I’m glad, Dear C., to find you’re living still;
And thank you for the usual quinine pill:
Be pleas’d t’accept—more than the sum you crave—
Two extra postage-stamps, with which pray have
One glass of Bass’ —— to cheer thy trusty heart:
May ten years more (if spared to thee) impart
A better spirit to thy chast’ning health:
Altho’, like me—thou may’st lack worldly wealth,
Thou hast a soul symbolical of love,—
Yet never ventur’d in the Hymeneal grove!
Whate’er inquiries might be made for me
Among thine own, and my fraternity,
Tell them I’m blithe (tho’ scanty is my purse),
And that I care not one brave “cobbler’s curse”
For all the riches other men enjoy;
I do my best, my energies employ
To pay the sixpence where there’s any due,—
And therefore settle my account with you.
[81] A few lines on the author’s receipt of a box of pills from an old
acquaintance (C. H.) of Ashburton.
The Fallen Leaf.
Autumn’s here: the leaves are flitting,
Thousands o’er the fields are tripping,—
O! watch them as they fall:
Go, eye them as they leave the tree,
All fluttering down reluctantly
Across the beams of Sol.
See ye the Sun—far down the west—
As he goes forth (as ’twere to rest),
And bids one half[82] “Good-night?” * * *
Well—tens of thousands go with him
Down o’er that bank with gilded brim;
Whilst the proud sky is dight
With clouds, like flowers of beauteous tint
Strewn o’er the heav’nly continent
And capering with the breeze—
Stretch’d far and wide and circling round,
And frisking through the vast profound,
As leaves frisk from the trees.
D’ye ween the meaning of my line?—
When Sol goes down that great incline,
I’d have ye think, with me,
That thousands have gone o’er the hill—
Whilst he goes on revolving still—
Unto eternity!
If right ye ween, I’d have you be—
Yea! like that orb—as readily
Prepared to leave the Earth.
Ye high, ye low, ye rich, ye poor,
Ye crownèd head, ambassador,—
No matter rank or birth,—
Reflect ye: for, like as the leaf
Falls down without a sign of grief,
Nor deigns to heave a sigh,
The monarch or the statesman must
Fall down and crumble into dust—
As all are born to die!
Altho’ we[83] mourn for one now gone,
And he—that grey-hair’d Palmerston,[84]
We will give God the praise,—
For he, beyond the age of man,[85]
Eleven years had over-ran
Within two equal days.
London, 18th October, 1865.
[82] One hemisphere.
[83] The nation.
[84] The Right Honourable Henry John Temple, Viscount Palmerston, K.G.,
G.C.B., &c. (the then Premier of the British Government), died at
“Brockett Hall,” Herts, at a quarter to eleven o’clock in the forenoon of
Wednesday, 18th October, 1865, aged eighty-one years (all but two days),
having been born on the 20th October, 1784. The above lines were written
on the occasion of his death.
[85] Scriptural limitation.
The Gout.
That enemy—the gout, I ween,
Of all such demons is most keen:
Some clever people seem to think
It is the treach’rousness of drink;
But where’s there one who fain would bear
Such agony for wine or beer,
Or any other kind of cheer?—
Stuff and all nonsense: yet, no doubt,
Some drinks are feeders to the gout.
Rare Doctor Jenner, whom we praise,
Regarded not this foul disease;
Or if he did, ’tis plain that he
Could not invent a remedy.
Oh! would he had devised a plan
To extirpate the gout from man:
Much praise would then ascend to Heaven
For all the comfort he had given.
But if man must for e’er endure
(For lack of any kingly cure)
To the world’s end this evil thing,
I say—God grant unto the king,
Or queen, or statesman, be who ’t may,
A life no longer than a day!—
For surely ’tis a sin to wish
The gouty monster to a fish.
* * * * *
Would there were men, with wit enow,
This nevious demon could subdue;
I would, for one, bestir the stars
To introduce them to famed Mars,
To Jupiter, or Mercury,—
(Together or alternately,)—
That theirs may be felicity
For evermore. And, farther still,
I’d have their names engraven well
Upon a diamond monument,—
An everlasting testament,—
Recording all their virtues on ’t—
What they had done with liniment,
Without it or with medicines.—
* * * * *
(Now, if I thought ’twere treach’rous wines,
Rums, brandies, whiskies, or champagnes,
Which set this venom in man’s veins,
I’d have the sea drink all the trash. * * *
Give me the bottles for to smash!—
For not one dog[86] shall e’er remain
To give man such infernal pain.)—
* * * * *
And more than this[87]—I’d have them driven
Across the great concave of heaven,
In chariots wrought of solid gold;
Choice diamonds, rubies, gems untold,
Should be inlaid about its sides;
And flying horses (o’er their hides
’Boss’d bullion-trappings, chaste and neat)
Should from their heads down to their feet
Be clad with * * * *;
That gods may envy those proud beings
Who drove from man those evil things—
The gout! the gout! the gout! the gout!—
I turn again my muse about,
And fancy yet I can’t refrain
From lauding in the highest strain—
(As ’twere—with organs, great in tone,
Reverb’rating from zone to zone,
And angels rivalling to intone
Their universal notes of joy;
Whilst all the hosts of heaven deploy
In armour wrought by gods of grace,
And shining through th’ ethereal space
With so much splendour that ’tis meet
One closed his eyes against the treat)—
These men who could the cure complete.
* * * * *
Old Doctor Samuel[88] said (I’m told)—
A pyramid of solid gold,
As high as heav’n—or higher still—
For him who could the villain kill,
Ought to be built upon a hill.
Aye! thousands would improve the pen,
In ecstasies, to praise the man,
Or rhetorise in words of bliss—
“To him perpetual happiness
Should be awarded from on high,
For ridding that dire enemy.” * * *
Oh! what a song of joy I’d write
If I could hear it said to-night—
“The plaguy rogue was kill’d outright.”
Alas! (I am most loath to state)
I fear not one, so fortunate,
Will ever be the poor man’s friend
To bring this d——l to an end.
[86] Bottle.
[87] The introduction to Mars, Jupiter, Mercury, &c.
[88] Doctor Samuel Johnson.
[Illustration]
The Fox’s Lair.
Bleak is that spot, prone to the west,
When winter lays it bare,
And when among those rocks the blast
Moans harshly on the ear.
But there, though bleak, though rough, though wild,
Old Reynard makes his bed,
And shelter’d by those rocks, beguil’d,
Serenely rests his head.
Therein he lurks the livelong day,
There sleeps the wily thief;
He, like a robber, plans for prey,
But comes at last to grief.
Around and ’bout those mossy stones,
Wherein the felon prowls,
Lay strewn a thousand tiny bones—
The sunder’d frames of fowls,
Of lambs, and other innocents,
Bred to have ’dorn’d the plate:
Those sundry farm-yard ’habitants
Met a most wretched fate!
The sunbeams gild not Reynard’s brow,
He shuns it with dismay;
He feeds not with the old milch-cow
In open fields of day.
The last streaks of the sunken Joy
Are signals to advance;
Then the foul cave he leaves so coy,
And like a rogue doth glance
Below, above; his eyes roll round,
He sniffs the breath of night:
All’s silent now,—no yelping sound
Prevents his hasty flight.
Out, and upon his deathly track,
The coppice combs his hair;
Instinctively he weens his back
Will have a prize to bear.
Behold him on the farm-yard fence,
Surveying the peaceful fold:
See how the tartar sneaks from thence—
Ah! see—his jaws have hold! * * *
His little lambkin victim dies:
Then, with accustom’d skill,
He hurls it on his back, and flies
Home to the stony-hill.
There in his haunt (rocks and dank earth),
The daring burglar spills
His victim’s blood, with brigand’s mirth,
And sends it forth in rills * * *
Next morn, as usual, all the flock
Is counted o’er, and o’er,—
Suspicion is arous’d—the stock
Is minus one! (not more)—
The farmer hurriedly looks ’round,
Unwilling to believe
His little lamb’s not to be found,
Then he begins to grieve:
So ’round and ’round the yard he paced,
Scann’d every thought-of nook;
At length upon the fence he traced
The course the rebel took.
Beyond the fence a narrow pass
Through thick-grown furze led on
To where there was a patch of grass,
A spot both dank and lone;
Here turn’d the fiend through dwarfish oak,
Which stretch’d up half a mile,
Then nimbly cross’d a limpid brook,
And gain’d the granite pile.
Long ere the farmer reach’d this den
The wolfish feast was past:
He mourn’d his lost one, but ’twas vain,
And said—“This is thy last.”
Six rough-hair’d terriers, fresh from sleep,
All eager for the fray,
Compell’d the laughing fiend to weep
Before it was noon-day.
The clacking of each battle dog
Surprised the sharp-nosed thief;
Who doubtless stood shrunk like a slug,
Yet desperate in his grief.
Now raged the conflict doubly fierce:
Uncertain which had won,
The farmer listen’d: shrieks then pierce
His ear: he listen’d on—
Alas! he miss’d his favourite’s voice—
His darling’s tongue was hush’d;
From him—the warrior-dog of choice—
Life’s stream had freely gush’d,
Though his was not the only wound:
A pause: now all is mute:—
Then came five grisly dogs to ground;
They limp—the pain’s so ’cute.
Spill’d blood bespatter’d each rough skin,
Which spoke the dreadful strife
That murderously had raged within,
With sacrifice of life.
Yes! out they came, and bore along
The corpse of their slain mate:—
The farmer’s heart was sorely wrung
To see his favourite’s fate!