Odes and Addresses to Great People.

As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is,So I with you am master of the ceremonies,—These grand rejoicings, let me see, how name ye 'em?Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E—pi—thalamium.October's tenth it is, toss up each hat to-day,And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday.On this great night 'tis settled by our manager,That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer,Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillon,And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,Spin up a teetotum like Angiollini;That John and Mrs. Bull from ale and teahouses,May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis![They dance and sing.Air—"Sure such a day."—Tom Thumb.Lear.Dance, Regan, dance with Cordelia and Goneril,Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross;Stop Cordelia, do not tread upon her heel,Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than Hell's hubbub.They tweak my nose, and round it goes, I fear they'll break the ridge of it.Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!Lady Macbeth.I kill'd the King, my husband is a heavy dunce,He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud,One loves long gloves, for mittens, like King's evidence,Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood.Macbeth.When spooneys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery.To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry,With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!Othello.Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,Spit the feathers from your mouth and munch roast beef;Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid,That smother'd you because you pawn'd my handkerchief.Geo. Barnwell.Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late;If on beauty stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!Hamlet.I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia,The moon can fix which lunatics makes sharp or flat.I stuck by ill-luck, enamour'd of Ophelia,Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, "Rat! Rat!"Ghost.Let Gertrude sup the poisoned cup, no more I'll be an actor inSuch sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.Macheath.I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O,But as for tunes I have but one, and that is "Drops of Brandy O."Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!Juliet.I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore,A Hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.Friar.And I am the friar who so corpulent a belly bore.Apothecary.And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.Romeo.I'm the resurrection man of buried bodies amorous.Falstaff.I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous,For though my paunch is round and staunch, I ne'er begin to fill it ere IFeel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza![Exeunt dancing.

As manager of horses Mr. Merryman is,

So I with you am master of the ceremonies,—

These grand rejoicings, let me see, how name ye 'em?

Oh, in Greek lingo 'tis E—pi—thalamium.

October's tenth it is, toss up each hat to-day,

And celebrate with shouts our opening Saturday.

On this great night 'tis settled by our manager,

That we, to please great Johnny Bull, should plan a jeer,

Dance a bang-up theatrical cotillon,

And put on tuneful Pegasus a pillion;

That every soul, whether or not a cough he has,

May kick like Harlequin, and sing like Orpheus.

So come, ye pupils of Sir John Gallini,

Spin up a teetotum like Angiollini;

That John and Mrs. Bull from ale and teahouses,

May shout huzza for Punch's Apotheosis![They dance and sing.

Air—"Sure such a day."—Tom Thumb.

Lear.Dance, Regan, dance with Cordelia and Goneril,Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross;Stop Cordelia, do not tread upon her heel,Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than Hell's hubbub.They tweak my nose, and round it goes, I fear they'll break the ridge of it.Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.

Lear.Dance, Regan, dance with Cordelia and Goneril,

Down the middle, up again, poussette, and cross;

Stop Cordelia, do not tread upon her heel,

Regan feeds on coltsfoot, and kicks like a horse.

See, she twists her mutton fists like Molyneux or Beelzebub,

And t'other's clack, who pats her back, is louder far than Hell's hubbub.

They tweak my nose, and round it goes, I fear they'll break the ridge of it.

Or leave it all just like Vauxhall, with only half the bridge of it.

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Lady Macbeth.I kill'd the King, my husband is a heavy dunce,He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud,One loves long gloves, for mittens, like King's evidence,Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood.

Lady Macbeth.I kill'd the King, my husband is a heavy dunce,

He left the grooms unmassacred, then massacred the stud,

One loves long gloves, for mittens, like King's evidence,

Let truth with the fingers out, and won't hide blood.

Macbeth.When spooneys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery.To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry,With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.

Macbeth.When spooneys on two knees implore the aid of sorcery.

To suit their wicked purposes they quickly put the laws awry,

With Adam I in wife may vie, for none could tell the use of her,

Except to cheapen golden pippins hawk'd about by Lucifer.

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Othello.Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,Spit the feathers from your mouth and munch roast beef;Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid,That smother'd you because you pawn'd my handkerchief.

Othello.Wife, come to life, forgive what your black lover did,

Spit the feathers from your mouth and munch roast beef;

Iago he may go and be toss'd in the coverlid,

That smother'd you because you pawn'd my handkerchief.

Geo. Barnwell.Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late;If on beauty stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.

Geo. Barnwell.Why, neger, so eager about your rib immaculate?

Milwood shows for hanging us they've got an ugly knack o' late;

If on beauty stead of duty but one peeper bent he sees,

Satan waits with Dolly baits to hook in us apprentices.

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Hamlet.I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia,The moon can fix which lunatics makes sharp or flat.I stuck by ill-luck, enamour'd of Ophelia,Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, "Rat! Rat!"

Hamlet.I'm Hamlet in camlet, my ap and perihelia,

The moon can fix which lunatics makes sharp or flat.

I stuck by ill-luck, enamour'd of Ophelia,

Old Polony like a sausage, and exclaim'd, "Rat! Rat!"

Ghost.Let Gertrude sup the poisoned cup, no more I'll be an actor inSuch sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.

Ghost.Let Gertrude sup the poisoned cup, no more I'll be an actor in

Such sorry food, but drink home-brew'd of Whitbread's manufacturing.

Macheath.I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O,But as for tunes I have but one, and that is "Drops of Brandy O."

Macheath.I'll Polly it, and folly it, and dance it quite the dandy O,

But as for tunes I have but one, and that is "Drops of Brandy O."

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza!

Juliet.I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore,A Hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.

Juliet.I'm Juliet Capulet, who took a dose of hellebore,

A Hell-of-a-bore I found it to put on a pall.

Friar.And I am the friar who so corpulent a belly bore.

Apothecary.And that is why poor skinny I have none at all.

Romeo.I'm the resurrection man of buried bodies amorous.

Falstaff.I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous,For though my paunch is round and staunch, I ne'er begin to fill it ere IFeel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.

Falstaff.I'm fagg'd to death, and out of breath, and am for quiet clamorous,

For though my paunch is round and staunch, I ne'er begin to fill it ere I

Feel that I have no stomach left for entertainment military.

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza![Exeunt dancing.

Omnes.Round let us bound, for this is Punch's holiday,

Glory to tomfoolery. Huzza! huzza![Exeunt dancing.

(1825.)

——♦——

Up with me!—up with me into the sky!—Wordsworth—on 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 tiesThat bind us to the earth, and riseAnd take a bird's-eye view!II.A few more whiffs of my cigarAnd then, in Fancy's airy car,Have with thee for the skies:How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'dHath borne me from this little world,And all that in it lies!III.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!IV.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!—V.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 kennelFor that small Isle of Dogs!VI.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 beThe City Road!—Good lack? to seeThe little ways of men!VII.Little, indeed!—my eyeballs acheTo find a turnpike. I must takeTheir tolls upon my trust!—And where is mortal labour gone?Look, Graham, for a little stoneMacAdamized to dust!VIII.Look at the horses!—less than flies!—Oh, what a waste it was of sighsTo wish to be a Mayor!What is the honour?—none at all,One's honour must be very smallFor such a civic chair!IX.And there's Guildhall!—'tis far aloof—Methinks, I fancy thro' the roofIts little guardian Gogs,Like penny dolls—a tiny show!—Well,—I must say they're ruled below.By very little logs!X.Oh! Graham, how the upper airAlters the standards of compare;One of our silken flagsWould cover London all about—Nay, then—let's even empty outAnother brace of bags!XI.Now for a glass of bright champagneAbove the clouds!—Come, let us drainA bumper as we go!But hold!—for God's sake do not cantThe cork away—unless you wantTo brain your friends below.XII.Think! what a mob of little menAre crawling just within our ken,Like mites upon a cheese!Pshaw!—how the foolish sight rebukesAmbitious thoughts!—can there beDukesOfGlostersuch as these!XIII.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 loudAs all the shouting of a crowdThat has so far to come!XIV.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.XV."The world recedes!—it disappears!Heav'n open on my eyes—my earsWith buzzing noises ring!"A fig for Southey's Laureate lore!—What's Rogers here?—who cares for MooreThat hears the angels sing!XVI.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——doyou think Sir Walter ScottIs such a Great Unknown?XVII.Speak up!—or hath he hid his nameTo crawl thro' "subways" into fame,Like Williams of Cornhill?—Speak up, my lad!—when men run smallWe'll show what's little in them all,Receive it how they will!XVIII.Think now of Irving!—shall he preachThe princes down—shall he impeachThe potent and the rich,Merely on ethic stilts,—and INot moralize at two miles highThe true didactic pitch!XIX.Come:—what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir?Is Gifford such a GulliverIn Lilliput's Review,That like Colossus he should strideCertain small brazen inches wideFor poets to pass through?XX.Look down! the world is but a spot.Now say—Is Blackwood'slowor not,For all the Scottish tone?It shall not weigh us here—not whereThe sandy burden's lost in air—Our lading—where is't flown!XXI.Now,—like you Croly's verse indeed—In heaven—where one cannot readThe "Warren" on a wall?What think you here of that man's fame?Tho' Jerdan magnified his name,To me 'tis very small!XXII.And, truly, is there such a spellIn those three letters, L. E. L.,To witch a world with song?On clouds the Byron did not sit,Yet dared on Shakespeare's head to spit,And say the world was wrong!XXIII.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 littlenessNow we are in the skies.XXIV.O Graham, Graham, how I blameThe bastard blush,—the petty shame,That used to fret me quite,—The little sores I cover'd then,No sores on earth, nor sorrows whenThe world is out of sight!XXV.Myname is Tims. I am the manThat North's unseen diminish'd clanSo scurvily abused!I am the very P. A. Z.The London's Lion's small pin's headSo often hath refused!XXVI.Campbell—(you cannot see him here)—Hath scorn'd mylays:—do his appearSuch great eggs from the sky?And Longman, and his lengthy Co.Long, only, in a little Row,Have thrust my poems by!XXVII.What else?—I'm poor, and much besetWith petty duns—that is—in debtSome grains of golden dust!But only worth, above, is worth.What's all the credit of the earth?An inch of cloth on trust!XXVIII.What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man!Nay, worlds of wealth?—Oh, if you canSpy out,—theGolden Ball!Sure as we rose, all money sank:What's gold or silver now?—the BankIs gone—the 'Change and all!XXIX.What's all the ground-rent of the globe?—Oh, Graham, it would worry JobTo hear its landlords prate!But after this survey, I thinkI'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrinkFrom men of large estate!XXX.And less, still less, will I submitTo poor mean acres' worth of wit—I that have Heaven's span—I that like Shakespeare's self may dreamBeyond the very clouds, and seemAn Universal Man!XXXI.Oh, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds!Like birds of paradise the cloudsAre winging on the wind!But what is grander than their range?More lovely than their sunset change?—The free creative mind!XXXII.Well! the Adults' School's in the air!The greatest men are lesson'd thereAs well as the lessee!Oh could earth's Ellistons thus smallBehold the greatest stage of all,How humbled they would be!XXXIII."Oh would some god the giftie gie 'em,To see themselves as others see 'em,"'Twould much abate their fuss!If they could think that from the skiesThey are as little in our eyesAs they can think of us!XXXIV.Of us! arewegone out of sight?Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite!Lost to the tiny town!Beyond the Eagle's ken—the gropeOf Dollond's longest telescope!Graham! we're going down!XXXV.Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opesThe airy valve!—the gas elopes—Down goes our bright balloon!—Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smellThe lower world! Graham, farewell,Man of the silken moon!XXXVI.The earth is close! the City nears—Like a burnt paper it appears,Studded with tiny sparks!Methinks I hear the distant routOf coaches rumbling all about—We're close above the Parks!XXXVII.I hear the watchmen on their beats,Hawking the hour about the streets.Lord! what a cruel jarIt is upon the earth to light!Well—there's the finish of our flight!I've smoked my last cigar!

Up with me!—up with me into the sky!—Wordsworth—on a Lark:

Up with me!—up with me into the sky!—

Wordsworth—on a Lark:

Dear Graham, whilst the busy crowd,The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,Their meaner flights pursue,Let us cast off the foolish tiesThat bind us to the earth, and riseAnd take a bird's-eye view!

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!

II.

A few more whiffs of my cigarAnd then, in Fancy's airy car,Have with thee for the skies:How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'dHath borne me from this little world,And all that in it lies!

A few more whiffs of my cigar

And then, in Fancy's airy car,

Have with thee for the skies:

How oft this fragrant smoke upcurl'd

Hath borne me from this little world,

And all that in it lies!

III.

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!

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!

IV.

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!—

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 kennelFor that small Isle of Dogs!

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!

VI.

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 beThe City Road!—Good lack? to seeThe little ways of men!

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!

VII.

Little, indeed!—my eyeballs acheTo find a turnpike. I must takeTheir tolls upon my trust!—And where is mortal labour gone?Look, Graham, for a little stoneMacAdamized to dust!

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

MacAdamized to dust!

VIII.

Look at the horses!—less than flies!—Oh, what a waste it was of sighsTo wish to be a Mayor!What is the honour?—none at all,One's honour must be very smallFor such a civic chair!

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!

IX.

And there's Guildhall!—'tis far aloof—Methinks, I fancy thro' the roofIts little guardian Gogs,Like penny dolls—a tiny show!—Well,—I must say they're ruled below.By very little logs!

And there's Guildhall!—'tis far aloof—

Methinks, I fancy thro' 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 airAlters the standards of compare;One of our silken flagsWould cover London all about—Nay, then—let's even empty outAnother brace of bags!

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!

XI.

Now for a glass of bright champagneAbove the clouds!—Come, let us drainA bumper as we go!But hold!—for God's sake do not cantThe cork away—unless you wantTo brain your friends below.

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.

XII.

Think! what a mob of little menAre crawling just within our ken,Like mites upon a cheese!Pshaw!—how the foolish sight rebukesAmbitious thoughts!—can there beDukesOfGlostersuch as these!

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 beDukes

OfGlostersuch as these!

XIII.

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 loudAs all the shouting of a crowdThat has so far to come!

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!

XIV.

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.

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.

XV.

"The world recedes!—it disappears!Heav'n open on my eyes—my earsWith buzzing noises ring!"A fig for Southey's Laureate lore!—What's Rogers here?—who cares for MooreThat hears the angels sing!

"The world recedes!—it disappears!

Heav'n open on my eyes—my ears

With buzzing noises ring!"

A fig for Southey's Laureate lore!—

What's Rogers here?—who cares for Moore

That hears the angels sing!

XVI.

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——doyou think Sir Walter ScottIs such a Great Unknown?

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——doyou think Sir Walter Scott

Is such a Great Unknown?

XVII.

Speak up!—or hath he hid his nameTo crawl thro' "subways" into fame,Like Williams of Cornhill?—Speak up, my lad!—when men run smallWe'll show what's little in them all,Receive it how they will!

Speak up!—or hath he hid his name

To crawl thro' "subways" into 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!

XVIII.

Think now of Irving!—shall he preachThe princes down—shall he impeachThe potent and the rich,Merely on ethic stilts,—and INot moralize at two miles highThe true didactic pitch!

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!

XIX.

Come:—what d'ye think of Jeffrey, sir?Is Gifford such a GulliverIn Lilliput's Review,That like Colossus he should strideCertain small brazen inches wideFor poets to pass through?

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?

XX.

Look down! the world is but a spot.Now say—Is Blackwood'slowor not,For all the Scottish tone?It shall not weigh us here—not whereThe sandy burden's lost in air—Our lading—where is't flown!

Look down! the world is but a spot.

Now say—Is Blackwood'slowor 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!

XXI.

Now,—like you Croly's verse indeed—In heaven—where one cannot readThe "Warren" on a wall?What think you here of that man's fame?Tho' Jerdan magnified his name,To me 'tis very small!

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?

Tho' Jerdan magnified his name,

To me 'tis very small!

XXII.

And, truly, is there such a spellIn those three letters, L. E. L.,To witch a world with song?On clouds the Byron did not sit,Yet dared on Shakespeare's head to spit,And say the world was wrong!

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 Shakespeare's head to spit,

And say the world was wrong!

XXIII.

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 littlenessNow we are in the skies.

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.

XXIV.

O Graham, Graham, how I blameThe bastard blush,—the petty shame,That used to fret me quite,—The little sores I cover'd then,No sores on earth, nor sorrows whenThe world is out of sight!

O 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!

XXV.

Myname is Tims. I am the manThat North's unseen diminish'd clanSo scurvily abused!I am the very P. A. Z.The London's Lion's small pin's headSo often hath refused!

Myname is Tims. I am the man

That North's unseen diminish'd clan

So scurvily abused!

I am the very P. A. Z.

The London's Lion's small pin's head

So often hath refused!

XXVI.

Campbell—(you cannot see him here)—Hath scorn'd mylays:—do his appearSuch great eggs from the sky?And Longman, and his lengthy Co.Long, only, in a little Row,Have thrust my poems by!

Campbell—(you cannot see him here)—

Hath scorn'd mylays:—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!

XXVII.

What else?—I'm poor, and much besetWith petty duns—that is—in debtSome 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 else?—I'm poor, and much beset

With petty 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!

XXVIII.

What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man!Nay, worlds of wealth?—Oh, if you canSpy out,—theGolden Ball!Sure as we rose, all money sank:What's gold or silver now?—the BankIs gone—the 'Change and all!

What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man!

Nay, worlds of wealth?—Oh, if you can

Spy out,—theGolden Ball!

Sure as we rose, all money sank:

What's gold or silver now?—the Bank

Is gone—the 'Change and all!

XXIX.

What's all the ground-rent of the globe?—Oh, Graham, it would worry JobTo hear its landlords prate!But after this survey, I thinkI'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrinkFrom men of large estate!

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!

XXX.

And less, still less, will I submitTo poor mean acres' worth of wit—I that have Heaven's span—I that like Shakespeare's self may dreamBeyond the very clouds, and seemAn Universal Man!

And less, still less, will I submit

To poor mean acres' worth of wit—

I that have Heaven's span—

I that like Shakespeare's self may dream

Beyond the very clouds, and seem

An Universal Man!

XXXI.

Oh, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds!Like birds of paradise the cloudsAre winging on the wind!But what is grander than their range?More lovely than their sunset change?—The free creative mind!

Oh, 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 sunset change?—

The free creative mind!

XXXII.

Well! the Adults' School's in the air!The greatest men are lesson'd thereAs well as the lessee!Oh could earth's Ellistons thus smallBehold the greatest stage of all,How humbled they would be!

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!

XXXIII.

"Oh would some god the giftie gie 'em,To see themselves as others see 'em,"'Twould much abate their fuss!If they could think that from the skiesThey are as little in our eyesAs they can think of us!

"Oh would some god 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!

XXXIV.

Of us! arewegone out of sight?Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite!Lost to the tiny town!Beyond the Eagle's ken—the gropeOf Dollond's longest telescope!Graham! we're going down!

Of us! arewegone 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!

XXXV.

Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opesThe airy valve!—the gas elopes—Down goes our bright balloon!—Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smellThe lower world! Graham, farewell,Man of the silken moon!

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!

XXXVI.

The earth is close! the City nears—Like a burnt paper it appears,Studded with tiny sparks!Methinks I hear the distant routOf coaches rumbling all about—We're close above the Parks!

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!

XXXVII.

I hear the watchmen on their beats,Hawking the hour about the streets.Lord! what a cruel jarIt is upon the earth to light!Well—there's the finish of our flight!I've smoked my last cigar!

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!

Let us take to the road!—Beggar's Opera.

I.M'adam, hail!Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost standStriding ten thousand turnpikes on the land!Oh, universal Leveller! all hail!To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going—To thee—how much for thy commodious plan,Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing!The Bristol mailGliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible,When carrying patriots now shall never failThose of the most "unshakenpublic principle."Hail to thee, Scott 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 stoneTo those who ask for bread!II.Thy first great trial in this mighty townWas, if I rightly recollect, uponThat gentle hill which goethDown from "the County" to the Palace gate,And, like a river, thanks to thee, now flowethPast the Old Horticultural Society,—The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James,Where ladies play high shawl and satin games—A littleHellof lace!And past the Athenæum, made of late,Severs a sweet varietyOf milliners and booksellers who graceWaterloo Place,Making division, the Muse fears and guesses,'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's.Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the roadFrom Barber Beaumont's to the King's abodeSo well, that paviours threw their rammers by,Let down their tuck'd shirt-sleeves, and with a sighPrepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!III.Next, from the palace to the prison, thouDidst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,—Preventing though therattlingin 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 bowersOf Newgate, to encourage the approach,By caravan or coach,—Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers.IV.Who shall dispute thy name!Insculpt in stone in every street,We soon shall greetThy 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,follow'd, Mac! thy plan:—For he, we know(History says so),Putpebblesin his mouth when he would speakThesmoothestGreek!V.It is "impossible, and cannot be,"But that thy genius hath,Beside the turnpike, many another pathTrod, 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 observ'd 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 keepThe noiselesstenorof their way? (see Gray).What line of roadshouldpoets take to bringThemselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!—Those waters which can wet a man to sing!Which, like thy fame, "fromgranitebasins burst,Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?"VI.That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace mightVouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadellmay, 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 lightUpon some works thou hast written for the town,—And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown!"Highways and Byeways" is thy book, no doubt(One whole edition's out),And next, for it is fairThat Fame,Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em;—"SomePassagesfrom the life of Adam Blair"—(Blair is a Scottish name),What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam?VII.O! indefatigable labourerIn the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 'twill beA mark of thy surpassing industry,That of the monument, which men shall rearOver thy most inestimable bone,Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!Of a right ancient line thou comest,—throughEach 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'erHave 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 contriv'd—(How are Time's wonders hiv'd!)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!

M'adam, hail!Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost standStriding ten thousand turnpikes on the land!Oh, universal Leveller! all hail!To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going—To thee—how much for thy commodious plan,Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing!The Bristol mailGliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible,When carrying patriots now shall never failThose of the most "unshakenpublic principle."Hail to thee, Scott 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 stoneTo those who ask for bread!

M'adam, hail!

Hail, Roadian! hail, Colossus! who dost stand

Striding ten thousand turnpikes on the land!

Oh, universal Leveller! all hail!

To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man,

The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going—

To thee—how much for thy commodious plan,

Lanark Reformer of the Ruts, is Owing!

The Bristol mail

Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible,

When carrying patriots now shall never fail

Those of the most "unshakenpublic principle."

Hail to thee, Scott 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!

II.

Thy first great trial in this mighty townWas, if I rightly recollect, uponThat gentle hill which goethDown from "the County" to the Palace gate,And, like a river, thanks to thee, now flowethPast the Old Horticultural Society,—The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James,Where ladies play high shawl and satin games—A littleHellof lace!And past the Athenæum, made of late,Severs a sweet varietyOf milliners and booksellers who graceWaterloo Place,Making division, the Muse fears and guesses,'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's.Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the roadFrom Barber Beaumont's to the King's abodeSo well, that paviours threw their rammers by,Let down their tuck'd shirt-sleeves, and with a sighPrepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!

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 littleHellof lace!

And past the Athenæum, made of late,

Severs a sweet variety

Of milliners and booksellers who grace

Waterloo Place,

Making division, the Muse fears and guesses,

'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr. Hessey's.

Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shav'd the road

From Barber Beaumont's to the King's abode

So well, that paviours threw their rammers by,

Let down their tuck'd shirt-sleeves, and with a sigh

Prepar'd themselves, poor souls, to chip or die!

III.

Next, from the palace to the prison, thouDidst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,—Preventing though therattlingin 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 bowersOf Newgate, to encourage the approach,By caravan or coach,—Hast strew'd the way with flints as soft as flowers.

Next, from the palace to the prison, thou

Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,—

Preventing though therattlingin 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.

IV.

Who shall dispute thy name!Insculpt in stone in every street,We soon shall greetThy 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,follow'd, Mac! thy plan:—For he, we know(History says so),Putpebblesin his mouth when he would speakThesmoothestGreek!

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,follow'd, Mac! thy plan:—

For he, we know

(History says so),

Putpebblesin his mouth when he would speak

ThesmoothestGreek!

It is "impossible, and cannot be,"But that thy genius hath,Beside the turnpike, many another pathTrod, 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 observ'd 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 keepThe noiselesstenorof their way? (see Gray).What line of roadshouldpoets take to bringThemselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!—Those waters which can wet a man to sing!Which, like thy fame, "fromgranitebasins burst,Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?"

It is "impossible, and cannot be,"

But that thy genius hath,

Beside 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 observ'd 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 noiselesstenorof their way? (see Gray).

What line of roadshouldpoets take to bring

Themselves unto those waters, lov'd the first!—

Those waters which can wet a man to sing!

Which, like thy fame, "fromgranitebasins burst,

Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?"

VI.

That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace mightVouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadellmay, 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 lightUpon some works thou hast written for the town,—And publish'd, like a Lilliput Unknown!"Highways and Byeways" is thy book, no doubt(One whole edition's out),And next, for it is fairThat Fame,Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em;—"SomePassagesfrom the life of Adam Blair"—(Blair is a Scottish name),What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam?

That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might

Vouchsafe;—and Mr. Cadellmay, 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 Byeways" is thy book, no doubt

(One whole edition's out),

And next, for it is fair

That Fame,

Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em;—

"SomePassagesfrom the life of Adam Blair"—

(Blair is a Scottish name),

What are they, but thy own good roads, M'Adam?

VII.

O! indefatigable labourerIn the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 'twill beA mark of thy surpassing industry,That of the monument, which men shall rearOver thy most inestimable bone,Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone!Of a right ancient line thou comest,—throughEach 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'erHave 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 contriv'd—(How are Time's wonders hiv'd!)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!

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 contriv'd—

(How are Time's wonders hiv'd!)

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!

O breathe not his name!—Moore.

I.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 lung 'tis blown,Thou man of fog!Parent of many children—child of none!Nobody's son!Nobody's daughter—but a parent still!Still but an ostrich parent of a batchOf 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 shin'd upon,—invisibly bright,"Dark with excess of light!"Constable's literary John-a-nokes—The real Scottish wizard—to no which,Nobody—in a niche;Every one's hoax!Maybe Sir Walter Scott—Perhaps not!Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?II.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—AnovelJunius puzzling the world's brain—A man of magic—yet no talisman!A man of clair obscure—not him o' the moon!A star—at noon.A non-descriptus in a caravan,A private—of no corps—a northern lightIn a dark lantern,—Bogie in a crape—A figure—but no shape;A vizor—and no knight;The real abstract hero of the age;The staple Stranger of the stage;A Some One made in every man's presumption,Frankenstein's monster—but instinct with gumption;Another strange state captive in the north,Constable-guarded in an iron mask—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?III.Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hungerOf 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 LL.D.!IV.Thou nameless captain of the nameless gangThat do—and inquests cannot say who did it!Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang?Hast thou made gravy of Wear'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 onThe curiosity of all invaders—I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton,Who knows a little of theHoly Land,Writing thy next new novel—The Crusaders!V.Perhaps thou wert even bornTo be unknown. Perhaps hung, some foggy morn,At Captain Coram's charitable wicket,Penn'd to a ticketThat Fate had made illegible, foreseeingThe future great unmentionable being.Perhaps thou hast riddenA scholar poor on St. Augustine's back,Like Chatterton, and found a dusty packOf Rowley novels in an old chest hidden;A little hoard of clever simulation,That took the town—and Constable has biddenSome hundred pounds for a continuation—To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.VI.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 clatteringIn 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 clangIt was to hear thee touch the famous stringOf Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang,Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan,Like Sagittarian Pan!VII.I like Guy Mannering—but not that sham sonOf Brown. I like that literary Sampson,Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson.I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea OrsonThat 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 Witch, I take it,To tell a great man's fortune—or to make it!VIII.I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on,He makes me think of Mr. Britton,Who has—or had—within his garden wall,Aminiature Stone Henge, so very smallThe sparrows find it difficult to sit on;And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor;And Edie Ochiltree, that oldBlue Beggar,Painted so cleverly,I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly!I like thy Barber—him that fir'd theBeacon—But that's a tender subject now to speak on!IX.I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. His very charmsFashion'd him for renown! In sad sincerity,The man that robs or writes must have long arms,If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity!Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity!Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)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 leRoy!"Ay, Rob shall live again, and deathless DiVernon, of course, shall often live again—Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain,Who can pass byNor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand?There be Old Bailey Jarveys on the stand!X.I like thy Landlord's Tales!—I like that IdolOf love and Lammermoor—the blue-eyed maidThat 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, branchesThat hold the tapersTo light the serious legend of Montrose.I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours,As if he could not walk or talk alone.Without the devil—or the Great Unknown—Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!XI.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,The warlike gallops and the warlikecanters!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—Howhewould cram the Caledonian Chapel!I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dappleHis raven steed with blood of many a corse—I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravelsHer texts of Scripture on a trotting horse—She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!XII.I like thy Kenilworth—but I'm not goingTo take a Retrospective Re-ReviewOf all thy dainty novels—merely showingThe 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 Gowrie's,When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty—Or see thy image on Italian trays,Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparté,Be painted by the Titian of R.A.'s,Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph!Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's,Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyselfTo other Englands with Australian roamers—Mayhap, in literary OwhyheeDisplace the native wooden gods, or beThe China-Lar of a Canadian shelf!XIII.It is not modesty that bids thee hide—She never wastes her blushes out of sight:It is not to inviteThe 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 scholarsIn 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 worthA brace of Miltons for capacious soul—Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north,And set above ten Shakespeares near the pole!XIV.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 handOf 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?XV.What in this masquing ageMaketh 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!XVI.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 manThat ever saw thee, would quickly draw theeIn some vile literary caravan—Shown for a shillingWould be thy killing.Think of Crachami's miserable span!No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell inThan there it fell in—But when she felt herself a show, she triedTo shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!XVII.O since it was thy fortune to be bornA dwarf on some ScotchInch, and then to flinchFrom all the Gog-like jostle of great men.Still with thy small crow penAmuse 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 realityAre in our graves forgotten and quite dead,And Time destroys our mottoes of morality,The lithographic hand of Old MortalityShall still restore thy emblem on the stone,A featureless death's head,And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown!

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 lung 'tis blown,Thou man of fog!Parent of many children—child of none!Nobody's son!Nobody's daughter—but a parent still!Still but an ostrich parent of a batchOf 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 shin'd upon,—invisibly bright,"Dark with excess of light!"Constable's literary John-a-nokes—The real Scottish wizard—to no 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 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 lung 'tis blown,

Thou man of fog!

Parent of many children—child of none!

Nobody's son!

Nobody's daughter—but a parent still!

Still but an ostrich parent of a batch

Of orphan eggs,—left to the world to hatch.

Superlative Nil!

A vox and nothing more,—yet not Vauxhall;

A head in papers, yet without a curl!

Not the Invisible Girl!

No hand—but a hand-writing on a wall—

A popular nonentity,

Still call'd the same,—without identity!

A lark, heard out of sight,—

A nothing shin'd upon,—invisibly bright,

"Dark with excess of light!"

Constable's literary John-a-nokes—

The real Scottish wizard—to no which,

Nobody—in a niche;

Every one's hoax!

Maybe Sir Walter Scott—

Perhaps not!

Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?

II.

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—AnovelJunius puzzling the world's brain—A man of magic—yet no talisman!A man of clair obscure—not him o' the moon!A star—at noon.A non-descriptus in a caravan,A private—of no corps—a northern lightIn a dark lantern,—Bogie in a crape—A figure—but no shape;A vizor—and no knight;The real abstract hero of the age;The staple Stranger of the stage;A Some One made in every man's presumption,Frankenstein's monster—but instinct with gumption;Another strange state captive in the north,Constable-guarded in an iron mask—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—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—

AnovelJunius puzzling the world's brain—

A man of magic—yet no talisman!

A man of clair obscure—not him o' the moon!

A star—at noon.

A non-descriptus in a caravan,

A private—of no corps—a northern light

In a dark lantern,—Bogie in a crape—

A figure—but no shape;

A vizor—and no knight;

The real abstract hero of the age;

The staple Stranger of the stage;

A Some One made in every man's presumption,

Frankenstein's monster—but instinct with gumption;

Another strange state captive in the north,

Constable-guarded in an iron mask—

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?

III.

Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hungerOf 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 LL.D.!

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 LL.D.!

IV.

Thou nameless captain of the nameless gangThat do—and inquests cannot say who did it!Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang?Hast thou made gravy of Wear'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 onThe curiosity of all invaders—I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton,Who knows a little of theHoly Land,Writing thy next new novel—The Crusaders!

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 Wear'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 theHoly Land,

Writing thy next new novel—The Crusaders!

Perhaps thou wert even bornTo be unknown. Perhaps hung, some foggy morn,At Captain Coram's charitable wicket,Penn'd to a ticketThat Fate had made illegible, foreseeingThe future great unmentionable being.Perhaps thou hast riddenA scholar poor on St. Augustine's back,Like Chatterton, and found a dusty packOf Rowley novels in an old chest hidden;A little hoard of clever simulation,That took the town—and Constable has biddenSome hundred pounds for a continuation—To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.

Perhaps thou wert even born

To be unknown. Perhaps hung, some foggy morn,

At Captain Coram's charitable wicket,

Penn'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.

VI.

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 clatteringIn 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 clangIt was to hear thee touch the famous stringOf Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang,Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan,Like Sagittarian Pan!

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

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!

VII.

I like Guy Mannering—but not that sham sonOf Brown. I like that literary Sampson,Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson.I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea OrsonThat 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 Witch, I take it,To tell a great man's fortune—or to make it!

I like Guy Mannering—but not that sham son

Of Brown. I like that literary Sampson,

Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson.

I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson

That slew the Gauger;

And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major;

And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender,

That Scottish Witch of Endor,

That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it,

To tell a great man's fortune—or to make it!

VIII.

I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on,He makes me think of Mr. Britton,Who has—or had—within his garden wall,Aminiature Stone Henge, so very smallThe sparrows find it difficult to sit on;And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor;And Edie Ochiltree, that oldBlue Beggar,Painted so cleverly,I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly!I like thy Barber—him that fir'd theBeacon—But that's a tender subject now to speak on!

I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on,

He makes me think of Mr. Britton,

Who has—or had—within his garden wall,

Aminiature Stone Henge, so very small

The sparrows find it difficult to sit on;

And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor;

And Edie Ochiltree, that oldBlue Beggar,

Painted so cleverly,

I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly!

I like thy Barber—him that fir'd theBeacon—

But that's a tender subject now to speak on!

IX.

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. His very charmsFashion'd him for renown! In sad sincerity,The man that robs or writes must have long arms,If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity!Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity!Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)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 leRoy!"Ay, Rob shall live again, and deathless DiVernon, of course, shall often live again—Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain,Who can pass byNor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand?There be Old Bailey Jarveys on the stand!

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. His very charms

Fashion'd him for renown! In sad sincerity,

The man that robs or writes must have long arms,

If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity!

Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity!

Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)

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 leRoy!"

Ay, 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 Jarveys on the stand!

I like thy Landlord's Tales!—I like that IdolOf love and Lammermoor—the blue-eyed maidThat 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, branchesThat hold the tapersTo light the serious legend of Montrose.I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapours,As if he could not walk or talk alone.Without the devil—or the Great Unknown—Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!

I like 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 dearest of Ducrows!

XI.

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,The warlike gallops and the warlikecanters!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—Howhewould cram the Caledonian Chapel!I like stern Claverhouse, though he doth dappleHis raven steed with blood of many a corse—I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravelsHer texts of Scripture on a trotting horse—She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!

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,

The warlike gallops and the warlikecanters!

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—

Howhewould 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!

XII.

I like thy Kenilworth—but I'm not goingTo take a Retrospective Re-ReviewOf all thy dainty novels—merely showingThe 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 Gowrie's,When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty—Or see thy image on Italian trays,Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparté,Be painted by the Titian of R.A.'s,Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph!Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's,Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyselfTo other Englands with Australian roamers—Mayhap, in literary OwhyheeDisplace the native wooden gods, or beThe China-Lar of a Canadian shelf!

I like thy Kenilworth—but I'm not going

To take a Retrospective Re-Review

Of all thy dainty novels—merely showing

The old familiar faces of a few,

The question to renew,

How thou canst leave such deeds without a name,

Forego the unclaim'd dividends of fame,

Forego the smiles of literary houris—

Mid Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise,

And all the Carse of Gowrie's,

When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty—

Or see thy image on Italian trays,

Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparté,

Be painted by the Titian of R.A.'s,

Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph!

Perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's,

Perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself

To other Englands with Australian roamers—

Mayhap, in literary Owhyhee

Displace the native wooden gods, or be

The China-Lar of a Canadian shelf!

XIII.

It is not modesty that bids thee hide—She never wastes her blushes out of sight:It is not to inviteThe 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 scholarsIn 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 worthA brace of Miltons for capacious soul—Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north,And set above ten Shakespeares near the pole!

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 Shakespeares near the pole!

XIV.

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 handOf 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?

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?

XV.

What in this masquing ageMaketh 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!

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!

XVI.

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 manThat ever saw thee, would quickly draw theeIn some vile literary caravan—Shown for a shillingWould be thy killing.Think of Crachami's miserable span!No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell inThan there it fell in—But when she felt herself a show, she triedTo shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!

Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones—

E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf,

That shadowy revelation of thyself—

To build thee a small hut of haunted stones—

For certainly the first pernicious man

That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee

In some vile literary caravan—

Shown for a shilling

Would be thy killing.

Think of Crachami's miserable span!

No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in

Than there it fell in—

But when she felt herself a show, she tried

To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!

XVII.

O since it was thy fortune to be bornA dwarf on some ScotchInch, and then to flinchFrom all the Gog-like jostle of great men.Still with thy small crow penAmuse 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 realityAre in our graves forgotten and quite dead,And Time destroys our mottoes of morality,The lithographic hand of Old MortalityShall still restore thy emblem on the stone,A featureless death's head,And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown!

O since it was thy fortune to be born

A dwarf on some ScotchInch, and then to flinch

From all the Gog-like jostle of great men.

Still with thy small crow pen

Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn—

Still Scottish story daintily adorn,

Be still a shade—and when this age 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!

EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.

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