth Night. 
 
 JOSEPH ! they say thou'st left the stage, 
 
 To toddle down the hill of life, 
 
 And taste the flannell'd ease of age, 
 
 Apart from pantomimic strife 
 
 " Retired [for Young would call it so] 
 
 The world shut out " in Pleasant Row ! 
 
 And hast thou really wash'd at last 
 
 From each white cheek the red half-moon ! 
 
 And all thy public Clownship cast, 
 
 To play the private Pantaloon? 
 
 All youth all ages yet to be 
 
 Shall have a heavy miss of thee ! 
 
 Thou didst not preach to make us wise 
 Thou hadst no finger in our schooling 
 Thou didst not " lure us to the skies " 
 Thy simple, simple trade was Fooling ! 
 And yet, 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,
 
 154 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 
 
 Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage, 
 
 Or damme ! namby pamby Pool, 
 
 Or any other clown or fool ! 
 
 Go, Dibdin all that bear the name, 
 Go Bye way Highway man ! go ! go ! 
 Go, Skeffy man of painted fame, 
 But leave thy partner, painted Joe ! 
 I could bear Kirby on the wane, 
 Or Signer Paulo with a sprain ! 
 
 Had Joseph Wilfred Parkins made 
 His grey hairs scarce in private peace 
 Had Waithman sought a rural shade 
 Or Cpbbett ta'en a turnpike lease 
 Or Lisle Bowles gone to Balaam Hill 
 I think I could be cheerful still ! 
 
 Had Medwin left off, to his praise, 
 Dead lion kicking, like a friend ! 
 Had long, long Irving gone his ways 
 To muse on death at Pander's End 
 Or Lady Morgan taken leave 
 Of Letters still I might not grieve ! 
 
 But, Joseph everybody's Jo ! 
 
 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, reeling, drunken eyes,
 
 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 155 
 
 (As old Catullus would have said,) 
 Thy oven-mouth, that svvallow'd pies 
 Enormous hunger monstrous drowth ! 
 Thy pockets greedy as thy mouth ! 
 
 Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff'd ! 
 Thy funny, flapping, niching hands ! 
 Thy partridge body, always stufFd 
 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 tarne 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 ! 
 
 And, may be 'tis no time to smother 
 A sigh, when two prime wags of London
 
 156 ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR. 
 
 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 mourning 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 
 The vegetable man complete ! 
 A proper Covent Garden feat ! 
 
 * One of the old actors still a performer (but in private) of Old Rapid. 
 Note to original edition.
 
 TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ. 157 
 
 Oh, who like 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 met with mirth, we part in pain ! 
 For many a long, long year must go 
 Ere Fun can see thy like again 
 For Nature does not keep great stores 
 Of perfect Clowns that are 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 nurse thy little bald Biography. 
 
 Oh, my Sylvanus ! what a heart is thine ! 
 
 And what a page attends thee ! Long may I 
 Hang in demure confusion o'er each line 
 
 That asks thy little questions with a sigh ! 
 
 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 !
 
 158 TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQ. 
 
 How sweet ! as Byron of his infant said, 
 " Knowledge of objects " in thine eye to trace; 
 
 To see the mild no-meanings of thy head, 
 Taking a quiet nap upon thy face ! 
 
 How dear through thy Obituary to roam, 
 And not a name of any name to catch ! 
 
 To meet thy Criticism walking home 
 
 Averse from rows, and never calling " Watch !" 
 
 Rich is thy page in soporific things, 
 Composing compositions, lulling men, 
 
 Faded old posies of unburied rings, 
 
 Confessions dozing from an opiate pen : 
 
 Lives of Right Reverends that have never lived, 
 Deaths of good people that have really died, 
 
 Parishioners, 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 ! 
 
 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.
 
 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING CO. 159 
 
 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 wary 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 ? 
 
 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 ! 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING 
 COMPANY. 
 
 "ARCHER. How many are there, Scrub f 
 SCKUB. Five-and-forty, 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 firm for the wholesale distilling of grime 
 Co-partners and dealers, in linen's propriety 
 That make washing public and wash in society 
 O lend rne your ear ! if that ear can forego 
 For a moment the music that bubbles below,
 
 l6o ADDRESS TO THE 
 
 From your new Surrey Geysers* all foaming and hot, 
 That soft " simmer's 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, 
 O wipe out your Amazon arms from the tub, 
 And lend me your ear, Let me modestly plead 
 For a race that your labours may soon supersede 
 For a race that, now washing no living affords 
 Like Grimaldi must leave their aquatic old boards, 
 Not with pence in their pockets to keep them at ease, 
 Not with bread in the funds or investments of cheese, 
 But to droop like sad willows that lived by a stream, 
 Which the sun has suck'd up into vapour and steam. 
 Ah, look at the laundress, before you begrudge 
 Her hard daily bread to that laudable drudge 
 When chanticleer singeth his earliest matins, 
 She slips her amphibious feet in her pattens, 
 And beginneth her toil while the morn is still 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 1 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 
 
 * Geysers : the boiling springs in Iceland. 
 t Query, purly ? Printer's Devil.
 
 STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 161 
 
 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 ! 
 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 ! 
 
 Lo, then, the poor laundress, all wretched 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 Allan-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 yoAig 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,
 
 1 62 ADDRESS TO THE 
 
 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 curses your bones, Mr. Scrub ! 
 Need you wonder, when steam has deprived her of 
 
 bread, 
 
 If she prays that the evil may visit your head 
 Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee, 
 If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the City 
 In short, not to mention all plagues without number, 
 If she wishes you all in the Wash at the Humber ! 
 
 Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair, 
 When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare
 
 STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 163 
 
 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 
 
 FROM BRIDGET JONES TO THE NOBLEMEN AND GENTLEMEN 
 FORMING THE WASHING COMMITTEE. 
 
 IT'S a shame, so it is men can't Let alone 
 
 Jobs as is Woman's right to do and go about there 
 
 Own 
 
 Theirs Reforms enuff Alreddy without your new schools 
 For washing to sit Up, and push the Old Tubs from 
 
 their stools ! 
 But your just like the Raddicals, for upsetting of 
 
 the Sudds 
 When the world wagg'd well enuff and Wommen 
 
 wash'd your old dirty duds, 
 I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steam 
 
 Indins, that's Flat, 
 But I Warrant your Four Fathers went as Tidy and 
 
 gentlemanny for all that 
 
 I suppose your the Family as lived in the Great Kittle 
 I see on Clapham Commun, some times a very con- 
 siderable period back when I were little,
 
 164 ADDRESS TO THE 
 
 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 
 
 bewhich '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 I 
 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 ! 
 Till Their frends comes and owns them, like drownded 
 
 corpeses in a Vault,
 
 STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 165 
 
 But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel and That 
 
 ant your Fault, 
 Only you ought to leafe the Linnins to them as has 
 
 Larn'd 
 For if it warnt for Washing, and whare Bills is con- 
 
 carnd, 
 What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Wommans 
 
 Headication, 
 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 xSherrif 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 Scrubbs 
 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 Wommen is to get Their 
 
 Beau-He ! 
 
 * This word is omitted in the later edition.
 
 1 66 ADDRESS TO THE 
 
 They must drink Hunt wash (the only wash God nose 
 
 there will be !) 
 And their Little drop of Somethings as they takes for 
 
 their Goods, 
 When you and your 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 Larn other Buisnesses Four 
 
 Sooth ! 
 But if so be They leave their Lines what are they to 
 
 goat 
 
 They won't do for Angell's nor any Trade like That,- 
 Nor we cant Sow Babby Work, for that's all Be 
 
 spoke, 
 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
 
 STEAM WASHING COMPANY. 167 
 
 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, 
 
 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 and 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
 
 1 68 ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING CO. 
 
 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 lies 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 sorry, afore God, if you shoud, 
 For men mought Get their Bread a great many ways 
 Without taking ourn, aye, and Moor to your Prays,* 
 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. 
 
 * The following 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 morn- 
 ing to night, 
 
 Or, if you must be of your 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 I'm awares, 
 
 Or be Watermen now, (not Water wommen) and roe people up and down 
 Huncrerford stares."
 
 i6 9 
 
 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 " By the North Pole I do challenge thce ! " 
 
 Love's 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 
 
 Or held at Icy Bay, 
 Hast thou still miss'd the proper track 
 For homeward Indian men that lack 
 
 A bracing by the way ? 
 
 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 ways that sighs were sent to * 
 The Pole though God knows whom they went to ! 
 
 That track reveal'd to Pope 
 Or if the Arctic waters sally, 
 Or terminate in some blind alley, 
 
 A chilly path to grope ? 
 
 Alas ! though Ross, in love with snows, 
 Has painted them conleur de rose, 
 
 * " And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole." Eloisa to Abclnrd.
 
 170 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARKY. 
 
 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. 
 
 'Tis easy for our Naval Board 
 'Tis easy for our Civic Lord 
 
 Of London and of ease, 
 That lies in ninety feet of down, 
 With fur on his nocturnal gown, 
 
 To talk of Frozen Seas ! 
 
 'Tis fine for Monsieur Ude to sit, 
 And prate about the mundane spit, 
 
 And babble of Cook's track 
 He'd roast the leather off his toes, 
 Ere he would trudge through polar snows, 
 
 To plant a British Jack ! 
 
 Oh, not the proud licentious great, 
 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
 
 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 171 
 
 The lofty slippery steep. 
 Ah ! there are more Snow Hills than that 
 Which doth black Newgate, like a hat, 
 
 Upon its forehead, keep. 
 
 Perchance thou'rt now while I am writing 
 Feeling a bear's wet grinder biting 
 
 About thy frozen spine ! 
 Or thou thyself art eating whale, 
 Oily, and underdone, and stale, 
 
 That, haply, cross'd thy line ! 
 
 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 crystals 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
 
 172 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 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 / 
 
 Think of the children born to blttbber ! 
 Ah me ! hast thou an Indian rubber 
 
 Inside ! to hold a meal 
 For months, about a stone and half 
 Of whale, and part of a sea calf 
 
 A fillet of salt veal ! 
 
 Some walrus ham no trifle but 
 A decent steak a solid cut 
 
 Of seal no wafer slice ! 
 A reindeer's tongue and drink beside ! 
 Gallons of sperm not rectified ! 
 
 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 Corporations 
 
 To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling, 
 And then to take a half-year's filling
 
 ODE TO CAPTAIN PARRY. 173 
 
 In P. N.'s pious Row 
 When ask'd to hock and haunch o' ven'son, 
 Through something we have worn our pens on 
 
 For Longman and his Co. 
 
 O come and tell us what the Pole is 
 Whether it singular and sole is, 
 
 Or straight, or crooked bent, 
 If very thick or very thin, 
 Made of what wood and if akin 
 
 To those there be in Kent ? 
 
 There's Combe, there's Spurzheim, and there's Gall, 
 Have talk'd of poles yet, after all, 
 
 What has the public learn'd ? 
 And Hunt's account must still defer, 
 He sought the poll at Westminster 
 
 And is not yet return! d! 
 
 Alvanly asks if whist, dear soul, 
 
 Is play'd in snow towns near the Pole, 
 
 And how the fur-man deals? 
 And Eldon doubts if it be true, 
 That icy Chancellors really do 
 
 Exist upon the seals ? 
 
 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 ! 
 
 O come away, and set us right, 
 And, haply, throw a northern light
 
 174 ODE JO CAPTAIN PARRY. 
 
 On questions such as these : 
 Whether, when this drown'd world was lost, 
 The surflux waves were lock'd in frost, 
 
 And turn'd to Icy Seas ? 
 
 Is Ursa Major white or black? 
 Or do the Polar tribes attack 
 
 Their neighbours and what for ? 
 Whether they ever play at cuffs, 
 And then, if they take off their muffs 
 
 In pugilistic war ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 * Bufibn.
 
 ODE TO R. W. ELLIS TO JV, ESQ. 175 
 
 Whether the lamps will e'er be " learn'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 I 
 
 O come away at any rate 
 
 Well hast thou earn'd a downier state, 
 
 With all thy hardy peers 
 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 Brest 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 
 roan living?" Wild Oats. 
 
 OH ! Great Lessee ! Great Manager ! Great Man ! 
 Oh, Lord High Elliston ! Immortal Pan 
 Of all the pipes that play in Drury Lane ! 
 Macready's master ! Westminster's high Dane 
 (As Galway Martin, in the House's walls, 
 Hamlet and Doctor Ireland justly calls) 
 Friend to the sweet and ever-smiling Spring ! 
 Magician of the lamp and prompter's ring !
 
 176 ODE TO R. W. ELLIS TON, ESQ. 
 
 Dairy's Aladdin ! Whipper-in of actors ! 
 Kicker of rebel preface-malefactors ! 
 Glass-blowers' corrector ! King of the cheque-taker ! 
 At once Great Leamington and Winston-Maker ! 
 Dramatic Bolter of plain Bunns and cakes ! 
 In silken hose the most reform'd of Rakes ! 
 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 a 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 changed and Booth-acting no more 
 
 Drew Rulers' shillings to the gallery door. 
 
 Thou didst, with bag and baggage, wander thence, 
 
 Repentant, like thy neighbour Magdalens ! 
 
 * 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 Entertainment not for Man but Horse."
 
 ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 177 
 
 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; 
 
 Rochester there in dirty ways again 
 
 Revell'd and lived once more in Drury Lane : 
 
 But thou, R. W. ! kept thy moral ways, 
 
 Pit-lecturing 'twixt 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 vvert built for it by nature ! 
 Crown'd was thy head in Drury Lane Thmtre ! 
 Gentle George Robins saw that it was good, 
 And renters cluck'd around thee in a brood. 
 King thou wert made of Drury and of Kean ! 
 Of many a lady and of many a Quean ! 
 With Poole and Larpent was thy reign begun 
 But now thou turnest from the Dead and Dun, 
 Hook's in thine eye, to write thy plays, no doubt, 
 And Colman lives to cut the damnlets out ! 
 
 Oh, worthy of the house ! the King's commission ! 
 Isn't thy condition " a most bless'd condition ?" 
 Thou reignest over Winston, Kean, and all 
 The very lofty and the very small 
 
 * Additional lines in third edition : 
 
 " Rebuking half a Robert, half a Charles, 
 The well-bill'd man that call'd for promised Carles. 
 ' Sir have you yet to know ! Hush hear me out ! 
 A man pray silence may be down with gout, 
 Or want or, sir aw ! listen ! may be fated, 
 Being in debt, to be incarcerated !'" 
 
 M
 
 1 78 ODE TO R. W. ELLISTON, ESQ. 
 
 Sliowest the plumbless Bunn the way to kick 
 
 Keepest a Williams for thy veriest stick 
 
 Seest a Vestris in her sweetest moments, 
 
 Without the danger of newspaper comments 
 
 Tellest Macready, as none dared before, 
 
 Thine open mind from the half-open door ! 
 
 (Alas ! I fear he has left Melpomene's crown, 
 
 To be a Boniface in Buxton town !) 
 
 Thou holdst the watch, as half-price people know, 
 
 And callest to them, to a moment, "Go?" 
 
 Teachest the sapient Sapio how to sing 
 
 Hangest a cat most oddly by the wing * 
 
 Hast known the length of a Cubitt-foot and kiss'd 
 
 The pearly whiteness of a Stephen's wrist 
 
 Kissing and pitying tender and humane ! 
 
 " By heaven she loves me ! Oh, it is too plain !" 
 
 A sigh like this thy trembling passion slips, 
 
 Dimpling the warm Madeira at thy lips ! 
 
 Go on, Lessee ! Go on, and prosper well ! 
 Fear not, though forty glass-blowers should rebel 
 Show them how thou hast long befriended them, 
 And teach Dubois their treason to condemn ! 
 Go on ! addressing pits in prose and worse ! 
 Be long, be slow, be anything but terse 
 Kiss to the gallery the hand that's gloved 
 Make 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.)" 
 
 f Additional lines in third edition : 
 
 Ask the two-shilling gods for leave to dun 
 With words the cheaper deities in the One! 
 Kick Mr. Poole unseen from scene to scene, 
 Cane Williams still, and stick to Mr. Kean, 
 Warn from the benches all the rabble rout ; 
 Say 'those are mine in parlinment or out !'
 
 ADDXESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 179 
 
 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 RETURN 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 tlie 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 Hercld, 
 Unmolested by pea-colour'd Hayne ! 
 
 And free from that thou-and-thee Berkeley ! 
 
 Thy sweet foot, my Foote, is as light 
 
 (Not my Foote I speak by correction 
 As the snow on some mountain at night, 
 
 Or the snow that has long on thy neck shone. 
 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 ! 
 
 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 !"
 
 iSo ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 
 
 Ah, where was thy sacred retreat ? 
 
 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 creature more killing than kind ! 
 
 The man 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 ! 
 
 * In the third edition : 
 
 " 1 would it were my luck to wipe 
 That hazel orb thoroughly dry !"
 
 ADDRESS TO MARIA DARLINGTON. 181 
 
 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 midsummer hour ! 
 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 Burderop 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 '' 
 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 ORACLE," "OBSERVATIONS ON 
 VOCAL MUSIC," " THE ART OF INVIGORATING AND PRO- 
 LONGING LIFE," "PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS ON TELE- 
 SCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES," "THE HOUSE- 
 KEEPER'S LEDGER," AND " THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A 
 WILL." 
 
 " I rule the roast, as Milton says ! " Caleb Quaiein. 
 
 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 spectacles as in mere isinglass 
 In the art of frying brown as a digression 
 On music and poetical expression, 
 Whereas, how few, of all our cooks, alas ! 
 Could tell Calliope from " Calipee ! " 
 
 How few there be 
 Could cleave the lowest for the highest stories, 
 
 (Observatories,) 
 
 And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator, 
 However cook's synonymous with Katcr* \ 
 Alas ! still let me say, 
 How few could lay 
 
 The carving knife beside the tuning fork, 
 Like the proverbial Jack ready for any work ! 
 
 * Captain Kater, the moon's surveyor.
 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 183 
 
 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 drawn out," 
 While all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round ! 
 
 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 
 Nay, 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 ? 
 
 * 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 doth dish up 
 The good things from that Pan of music Bishop !"
 
 1 84 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart, 
 
 Minced brains into a Tart ? 
 Nay, then, thou wert but wise to frame receipts, 
 
 Book-treats, 
 
 Equally to instruct the Cook and cram her 
 Receipts 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,* 
 
 Or Lovelass upon Wills, Thou goest on 
 
 Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson ! 
 Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope, 
 
 StufFd with a brilliant medley of odd bits, 
 And ever shifting on from change to change, 
 
 Saucepans old Songs Pills Spectacles and Spits; 
 Thy range is wider than a Rumford range ! 
 
 Thy grasp a miracle ! till I recall 
 
 Th' indubitable cause of thy variety 
 
 Thou art, of course, th' Epitome of all 
 
 That spying frying singing 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 ? 
 
 * Additional lines in third edition : 
 
 " Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon, or 
 Hume on 'Twice three make four.'"
 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 185 
 
 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 bred !" 
 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 Skullery, 
 And Mr. Poole, too partial to a broil 
 There witty Rogers came, that punning elf! 
 Who used to swear thy book 
 
 Would really look 
 
 A Delphic " Oracle," if laid on Delf 
 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 
 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,
 
 1 86 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 
 
 There Martin would drop in on Monday eves, 
 Or Fridays, from the pens, and raise his breath 
 
 '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 puffs and Accum analysed a gravy. 
 Colman the Cutter of Coleman Street, 'tis said 
 Came there, and Parkins with his Ex-wise-head, 
 (His claim to letters) Kater, too, the Moon's 
 Crony, and Graham, lofty on balloons, 
 There Croly stalk'd with holy humour heated, 
 (Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates com 
 
 pleted) 
 
 And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ, 
 And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons, 
 Madame Valbreque 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 Tewah-diddle J 'f 
 
 Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye ! 
 So let them : thou thyself art still a Host ! 
 
 * Additional lines in third edition : 
 
 " The Dibdins, Tom, Charles, Frognall, came with tuns 
 
 Of poor old books, old puns !" 
 \ The Doctor's composition for a nightcap.
 
 ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D. 187 
 
 l)ibdin Cornaro Newton Mrs Fry ! 
 
 Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec ! Lovelass and Weber, 
 
 Mathews in Quot'em Moore's fire -worshipping 
 
 Gheber 
 
 Thrice-worthy Worthy ! seem by thee 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, 
 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 ! ) 
 And what is thy reward ? Hath London given 
 Thee public thanks for thy important service ? 
 
 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,)
 
 1 88 
 
 ADDRESS TO THE DEAN AND 
 
 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, where sauce can make a Burgess ! 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE VERY REVEREND 
 JOHN IRELAND, D.D., 
 
 WM. HARRY ED. BENTINCK, M.A, 
 JAMES WEBBER, B.D. 
 WILLIAM SHORT, D.D. 
 JAMES TOURNAY, D.D. 
 ANDREW BELL, D.D. 
 GEORGE HOLCOMBE, D.D. 
 
 CHARLES FYNES CLINTON, LL.D. 
 
 THOMAS CAUSTON, D.D. 
 
 HOWEL HOLLAND EDWARDS, M.A. 
 
 JOSEPH ALLEN, M.A. 
 
 LORD HENRY FITZROY, M.A. 
 
 THE BISHOP OF EXETER. 
 
 THE DEAN AND CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER. 
 
 " Sure the Guardians of the Temple can never think they get enough." 
 
 Citizen of the World. 
 
 OH, very reverend Dean and Chapter, 
 
 Exhibitors of giant men, 
 Hail to each surplice-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.
 
 CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER. 189 
 
 Oh, as I see you walk along 
 
 In ample sleeves and ample back, 
 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 Doctors 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 your own dead race, 
 
 Think Gray, preserved a " funeral meat," 
 And Dryden, devil'd after grace, 
 
 * " Since this poem was written, Doctor Ireland and those in authority 
 under him have reduced the fares. It is gratifying to the English people 
 to know that while butcher's meat is rising tombs arc falling." Note in 
 third Edition.
 
 190 ADDRESS TO THE DEAN AND 
 
 A relish ; and you take your meal 
 From Rare Ben 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 Rydal's sage, 
 
 Or Moore among your Ghosts elect ? 
 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 his " bone repose ?" 
 
 Rare is your show, ye righteous men ! 
 
 Priestly Politos, rare, I ween ; 
 But should ye not outside the Den 
 
 Paint up what in it may be seen ? 
 A long green Shakspeare, with a deer 
 
 Grasp'd in the many folds it died in, 
 A Butler stuff' d from ear to ear, 
 
 Wet White Bears weeping o'er a Dryden ! 
 
 Paint Garrick up like Mr. Paap, 
 A Giant of some inches high ;
 
 CHAPTER OF WESTMINSTER. 191 
 
 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 with a dog and string 
 
 May be the Beggar o' Bethnal Green ! 
 
 Put up in Poet's Corner, near 
 
 The little door, a platform small ; 
 Get there a monkey never fear, 
 
 You'll catch the gapers, one and all ! 
 Stand each of ye a Body Guard, 
 
 A Trumpet under either fin, 
 And yell away in Palace Yard 
 
 "All dead? All dead ! Walk in ! Walk in !" 
 
 (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 !" 
 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 !
 
 192 ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. 
 
 And still, to catch the Clowns the more, 
 
 With samples of your shows in Wax, 
 Set some old Harry near the door 
 
 To answer queries with his axe. 
 Put up some general begging-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., 
 
 SECRETARY TO THE SOCIETY FOR THE SUPPRESSION 
 OF MENDICITY. 
 
 " This is your cnarge 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 ardour never flags ! 
 
 " 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 O, Bodkin, sure thou hast 
 
 The eye that never sleeps !
 
 ODE TO H. BODKIN, ESQ. 193 
 
 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 scraper 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 ! 
 
 Oh ! was it such a sin to air 
 
 His true blue naval rags, 
 Glory's own trophy, like St. Paul, 
 
 Hung round with holy flags ! 
 
 Thou knowest best. I meditate, 
 
 My Bodkin, no offence ! 
 Let us, henceforth, but nurse our pounds, 
 
 Thou dost protect our pence ! 
 
 N
 
 1 94 PLA YING A T SOLDIERS. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 PLAYING AT SOLDIERS. 
 " WHO'LL SERVE THE KING ? ' 
 
 AN ILLUSTRATION. 
 
 WHAT little urchin is there never 
 Hath had that early scarlet fever, 
 
 Of martial trappings caught ? 
 Trappings well call'd because they trap 
 And catch full many a country chap 
 
 To go where fields are fought ! 
 
 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, O 'list ! " 
 
 Come, who will serve the king, 
 And strike frog-eating Frenchmen dead 
 And cut off Boneyparty's head? 
 
 And all that sort of thinsr.
 
 PLA YING A T SOLDIERS. 195 
 
 So used I, when 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 washhouse charge the tubs 
 Or storm the garden gates ! 
 
 Ah me ! my retrospective soul ! 
 As over memory's muster-roll 
 
 I cast my eyes anew, 
 My former comrades all the while 
 Rise up before me, rank and file 
 
 And form in dim review. 
 
 Ay, there they stand, and dress in line, 
 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 snam 
 A prancing horse, and big Sam Lamb 
 
 That would hold up the flag !
 
 It>6 PL A Y1NG AT SOLDIERS. 
 
 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 wouldn'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. 
 
 " Quarrelsome 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." 
 
 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 ? 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.
 
 THE DBA TH BED. 197 
 
 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 fill'd with figs, and mute, , 
 
 And I I've got a substitute 
 
 To soldier in my place ! 
 
 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.
 
 198 TO MY WIFE. 
 
 Our very hopes belied our fears, 
 Our fears our hopes belied 
 
 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 current new and strange 
 The water, that was here, is gone, 
 But those green shadows never change. 
 
 Serene or ruffled by the storm, 
 On present waves, as on the past, 
 The mirror'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 murmur' d text. 
 
 So, love, however time may flow, 
 Fresh hours pursuing those that flee, 
 One constant image still shall show 
 My tide of life is true to thee.
 
 199 
 
 SONG. 
 
 THERE is dew for the flow'ret 
 
 And honey for the bee, 
 And bowers for the wild bird, 
 
 And love fcr 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 /ia/fthe world to me, dear, 
 
 It's all the world to you. 
 
 VERSES IN AN ALBUM. 
 
 FAR above the hollow 
 Tempest, and its moan, 
 Singing 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,
 
 200 THE WATER LADY. 
 
 How thy soul doth fold me 
 In its throne of light ! 
 Sorrow never paineth, ' 
 Nor a care attaineth, 
 To that blessed height. 
 
 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 wore in place of red 
 The bloom of water, tender blue,t 
 Daintily spread. 
 
 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 again ! 
 I throw my flowers from the shore, 
 And watch in vain. 
 
 * From the " Forget-me-not" for 1826. 
 
 t 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.
 
 A UTUMN-. 201 
 
 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 ! 
 
 The vintage is ripe, 
 The harvest 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 ! 
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER.' 
 
 I REMEMBER, I remember, 
 The house where I was born, 
 
 * From " Friendship's Offering," 1826.
 
 I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER. 
 
 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 air must rush as fresh 
 
 To swallows on the wing ; 
 
 My spirit flew in feathers then, 
 
 That is so heavy now, 
 
 And summer pools could hardly cool 
 
 The fever on my brow ! 
 
 I remember, I remember, 
 
 The fir trees dark and high ; 
 
 I used to think their slender tops 
 
 Were close against the sky : 
 
 It was a childish ignorance, 
 
 But now 'tis little joy 
 
 To know I'm farther off from Heav'n 
 
 Than when I was a boy.
 
 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 
 Of thy menagerie, and knew the beast, 
 
 That is deceased. 
 I was the Damon of the gentle giant, 
 
 And oft have been, 
 
 Like Mr. Kean, 
 
 Tenderly fondled by his trunk compliant. 
 Whenever I approached, the kindly brute 
 Flapped his prodigious ears, and bent his knees 
 
 It makes me freeze 
 
 To think of it. No chums could better suit, 
 Exchanging grateful looks for grateful fruit, 
 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 !
 
 204. ADDRESS TO MR. CROSS, 
 
 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 ; 
 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 sorry short forepaws ; 
 
 Shrieks come from the Macaws ; 
 The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head, 
 
 And pineth for the dead ; 
 The Boa writhes into a double knot ; 
 
 The Keeper groans, 
 
 Whilst sawing bones, 
 And looks askance at the deserted spot ; 
 Brutal and rational lament his loss, 
 The flower of 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,
 
 OF EXETER CHANGE. 205 
 
 When like Mark Antony the keeper showed 
 
 The Elephantine scars. 
 
 Reporters' eyes 
 
 Were of an egg-like size ; 
 
 Men that had never wept for murdered Marrs,* 
 Hard-hearted editors with iron faces, 
 
 Their sluices all unclosed, 
 
 And discomposed 
 Compositors went fretting to their cases, 
 
 That grief has left its traces ; 
 The poor old 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 ; 
 
 Bui, 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 ********* j a y on his small bier, 
 
 Be melancholy. 
 
 But when will such an elephant appear ? 
 Though Penley were destroyed at Drury-lane, 
 
 His like might come again ; 
 
 Fate might supply, 
 
 A second Powell if the first should die ; 
 Another Bennct if the sire were snatched ; 
 
 Barnes might be matched ; 
 
 And Time fill up the gap 
 
 * The Man- family murdered by Williams. See De Quincy's "Murder 
 as a Fine Art." 
 f Probably " Croly "the " F." I am at a loss to discover.
 
 206 THE POET'S PORTION. 
 
 Were Parsloe laid upon the green earth's lap ; 
 Even Claremont might be equalled, I could hope 
 (All human greatness is, alas, so puny !) 
 For other Egertons another Pope, 
 
 But not another Chunee ! 
 
 Well ! he is dead ! 
 
 And there's a gap in Nature of eleven 
 
 Feet high by seven 
 Five living tons ! and I remain nine stone 
 
 Of skin and bone ! 
 It is enough to make me shake my head 
 
 And dream of the grave's brink 
 
 'Tis worse to think 
 How like the Beast's the sorry life I've led ! 
 
 A sort of show 
 Of my poor 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! 
 
 THE POET'S PORTION. 
 
 WHAT is a mine a treasury a dower 
 A magic talisman of mighty power ?
 
 THE POETS PORTION. 207 
 
 A poet's wide possession of the earth. 
 He has th' enjoyment of a flower's birth 
 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. 
 
 When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn 
 Linger for harvesting ? 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.
 
 208 
 
 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR, 
 
 ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS " VISIT TO OXFORD." * 
 
 " Now, Night descending, the proud scene is o'er, 
 But lives in Settle's numbers one day more." 
 
 POPE On the Lord Mayor's SJiow. 
 
 O WORTHY 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 furry cap 
 
 King of Mogg's map ! 
 
 Keeper of Gates that long have "gone their gaitl" 
 Warder of London stone and London Log ! 
 Thou first and greatest of the civic great, 
 
 Magog or Gog ! 
 
 O Honorable Ven- 
 
 (Forgive this little liberty between us), 
 Augusta's first Augustus ! Friend of men 
 
 Who wield the pen ! 
 
 Dillon's Maecenas ! 
 
 Patron of learning where she ne'er did dwell, 
 Where literature seldom finds abettors, 
 Where few except the postman and his bell 
 Encourage the bdl-lettres ! 
 
 * 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. 209 
 
 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 " Excursion." 
 
 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 Isis /* 
 
 I like thy setting out ! 
 
 Thy coachman and thy coachmaid boxed together !f 
 I like thy Jarvey's serious face in doubt 
 Of " four fine animals " no Cobbetts either ! 
 
 * 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 Mayoress had taken her 
 seat, dressed with becoming neatness, at the side of the well-looking coach- 
 man, the carriage drove away." Visit. 
 
 t 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. 
 
 O
 
 210 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 
 
 I like the slow state pace the pace allowed 
 The best for dignity* and for a crowd, 
 
 And very July weather, 
 So hot that it let-off the Hounslow powder !f 
 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 Crowdcr ! 
 
 I like the steeples with their weathercocks on, 
 
 Discerned about the hour of three, P. M. ; 
 
 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 cruelty began it ; 
 
 For why before the dinner at the Star 
 
 Why was the poor Town-clerk sent off to plan if? 
 
 I like your learned rambles not amiss, 
 Especially at Bodley's, where ye tarried 
 The longest doubtless because Atkins carried 
 Letters (of course from Ignorance) to Bliss ! 
 The other Halls were scrambled through more hastily 
 But I like this 
 
 * " The carriage drove away ; not, however, with that violent and ex- 
 treme rapidity which rather astounds than gratifies the beholders ; byt at; 
 that steady and majestic pace, which is always an indication of real great- 
 ness. ' 
 
 t " On approaching Hounslow, there was seen at some distance a huge 
 volume of dark smoke. 1 ' The Chaplain thought it was only a blowing up 
 for rain, but it turned out to be the spontaneous combustion of a powder- 
 mill. 
 
 t "The Lady Mayoress, observing that they (the Magnays) must be 
 somewhat crowded in the chaise, invited Miss Magnay to take the fourth 
 seat." 
 
 "The Rev. Dr. Bliss, of St. John's College, the Registrar of the Uni- 
 versity, to whom Mr. Alderman Atkins had letters of introduction." 
 Page 32.
 
 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 211 
 
 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-bailiffd, 
 
 Who gave thee a lift 
 To thy state-galley in his own state-boat. 
 I like thy small sixpenny worths 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, grown 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 
 
 Where his renowned forefathers came to bleed 
 And freeborn Magnay triumph at his Charter ? 
 I like full well thy ceremonious setting 
 
 "The buttery was next visited, in which some of the party tasted the 
 classic water." Page 57. 
 
 t "Mr. Alderman Hirch here called to the recollection of the party the 
 beautiful lines of Sir John Denham on the river Thames: 'Tlio' deep yet 
 clear,' &c." Pngc 90.
 
 212 ODE TO THE LATE LORD MAYOR. 
 
 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 
 Reads 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 
 
 Slips 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 their 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, 1.5 
 simple, thst the City banner should wave over the stone." Page 144.
 
 213 
 
 ELEGY ON DAVID LAING, ESQ.* 
 
 BLACKSMITH AND JOINER (WITHOUT LICENCE) AT 
 GRETNA GREEN. 
 
 AH me ! what causes such complaining breath, 
 
 Such female moans, and flooding tears to flow ? 
 It is to chide with stern, remorseless Death, 
 
 For laying Laing low ! 
 
 From Prospect House there comes a sound of woe 
 A shrill and persevering loud lament, 
 Echoed by Mrs. 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-boarders 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 paviours ! 
 Down down through Devon and the distant shires 
 
 Travels the news of Death's remorseless crime; 
 And in all hearts, at once, all hope expires 
 Of matches against time ! 
 
 * On the 3rd inst., 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.
 
 214 ELEGY ON DA V1D LAING, 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 grieving at the Ship, 
 And sorry hands are ringing 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 urge his gallop quicker ! quicker ! 
 
 All hope is fled, 
 
 For Laing is dead 
 Vicar of Wakefield Edward Gibbon's vicar! 
 
 The barristers shed tears 
 Enough to feed a snipe (snipes live on suction), 
 
 To think in after years 
 No suits will come of Gretna Green abduction, 
 
 Nor knaves inveigle 
 Young heiresses in marriage scrapes or legal. 
 
 The dull reporters 
 Look truly sad and seriously solemn 
 
 To lose the future column 
 On Hymen-Smithy and its fond resorters ! 
 
 But grave Miss Daulby and the teaching brood 
 Rejoice at quenching the clandestine flambeau 
 
 That never real beau of flesh and blood 
 Will henceforth lure young ladies from their Chambaud. 
 
 Sleep David Laing sleep 
 In peace, though angry governesses spurn thee ! 
 Over thy grave a thousand maidens weep,
 
 SONNET. . 215 
 
 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 ! 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A VOLUME OF SHAKSPEARE. 
 
 How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky 
 
 The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled ! 
 
 Hues of all 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, 
 
 Who on Parnassus-hill have bloom'd elate ; 
 
 Now they are laid under their marbles cold, 
 
 And turn'd to clay, whereof they were create ; 
 
 But god Apollo hath them all enroll'd, 
 
 And blazon'd on the very clouds of Fate ! 
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW. 
 
 OH, when I was a tiny boy, 
 My days and nights were iull of joy, 
 My mates were blithe and kind !
 
 216 A RETROSPECTIVE VIEW. 
 
 No wonder that I sometimes sigh, 
 And dash the tear-drop from my eye, 
 To cast a look behind ! 
 
 A hoop was an eternal round 
 
 Of pleasure. In those days I found 
 
 A top a joyous thing; 
 But now those past delights I drop, 
 My head, alas ! is all my top, 
 
 And careful thoughts the string ! 
 
 My marbles once my bag was stored, 
 Now I must play with Elgin's lord, 
 
 With Theseus for a taw ! 
 My playful horse has slipt his string, 
 Forgotten all his capering, 
 
 And harness'd to the law ! 
 
 My kite how fast and far it flew ! 
 Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew 
 
 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 ! 
 
 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
 
 A RETROSPECTIVE VIEW, 
 
 The world knocks to and fro ; 
 My archery is all unlearn'd, 
 And grief against myself has turn'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 1 
 
 No skies so blue or so serene 
 
 As then ; no leaves look half so green 
 
 As clothed the playground tree ! 
 All things I loved are alter'd so, 
 Nor does it ease my heart to know 
 
 That change resides in me ! 
 
 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
 
 218 A RETROSPECTIVE VIEW. 
 
 My book and collar both ! 
 How can this formal man be styled 
 Merely an Alexandrine child, 
 
 A boy of larger growth ? 
 
 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 Turk 
 That fagg'd me ! worse is now my work 
 
 A fag for all the town ! 
 
 Oh for the lessons learn'd by heart ! 
 Ay, though 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 ! 
 
 The omne bene Christmas come ! 
 The prize of merit, won for home 
 
 Merit had prizes then ! 
 But now I write for days and days, 
 For fame a deal of empty praise, 
 
 Without the silver pen ! 
 
 Then " home, sweet home !" the crowded 
 
 coach 
 The joyous shout the loud approach
 
 BALLAD. 219 
 
 The winding horns like 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-drop from my eye, 
 
 To cast a look behind ! 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 IT was not in the Winter 
 
 Our 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 ! 
 
 'T\vas 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 ? 
 And when I ask'd the like of Love, 
 
 You snatch'd a damask bud ;
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOOD GATE. 
 
 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 ! 
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE, 
 
 OF HASTINGS. 
 
 TOM ; are you still within this land 
 Of livers still on Hastings' sand, 
 
 Or roaming on the waves ? 
 Or has some billow o'er you rolled, 
 Jealous that earth should lap so bold 
 
 A seaman in her graves ? 
 
 On land the rushlight lives of men 
 Go out but slowly ; nine in ten, 
 
 By tedious long decline 
 Not so the jolly sailor sinks, 
 Who founders in the wave, and drinks 
 
 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 bunting thing but still 
 
 To thee a flag of pride ? 
 
 My father made Woodgate a present, in the shape of a small flag.
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOOD GATE. 221 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Swift is the wave, and apt to bring 
 A sudden doom perchance I sing 
 
 A mere funereal strain ; 
 You have endured the utter strife 
 And are the same in death or life 
 
 A good man ' in the main '! 
 
 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 ! 
 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 !
 
 222 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 
 
 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 ; 
 
 'Twas thy example taught me how 
 To climb the billow's hoary brow, 
 
 Or cleave the raging heap 
 To bound along the ocean wild, 
 With danger only as a child 
 
 The waters 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 !
 
 STANZAS TO TOM WOODGATE. 223 
 
 I yearn for that brisk spray I yearn 
 To feel the wave from stem to stern 
 
 Uplift the plunging keel ; 
 That merry step we used to dance 
 On board the Aidant or the Chance, 
 
 The ocean " toe and heel." 
 
 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. 
 
 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 merry waves, each after each, 
 
 Rebounding o'er the flints ; 
 I spy the grim preventive spy ! 
 The jolly boatmen standing nigh ! 
 
 The maids in morning chintz! 
 
 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 !
 
 224 TIME, HOPE, AND MEMORY. 
 
 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, 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'll 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."
 
 225 
 
 FLOWERS. 
 
 I WILL not have the mad Clytie 
 Whose head is turn'd by the sun j 
 The tulip is a courtly quean, 
 Whom, therefore, I will shun ; 
 The cowslip is a country 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 dread ; 
 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. 
 
 BALLAD. 
 
 SHE'S up and gone, the graceless girl, 
 And robb'd my failing years !
 
 226 RUTH. 
 
 My blood before was thin and cold 
 But now 'tis turn'd to tears j 
 
 My shadow falls upon my grave, 
 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 ! 
 
 RUTH. 
 
 SHE stood breast high amid the corn 
 Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, 
 Like the sweetheart of the sun, 
 Who many a glowing kiss had won. 
 
 On her cheek an autumn flush, 
 Deeply ripen'd ; such a blush
 
 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY. 227 
 
 In the midst of brown was born, 
 Like red poppies grown with corn. 
 
 Round 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 stocks, 
 Praising God with sweetest looks : 
 
 Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean, 
 Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, 
 Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 
 Share my harvest and my home. 
 
 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY 
 
 FROM ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE, 
 IN MARCH, l82I. 
 
 "The son of Cornelius shall make his own legs his compasses ; with those 
 he shall measure continents, islands, capes, bays, straits, and isthmuses." 
 Memoirs <if Martinus Scribkrus. 
 
 " 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."
 
 228 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 " 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 Corner, 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. Sal- 
 mon'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 Curtis, Billy Waters, and many other public 
 and distinguished characters." 
 
 " If you have seen no more than you say," said the 
 philosopher," 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
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 229 
 
 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 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 investigate 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 
 Patagonians, 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 dis- 
 tances between the mindsof men: whether I be English- 
 man 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
 
 230 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 between a Hottentot's nose and my own, which, as 
 you observe, is a fine Roman one, and very like 
 Caesar's ; but there is, I flatter myself, a much greater 
 difference between our understandings. 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." 
 
 Here the Cockney was quite out of patience ; " he 
 did not care," he said, " about mind and matter ; and 
 as to the difference 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 second 1 
 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 cucum- 
 bers; so will I, if I can; and he should converse 
 with 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 sentimental journey, as good as
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 231 
 
 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 adventure. 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, when I observed that the 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 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 sym- 
 pathise with in her bewilderment she's rather be- 
 witched than bewitching she's a dry subject," 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
 
 232 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 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 children 
 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 drops. They should be 
 punished like any other impostors, and they might be 
 made of some use to society at the same time ; for a 
 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. In 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 sub- 
 ject to such sudden terminations. They say that 
 Englishmen 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 un- 
 common fortitude, for I knew that travellers must 
 expect to meet, as I did, with sad and serious acci-
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 233 
 
 dents. 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." What a felicity there is in a happy appli- 
 cation of words ! I was so pleased with the resem- 
 blance 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 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,
 
 234 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 that man's main-spring is selfishness, and perhaps he 
 was not quite wrong ; 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 half- 
 penny, "you ought to be reported to the Mendicity 
 Society." He gave it to him, to get rid of his impor- 
 tunity, 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 incon- 
 venience, 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 truly 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 pence as of 
 our lives, when we find they've no chance of return- 
 ing. I had hardly ended these uncharitable reflec- 
 tions, 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 spar-
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 235 
 
 ring benefit at 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 little piece of the other bill ex- 
 pressed at the bott.om that real good ones were ex- 
 pected, 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, con- 
 dition, nor country. We may meet with dull peda- 
 gogues 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 
 Englishmen, 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 Hunt- 
 ingdon's Chapel, and there I met with matter of in- 
 terest 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 sought and obtained. 
 There were not wanting auxiliaries and allies upon 
 each side, and there were as many advocates for the
 
 236 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 rights of women, as there were supporters of the doc- 
 trine of the free will of man. There was, besides, a 
 third party, composed chiefly of young persons, per- 
 haps spinsters and bachelors, who by siding, some- 
 times 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 ad- 
 vantage therefore of a general pause, the effect of 
 exhausted 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 hus- 
 band rule wife but also if Queens should ascend the 
 throne, 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 conclusion of this 
 sentence was followed by shouts of applause from
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 237 
 
 both parties, each applying to the other the unfitness 
 to which I alluded. " If," said I, " we may judge 
 from a 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 certainly goes strongly against such a conclu- 
 sion ; 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 gentlemen. " I will say, moreover, 
 that if we refer to the history of a nation where that 
 law was unknown, we shall find that 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. (Cheers 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 whole 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
 
 238 A SENTIMENTAL JODRNEY FROM 
 
 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 follow, therefore, that those who are unable 
 to govern kingdoms, are unequal to the lighter task 
 of governing a family. There are very many worthy 
 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 pro- 
 fligate 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 
 affairs ; 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 ignorant. 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,
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 239 
 
 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 unestablished. (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. 
 
 Let the lady be paramount in the kitchen and the 
 nursery, and absolute in the garrets. Let the gentle- 
 man 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 horse- 
 flesh. As for all other matters of argument, let them 
 be considered as drawn battles at draughts; and 
 finally let each sex consider 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 pleas- 
 ing 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, alleg- 
 ing 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 alarmed by loud and piercing screams, and as a
 
 240 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 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 drover. 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 
 splashings 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 
 sow, and interposed my body betwixt her and her 
 tormentor; and had it been at the risk of immola- 
 tion, my feelings could not have allowed me to 
 shrink from it. I should have died a glorious martyr 
 to humanity ! I protected the innocent, 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 ungentlemanly ; 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
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 241 
 
 merely from a reluctance to end in blood what I had 
 begun in tears, that I so speedily declined the com- 
 bat 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 disfigure " 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 dressed 
 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 uncharitable and cruel to attribute 
 to obstinacy 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 
 run 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 
 
 Q
 
 been anything but what it now bears perhaps Graz- 
 ing Lane, 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 ; and 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 with the fox, " cerebrum non habet ; " 
 and her little girl'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
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 243 
 
 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 admiring the number of elegant shops, 
 and the still more elegant and wonderful productions 
 which they contain ? they are to me the sources of 
 the greatest 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 manufactures of my country. This affords 
 me a delight in which all ought to sympathise, and 
 thai 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 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
 
 244 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 effects of its progress hitherto, who can calculate its 
 future attainments ? Long may it continue its mighty 
 march, to the honour and happiness of my country- 
 men ; and may they, in better days, obtain for their 
 industry 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 excel- 
 lence 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 de- 
 pend upon one's course of reading, said I, while 
 running over the titles: A Sermon to Sinne The 
 Foole's Jest Book Dialogues of the Dead Life in 
 London Tomline's Sea Worthies The Newgate Cal- 
 endar Cato's Letter to the Country The King 's Reply 
 to his People Wordes to the Wyse Witte's Chronykill 
 a New Spelling Book. But what have we here ? 
 It happened very strangely, I 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 fol- 
 lows : 
 
 " Hee was made to bee happye but not learned :
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 245 
 
 for eating of the Tree of Knowledge hee was caste 
 out of Paradyse. Hys was the Blisse of Ignorance ; 
 but We being born to bee learned, and unhappy e 
 withal, have noght but the Ignorance of Blisse. Soe 
 we aske not which bee the most happye ; but which 
 bee the leeste unhappye ; and trulye hee hath leeste 
 Paines that hath not most Bokes. Hee is your Berk- 
 shire 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 ? 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 drye 
 Bowie ; but hys Belly 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 your Schollar. He cryes in hys 
 very Birthe, for hee is stryped into his A B C ; most 
 of hys Wordes doe end in O, and hys Whyppinges 
 have many Syllables. Hee hateth his Boke fulle 
 sore : and noe Marvel ! For he wotteth to the Sor- 
 rowe of hys Bottom, that Learning is at the Bottom 
 of hys Sorrowe. There is a naturall Hyphen betwixt 
 them. A connexion of Minde and Matter. One
 
 246 A SENTIMENTAL JOURNEY FROM 
 
 cometh not without the other, and hee curseth them 
 both in his Waye. Hys Grammar 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 Fingers endes. And 
 soe hee waxeth in Growth ; into a Quarto or Folio, 
 as maye bee ; a greater Bulke of Learning and 
 Heavinesse ; and belike hee goeth madde with Study 
 overmuch. Alsoe hee betaketh him to write ; and 
 letts hys Braines be sukede forth e 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 greate 
 Paine. Soe hee gets no Substance, but looses Fleshe. 
 Lastlye hee dyeth a pitifull Death ; the kindly Cre- 
 ditour of an unkindlye Worlde ; and then hee is 
 weepede for ; and it is askde, ' Why will hee not 
 write again ?' 
 
 And the Parishe Clarke hys witte sufficeth 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." 
 
 Unfortunately, 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 deci-
 
 ISLINGTON TO WATERLOO BRIDGE. 2tf 
 
 sion, 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 ba wise." 
 
 As this was the second great question that I had 
 decided, I walked onward to Waterloo Bridge, with- 
 out 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 unforeseen difficulty pre- 
 sented itself ; for owing to the lateness of my arrival, 
 and the sudden fall of a very dense fog, I was unable 
 to do anything 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, your utmost indulgence 
 towards 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 reflec- 
 tions are abrupt and unconnected, I beg that you will 
 attribute it to the unpleasant jolting of the stage, and 
 the frequent interruptions and stoppages that it met 
 with.
 
 248 
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE LION'S HEAD. 
 
 IF I. E. L. had written her " Stanzas " before the 
 appearance of Lord Byron's, their merit would have 
 been unquestionable. 
 
 G.'s Muse should use Steer's Opodeldoc, which is 
 allow to be excellent for " strains." 
 
 To Y. and Y. No ; a word to the Y's. 
 
 L. sends us a "Scene from Memory, 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," which with much gravity he informs us are 
 meant for burlesque. 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 bad for a weak sight ; 
 But spectacles made of green glass 
 Will make it look again like grass, 
 And you shall dream of making hay 
 In the middle of Christmas-day, 
 And think you spy green gooseberries budding 
 In all the eyes of a raisin pudding." 
 
 W.'s " Night " is too long, for the moon rises twice 
 in it. 
 
 We are happy to learn from L. that he has 
 " descended from his poetic flights into another 
 walk;' 1 '' perhaps he has a prose essay on foot for our 
 next number. 
 
 G. R.'s diction would inflate a balloon. He should
 
 EXTRACTS FROM THE LION'S HEAD. 249 
 
 remember 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 
 correspondent take a hint from Dr. Watts : 
 
 "How doth the little busy 6 
 Improve each shining hour." 
 
 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 agreeable 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 some- 
 thing soberer, or was his Muse born with a claret- 
 mark? 
 
 Minor's "Conflagration" exhibits some power. 
 Sometimes indeed his "words that burn" 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 our Magazine that " the London is too
 
 250 EXTRACTS FROM THE LION'S HEAD. 
 
 full of literature." We are glad it is no worse, and 
 have no doubt that with B.'s assistance we shall be 
 able, when necessary, to render it quite otherwise. 
 
 Centaur 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 " Ah 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 afreestone 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. 
 
 " It is pleasant to be immortal," says a correspon- 
 dent 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 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 Anacreon 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.
 
 EXTRACTS FROM 7 HE LION'S HEAD. 251 
 
 " Come, take thy pencil paint my love 
 More tender 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 hallow'd pen, 
 By double row of pillars, chaste 
 As Dian in the moral waste [&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 [&c.] 
 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 upon a sea of sighs, 
 Its hundred ears inclined to one 
 Sweet tale of love," &c., &c. 
 
 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 Athenaeus'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, 
 and sets down at The Lamb. Caliph Vathek is not
 
 252 EXTRACTS PROM THE LION'S HEAD. 
 
 " that simple Eastern tale of Turkish hearts " which 
 the bard describes. Why cannot our correspondent 
 get his ode inserted among the sundries in the cata- 
 logue. It would sound well. " Three saucepans, 
 four 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 Marriage 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. 
 
 L. K, 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 Young. 
 
 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. 
 
 11 The Sketch of a Plan for abolishing Beggars "- 
 by making them Gentlemen is humane but Utopian.
 
 253 
 
 A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT. 
 
 SQUAMPASH FLATTS, tyk November, 1827. 
 
 DEAR BROTHER, 
 
 Here we are, thank Providence, ScRe and well, 
 and in the finest country you ever saw. At this 
 moment I have before me the sublime expanse of 
 Squampash Flatts the majestic Mudiboo winding 
 through the midst with the magnificent range of the 
 Squab mountains in the distance. But the prospect 
 is impossible to describe in a letter ! I might as well 
 attempt a Panorama in a pill-box ! 
 
 We have fixed our Settlement on the left bank of 
 the river. In crossing the rapids we lost most of our 
 heavy baggage and all our iron work, but by great 
 good fortune we saved Mrs. Paisley's grand piano 
 and the children's toys. Our infant city consists of 
 three log huts and one of clay, which however, on 
 the second day, fell in to the ground landlords. We 
 have now built it up again; and, all things con- 
 sidered, are as comfortable as we could expect and 
 have christened our settlement New London, in com- 
 pliment to the Old Metropolis. We have one of the 
 log houses to ourselves or at least shall have when 
 we have built a new hog-stye. We burnt down the 
 first one in making a bonfire to keep off the wild 
 beasts, and for the present the pigs are in the parlour. 
 As yet our rooms are rather usefully than elegantly 
 furnished. We have gutted the Grand Upright, and 
 it makes a convenient cupboard, the chairs were 
 obliged to blaze at our bivouacs, but thank Heaven 
 we have never leisure to sit down, and so do not miss
 
 254 A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT. 
 
 them. My boys are contented, and will be well 
 when they have got over some awkward accidents in 
 lopping and felling. Mrs. P. grumbles a little, but it 
 is her custom to lament most when she is in the 
 midst of comforts. She complains of solitude, and 
 says she could enjoy the very stifiest of stiff visits. 
 
 The first time we lighted a fire in our new abode, 
 a large serpent came down the chimney, which I 
 looked upon as a good omen. However, as Mrs. P. 
 is not partial to snakes, and the heat is supposed to 
 attract those reptiles, we have dispensed with fires 
 ever since. As for wild beasts, we hear them howling 
 and roaring round the fence every night from dusk 
 till daylight, but we have only been inconvenienced 
 by one Lion. The first time he came, in order to 
 get rid of the brute peaceably, we turned out an old 
 ewe, with which he was well satisfied ; but ever 
 since he comes to us as regular as clock-work for his 
 mutton ; and if we do not soon contrive to cut his 
 acquaintance, we shall hardly have a sheep in the 
 flock. It would have been easy to shoot him, being 
 well provided with muskets, but Barnaby mistook our 
 remnant of gunpowder for onion seed, and sowed it 
 all in the kitchen garden. We did try to trap him 
 into a pitfall ; but after twice catching Mrs. P., and 
 every one of the children in turn, it was given up. 
 They are now, however, perfectly at ease about the 
 animal, for they never stir out of doors at all, and to 
 make them quite comfortable, I have blocked up all 
 the windows and barricaded the door. 
 
 We have lost only one of our number since we 
 came; namely, Diggory, the market gardener, from 
 Glasgow, who went out one morning to botanise, and
 
 A LETTER FROM AN EMIGRANT. 255 
 
 never came back. I am much surprised at his abscond- 
 ing, as he had nothing but a spade to go off with. 
 Chippendale, the carpenter, was sent after him, but 
 did not return ; and Gregory, the smith, has been out 
 after them these two days. I have just despatched 
 Mudge, the Herdsman, to look for all three, and 
 hope he will soon give a good account of them, as 
 they are the most useful men in the whole settlement, 
 and, in fact, indispensable to its existence. 
 
 The river Mudiboo is deep, and rapid, and said to 
 swarm with alligators, though I have heard but of 
 three being seen at one time, and none of those 
 above eighteen feet long ; this, however, is immaterial, 
 as we do not use the river fluid, which is thick and 
 dirty, but draw all our water from natural wells and 
 tanks. Poisonous springs are rather common, but 
 are easily distinguished by containing no fish or living 
 animal. Those, however, which swarm with frogs, 
 toads, newts, efts, etc., are harmless, and may be 
 safely used for culinary purposes. 
 
 In short, I know of no drawback but one, which, I 
 am sanguine, may be got over hereafter, and do 
 earnestly hope and advise, if things are no better in 
 England than when I left, you, and as many as you 
 can persuade, will sell off all, and come over to this 
 African Paradise. 
 
 The drawback I speak of is this : although I have 
 never seen any one of the creatures, it is too certain 
 that the mountains are inhabited by a race of Monkeys, 
 whose cunning and mischievous talents exceed even 
 the most incredible stories of their tribe. No human 
 art or vigilance seems of avail; we have planned 
 ambuscades, and watched night after night, but no
 
 256 A LLTTEX IROM AN EMIGRANT. 
 
 attempt has been made ; yet the moment the guard 
 was relaxed, we were stripped without mercy. I am 
 convinced they must have had spies night and day 
 on our motions, yet so secretly and cautiously, that 
 no glimpse of one has yet been seen by any of our 
 people. Our last crop was cut and carried off, with 
 the precision of an English Harvesting. Our spirit 
 stores (you will be amazed to hear that these 
 creatures pick locks with the dexterity of London 
 burglars) have been broken open and ransacked, 
 though half the establishment were on the watch ; 
 and the brutes have been off to their mountains, five 
 miles distant, without even the dogs giving an alarm. 
 I could almost pesuade myself at times, such are their 
 supernatural knowledge, swiftness, and invisibility, 
 that we have to contend with evil spirit. I long for 
 your advice, to refer to on this subject, and am, Dear 
 Philip, Your loving brother, AMBROSE MAWE. 
 
 P.S. Since writing the above, you will be con- 
 cerned to hear the body of poor Diggory has been 
 found, horribly mangled by wild beasts. The fate of 
 Chippendale, Gregory, and Mudge, is no longer 
 doubtful. The old Lion has brought the Lioness, 
 and the sheep being all gone, they have made a joint 
 attack upon the Bullock-house. The Mudiboo has 
 overflowed, and Squampash Flatts are a swamp. I 
 have just discovered that the Monkeys are my own 
 rascals, that I brought out from England. We are 
 coming back as fast as we can.
 
 257 
 
 ODE TO M. BRUNEI* 
 
 'Well, said, old Mole ! canst work i" the dark so fast? a worthy pioneer !' 
 
 -Hamlet. 
 
 WELL ! Monsieur Brunei, 
 
 How prospers now thy mighty undertaking, 
 To join by a hollow way the Bankside friends 
 Of Rotherhithe, and Wapping, 
 
 Never be stopping, 
 
 But poking, groping, in the dark keep making 
 An archway, underneath the Dabs and Gudgeons, 
 For Collier men and pitchy old Curmudgeons, 
 To cross the water in inverse proportion, 
 Walk under steam-boats under the keel's ridge, 
 To keep down all extortion, 
 And without sculls to diddle London Bridge ! 
 In a fresh hunt, a new Great Bore to worry, 
 Thou didst to earth thy human terriers follow, 
 Hopeful at last from Middlesex to Surrey, 
 
 To give us the " View hollow." 
 In short it was thy aim, right north and south, 
 To put a pipe into old Thames's mouth ; 
 Alas ! half-way thou hadst proceeded, when 
 Old Thames, through roof, not water-proof, 
 Came, like "a tide in the affairs of men;" 
 And with a mighty stormy kind of roar, 
 Reproachful of thy wrong, 
 Burst out in that old song 
 Of Incledon's, beginning " Cease, rude Bore " 
 Sad is it, worthy of one's tears, 
 
 Just when one seems the most successful, 
 To find one's self o'er head and ears 
 
 In difficulties most distressful ! 
 Other great speculations have been nursed.
 
 258 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 Till want of proceeds laid them on a shelf; 
 But thy concern was at the worst, 
 
 When it began to liquidate itself! 
 But now Dame Fortune has her false face hidden, 
 And languishes thy Tunnel, so to paint, 
 Under a slow incurable complaint, 
 
 Bed-ridden ! 
 
 Why, when thusThames bed-bother' d whyrepine! 
 Do try a spaie bed at the Serpentine ! 
 Yet let none think thee daz'd, or craz'd, or stupid ; 
 
 And sunk beneath thy own and Thames's craft ; 
 Let them not style thee some Mechanic Cupid 
 
 Pining and pouting o'er a broken shaft ! 
 I'll tell thee with thy tunnel what to do ; 
 Light up thy boxes, build a bin or two, 
 The wine does better than such water trades : 
 
 Stick up a sign the sign of the Bore's Head ; 
 
 I've drawn it ready for thee in black lead, 
 And make thy cellar subterrane, Thy Shades ? 
 
 ANACREONTIC. 
 
 FOR THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 COME, fill up tne Bowl, for if ever the glass 
 
 Found a proper excuse or fit season, 
 For toasts to be honour'd, or pledges to pass, 
 
 Sure, this hour brings an exquisite reason : 
 For hark ! the last chime of the dial has ceased, 
 
 And Old Time, who his leisure to cozen, 
 Had finish'd the Months, like the flasks at a feast, 
 
 Is preparing to tap a fresh dozen ! 
 
 Hip ! Hip ! and Hurrah !
 
 A WATERLOO BALLAD. 259 
 
 Then fill, all ye Happy and Free, unto whtim 
 
 The past Year has been pleasant and sunny ; 
 Its months each as sweet as if made of the bloom 
 
 Of the thyme whence the bee gathers honey 
 Days usher'd by dew-drops, instead of the tears, 
 
 May be wrung from some wretcheder cousin 
 Then fill, and with gratitude join in the cheers 
 
 That triumphantly hail a fresh dozen ! 
 
 Hip ! Hip ! and Hurrah ! 
 
 And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, 
 
 And been bow'd to the earth by its fury ; 
 To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently 
 pass'd, 
 
 Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury, 
 Still, fill to the Future ! and join in our chime, 
 
 The regrets of remembrance to cozen, 
 And having obtained a New Trial of Time, 
 
 Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen ! 
 
 Hip ! Hip ! and Hurrah ! 
 
 A WATERLOO BALLAD. 
 
 To Waterloo, with sad ado, 
 And many a sigh and groan, 
 
 Amongst the dead, came Patty Head, 
 To look for Peter Stone. 
 
 "O prithee tell, good sentinel, 
 
 If I shall find him here ? 
 I'm come to weep upon his corse, 
 
 My Ninety-Second dear !
 
 260 A WATERLOO BALLAD. 
 
 " Into our town a sergeant came 
 
 With ribands all so fine, 
 A-flaunting in his cap alas 
 
 His bow enlisted mine ! 
 
 " They taught him how to turn his toes, 
 And stand as stiff as starch ; 
 
 I thought that it was love and May, 
 But it was love and March ! 
 
 " A sorry March indeed to leave 
 The friends he might have kep', 
 
 No March of Intellect it was, 
 But quite a foolish step. 
 
 " O prithee tell, good sentinel, 
 
 If hereabout he lies ? 
 I want a corpse with reddish hair, 
 
 And very sweet blue eyes." 
 
 Her sorrow on the sentinel 
 Appear'd to deeply strike : 
 
 " Walk in," he said, " among the dead, 
 And pick out which you like." 
 
 And soon she pick'd out Peter Stone, 
 
 Half turned into a corse ; 
 A cannon was his bolster, and 
 
 His mattrass was a horse. 
 
 " O Peter Stone, O Peter Stone, 
 Lord here has been a skrimmage ! 
 
 What have they done to your poor breast, 
 That used to hold my image ? "
 
 A WATERLOO BALLAD. 261 
 
 " O Patty Head. O Patty Head, 
 
 You're come to my last kissing ; 
 Before I'm set in the Gazette 
 
 As wounded, dead, and missing ! 
 
 " Alas ! a splinter of a shell 
 
 Right in my stomach sticks ; 
 French mortars don't agree so well 
 
 With stomachs as French bricks. 
 
 " This very night a merry dance 
 
 At Brussels was to be ; 
 Instead of opening a ball, 
 
 A ball has opened me. 
 
 " Its billet every bullet has, 
 
 And well it does fulfil it ; 
 I wish mine hadn't come so straight, 
 
 But been a ' crooked billet.' 
 
 " And then there came a cuirassier 
 
 And cut me on the chest ; 
 He had no pity in his heart, 
 
 For he had steel 'd his breast. 
 
 " Next thing a lancer, with his lance, 
 
 Began to thrust away; 
 I call'd for quarter, but, alas ! 
 
 It was not Quarter-day. 
 
 " He ran his spear right through my arm, 
 
 Just here above the joint : 
 O Patty dear, it was no joke, 
 
 Although it had a point.
 
 262 A WATERLOO BALLAD. 
 
 " With loss of blood I fainted off, 
 
 As dead as women do 
 But soon by charging over me, 
 
 The Coldstream brought me to. 
 
 " With kicks and cuts, and balls and blows, 
 
 I throb and ache all over ; 
 I'm quite convinc'd the field of Mars 
 
 Is not a field of clover ! 
 
 " O why did I a soldier turn 
 
 For any royal Guelph ? 
 I might have been a butcher, and 
 
 In business for myself! 
 
 " O why did I the bounty take 
 (And here he gasp'd for breath) 
 
 My shillingsworth of 'list is nail'd 
 Upon the door of death ! 
 
 " Without a coffin I shall lie 
 And sleep my sleep eternal : 
 
 Not ev'n a shell- my only chance 
 Of being made a Kernel ! 
 
 " O Patty dear, our wedding bells 
 
 Will never ring at Chester ! 
 Here I must lie in Honour's bed, 
 
 That isn't worth a tester ! 
 
 " Farewell, my regimental mates, 
 With whom I used to dress ! 
 
 My corps is changed, and I am now, 
 In quite another mess.
 
 COCKLE v. CACKLE. 263 
 
 " Farewell, my Patty dear, I have 
 
 No dying consolations, 
 Except, when I am dead, you '11 go 
 
 And see th' Illuminations." 
 
 COCKLE v. CACKLE. 
 
 THOSE who much read advertisements and bills, 
 Must have seen puffs of Cockle's Pills, 
 
 Call'd Anti-bilious 
 
 Which some Physicians sneer at, supercilious, 
 But which we are assured, if timely taken, 
 
 May save your liver and bacon ; 
 Whether or not they really give one ease, 
 
 I, who have never tried, 
 
 Will not decide ; 
 
 But no two things in union go like these 
 Viz. Quacks and Pills save Ducks and Pease. 
 Now Mrs. W. was getting sallow, 
 Her lilies not of the white kind, but yellow, 
 And friends portended was preparing for 
 
 A human Pate' Perigord ; 
 She was, indeed, so very far from well, 
 Her Son, in filial fear, procured a box 
 Of those said pellets to resist Bile's shocks, 
 And tho' upon the ear it strangely knocks 
 To save her by a Cockle from a shell ! 
 But Mrs. W., just like Macbeth, 
 Who very vehemently bids us " throw 
 Bark to the Bow-wows," hated physic so,
 
 264 COCKLE v. CACKLE. 
 
 It seem'd to share "the bitterness of Death :" 
 Rhubarb Magnesia Jalap, and the kind 
 Senna Steel Assa-fcetida, and Squills 
 Powder or Draught but least her throat inclined 
 To give a course to Boluses or Pills ; 
 No not to save her life, in lung or lobe, 
 For all her lights' or all her liver's sake, 
 Would her convulsive thorax undertake, 
 Only one little uncelestial globe ! 
 
 Tis not to wonder at, in such a case, 
 If she put by the pill-box in a place 
 For linen rather than for drugs intended 
 Yet for the credit of the pills let's say 
 
 After they thus were stow'd away, 
 
 Some of the linen mended ; 
 But Mrs. W. by disease's dint, 
 Kept getting still more yellow in her tint, 
 When lo ! her second son, like elder brother, 
 Marking the hue on the parental gills, 
 Brought a new charge of Anti-tumeric Pills, 
 To bleach the jaundiced visage of his Mother 
 Who took them in her cupboard like the other. 
 
 " Deeper and deeper, still," of course, 
 The fatal colour daily grew in force ; 
 Till daughter W. newly come from Rome, 
 Acting the self-same filial, pillial, part, 
 To cure Mamma, another dose brought home 
 Of Cockles ; not the Cockles of her heart ! 
 These going where the others went before, 
 Of course she had a very pretty store ;
 
 COCKLE v. CACKLE. 265 
 
 And then some hue of health her chee adorning, 
 
 The Medicine so good must be, 
 
 They brought her dose on dose, which she 
 Gave to the up-stairs cupboard, "night and morn 
 
 ing." 
 
 Till wanting room at last, for other stocks, 
 Out of the window one fine day she pitch'd 
 The pillage of each box, and quite enrich'd 
 The feed of Mister Burrell's hens and cocks, 
 
 A little Barber of a by-gone day, 
 
 Over the way 
 
 Whose stock in trade, to keep the least of shops, 
 Was one great head of Kemble, that is, John, 
 Staring in plaster, with a Brutus on, 
 And twenty little Bantam fowls with crops. 
 Little Dame W. thought when through the sash 
 
 She gave the physic wings, 
 
 To find the very things 
 So good for bile, so bad for chicken rash, 
 For thoughtless cock, and unreflecting pullet ! 
 But while they gathered up the nauseous nubbles, 
 Each peck'd itself into a peck of troubles, 
 And brought the hand of Death upon its gullet 
 They might as well have addled been, or ratted, 
 For long before the night ah woe betide 
 The Pills ! each suicidal Bantam died 
 Unfatted ! 
 
 Think of poor Burrel's shock, 
 Of Nature's debt to see his hens all payers, 
 And laid in death as Everlasting Layers, 
 With Bantam's small Ex-Emperor, the Cock,
 
 256 COCKLE v. CACKLE. 
 
 In ruffled plumage and funereal hackle, 
 Giving, undone by Cockle, a last Cackle ! 
 To see as stiff as stone, his un'live stock, 
 It really was enough to move his block. 
 Down on the floor he dash'd, with horror big, 
 Mr. Bell's third wife's mother's coachman's wig; . 
 And with a tragic stare like his own Kemble, 
 Burst out with natural emphasis enough, 
 
 And voice that grief made tremble, 
 Into that very speech of sad Macduff 
 " What ! all my pretty chickens and their dam, 
 
 At one fell swoop ! 
 
 Just when I'd bought a coop 
 To see the poor lamented creatures cram !" 
 
 After a little of this mood, 
 
 And brooding over the departed brood, 
 With razor he began to ope each craw, 
 Already turning black, as black as coals ; 
 When lo ! the undigested cause he saw 
 
 "Pison'd by goles!" 
 
 To Mrs. W.'s luck a contradiction, 
 Her window still stood open to conviction ; 
 And by short course of circumstantial labour, 
 He fix'd the guilt upon his adverse neighbour ; 
 Lord ! how he rail'd at her : declaring now, 
 He'd bring an action ere next Term of Hilary, 
 Then, in another moment, swore a vow, 
 He'd make her do pill-penance in the pillory ! 
 She, meanwhile distant from the dimmest dream 
 Of combating with guilt, yard-arm or arm-yard,
 
 COCKLE v. CACKLE. 267 
 
 Lapp'd in a paradise of tea and cream ; 
 When up ran Betty with a dismal scream 
 "Here's Mr. Burrell, ma'am, with all his farm- 
 yard !" 
 
 Straight in he came, unbowing and unbending, 
 With all the warmth that iron and a barbe 
 
 Can harbour ; 
 
 To dress the head and front of her offending, 
 The fuming phial of his wrath uncorking ; 
 In short, he made her pay him altogether, 
 In hard cash, very hard, for ev'ry feather, 
 Charging of course, each Bantam as a Dorking ; 
 Nothing could move him, nothing make him 
 
 supple, 
 
 So the sad dame unpocketing her loss, 
 Had nothing left but to sit hands across, 
 And see her poultry " going down ten couple," 
 
 Now birds by poison slain, 
 
 As venom'd dart from Indian's hollow cane, 
 
 Are edible ; and Mrs. W.'s thrift, 
 
 She had a thrifty vein, 
 
 Destined one pair for supper to make shift, 
 
 Supper as usual at the hour of ten : 
 
 But ten o'clock arrived and quickly pass'd, 
 
 Eleven twelve and one o'clock at last, 
 
 Without a sign of supper even then ! 
 
 At length the speed of cookery to quicken, 
 
 Betty was called, and with reluctant feet, 
 
 Came up at a white heat 
 " Well, never I see chicken like them chicken ! 
 My saucepans, they have been a pretty while in 'em !
 
 268 
 
 COCKLE v. CACKLE. 
 
 Enough to stew them, if it comes to that, 
 
 To flesh and bones, and perfect rags ; but drat 
 
 Those Anti-biling Pills ! there is no bile in 'em !" 
 
 HALFPENNY HATCH. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 . Moxon, Son, & Co., Dover Street, W:
 
 llUV A 
 
 DATE DUE
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY 
 
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