'Tis hard for human actions to account,
Whether from reason or from impulse only--
But some internal prompting bade me mount
The gloomy stairs and lonely.
Those gloomy stairs, so dark, and damp, and cold,
With odors as from bones and relics carnal,
Deprived of rite, and consecrated mould,
The chapel vault, or charnel.
Those dreary stairs, where with the sounding stress
Of ev'ry step so many echoes blended,
The mind, with dark misgivings, fear'd to guess
How many feet ascended.
The tempest with its spoils had drifted in,
Till each unwholesome stone was darkly spotted,
As thickly as the leopard's dappled skin,
With leaves that rankly rotted.
The air was thick--and in the upper gloom
The bat--or something in its shape--was winging;
And on the wall, as chilly as a tomb,
The Death's-Head moth was clinging.
That mystic moth, which, with a sense profound
Of all unholy presence, augurs truly;
And with a grim significance flits round
The taper burning bluely.
Such omens in the place there seem'd to be,
At ev'ry crooked turn, or on the landing,
The straining eyeball was prepared to see
Some Apparition standing.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
Yet no portentous Shape the sight amazed;
Each object plain, and tangible, and valid;
But from their tarnish'd frames dark Figures gazed,
And Faces spectre-pallid.
Not merely with the mimic life that lies
Within the compass of Art's simulation;
Their souls were looking thro' their painted eyes
With awful speculation.
On ev'ry lip a speechless horror dwelt;
On ev'ry brow the burthen of affliction;
The old Ancestral Spirits knew and felt
The House's malediction.
Such earnest woe their features overcast,
They might have stirr'd, or sigh'd, or wept, or spoken;
But, save the hollow moaning of the blast,
The stillness was unbroken.
No other sound or stir of life was there,
Except my steps in solitary clamber,
From flight to flight, from humid stair to stair,
From chamber into chamber.
Deserted rooms of luxury and state,
That old magnificence had richly furnish'd
With pictures, cabinets of ancient date,
And carvings gilt and burnish'd.
Rich hangings, storied by the needle's art
With scripture history, or classic fable;
But all had faded, save one ragged part,
Where Cain was slaying Abel.
The silent waste of mildew and the moth
Had marr'd the tissue with a partial ravage;
But undecaying frown'd upon the cloth
Each feature stern and savage.
The sky was pale; the cloud a thing of doubt;
Some hues were fresh, and some decay'd and duller;
But still the BLOODY HAND shone strangely out
With vehemence of color!
The BLOODY HAND that with a lurid stain
Shone on the dusty floor, a dismal token,
Projected from the casement's painted pane,
Where all beside was broken.
The BLOODY HAND significant of crime,
That glaring on the old heraldic banner,
Had kept its crimson unimpair'd by time,
In such a wondrous manner!
O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
The Death Watch tick'd behind the panel'd oak,
Inexplicable tremors shook the arras,
And echoes strange and mystical awoke,
The fancy to embarrass.
Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread,
But thro' one gloomy entrance pointing mostly,
The while some secret inspiration said,
That Chamber is the Ghostly!
Across the door no gossamer festoon
Swung pendulous--no web--no dusty fringes,
No silky chrysalis or white cocoon
About its nooks and hinges.
The spider shunn'd the interdicted room,
The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banish'd,
And where the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom
The very midge had vanish'd.
One lonely ray that glanced upon a Bed,
As if with awful aim direct and certain
To show the BLOODY HAND in burning red
Embroider'd on the curtain.
And yet no gory stain was on the quilt--
The pillow in its place had slowly rotted;
The floor alone retain'd the trace of guilt,
Those boards obscurely spotted.
Obscurely spotted to the door, and thence
With mazy doubles to the grated casement--
Oh what a tale they told of fear intense,
Of horror and amazement!
What human creature in the dead of night
Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance?
Had sought the door, the window in his flight,
Striving for dear existence?
What shrieking Spirit in that bloody room
Its mortal frame had violently quitted?--
Across the sunbeam, with a sudden gloom,
A ghostly Shadow flitted.
Across the sunbeam, and along the wall,
But painted on the air so very dimly,
It hardly veil'd the tapestry at all,
Or portrait frowning grimly.
O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
THE MARY.
A SEA-SIDE SKETCH.
Lov'st thou not, Alice, with the early tide
To see the hardy Fisher hoist his mast,
And stretch his sail towards the ocean wide,--
Like God's own beadsman going forth to cast
His net into the deep, which doth provide
Enormous bounties, hidden in its vast
Bosom like Charity's, for all who seek
And take its gracious boon thankful and meek?
The sea is bright with morning,--but the dark
Seems still to linger on his broad black sail,
For it is early hoisted, like a mark
For the low sun to shoot at with his pale
And level beams: All round the shadowy bark
The green wave glimmers, and the gentle gale
Swells in her canvas, till the waters show
The keel's new speed, and whiten at the bow.
Then look abaft--(for thou canst understand
That phrase)--and there he sitteth at the stern,
Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand,
The hardy Fisherman. Thou may'st discern
Ten fathoms off the wrinkles in the tann'd
And honest countenance that he will turn
To look upon us, with a quiet gaze--
As we are passing on our several ways.
So, some ten days ago, on such a morn,
The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil
Amongst the finny race: 'twas when the corn
Woo'd the sharp sickle, and the golden toil
Summon'd all rustic hands to fill the horn
Of Ceres to the brim, that brave turmoil
Was at the prime, and Woodgate went to reap
His harvest too, upon the broad blue deep.
His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard,
His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams
Of morning, for the wind. Ben's eye was stored
With fishes--fishes swam in all his dreams,
And all the goodly east seem'd but a hoard
Of silvery fishes, that in shoals and streams
Groped into the deep dusk that fill'd the sky,
For him to catch in meshes of his eye.
For Ben had the true sailor's sanguine heart,
And saw the future with a boy's brave thought,
No doubts, nor faint misgivings had a part
In his bright visions--ay, before he caught
His fish, he sold them in the scaly mart,
And summ'd the net proceeds. This should have brought
Despair upon him when his hopes were foil'd,
But though one crop was marr'd, again he toil'd;
And sow'd his seed afresh.--Many foul blights
Perish'd his hard-won gains--yet he had plann'd
No schemes of too extravagant delights--
No goodly houses on the Goodwin sand--
But a small humble home, and loving nights,
Such as his honest heart and earnest hand
Might fairly purchase. Were these hopes too airy?
Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary.
She was the prize of many a toilsome year,
And hardwon wages, on the perilous sea--
Of savings ever since the shipboy's tear
Was shed for home, that lay beyond the lee;--
She was purveyor for his other dear
Mary, and for the infant yet to be
Fruit of their married loves. These made him dote
Upon the homely beauties of his boat,
Whose pitch-black hull roll'd darkly on the wave,
No gayer than one single stripe of blue
Could make her swarthy sides. She seem'd a slave,
A negro among boats--that only knew
Hardship and rugged toil--no pennons brave
Flaunted upon the mast--but oft a few
Dark dripping jackets flutter'd to the air,
Ensigns of hardihood and toilsome care.
And when she ventured for the deep, she spread
A tawny sail against the sunbright sky,
Dark as a cloud that journeys overhead--
But then those tawny wings were stretch'd to fly
Across the wide sea desert for the bread
Of babes and mothers--many an anxious eye
Dwelt on her course, and many a fervent pray'r
Invoked the Heavens to protect and spare.
Where is she now? The secrets of the deep
Are dark and hidden from the human ken;
Only the sea-bird saw the surges sweep
Over the bark of the devoted Ben,--
Meanwhile a widow sobs and orphans weep,
And sighs are heard from weatherbeaten men,
Dark sunburnt men, uncouth and rude and hairy,
While loungers idly ask, "Where is the Mary?"
THE LADY'S DREAM.
The lady lay in her bed,
Her couch so warm and soft,
But her sleep was restless and broken still;
For turning often and oft
From side to side, she mutter'd and moan'd,
And toss'd her arms aloft.
At last she startled up,
And gazed on the vacant air,
With a look of awe, as if she saw
Some dreadful phantom there--
And then in the pillow she buried her face
From visions ill to bear.
The very curtain shook,
Her terror was so extreme;
And the light that fell on the broider'd quilt
Kept a tremulous gleam;
And her voice was hollow, and shook as she cried:--
"Oh me! that awful dream"!
"That weary, weary walk,
In the churchyard's dismal ground!
And those horrible things, with shady wings,
That came and flitted round,--
Death, death, and nothing but death,
In every sight and sound!
"And oh! those maidens young,
Who wrought in that dreary room,
With figures drooping and spectres thin,
And cheeks without a bloom;--
And the Voice that cried, 'For the pomp of pride,
We haste to an early tomb!
"'For the pomp and pleasure of Pride,
We toil like Afric slaves,
And only to earn a home at last,
Where yonder cypress waves;'--
And then they pointed--I never saw
A ground so full of graves!
"And still the coffins came,
With their sorrowful trains and slow;
Coffin after coffin still,
A sad and sickening show;
From grief exempt, I never had dreamt
Of such a World of Woe!
"Of the hearts that daily break,
Of the tears that hourly fall,
Of the many, many troubles of life,
That grieve this earthly ball--
Disease and Hunger, and Pain, and Want,
But now I dreamt of them all!
"For the blind and the cripple were there,
And the babe that pined for bread,
And the houseless man, and the widow poor
Who begged--to bury the dead;
The naked, alas, that I might have clad,
The famish'd I might have fed!
"The sorrow I might have sooth'd,
And the unregarded tears;
For many a thronging shape was there,
From long-forgotten years,
Ay, even the poor rejected Moor,
Who raised my childish fears!
"Each pleading look, that long ago
I scann'd with a heedless eye,
Each face was gazing as plainly there,
As when I pass'd it by:
Woe, woe for me if the past should be
Thus present when I die!
"No need of sulphurous lake,
No need of fiery coal,
But only that crowd of human kind
Who wanted pity and dole--
In everlasting retrospect--
Will wring my sinful soul!
"Alas! I have walk'd through life
Too heedless where I trod;
Nay, helping to trample my fellow-worm,
And fill the burial sod--
Forgetting that even the sparrow falls
Not unmark'd of God!
"I drank the richest draughts;
And ate whatever is good--
Fish, and flesh, and fowl, and fruit,
Supplied my hungry mood;
But I never remember'd the wretched ones
That starve for want of food!
"I dress'd as the noble dress,
In cloth of silver and gold,
With silk, and satin, and costly furs,
In many an ample fold;
But I never remember'd the naked limbs
That froze with winter's cold.
"The wounds I might have heal'd!
The human sorrow and smart!
And yet it never was in my soul
To play so ill a part:
But evil is wrought by want of Thought,
As well as want of Heart!"
She clasp'd her fervent hands,
And the tears began to stream;
Large, and bitter, and fast they fell,
Remorse was so extreme;
And yet, oh yet, that many a Dame
Would dream the Lady's Dream!
THE KEY.
A MOORISH ROMANCE.
"On the east coast, towards Tunis, the Moors still
preserve the key of their ancestors' houses in Spain; to
which country they still express the hopes of one day
returning and again planting the crescent on the ancient
walls of the Alhambra."--SCOTT'S _Travels in Morocco
and Algiers_.
"Is Spain cloven in such a manner as to want
closing?"
SANCHO PANZA.
The Moor leans on his cushion,
With the pipe between his lips;
And still at frequent intervals
The sweet sherbét he sips;
But, spite of lulling vapor
And the sober cooling cup,
The spirit of the swarthy Moor
Is fiercely kindling up!
One hand is on his pistol,
On its ornamented stock,
While his finger feels the trigger
And is busy with the lock--
The other seeks his ataghan,
And clasps its jewell'd hilt--
Oh! much of gore in days of yore
That crooked blade has spilt!
His brows are knit, his eyes of jet
In vivid blackness roll,
And gleam with fatal flashes
Like the fire-damp of the coal;
His jaws are set, and through his teeth
He draws a savage breath,
As if about to raise the shout
Of Victory or Death!
For why? the last Zebeck that came
And moor'd within the Mole,
Such tidings unto Tunis brought
As stir his very soul--
The cruel jar of civil war,
The sad and stormy reign,
That blackens like a thunder cloud
The sunny land of Spain!
No strife of glorious Chivalry,
For honor's gain or loss,
Nor yet that ancient rivalry,
The Crescent with the Cross.
No charge of gallant Paladins
On Moslems stern and stanch;
But Christians shedding Christian blood
Beneath the olive's branch!
A war of horrid parricide,
And brother killing brother;
Yea, like to "dogs and sons of dogs"
That worry one another.
But let them bite and tear and fight,
The more the Kaffers slay,
The sooner Hagar's swarming sons
Shall make the land a prey!
The sooner shall the Moor behold
Th' Alhambra's pile again;
And those who pined in Barbary
Shall shout for joy in Spain--
The sooner shall the Crescent wave
On dear Granada's walls:
And proud Mohammed Ali sit
Within his fathers halls!
"Alla-il-alla!" tiger-like
Up springs the swarthy Moor,
And, with a wide and hasty stride,
Steps o'er the marble floor;
Across the hall, till from the wall,
Where such quaint patterns be,
With eager hand he snatches down
And old and massive Key!
A massive Key of curious shape,
And dark with dirt and rust,
And well three weary centuries
The metal might encrust!
For since the King Boabdil fell
Before the native stock,
That ancient Key, so quaint to see,
Hath never been in lock.
Brought over by the Saracens
Who fled accross the main,
A token of the secret hope
Of going back again;
From race to race, from hand to hand,
From house to house it pass'd;
O will it ever, ever ope
The Palace gate at last?
Three hundred years and fifty-two
On post and wall it hung--
Three hundred years and fifty-two
A dream to old and young;
But now a brighter destiny
The Prophet's will accords:
The time is come to scour the rust,
And lubricate the wards.
For should the Moor with sword and lance
At Algesiras land,
Where is the bold Bernardo now
Their progress to withstand?
To Burgos should the Moslem come,
Where is the noble Cid
Five royal crowns to topple down
As gallant Diaz did?
Hath Xeres any Pounder now,
When other weapons fail,
With club to thrash invaders rash,
Like barley with a flail?
Hath Seville any Perez still,
To lay his clusters low,
And ride with seven turbans green
Around his saddle-bow?
No! never more shall Europe see
Such Heroes brave and bold,
Such Valor, Faith and Loyalty,
As used to shine of old!
No longer to one battle cry
United Spaniards run,
And with their thronging spears uphold
The Virgin and her Son!
From Cadiz Bay to rough Biscay
Internal discord dwells,
And Barcelona bears the scars
Of Spanish shot and shells.
The fleets decline, the merchants pine
For want of foreign trade;
And gold is scant; and Alicante
Is seal'd by strict blockade!
The loyal fly, and Valor falls,
Opposed by court intrigue;
But treachery and traitors thrive,
Upheld by foreign league;
While factions seeking private ends
By turns usurping reign--
Well may the dreaming, scheming Moor
Exulting point to Spain!
Well may he cleanse the rusty Key
With Afric sand and oil,
And hope an Andalusian home
Shall recompense the toil!
Well may he swear the Moorish spear
Through wild Castile shall sweep,
And where the Catalonian sowed
The Saracen shall reap!
Well may he vow to spurn the Cross
Beneath the Arab hoof,
And plant the Crescent yet again
Above th' Alhambra's roof--
When those from whom St. Jago's name
In chorus once arose,
Are shouting Faction's battle-cries,
And Spain forgets to "Close!"
Well may he swear his ataghan
Shall rout the traitor swarm,
And carve them into Arabesques
That show no human form--
The blame be theirs, whose bloody feuds
Invite the savage Moor,
And tempt him with the ancient Key
To seek the ancient door!
THE WORKHOUSE CLOCK.
AN ALLEGORY.
There's a murmur in the air,
And noise in every street--
The murmur of many tongues,
The noise of numerous feet--
While round the Workhouse door
The Laboring Classes flock,
For why? the Overseer of the Poor
Is setting the Workhouse Clock.
Who does not hear the tramp
Of thousands speeding along
Of either sex and various stamp,
Sickly, cripple, or strong,
Walking, limping, creeping
From court and alley, and lane,
But all in one direction sweeping
Like rivers that seek the main?
Who does not see them sally
From mill, and garret, and room,
In lane, and court and alley,
From homes in poverty's lowest valley,
Furnished with shuttle and loom--
Poor slaves of Civilization's galley--
And in the road and footways rally,
As if for the Day of Doom?
Some, of hardly human form,
Stunted, crooked, and crippled by toil;
Dingy with smoke and dust and oil,
And smirch'd besides with vicious soil,
Clustering, mustering, all in a swarm.
Father, mother, and careful child,
Looking as if it had never smiled--
The Sempstress, lean, and weary, and wan,
With only the ghosts of garments on--
The Weaver, her sallow neighbor,
The grim and sooty Artisan;
Every soul--child, woman, or man,
Who lives--or dies--by labor.
Stirr'd by an overwhelming zeal,
And social impulse, a terrible throng!
Leaving shuttle, and needle, and wheel,
Furnace, and grindstone, spindle, and reel,
Thread, and yarn, and iron, and steel--
Yea, rest and the yet untasted meal--
Gushing, rushing, crushing along,
A very torrent of Man!
Urged by the sighs of sorrow and wrong,
Grown at last to a hurricane strong,
Stop its course who can!
Stop who can its onward course
And irresistible moral force;
O vain and idle dream!
For surely as men are all akin,
Whether of fair or sable skin,
According to Nature's scheme,
That Human Movement contains within
A Blood-Power stronger than Steam.
Onward, onward, with hasty feet,
They swarm--and westward still--
Masses born to drink and eat,
But starving amidst Whitechapel's meat,
And famishing down Cornhill!
Through the Poultry--but still unfed--
Christian Charity, hang your head!
Hungry--passing the Street of Bread;
Thirsty--the street of Milk;
Ragged--beside the Ludgate Mart,
So gorgeous, through Mechanic-Art,
With cotton, and wool, and silk!
At last, before that door
That bears so many a knock
Ere ever it opens to Sick or Poor,
Like sheep they huddle and flock--
And would that all the Good and Wise
Could see the Million of hollow eyes,
With a gleam deriv'd from Hope and the skies,
Upturn'd to the Workhouse Clock!
Oh that the Parish Powers,
Who regulate Labor's hours,
The daily amount of human trial,
Weariness, pain, and self-denial,
Would turn from the artificial dial
That striketh ten or eleven,
And go, for once, by that older one
That stands in the light of Nature's sun,
And takes its time from Heaven!
THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS.
"Drown'd! drown'd!"--_Hamlet_.
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.--
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Bash and undutiful:
Past all dishonor,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family--
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
Oh! it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swit to be hurl'd--
Any where, any where
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly,
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran,--
Over the brink of it,
Picture it--think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently,--kindly,--
Smooth, and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.--
Cross her hands humbly,
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behavior,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
THE LAY OF THE LABORER.
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will--
And here's a ready hand
To ply the needful tool,
And skill'd enough, by lessons rough,
In Labor's rugged school.
To hedge, or dig the ditch,
To lop or fell the tree,
To lay the swarth on the sultry field,
Or plough the stubborn lea;
The harvest stack to bind,
The wheaten rick to thatch,
And never fear in my pouch to find
The tinder or the match.
To a flaming barn or farm
My fancies never roam;
The fire I yearn to kindle and burn
Is on the hearth of Home;
Where children huddle and crouch
Through dark long winter days,
Where starving children huddle and crouch,
To see the cheerful rays,
A-glowing on the haggard cheek,
And not in the haggard's blaze!
To Him who sends a drought
To parch the fields forlorn,
The rain to flood the meadows with mud,
The blight to blast the corn,
To Him I leave to guide
The bolt in its crooked path,
To strike the miser's rick, and show
The skies blood-red with wrath.
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will--
The corn to thrash, or the hedge to plash,
The market-team to drive,
Or mend the fence by the cover side,
And leave the game alive.
Ay, only give me work,
And then you need not fear
That I shall snare his Worship's hare,
Or kill his Grace's deer;
Break into his lordship's house,
To steal the plate so rich;
Or leave the yeoman that had a purse
To welter in a ditch.
Wherever Nature needs,
Wherever Labor calls,
No job I'll shirk of the hardest work,
To shun the workhouse walls;
Where savage laws begrudge
The pauper babe its breath,
And doom a wife to a widow's life,
Before her partner's death.
My only claim is this,
With labor stiff and stark,
By lawful turn, my living to earn,
Between the light and dark;
My daily bread, and nightly bed,
My bacon, and drop of beer--
But all from the hand that holds the land,
And none from the overseer!
No parish money, or loaf,
No pauper badges for me,
A son of the soil, by right of toil
Entitled to my fee.
No alms I ask, give me my task:
Here are the arm, the leg,
The strength, the sinews of a Man,
To work, and not to beg.
Still one of Adam's heirs,
Though doom'd by chance of birth
To dress so mean, and to eat the lean
Instead of the fat of the earth;
To make such humble meals
As honest labor can,
A bone and a crust, with a grace to God,
And little thanks to man!
A spade! a rake! a hoe!
A pickaxe, or a bill!
A hook to reap, or a scythe to mow,
A flail, or what ye will--
Whatever the tool to ply,
Here is a willing drudge,
With muscle and limb, and woe to him
Who does their pay begrudge!
Who every weekly score
Docks labor's little mite,
Bestows on the poor at the temple door,
But robb'd them over night.
The very shilling he hoped to save,
As health and morals fail,
Shall visit me in the new Bastille,
The Spital, or the Gaol!
STANZAS.[19]
[Footnote 19: Hood's last verses. They appeared in his Magazine
in February 1845, and were thus probably composed during the previous
month. In the original collection of Hood's serious poems, published
after his death, they were wrongly assigned to the April of this year.
Hood died on the third of May.]
Farewell, Life! My senses swim,
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night,--
Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapor chill--
Strong the earthy odor grows--
I smell the mould above the rose!
Welcome, Life! the Spirit strives!
Strength returns, and hope revives;
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn,--
O'er the earth there comes a bloom--
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapor cold--
smell the rose above the mould!
_February_ 1845.
ODE TO MR. GRAHAM,[20]
THE AERONAUT.
"Up with me!--up with me into the sky!"
WORDSWORTH--_on a Lark_.
[Footnote 20: In Hood's day Mr. Graham was one of a group of
distinguished aeronauts which included Monck Mason, Hollond, Green, and
others. Mr. Graham had made a memorable ascent in his Balloon in 1823.]
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!--
II.
A few more whiffs of my segar
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!--
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 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 be
The City Road!--Good lack! to see
The little ways of men!
VII.
Little, indeed!--my eyeballs ache
To find a turnpike.--I must take
Their tolls upon my trust!--
And where is mortal labor gone?
Look, Graham, for a little stone
Mac Adamiz'd to dust!
VIII.
Look at the horses!--less than flies!--
Oh, what a waste it was of sighs
To wish to be a Mayor!
What is the honor?--none at all,
One's honor must be very small
For such a civic chair!--
IX.
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 rul'd below
By very little logs!--
X.
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 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 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!--
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 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
XV.
"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!--"
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--_do_ you think Sir Walter Scott
Is such a Great Unknown?
XVII.
Speak up!--or hath he hid his name
To crawl thro' "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!--
XVIII.
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 mile high
The true didactic pitch!
XIX.
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'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?
XXI.
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 spell
In those three letters, L. E. L.,
To witch a world with song?
On clouds the Byron did not sit,
Yet dar'd on Shakspeare'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 littleness
Now we are in the skies.
XXIV.
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.
_My_ name 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 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!
XXVII.
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?
XXVIII.
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!
XXIX.
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 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!
XXXI.
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 sunset change?--
The free creative mind!
XXXII.
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 Power the giftie gie 'em,
To see themselves as others see 'em,"
'Twould much abate their fuss!
If they could think that from the iskies
They are as little in our eyes
As they can think of us!
XXXIV.
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!
XXXV.
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 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 jar
It is upon the earth to light!
Well--there's the finish of our flight!
I've smoked my last segar!
A _FRIENDLY_ ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY _IN_ NEWGATE.[21]
"Sermons in stones."--_As You Like It._
"Out! out! damned spot!"--_Macbeth._
[Footnote 21: Elizabeth Fry had set up her school for the children in
Newgate as early as 1817. Moll Brazen, Suky Tawdry, Jenny Diver, and
the rest, are names borrowed from Gay's _Beggars' Opera_.]
I.
I like you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing
In daily act round Charity's great flame--
I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing,
Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim
You make to Christianity,--professing
Love, and good _works_--of course you buy of Barton,
Beside the young _Fry's_ bookseller, Friend Darton!
II.
I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute--
Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport--
I should have said, that _wear_, the sober suit
Shap'd like a court dress--but for heaven's court.
I like your sisters too,--sweet Rachel's fruit--
Protestant nuns! I like their stiff support
Of virtue--and I like to see them clad
With such a difference--just like good from bad!
III.
I like the sober colors--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 _colors_, Mrs. Fry!
IV.
As for the naughty tinges of the prism--
Crimson's the cruel uniform of war--
Blue--hue of brimstone! minds no catechism;
And green is young and gay--not noted for
Goodness, or gravity, or quietism,
Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or
Olive--and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess;
And yellow is a convict by its dress!
V.
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 colors will begin
To part--the _Pit_tite hues will sadden there,
Whereas the _Foxite_ shades will all show fair!
VI.
Witness their goodly labors one by one!
_Russet_ makes garments for the needy poor--
_Dove-color_ 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!
VII.
Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavor!
When all persuasions in your praises blend--
The Methodist's creed and cry are, _Fry_ forever!
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?
VIII.
Top 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!
Oh, tho' it cost you rent--(and rooms run high)
Keep your school _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
IX.
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 labors 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!
X.
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!
XI.
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to teach
Miss Nancy Dawson on her bed of straw--
To make Long Sal sew up the endless breach
She made in manners--to write heaven's own law
On hearts of granite.--Nay, how hard to preach,
In cells, that are not memory's--to draw
The moral thread, thro' the immoral eye
Of blunt Whitechapel natures, Mrs. Fry!
XII.
In vain you teach them baby-work within:
'Tis but a clumsy botchery of crime;
'Tis but a tedious darning of old sin--
Come out yourself, and stitch up souls in time--
It is too late for scouring to begin
When virtue's ravell'd out, when all the prime
Is worn away, and nothing sound remains;
You'll fret the fabric out before the stains!
XIII.
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 gray,
Your dove-like habits, and your silent preaching;
But I don't like your Newgatory teaching.
XIV.
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!
XV.
Put on your decent bonnet, and come out!
Good lack! the ancients did not set up schools
In jail--but at the _Porch_! hinting, no doubt,
That Vice should have a lesson in the rules
Before 'twas whipt by law.--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!
XVI.
Teach Lady Barrymore, if, teaching, you
That peerless Peeress can absolve from dolor;
Teach her it is not virtue to pursue
Ruin of blue, or any other color;
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.
XVII.
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!
XVIII.
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!
XIX.
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 clos'd against the smart,
Ev'n let him wear the single-breasted coat,
For that ensureth singleness of heart.--
Do what you will, his every want supply,
_Keep_ him--but _out_ of Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
ODE TO RICHARD MARTIN, ESQ.,[22]
M.P. FOR GALWAY.
"_Martin_ in this has proved himself a very good man!"
--_Boxiana_.
[Footnote 22: The well-known Humanitarian, M. P. for Galway, the author
of "Martin's Act" for the protection of animals from ill-treatment, and
one of the founders of the noble society having the same object. He
died in 1834.]
I.
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_!
II.
Thou Wilberforce of hacks!
Of whites as well as blacks,
Pyebald and dapple gray,
Chestnut and bay--
No poet's eulogy thy name adorns!
But oxen, from the fens,
Sheep--in their pens,
Praise thee, and red cows with their winding horns!
Thou art sung on brutal pipes!
Drovers may curse thee,
Knackers asperse thee,
And sly M.P.'s bestow their cruel wipes;
But the old horse neighs thee,
And zebras praise thee,--
Asses, I mean--that have as many stripes!
III.
Hast thou not taught the Drover to forbear,
In Smithfield's muddy, murderous, vile environ,--
Staying his lifted bludgeon in the air!
Bullocks don't wear
_Oxide_ of iron!
The cruel Jarvy thou hast summon'd oft,
Enforcing mercy on the coarse Yahoo,
That thought his horse the _courser_ of the two--
Whilst Swift smiled down aloft!--
O worthy pair! for this, when ye inhabit
Bodies of birds--(if so the spirit shifts
From flesh to feather)--when the clown uplifts
His hands against the sparrow's nest, to _grab_ it,--
He shall not harm the MARTINS and the _Swifts_!
IV.
Ah! when Dean Swift was _quick_, how he enhanc'd
The horse!--and humbled biped man like Plato!
But now he's dead, the charger is mischanc'd--
Gone backward in the world--and not advanc'd,--
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_!
V.
O, Martin I how thine eyes--
That one would think had put aside its lashes,--
That can't bear gashes
Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy
That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane,--
For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual,
Or some man painted in a bloody vein--
Gods! is there no _Horse-spital_!
That such raw shows must sicken the humane!
Sure Mr. Whittle
Loves thee but little,
To let that poor horse linger in his _pane_!
VI.
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
And bloody gash--it is the Indian knack--
(Save that the savage is his own tormentor)--
Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf--
The biped woe the quadruped shall enter,
And Man and Horse go half and half,
As if their griefs met in a common _Centaur_!
ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN.[23]
"O breathe not his name!"--_Moore_.
[Footnote 23: After nearly eighty years it is almost pardonable to
remind the reader that in the earlier days of the Waverley Novels
their author was much talked of by the above title. The variety of
Hood's reading, and his resource in simile, are very noticeable in this
Ode. The likening of Dominie Sampson to Lamb's friend, George Dyer and
the comparison of Mause Headrigg to Rae Wilson on his travels, are
admirable examples.]
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 lungs 'tis blown,
Thou man of fog!
Parent of many children--child of none!
Nobody's son!
Nobody's daughter--but a parent still!
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch
Of orphan eggs,--left to the world to hatch
Superlative Nil!
A vox and nothing more,--yet not Vauxhall;
A head in papers, yet without a curl!
Not the Invisible Girl!
No hand--but a handwriting 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--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?
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--
A _novel_ Junius puzzling the world's brain--
A man of Magic--yet no talisman!
A man of clair obscure--not he o' the moon!
A star--at noon.
A non-descriptus in a caravan,
A private--of no corps--a northern light
In a dark lantern,--Bogie in a crape--
A figure--but no shape;
A vizor--and no knight;
The real abstract hero of the age;
The staple Stranger of the stage;
A Some One made in every man's presumption,
Frankenstein's monster--but instinct with gumption;
Another strange state captive in the north,
Constable-guarded in an iron mask--
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 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 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' that 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!
V.
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.
VI.
I like 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 gauntlet's 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 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,
I like thy Antiquary. With Ins fit on,
It makes me think
Who has--or had--within his garden wall,
A _miniature Stone Henge_, so very small
That sparrows find it difficult to sit on;
And Dousterwivel, 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 fir'd the _Beacon--_
But that's a tender subject now to speak on!
IX.
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 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!
X.
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 vapors,
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 Grahame shot and slew.
I like the battle lost and won;
The hurly-burlys bravely done,
The warlike gallop and the warlike canters!
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 cloth 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 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!
P'rhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's,
P'rhaps 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 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!
XIV.
Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp,
With such a giant genius at command,
Forever 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 Biquet with the Tuft,
Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd,
Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs?
XV.
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 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 born
A dwarf on some Scotch _Inch_, and then to flinch
From all the Gog-like jostle of great men,
Still with thy small crow pen
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!
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_.
I.
Joseph! they say thou'st left the stage,
To toddle down the hill of life,
And taste the flannel'd ease of age,
Apart from pantomimic strife--
"Retir'd--(for Young would call it so)--
The world shut out"--in Pleasant Row!
II.
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!
III.
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!"
IV.
Oh, had it pleased the gout to take
The reverend Croly from the stage,
Or Southey, for our quiet's sake,
Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage,
Or, damme! namby-pamby Poole,--
Or any other clown or fool!
V.
Go, Dibdin--all that bear the name,
Go, Byeway Highway man! go! go!
Go, Skeffy--man of painted fame,
But leave thy partner, painted Joe!
I could bear Kirby on the wane,
Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!
VI.
Had Joseph Wilfrid Parkins made
His gray hairs scarce in private peace--
Had Waithman sought a rural shade--
Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease--
Or Lisle Bowles gone to _Balaam_ Hill--
I think I could be cheerful still!
VII.
Had Medwin left off, to his praise,
Dead lion kicking, like--a friend!--
Had long, long Irving gone his ways,
To Muse on death at _Ponder's End_
Or Lady Morgan taken leave
Of Letters--still I might not grieve!
VIII.
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!
IX.
Ah, where is now thy rolling head!
Thy winking, reeling, _drunken_ eyes,
(As old Catullus would have said),
Thy oven-mouth, that swallow'd pies--
Enormous hunger--monstrous drowth!
Thy pockets greedy as thou mouth!
X.
Ah, where thy ears, so often cuff'd!--
Thy funny, flapping, filching hands!--
Thy partridge body, always stuff'd
With waifs, and strays, and contrabands!--
Thy foot--like Berkeley's _Foote_--for why?
'Twas often made to wipe an eye!
XI.
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 bounc'd--and strode away!--
That years should tame the legs--alack!
I've seen spring thro' an Almanack!
XII.
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!
XIII.
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!
XIV.
And, may be--'tis no time to smother
A sigh, when two prime wags of London
Are gone--thou, Joseph, one,--the other
A Joe!--"sic transit gloria _Munden_!"
A third departure some insist on,--
Stage-apoplexy threatens Liston!--
XV.
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!
XVI.
Let Kemble, Forbes, and Willet rain,
As tho' 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!
XVII.
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?_
XVIII.
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!
XIX.
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!
Tho' Joseph, Junior, acts not ill,
"There's no Fool like the old Fool" still!
XX.
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_!
AN ADDRESS TO THE STEAM WASHING COMPANY.
"Archer. How many are there, _Scrub_?"
"Scrub. Five-and-forty, Sir." _Beaux' Stratagem_.
"For shame--let the linen alone!" _M. W. 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 me your ear! if that ear can forego,
For a moment, the music that bubbles below,--
From your new Surrey Geisers 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 labors 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 liv'd by a stream,
Which the sun has suck'd up into vapor 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 gray,
As if she was washing the night into day--
Not with sleeker or rosier fingers Aurora
Beginneth to scatter the dewdrops before her;
Not Venus that rose from the billow so early,
Look'd down on the foam with a forehead more _pearly_--
Her head is involv'd in an aërial mist,
And a bright-beaded bracelet encircles her wrist;
Her visage glows warm with the ardor of duty;
She's Industry's moral--she's all moral beauty!
Growing brighter and brighter at every rub--
Would any man ruin her?--No, Mr. Scrub!
No man that is manly would work her mishap--
No man that is manly would covet her cap--
Nor her apron--her hose--nor her gown made of stuff--
Nor her gin--nor her tea--nor her wet pinch of snuff!
Alas! so _she_ thought--but that slippery hope
Has betrayed her--as tho' 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 fagot for burning, like Allan-a-dale!
No smoke from her flue--and no steam from her pane,
There once she watch'd heaven, fearing God and the rain--
Or gaz'd o'er her bleach-field so fairly engross'd,
Till the lines wander'd idle from pillar to post!
Ah, where are the playful young pinners--ah, where
The harlequin quilts that cut capers in air--
The brisk waltzing stockings--the white and the black,
That danced on the tight-rope, or swung on the slack--
The light sylph-like garments, so tenderly pinn'd,
That blew into shape, and embodied the wind!
There was white on the grass--there was white on the spray--
Her garden--it looked 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 reduc'd--nay, reduc'd 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 recall, 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 depriv'd her of bread,
If she prays that the evil may visit _your_ head--
Nay, scald all the heads of your Washing Committee,--
If she wishes you all the soot blacks of the city--
In short, not to mention all plagues without number,
If she wishes you all in the _Wash_ at the Humber!
Ah, perhaps, in some moment of drowth and despair,
When her linen got scarce, and her washing grew rare--
When the sum of her suds might be summ'd in a bowl,
And the rusty cold iron quite enter'd her soul--
When, perhaps, the last glance of her wandering eye
Had caught "the Cock Laundresses' Coach" going by,
Or her lines that hung idle, to waste the fine weather,
And she thought of her wrongs and her rights both together,
In a lather of passion that froth'd as it rose,
Too angry for grammar, too lofty for prose,
On her sheet--if a sheet were still left her--to write,
Some remonstrance like this then, perchance, saw the light--
LETTER OF REMONSTRANCE
FROM BRIDGET JONES
TO THE 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 wagged well enuff--and Wommen washed your old dirty duds,
I'm Certain sure Enuff your Ann Sisters had no steem Indians, 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 considerable period back when
I were little,
And they Said it went with Steem,--But that was a joke!
For I never see none come of it,--that's out of it--but only sum Smoak--
And for All your Power of Horses about your Indians you never had but Two
In my time to draw you About to Fairs--and hang you, you know that's true!
And for All your fine Perspectuses,--howsomever you bewhich 'em,
Theirs as Pretty ones off Primerows Hill, as ever a one at Mitchum,
Tho' I cant sea What Prospectives and washing has with one another to Do--
It aint as if a Bird'seye Hankicher could 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,
I'd show you caps and pinners and small things as lilliwhit as Ever
crosst the Line
Without going any Father off then Little Parodies Place,
And Thats more than you Can--and I'll say it behind your face--
But when Folks talks of washing, it aint for you to Speak,--
As kept Dockter Pattyson out of his Shirt for a Weak!
Thinks I, when I heard it--Well there's a pretty go!
That comes o' not marking of things or washing out the marks, and
Huddling 'em up so!
Till Their friends conies and owns them, like drownded corpeses in a Vault,
But may Hap you havint Larn'd to spel--and That aint 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 concarned
What's the Yuse, of all the world, for a Womans 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 steem about!
To be sure its very Well, when Their aint 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,
Tho' a X Sherif 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 balls,--
But thats not so Bad as a Sett of Bare Faced Scrubbs
As joins their Sopes together, and sits up Steem 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!
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 Steem has ruined (G--d forgive mee) their lively Hoods,
Poor Wommen 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 go at--
They won't do for Angells--nor any Trade like That,
Nor we cant Sow Babby Work,--for that's all Bespoke,--
For the Quakers in Bridle! and a vast of the confined Folk
Do their own of Themselves--even the better-most of em--aye, and evn them
of middling degrees--
Why Lauk help you Babby Linen aint 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. Charnberses,--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 aint, blame you! like Men to go a slushing and sloshing
In mop caps, and pattins, adoing of Females Labers
And prettily jear'd At you great Horse God Meril things, aint you now by
your next door naybors--
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 the Creation--
And cant be dun without in any Country But a naked Hottinpot 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 neighbors oxin an Asses alone,--
And every Thing thats hern,--and give every one their Hone!
Well, its God for us All, and every Washer Wommen for herself,
And so you might, without shoving any on us off the shelf,
But if you warnt Noddis youd Let wommen abe
And pull off Your Pattins,--and leave the washing to we
That nose what's what--Or mark what I say,
Youl make a fine Kittle of fish of Your Close some Day--
When the Aulder men wants Their Bibs and their aint nun at all,
And Cristmass cum--and never a Cloth to lay in Gild Hall,
Or send a damp shirt to his Woship the Mare
Till hes rumatiz Poor Man, and cant set uprite to do good in his
Harm-Chare--
Besides Miss-Matching Larned Ladys Hose, as is sent for you not to wash
(for you don't wash)
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
You might go and skim the creme off Mr. Muck-Adam's milky ways--that's
what you might,
Or bete Carpets--or get into Parleamint,--or drive Crabrolays from
morning to night,
Or, if you must be of our sects, be Watchmen, 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 peple up and down
Hungerford stares,
Or if You Was even to Turn Dust Men a _dry sifting_ Dirt!
But you oughtint to Hurt Them as never Did You no Hurt!
Yourn with Anymocity,
BRIDGET JONES.
ODE TO CAPTAIN PAERY[24]
"By the North Pole, I do challenge thee!"
_Love's Labour's Lost_.
[Footnote 24: The famous Arctic explorer was engaged for many years,
from 1818 onwards, in his various efforts to discover the North-West
Passage. He died in 1855.]
I.
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!
II.
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?
III.
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 thro' the collar?
IV.
Hast found the way that sighs were sent to
The Pole--tho' 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?
V.
Alas! tho' Ross, in love with snows,
Has painted them _couleur de rose_,
It is a dismal doom,
As Clauclio saith, to Winter thrice,
"In regions of thick-ribbed ice"--
All bright,--and yet all gloom!
VI.
'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.
VII.
'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!
VIII.
'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 thro' polar snows,
To plant a British _Jack_!
IX.
Oh, not the proud licentious great,
That travel on a carpet skate,
Can value toils like thine!
What 'tis to take a Hecla range,
Through ice unknown to Mrs. Grange,
And alpine lumps of brine?
X.
But we, that mount the Hill o' Rhyme,
Can tell how hard it is to climb
The lofty slippery steep,
Ah! there are more Snow Hills than that
Which doth black Newgate, like a hat,
Upon its forehead, keep.
XI.
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!
XII.
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--
XIII.
Cheering that dismal game where Night
Makes one slow move from black to white
Thro' all the tedious year,--
Or smitten by some fond frost fair,
That comb'd out crystals from her hair,
Wooing a seal-skin dear!
XIV.
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!
XV.
To dote on hair, an oily fleece!
As tho' it hung from Helen o' Greece--
They say that love prevails
Ev'n in the veriest polar land--
And surely she may steal thy hand
That used to steal thy nails!
XVI.
But ah, ere thou art fixed 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_!
XVII.
Think of the children born to _blubber_!
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!--
XVIII.
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!
XIX.
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--
XX.
To save th' Old Bailey daily shilling,
And then to take a half-year's filling
In P.N.'s pious Row--
When ask'd to Hock and haunch o' ven'son,
Thro' something we have worn our pens on
For Longman and his Co.
XXI.
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?
XXII.
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_!
XXIII.
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_!
XXIV.
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_!
XXV.
O come away, and set us right,
And, haply, throw a northern light
On questions such as these:--
Whether, when this drown'd world was lost.
The surflux waves were lock'd in frost,
And turned to Icy Seas!
XXVI.
Is Ursa Major white or black?
Or do the Polar tribes attack
Their neighbors--and what for?
Whether they ever play at cuffs,
And then, if they take off their muffs
In pugilistic war?
XXVII.
Tells 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?
XXVIII.
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?
XXIX.
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?
XXX.
Whether the lamps will e'er be "learn'd"
Where six months' "midnight oil" is burn'd
Or Letters must confer
With people that have never conn'd
An A, B, C, but live beyond
The _Sound of Lancaster_!
XXXI.
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 opodeldock,
After such frosty years.
XXXII.
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 Harbor_, woman's breast,
And tempt the Fates no more!
ODE TO W. KITCHENER, M.D.[25]
AUTHOR OF "THE COOK'S ORACLE," "OBSERVATIONS ON VOCAL MUSIC," "THE
ART OF INVIGORATING AND PROLONGING LIFE," "PRACTICAL OBSERVATIONS
ON TELESCOPES, OPERA-GLASSES, AND SPECTACLES," "THE HOUSEKEEPER'S
LEDGER," AND "THE PLEASURE OF MAKING A WILL."
"I rule the roast, as Milton says! "--_Caleb Quotem_.
[Footnote 25: Hood, for obvious purposes, slightly departs from the
true spelling of Dr. Kitchiner's name. He was an M. D. of Glasgow, who,
having been left a handsome fortune by his father, abandoned the active
practice of his profession, and devoted himself to science, notably to
that of optics, as well as to gastronomy, being himself eminent as a
gourmet. He was the author of a once famous Cookery Book, _The Cook's
Oracle_; and an improved kitchen range still bears his name.]
Oh! 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 thro' 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 "Callipee!"
How few there be
Could leave the lowest for the highest stories, (Observatories,)
And turn, like thee, Diana's calculator,
However _cook's_ synonymous with _Kater_!
Alas! still let me say,
How few could lay
The carving knife beside the tuning fork,
Like the proverbial _Jack_ ready for any work!
II.
Oh, to behold thy features in thy book!
Thy proper head and shoulders in a plate,
How it would look!
With one rais'd 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 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,"
Whilst all thy tame stuff'd leopards listen'd round!
III.
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 tho' it were the same to sing or fry--
Nay, so it is--hear how Miss Paton's throat
Makes "fritters" of a note!
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!
And is not reading near akin to feeding,
Or why should _Oxford Sausages_ be fit
Receptacles for wit?
Or why should Cambridge put its little, smart,
Minc'd 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!
IV.
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--humorist, and sage!
Let slender minds with single themes engage,
Like Mr. Bowles with his eternal Pope,--
Or Haydon on perpetual Haydon,--or
Hume on "Twice three make four,"
Or Lovelass upon Wills,--Thou goest on
Plaiting ten topics, like Tate Wilkinson!
Thy brain is like a rich Kaleidoscope,
Stuff'd 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
Welch Rabbits--and thyself--in Warren Street!
V.
Oh, hast thou still those Conversazioni,
Where learned visitors discoursed--and fed?
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 fam'd 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 trac'd
Thy sly advice to _Poachers_ of Black Folks,
That "do not break their _yolks_"--
Which huff'd him home, in grave disgust and haste!
VI.
There came John Clare, the poet, nor forbore
Thy _Patties_--thou wert hand-and-glove with Moore,
Who call'd thee "_Kitchen Addison_"--for why?
Thou givest rules for Health and Peptic Pills,
Forms for made dishes, and receipts for Wills,
"_Teaching us how to live and how to die_!"
There came thy Cousin-Cook, good Mrs. Fry--
There Trench, the Thames Projector, first brought on
His sine _Quay_ non,--
There 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 would'st add,) the French have seen
A Marshall _Tureen_"!
VII.
Great was thy Evening Cluster!--often grac'd
With Dollond--Burgess--and Sir Humphry Davy!
'Twas there M'Dermot first inclin'd to Taste,--
There Colborn learn'd the art of making paste
For puffs--and Accum analyzed 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 humor heated,
Who wrote a light-horse play, which Yates completed--
And Lady Morgan, that grinding organ,
And Brasbridge telling anecdotes of spoons,--
Madame Valbrèque thrice honor'd thee, and came
With great Rossini, his own bow and fiddle,--
The Dibdins,--Tom, Charles, Frognall,--came with tuns
Of poor old books, old puns!
And even Irving spar'd a night from fame,--
And talk'd--till thou didst stop him in the middle,
To serve round _Tewah-diddle_!
VIII.
Then all the guests rose up, and sighed good-bye!
So let them:--thou thyself art still a _Host_!
Dibdin--Cornaro--Newton--Mrs. Fry!
Mrs. Glasse, Mr. Spec!--Lovelass--and Weber,
Matthews 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!
IX.
Oh! worthy Doctor! surely thou hast driven
The squatting Demon from great Garratt's breast--
(His honor seems to rest!--)
And what is thy reward?--Hath London given
Thee public thanks for thy important service?
Alas! not even
The tokens it bestowed on Howe and Jervis!--
Yet could I speak as Orators should speak
Before the worshipful the Common Council
(Utter my bold bad grammar and pronounce ill,)
Thou should'st 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_!
THE LAST MAN.
I.
'Twas in the year two thousand and one,
A pleasant morning of May,
I sat on the gallows-tree, all alone,
A channting a merry lay,--
To think how the pest had spared my life,
To sing with the larks that day!
II.
When up the heath came a jolly knave,
Like a scarecrow, all in rags:
It made me crow to see his old duds
All abroad in the wind, like flags;--
So up he came to the timber's foot
And pitch'd down his greasy bags.--
III.
Good Lord! how blythe the old beggar was!
At pulling out his scraps,--
The very sight of his broken orts
Made a work in his wrinkled chaps:
"Come down," says he, "you Newgate-bird,
And have a taste of my snaps!"--
IV.
Then down the rope, like a tar from the mast,
I slided, and by him stood:
But I wish'd myself on the gallows again
When I smelt that beggar's food,--
A foul beef bone and a mouldy crust;--
"Oh!" quoth he, "the heavens are good!"
V.
Then after this grace he cast him down:
Says I, "You'll get sweeter air
A pace or two off, on the windward side"--
For the felons' bones lay there--
But he only laugh'd at the empty skulls,
And offer'd them part of his fare.
VI.
"I never harm'd _them_, and they won't harm me:
Let the proud and the rich be cravens!"
I did not like that strange beggar man,
He look'd so up at the heavens--
Anon he shook out his empty old poke;--
"There's the crumbs," saith he, "for the ravens!"
VII.
It made me angry to see his face,
It had such a jesting look;
But while I made up my mind to speak,
A small case-bottle he took:
Quoth he, "Though I gather the green water-cress,
My drink is not of the brook!"
VIII.
Full manners-like he tender'd the dram;
Oh it came of a dainty cask!
But, whenever it came to his turn to pull,
"Your leave, good sir, I must ask;
But I always wipe the brim with my sleeve,
When a hangman sups at my flask!"
IX.
And then he laugh'd so loudly and long,
The churl was quite out of breath;
I thought the very Old One was come
To mock me before my death,
And wish'd I had buried the dead men's bones
That were lying about the heath!
X
But the beggar gave me a jolly clap--
"Come, let us pledge each other,
For all the wide world is dead beside,
And we are brother and brother--
I've a yearning for thee in my heart,
As if we had come of one mother."
XI.
"I've a yearning for thee in my heart
That almost makes me weep,
For as I pass'd from town to town
The folks were all stone-asleep,--
But when I saw thee sitting aloft,
It made me both laugh and leap!"
XII.
Now a curse (I thought) be on his love,
And a curse upon his mirth,--
An it were not for that beggar man
I'd be the King of the earth,--
But I promis'd myself, an hour should come
To make him rue his birth!--
XIII.
So down we sat and bons'd again
Till the sun was in mid-sky,
When, just as the gentle west-wind came,
We hearken'd a dismal cry:
"Up, up, on the tree," quoth the beggar man,
"Till those horrible dogs go by!"
XIV.
And, lo! from the forest's far-off skirts,
They came all yelling for gore,
A hundred hounds pursuing at once,
And a panting hart before,
Till he sunk adown at the gallows' foot,
And there his haunches they tore!
XV.
His haunches they tore, without a horn
To tell when the chase was done;
And there was not a single scarlet coat
To flaunt it in the sun!--
I turn'd, and look'd at the beggar man,
And his tears dropt one by one!
XVI.
And with curses sore he chid at the hounds,
Till the last dropt out of sight,
Anon saith he, "Let's down again,
And ramble for our delight,
For the world's all free, and we may choose
A right cozie barn for to-night!"
XVII.
With that, he set up his staff on end,
And it fell with the point due West;
So we far'd that way to a city great,
Where the folks had died of the pest--
It was fine to enter in house and hall,
Wherever it liked me best!--
XVIII.
For the porters all were stiff and cold,
And could not lift their heads;
And when we came where their masters lay,
The rats leapt out of the beds:--
The grandest palaces in the land
Were as free as workhouse sheds.
XIX.
But the beggar man made a mumping face,
And knocked at every gate:
It made me curse to hear how he whined,
So our fellowship turn'd to hate,
And I bade him walk the world by himself,
For I scorn'd so humble a mate!
XX.
So _he_ turn'd right and _I_ turn'd left,
As if we had never met;
And I chose a fair stone house for myself,
For the city was all to let;
And for three brave holydays drank my fill
Of the choicest that I could get.
XXI.
And because my jerking was coarse and worn,
I got me a properer vest;
It was purple velvet, stitch'd o'er with gold,
And a shining star at the breast,--
'Twas enough to fetch old Joan from her grave
To see me so purely drest!--
XXII.
But Joan was dead and under the mould,
And every buxom lass;
In vain I watch'd, at the window pane,
For a Christian soul to pass;--
But sheep and kine wander'd up the street,
And brows'd on the new-come grass.--
XXIII.
When lo! I spied the old beggar man,
And lustily he did sing!--
His rags were lapp'd in a scarlet cloak,
And a crown he had like a King;
So he stept right up before my gate
And danc'd me a saucy fling!
XXIV.
Heaven mend us all!--but, within my mind,
I had kill'd him then and there;
To see him lording so braggart-like
That was born to his beggar's fare,
And how he had stolen the royal crown
His betters were meant to wear.
XXV.
But God forbid that a thief should die
Without his share of the laws!
So I nimbly whipt my tackle out,
And soon tied up his claws,--
I was judge, myself, and jury, and all,
And solemnly tried the cause.
XXVI.
But the beggar man would not plead, but cried
Like a babe without its corals,
For he knew how hard it is apt to go
When the law and a thief have quarrels,
There was not a Christian soul alive
To speak a word for his morals.
XXVII.
Oh, how gaily I doff'd my costly gear,
And put on my work-day clothes;--
I was tired of such a long Sunday life,
And never was one of the sloths;
But the beggar man grumbled a weary deal,
And made many crooked mouths.
XXVIII.
So I haul'd him off to the gallows' foot.
And blinded him in his bags;
'Twas a weary job to heave him up,
For a doom'd man always lags;
But by ten of the clock he was off his legs
In the wind and airing his rags!
XXIX.
So there he hung, and there I stood
The LAST MAN left alive,
To have my own will of all the earth:
Quoth I, now I shall thrive!
But when was ever honey made
With one bee in a hive!
XXX.
My conscience began to gnaw my heart
Before the day was done,
For other men's lives had all gone out,
Like candles in the sun!--
But it seem'd as if I had broke, at last,
A thousand necks in one!
XXXI.
So I went and cut his body down
To bury it decentlie;--
God send there were any good soul alive
To do the like by me!
But the wild dogs came with terrible speed,
And bay'd me up the tree!
XXXII.
My sight was like a drunkard's sight,
And my head began to swim,
To see their jaws all white with foam,
Like the ravenous ocean-brim;--
But when the wild dogs trotted away
Their jaws were bloody and grim!
XXXIII.
Their jaws were bloody and grim, good Lord!
But the beggar man, where was he?--
There was nought of him but some ribbons of rags
Below the gallows' tree!--
I know the Devil, when I am dead,
Will send his hounds for me!--
XXXIV.
I've buried my babies one by one,
And dug the deep hole for Joan,
And cover'd the faces of kith and kin,
And felt the old churchyard stone
Go cold to my heart, full many a time,
But I never felt so lone!
XXXV.
For the lion and Adam were company,
And the tiger him beguil'd;
But the simple kine are foes to my life,
And the household brutes are wild.
If the veriest cur would lick my hand,
I could love it like a child!
XXXVI.
And the beggar man's ghost besets my dreams,
At night to make me madder,--
And my wretched conscience, within my breast,
Is like a stinging adder;--
I sigh when I pass the gallows' foot,
And look at the rope and ladder!--
XXXVII.
For hanging looks sweet,--but, alas! in vain,
My desperate fancy begs,--
I must turn my cup of sorrows quite up,
And drink it to the dregs,--
For there is not another man alive,
In the world, to pull my legs!
FAITHLESS SALLY BROWN.[26]
[Footnote 26: These famous verses were first published as from an
anonymous correspondent in the _London Magazine_. When Hood reprinted
them, under his own name, in the first series of _Whims and Oddities_,
he prefaced them with the following words:--
"I have never been vainer of any verses than of my part in the
following Ballad. Dr. Watts, amongst evangelical nurses, has an
enviable renown; and Campbell's Ballads enjoy a snug, genteel
popularity. Sally Brown has been favored perhaps with as wide a
patronage as the Moral Songs, though its circle may not have been
of so select a class as the friends of 'Hohenlinden.' But I do not
desire to see it amongst what are called Elegant Extracts. The
lamented Emery, dressed as Tom Tug, sang it at his last mortal
benefit at Covent Garden; and ever since it has been a great
favorite with the watermen of Thames, who time their oars to it, as
the wherrymen of Venice time theirs to the lines of Tasso. With the
watermen it went naturally to Vauxhall, and over land to Sadler's
Wells. The Guards--not the mail coach, but the Lifeguards--picked
it out from a fluttering hundred of others, all going to one air,
against the dead wall at Knightsbridge. Cheap printers of Shoe Lane
and Cow Cross (all pirates!) disputed about the copyrights, and
published their own editions; and in the meantime the authors, to
have made bread of their song (it was poor old Homer's hard ancient
case!), must have sung it about the streets. Such is the lot of
Literature! the profits of 'Sally Brown' were divided by the Ballad
Mongers;--it has cost, but has never brought me, a halfpenny."]
AN OLD BALLAD.
Young Ben he was a nice young man,
A carpenter by trade;
And he fell in love with Sally Brown,
That was a lady's maid.
But as they fetch'd a walk one day,
They met a press-gang crew;
And Sally she did faint away,
Whilst Ben he was brought to.
The Boatswain swore with wicked words,
Enough to shock a saint.
That though she did seem in a fit,
'Twas nothing but a feint.
"Come, girl," said he, "hold up your head,
He'll be as good as me;
For when your swain is in our boat,
A boatswain he will be."
So when they'd made their game of her,
And taken off her elf,
She roused, and found she only was
A coming to herself.
"And is he gone, and is he gone?"
She cried, and wept outright:
"Then I will to the water-side,
And see him out of sight."
A waterman came up to her,--
"Now, young woman," said he,
"If you weep on so, you will make
Eye-water in the sea."
"Alas! they've taken my beau, Ben,
To sail with old Benbow";
And her woe began to run afresh,
As if she'd said Gee woe!
Says he, "They've only taken him
To the Tender-ship, you see";--
"The Tender-ship," cried Sally Brown,
What a hard-ship that must be!
"O! would I were a mermaid now,
For then I'd follow him;
But, oh! I'm not a fish-woman,
And so I cannot swim.
"Alas! I was not born beneath
'The virgin and the scales,'
So I must curse my cruel stars,
And walk about in Wales,"
Now Ben had sail'd to many a place
That's underneath the world;
But in two years the ship came home,
And all the sails were furl'd.
But when he call'd on Sally Brown,
To see how she went on,
He found she'd got another Ben,
Whose Christian name was John.
"O Sally Brown, O Sally Brown,
How could you serve me so,
I've met with many a breeze before,
But never such a blow!"
Then reading on his 'bacco box,
He heaved a heavy sigh,
And then began to eye his pipe,
And then to pipe his eye.
And then he tried to sing "All's Well,"
But could not, though he tried;
His head was turn'd, and so he chew'd
His pigtail till he died.
His death, which happen'd in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll'd the bell.
"AS IT FELL UPON A DAY."
Oh! what's befallen Bessy Brown,
She stands so squalling in the street;
She's let her pitcher tumble down,
And all the water's at her feet!
The little school-boys stood about,
And laugh'd to see her pumping, pumping;
Now with a curtsey to the spout,
And then upon her tiptoes jumping.
Long time she waited for her neighbors,
To have their turns:--but she must lose
The watery wages of her labors,--
Except a little in her shoes!
Without a voice to tell her tale,
And ugly transport in her face;
All like a jugless nightingale,
She thinks of her bereavèd case.
At last she sobs--she cries--she screams!
And pours her flood of sorrows out,
From eyes and mouth, in mingled streams,
Just like the lion on the spout.
For well poor Bessy knows her mother
Must lose her tea, for water's lack,
That Sukey burns--and baby-brother
Must be dryrubb'd with huck-a-back!
THE STAG-EYED LADY.
A MOORISH TALE.
Scheherazade immediately began the following story.
I.
Ali Ben Ali (did you never read
His wond'rous acts that chronicles relate,--
How there was one in pity might exceed
The Sack of Troy?) Magnificent he sate
Upon the throne of greatness--great indeed!
For those that he had under him were great--
The horse he rode on, shod with silver nails,
Was a Bashaw--Bashaws have horses' tails.
II.
Ali was cruel--a most cruel one!
'Tis rumored he had strangled his own mother--
Howbeit such deeds of darkness he had done,
'Tis thought he would have slain his elder brother
And sister too--but happily that none
Did live within harm's length of one another,
Else he had sent the Sun in all its blaze
To endless night, and shorten'd the Moon's days.
III.
Despotic power, that mars a weak man's wit,
And makes a bad man--absolutely bad,
Made Ali wicked--to a fault:--'tis fit
Monarchs should have some check-strings; but he had
No curb upon his will--no, not a _bit_--
Wherefore he did not reign well--and full glad
His slaves had been to hang him--but they falter'd
And let him live unhang'd--and still unalter'd,
IV.
Until he got a sage-bush of a beard,
Wherein an Attic owl might roost--a trail
Of bristly hair--that, honor'd and unshear'd,
Grew downward like old women and cow's tail;
Being a sign of age--some gray appear'd,
Mingling with duskier brown its warnings pale;
But yet, not so poetic as when Time
Comes like Jack Frost, and whitens it in rime.
V.
Ben Ali took the hint, and much did vex
His royal bosom that he had no son,
No living child of the more noble sex,
To stand in his Morocco shoes--not one
To make a negro-pollard--or tread necks
When he was gone--doom'd, when his days were done,
To leave the very city of his fame
Without an Ali to keep up his name.
VI.
Therefore he chose a lady for his love,
Singling from out the herd one stag-eyed dear;
So call'd, because her lustrous eyes, above
All eyes, were dark, and timorous, and clear;
Then, through his Muftis piously he strove,
And drumm'd with proxy-prayers Mohammed's ear:
Knowing a boy for certain must come of it,
Or else he was not praying to his Profit.
VII.
Beer will grow mothery, and ladies fair
Will grow like beer; so did that stag-eyed dame:
Ben Ali, hoping for a son and heir,
Boy'd up his hopes, and even chose a name
Of mighty hero that his child should bear;
He made so certain ere his chicken came:--
But oh! all worldly wit is little worth,
Nor knoweth what to-morrow will bring forth!
VIII.
To-morrow came, and with to-morrow's sun
A little daughter to this world of sins,--
_Miss_-fortunes never come alone--so one
Brought on another, like a pair of twins:
Twins! female twins!--it was enough to stun
Their little wits and scare them from their skins
To hear their father stamp, and curse, and swear,
Pulling his beard because he had no heir.
IX.
Then strove their stag-eyed mother to calm down
This his paternal rage, and thus addrest;
"Oh! Most Serene! why dost thou stamp and frown,
And box the compass of the royal chest?"
"Ah! thou wilt mar that portly trunk, I own
I love to gaze on!--Pr'ythee, thou hadst best
Pocket thy fists. Nay, love, if you so thin
Your beard, you'll want a wig upon your chin!"
X.
But not her words, nor e'en her tears, could slack
The quicklime of his rage, that hotter grew:
He call'd his slave to bring an ample sack
Wherein a woman might be poked--a few
Dark grimly men felt pity and look'd black
At this sad order; but their slaveships knew
When any dared demur, his sword so bending
Cut off the "head and front of their offending."
XI.
For Ali had a sword, much like himself,
A crooked blade, guilty of human gore--
The trophies it had lopp'd from many an elf
Were struck at his _head_-quarters by the score--
Not yet in peace belaid it on the shelf,
But jested with it, and his wit cut sore;
So that (as they of Public Houses speak)
He often did his dozen _butts_ a week.
XII.
Therefore his slaves, with most obedient fears,
Came with the sack the lady to enclose;
In vain from her stag-eyes "the big round tears
Coursed one another down her innocent nose";
In vain her tongue wept sorrow in their ears;
Though there were some felt willing to oppose,
Yet when their heads came in their heads, that minute,
Though 'twas a piteous _case_, they put her in it.
XIII.
And when the sack was tied, some two or three
Of these black undertakers slowly brought her
To a kind of Moorish Serpentine; for she
Was doom'd to have a winding sheet of water.
Then farewell, earth--farewell to the green tree--
Farewell, the sun--the moon--each little daughter!
She's shot from off the shoulders of a black,
Like bag of Wall's-End from a coalman's back.
XIV.
The waters oped, and the wide sack full-fill'd
All that the waters oped, as down it fell;
Then closed the wave, and then the surface rill'd
A ring above her, like a water-knell;
A moment more, and all its face was still'd,
And not a guilty heave was left to tell
That underneath its calm and blue transparence
A dame lay drownèd in her sack, like Clarence.
XV.
But Heaven beheld, and awful witness bore,--
The moon in black eclipse deceased that night,
Like Desdemona smother'd by the Moor--
The lady's natal star with pale afright
Fainted and fell--and what were stars before,
Turn'd comets as the tale was brought to light;
And all looked downward on the fatal wave,
And made their own reflections on her grave.
XVI.
Next night, a head--a little lady head,
Push'd through the waters a most glassy face,
With weedy tresses, thrown apart and spread,
Comb'd by 'live ivory, to show the space
Of a pale forehead, and two eyes that shed
A soft blue mist, breathing a bloomy grace
Over their sleepy lids--and so she rais'd
Her _aqua_line nose above the stream, and gazed.
XVII.
She oped her lips--lips of a gentle blush,
So pale it seem'd near drownèd to a white,--
She oped her lips, and forth there sprang a gush
Of music bubbling through the surface light;
The leaves are motionless, the breezes hush
To listen to the air--and through the night
There come these words of a most plaintive ditty,
Sobbing as they would break all hearts with pity:
THE WATER PERI'S SONG.
Farewell, farewell, to my mother's own daughter.
The child that she wet-nursed is lapp'd in the wave;
The _Mussul_man, coming to fish in this water,
Adds a tear to the flood that weeps over her grave.
This sack is her coffin, this water's her bier,
This grayish _bath_ cloak is her funeral pall;
And, stranger, O stranger! this song that you hear
Is her epitaph, elegy, dirges, and all!
Farewell, farewell, to the child of Al Hassan,
My mother's own daughter--the last of her race--
She's a corpse, the poor body! and lies in this basin,
And sleeps in the water that washes her face.
THE IRISH SCHOOLMASTER.
I.
Alack! 'tis melancholy theme to think
How Learning doth in rugged states abide,
And, like her bashful owl, obscurely blink,
In pensive glooms and corners, scarcely spied;
Not, as in Founders' Halls and domes of pride,
Served with grave homage, like a tragic queen,
But with one lonely priest compell'd to hide,
In midst of foggy moors and mosses green,
In that clay cabin hight the College of Kilreen!
II.
This College looketh South and West alsoe,
Because it hath a cast in windows twain;
Crazy and crack'd they be, and wind doth blow
Through transparent holes in every pane,
Which Pan, with many paines, makes whole again
With nether garments, which his thrift doth teach
To stand for glass, like pronouns, and when rain
Stormeth, he puts, "once more unto the breach,"
Outside and in, tho' broke, yet so he mendeth each.
III.
And in the midst a little door there is,
Whereon a board that doth congratulate
With painted letters, red as blood I wis,
Thus written,
"CHILDREN TAKEN IN TO BATE":
And oft, indeed, the inward of that gate,
Most ventriloque, doth utter tender squeak,
And moans of infants that bemoan their fate,
In midst of sounds of Latin, French, and Greek,
Which, all i' the Irish tongue, he teacheth them to speak.
IV.
For some are meant to right illegal wrongs,
And some for Doctors of Divinitie,
Whom he doth teach to murder the dead tongues,
And soe win academical degree;
But some are bred for service of the sea,
Howbeit, their store of learning is but small,
For mickle waste he counteth it would be
To stock a head with bookish wares at all,
Only to be knock'd off by ruthless cannon-ball.
V.
Six babes he sways,--some little and some big,
Divided into classes six; alsoe,
He keeps a parlor boarder of a pig,
That in the College fareth to and fro,
And picketh up the urchins' crumbs below,
And eke the learned rudiments they scan,
And thus his A, B, C, doth wisely know,--
Hereafter to be shown in caravan,
And raise the wonderment of many a learned man.
VI.
Alsoe, he schools some tame familiar fowls,
Whereof, above his head, some two or three
Sit darkly squatting, like Minerva's owls,
But on the branches of no living tree,
And overlook the learned family;
While, sometimes, Partlet, from her gloomy perch,
Drops feather on the nose of Dominie,
Meanwhile, with serious eye, he makes research
In leaves of that sour tree of knowledge--now a birch.
VII.
No chair he hath, the awful Pedagogue,
Such as would magisterial hams imbed,
But sitteth lowly on a beechen log,
Secure in high authority and dread:
Large, as a dome for Learning, seems his head,
And, like Apollo's, all beset with rays,
Because his locks are so unkempt and red,
And stand abroad in many several ways:--
No laurel crown he wears, howbeit his cap is baize.
VIII.
And, underneath, a pair of shaggy brows
O'erhang as many eyes of gizzard hue,
That inward giblet of a fowl, which shows
A mongrel tint, that is ne brown ne blue;
His nose,--it is a coral to the view;
Well nourish'd with Pierian Potheen,--
For much he loves his native mountain dew;--
But to depict the dye would lack, I ween,
A bottle-red, in terms, as well as bottle-green.