Bring me the slumbering souls of flowers,
While yet, beneath some northern sky,
Ungilt by beams, ungemmed by showers,
They wait the breath of summer hours,
To wake to light each diamond eye,
And let loose every florid sigh!
Bring me the first-born ocean waves,
From out those deep primeval caves,
Where from the dawn of Time they've lain--
THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN!--
Untaught as yet, young things, to speak
The language of their PARENT SEA
(Polyphlysbaean named, in Greek),
Tho' soon, too soon, in bay and creek,
Round startled isle and wondering peak,
They'll thunder loud and long as HE!
Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode,
Young fires--
I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE
Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom,
But, having invoked such a lot of fine things,
Flowers, billows and thunderbolts, rainbows and wings,
Didnt know _what_ to do with 'em, when I had got 'em.
The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute,
Of Past MSS. any new ones to try.
This very night's coach brings my destiny in it--
Decides the great question, to live or to die!
And, whether I'm henceforth immortal or no,
All depends on the answer of Simpkins and Co.!
You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out
The whole secret, at once--I have publisht a book!!!
Yes, an actual Book:--if the marvel you doubt,
You have only in last Monday's _Courier_ to look,
And you'll find "This day publisht by Simpkins and Co.
A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled 'Woe Woe!'
By Miss Fanny F----, known more commonly so [symbol: hand]."
This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark
But may guess at my _writing_ by knowing my _mark_.
How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve,
Is itself a "Romaunt" which you'd scarce, dear believe;
Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl,
Looking out for the Magnet,[1] explain it, dear girl.
Suffice it to say, that one half the expense
Of this leasehold of fame for long centuries hence--
(Tho' "God knows," as aunt says my humble ambition
Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition)--
One half the whole cost of the paper and printing,
I've managed, to scrape up, this year past, by stinting
My own little wants in gloves, ribands, and shoes,
Thus defrauding the toilet to fit out the Muse!
And who, my dear Kitty; would not do the same?
What's _eau de Cologne_ to the sweet breath of fame?
Yards of riband soon end--but the measures of rhyme,
Dipt in hues of the rainbow, stretch out thro' all time.
Gloves languish and fade away pair after pair,
While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear,
And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone,
While light-footed lyrics thro' ages trip on.
The remaining expense, trouble, risk--and, alas!
My poor copyright too--into other hands pass;
And my friend, the Head Devil of the "_County Gazette_"
(The only Mecaenas I've ever had yet),
He who set up in type my first juvenile lays,
Is now see up by them for the rest of his days;
And while Gods (as my "Heathen Mythology" says)
Live on naught but ambrosia, _his_ lot how much sweeter
To live, lucky devil, on a young lady's metre!
As for _puffing_--that first of all literary boons,
And essential alike both to bards and balloons,
As, unless well supplied with inflation, 'tis found
Neither bards nor balloons budge an inch from the ground;--
In _this_ respect, naught could more prosperous befall;
As my friend (for no less this kind imp can I call)
Knows the whole would of critics--the _hypers_ and all.
I suspect he himself, indeed, dabbles in rhyme,
Which, for imps diabolic, is not the first time;
As I've heard uncle Bob say, 'twas known among Gnostics,
That the Devil on Two Sticks was a devil at Acrostics.
But hark! there's the Magnet just dasht in from Town--
How my heart, Kitty, beats! I shall surely drop down.
That awful _Court Journal, Gazette Athenaeum_,
All full of my book--I shall sink when I see 'em.
And then the great point--whether Simpkins and Co.
Are actually pleased with their bargain or no!--
_Five o'clock_.
All's delightful--such praises!--I really fear
That this poor little head will turn giddy, my dear,
I've but time now to send you two exquisite scraps--
All the rest by the Magnet, on Monday, perhaps.