VOLUME V. (continued 2)

An Elegy in a London Churchyard. Great Tom now sounds the close of busy day, The weary dray horse rests from labour free, From town, till morn, the merchant speeds his way, And London leaves to tumult and to me. 19 Now stars terrestrial glimmer through each street, Thro’ all the air a din confus’d is spread, Save where perchance some list’ning crowd you meet, By nightly songsters’ strain discordant led; Save that from yonder watch-box standing near, The old night-guardian tells his wonted tale; Or urged by outrage dire to timely fear, Makes his loud rattle sound upon the gale. On cobbler’s stall, or screen’d by friendly shed, Full many a maid once breath’d her nightly woes; Yet here from chill misfortune ever fled, The houseless wand’rers of the street repose. The noisy call of Smithfield’s early train, The sweep’s shrill matins from the chimney stack, The dustman’s bell, or post-boy’s piping strain, No more shall call their fleeting spirits back. (Eight verses omitted) * * * * * Full many a forest oak of stately size To menial purpose bends it’s lofty head; Full many a treasure undiscover’d lies Beneath the passenger’s unconscious tread. Some latent Wren, who up the scaffold high, Obedient hasten’d to the bricklayers call: Some poor harmonic Tinker here may lie, Some Statesman guiltless of his country’s fall. The Virtuoso’s praises to command, The soul to lift with transports to the skies, To scatter mis’ry o’er a smiling land, And fruitless schemes of conquest to devise. Their lot forbade:—nor yet did fortune frown, But equally their crimes and fame confin’d; Forbade to wade thro’ folly to renown And gain the execration of mankind. (Seven verses omitted) * * * * * Haply some cit may say:—“The crowd among “Oft have we seen him at the close of day, “Bustling with hasty foot-steps thro’ the throng, “To gain his fav’rite seat at some new play. “There, in the midway region of the pit, “Where Critics oft their arts malignant ply, “Near to the orchestra, sedate he’d sit, “And pore upon the scene with curious eye. “Beneath yon elm, that each new loit’rer wooes, “He lov’d to sit, absorbed in musings deep; “Then up the Green-Park, or by Chelsea-Mews, “He’d briskly run; or, tir’d, would slowly creep. “One eve I miss’d him on th’ accustom’d way: “Along the park, and near his fav’rite tree, “Another came—I sought him at the play, “Nor in the pit, box, nor gallery, was he “The next in dreary hearse, with sad array, “Slow to th’ uncypress’d church-yard he was borne, “Approach and read (if thou hast time) the lay, “Grav’d on the stone, that no proud lies adorn.” EPITAPH. Here rests his head upon a folio terse, An Author, once to wits and patrons known; The Critics frown’d not on his humble verse, Nor did the world his labours quite disown. Large his editions, but his readers few; Fate did a recompence as largely send, He wisely bade to Booksellers adieu, And (in their stead) each Chandler found a friend. No longer now pil’d up in useless state, His pages freely circulate thro’ town: Perhaps, at last, doom’d by capricious fate To kindle pipes, or curl some crazy crown. From The Morning Post and Gazetteer: Thursday, November 28, 1799.

Nightly Thoughts in the Temple. St. Dunstan’s bells proclaim departing day, The weary hacks slow drag the axle-tree, The ’prentice homeward runs his hasty way, And leaves the Town to dulness and to me. Now fades the glimm’ring lamps upon the sight, And all the air a solemn stillness holds; Save where the watchman bawls “A cloudy night,” And tipsy rev’ller the shut tavern scolds. Save that yon victim of a ruffian’s pow’r Does loudly to the street-patrole complain Of such, as lurking at this silent hour, Molest the king of midnight’s ancient reign. Within those gates that iron strong has made, Where rooms o’er rooms arise in many a heap, Each in his chamber on a pillow laid, The law-learn’d Benchers of the Temple sleep. The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed, The sheriff’s trumpet, or the postman’s horn No more shall rouse them from their feather bed. In them no more the muse’s fire shall burn, Or metaphysics be their ev’ning care; No school-boy’s classic triumphs shall return, Or dulness pine the envied praise to share. Oft did the grammar to their patience yield, The Latin oft and stubborn Greek they spoke; How jocund hied they to the cricket field! How flew the ball before their sturdy stroke! Let not a Wakefield mock their plodding toil, Their text corrupt and pedagogue obscure; Nor Porson hear, with a disdainful smile, What stripes a slow-pac’d tyro must endure. The boast of critic skill may worms devour, And all that study, all that wit e’er gave, Await alike th’ inevitable hour: The backs of Russia cannot always save. 20 Nor you, ye fam’d, impute to these the fault If learning o’er those shelves no volumes raise, Where oft the book-collector loves to halt And Lackington[15] yet swells with his own praise. Can hot-press’d page, or mezzotinto bust, Back to an author call th’ expended sum? Can honour’s voice engage the printer’s trust, Or flat’ry sooth the dull, cold debtor’s room? Perhaps in those muse-slighted courts are laid Some hearts once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of Thespis might have sway’d, Or wak’d the modern Pindar’s laughing lyre, But Themis to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of clients did unroll; Chill penury repress’d their classic rage Or beauty warm’d the current of the soul. Yet many a term, a Lawyer, too serene, The briefless bag to Westminster may bear, Yet many a Lover’s born to sigh unseen, Or waste his rhet’ric on th’ obdurate fair. Some Nash, that had alike with dauntless breast The little tyrant, or the great withstood Some mute, inglorious Erskine there may rest; Some Scott, ne’er thirsting for a patriot’s blood. Th’ applause of list’ning juries to command, The cause of Hardy and of Tooke to gain To scatter pamphlets o’er their native land, And read their praises from a foreign pen, Their lot forbade; nor circumscrib’d alone Their growing merit, but their faults confin’d; Forbade to raise the persecutor’s throne, And shut the gates of freedom on the mind. The gentle charms of Christian truth to hide, To wake her blushes of ingenuous shame, Heaping the shrine of bigotry and pride, With incense kindled at her sacred flame. Far from the wrangling Bar’s high purchas’d strife, On a back seat they mark the wordy fray; Along the circuit to the vale of life, They keep the noiseless tenor of their way. Yet e’en their heads from eave-drops to protect Some frail umbrella still upheld on high The uncouth wig, as Cloudesley Shovell’s deck’d, Declare a councillor is passing by. Their names, their years, spelt falsely in the news, The place of fame and Marlborough supply; And many a line around the Printer strews, That teach how Barristers may wed and die. But who, to dull law precedents a prey, The pleasing cares of science e’er resign’d, Left the warm novel or the well-wrought play, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind. On summer’s pleasure the fagg’d clerk relies, Some rural ease the pleader’s health requires; E’en from the bench the Chief for leisure sighs, E’en on Welch mountains seeks his wonted fires. Henry, for thee, who now to science dead, Dost on law folios rent thy classic pate; If chance, by friendly recollection led, Some kindred spirit shall enquire thy fate, Haply some Drama-loving wight may say— “Oft have we seen him at the hour of five, “Brushing, with hasty steps the dust away, “For Drury’s pit, and a front seat to strive. “There, where a whisper from the stage can reach, “Though for the gaudy Pantomime too nigh, “At pompous nothings would he yawn and stretch, “But mark the eloquence of Siddons’ eye.” Hard by yon band, now fiddling as in scorn, Musing on Godwin would his fancy rove: Now, drooping, when he thought of men forlorn, For public weal now slighting private love. One eve I miss’d him o’er th’ accustom’d pit, Along the Critics’ seat, near twiddle dee; Another came, nor where the Gods do sit, Nor up the slips, nor at half price was he. Next morn, ’twixt lawyers two, in black array, Slow through the hall of Rufus was he borne; Approach and read (if thou can’st read) the lay Engrav’d on parchment from an old deed torn. The Epitaph. Here rests his head upon a page of Coke, A youth, to foplings and to flirts unknown; Fair science frown’d not on the words he spoke, And metaphysics mark’d him for their own. Sound was his judgment and his soul sincere, Fortune a recompense did largely send; He wrote at Colchester full many a year, He gain’d from Witham, all he wish’d—a Friend. Nor Patisson, his civic faith disclose, Nor draw his frailties in a wordy brief; For you, alike in trembling hope repose, To be admitted by my Lord the Chief. J. T. R. 1806.

Nocturnal Contemplations in Barham Downs Camp. The moon slow setting sends a parting ray, The topers to the mess-room march with glee; To bed the sober shape their quiet way, And leave the lines to pensiveness and me. Now scarce a candle glimmers on the sight, And o’er the camp at length soft stillness reigns; Save where the dice are dash’d with desp’rate might, Or braying asses wake the distant plains. Save that from yonder show’r-sheltering box, The sentry’s rough voice does the ear assail 21 Of such who, trusting to the gloom of Nox Steal to the well-known booth to tipple ale. Within each tent of flimsy canvas made, Where knapsacks rise in many a scatter’d heap, Twelve men on narrow beds, till morning laid, Refresh their senses with the dews of sleep. The cannon’s roar that through the vale resounds, The reveillée’s harsh echoing in their ears, The sergeant’s voice that ever rudely sounds, Again shall wake them to their humble cares. For them again the kitchen fires shall burn, And busy matrons their saloop prepare, The butcher’s loaded wain from town return, And quarter-masters loaves and mutton share. Oft do their hardy hands the hatchet wield, And vig’rous knees the stubborn faggot break; How steadily they tread the rugged field, How quick a column, or a square they make! Let not lac’d loungers mock their thankless toil, Their homely meals and toilets thrifty plan; Nor ’broider’d gen’rals hear with scornful smile The simple annals of a private man. The salutations which to rank are due, And all that gold e’er bought, or favor gave, Cannot the worn-out wheels of life renew, Promotion’s high way leads but to the grave. Nor you, ye beaus, forget that they are men, If no white dust their soapy locks disguise; If on their brawny limbs coarse cloth you ken, And from their cloaths no musky scent arise. Can kerseymere, or scarlet bought on trust, Compel the lungs to stay the fleeting breath? Can fun’ral vollies wake the slumb’ring dust, Or gleaming gorget ward the dart of death? Perhaps on tatter’d pillow now is laid, Some head by nature fashion’d for command, Whose solid sense in council might have sway’d, And led to victory a num’rous band. But science from their mind, with piercing rays, The fogs of ignorance did ne’er dispel, Mechanic toil consum’d their youthful days, And scarcely left them time to scrawl or spell. Full many an acre of uncultur’d land Fertility within its womb contains, Full many a rugged mass of sordid sand Conceals of virgin gold the latent grains. Some Wolfe that ne’er shall see pale Gallia fly, Nor in bright victory’s arms resign his breath, Some Marlb’rough inglorious here may lie, Some Coote unskilful in the art of death. Th’ applause of hoary vet’rans to command, The bribes and threats of monarch’s to despise, To raise the glory of their native land, And read their praises in an army’s eyes, Their lot forbids;—nor circumscribes alone Their martial genius, but their crimes restrain, Forbids to place a tyrant on a throne, And forge for free-born men dire slav’ry’s chains. Unmov’d to mark the frantic widow’s woe, And hear her orphans wail their slaughter’d sire, Or swell of guiltless blood the crimson flow, With fury kindled by ambition’s fire. Fix’d in the fav’rite seat of noise and strife, They never can enjoy one tranquil day, Along the rough walk of an irksome life They keep the restless tenor of their way. Yet from grave thoughts their feelings to protect, Frail temporary huts erected nigh, With uncouth phrase and wretched daubing deck’d, Invite their lips a cordial draught to try. Their mantling mug, their song’s sonorous swell, The place of port and repartee supply; And many a smutty tale around they tell That teach the social hour with speed to fly. For who, within the ranks by reason led, The joys of Bacchus to his soul denies, Treads the gay precincts of a sutler’s shed, Nor cast upon the door his longing eyes? On some base hearts gold has a sov’reign sway, Some pious minds delight in sighs and tears, Fame can the poet’s midnight toil repay, But ale and brandy sooth a soldier’s cares. For thee who by thy natal stars compell’d, Dost touch with artless hand the warbling lyre, If chance, by friendship’s soft regard impell’d, Some kind companion shall thy fate inquire; Haply some brother sub, shall smiling say: “Oft in his tent retir’d the youth was seen, “Scribbling with hasty hand a hum’rous lay, “To fill a page in Urban’s magazine. “There in that field, beside that holy pile, “That rears his Gothic steeple to the sky “Each noon beneath those elms he mus’d awhile, “Then por’d upon a book with greedy eye. “Along the mazes of yon murm’ring stream, “With pensive pace at ev’ning would he stray, “’Till wrapt in wand’ring fancy’s airy dream “He mutter’d metre to the lunar ray. “One morn I sought him vainly through the line, “Among the elms and o’er the verdant lea, “Another came, nor near the house divine, “Nor by the stream, nor in his tent was he. “The next he wrote that, prompted by his muse, “In rural mansions Pegasus he pac’d, “To camps and courts had made his last adieus, “And o’er his antique gate these verses trac’d.” The Inscription. Here let me rest in this sequester’d cell, Where pomp and noise and riot are unknown, Where raptur’d Contemplation loves to dwell, And whose low roof Contentment calls her own. 22 Large splendid halls where gold and silver glare, My mind’s undazzled eye would never please; Here am I freed from all that vex’d me—care, And bless’d with all I wish—poetic ease. No more blind folly my desires shall raise, Nor draw my footsteps from this lov’d abode; Here will I breathe the remnant of my days, And court the favors of the tuneful god. H. 1806.

Elegy on a Pair of Breeches, Thrown upon a Dust-heap by a Miser. Here rest my breeches on the lap of earth By Time destroyed, by Pride now cast away; Whose waistband never knew the stretch of mirth, Whose lining long ere this had felt decay. Oft has the needle tried its skill in vain, Patch over patch full oft their knees have borne, Oft have their rents my bosom doom’d to pain, That sympathiz’d with them when they were torn. Not half so tough the hide of roasted pig, Not more ambrosial was the damask rose; Not half so comely was the parson’s wig, As ye my Breeches—best of all my clothes! ’Till Time’s unpitying hand (by fate design’d), Your stitches, strength, and youth, hath from you borne So falls the flow’r before the ruthless wind, So from its mate the guiltless turtle’s torn, Here, while ye lie upon the teeming earth, Altho’ no shell your funeral pomp displays, Far from your grave shall fly the rebel Mirth, And dust and ashes serve instead of bays. Thomas Brand, From The British Minerva, printed in Hamburgh. 1818.

Elegy, Written in a College Library. The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound, Awakes the fellows, slumbering o’er their fires; Roused by the ’custom’d note, each stares around, And sullen from th’ unfinish’d pipe retires. Now from the common hall’s restriction free, The sot’s full bottles in quick order move, While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea, And barbers’ daughters soothe with tales of love. Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns, Save where the broken battlements among The east wind murmurs through the shatter’d panes, And hoarser ravens croak their evening song. Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight, Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows, In peaceful pomp and undisturb’d retreat, The labours of our ancestors repose. No longer sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil, The half-starved student o’er their leaves shall pore, For them no longer blaze the midnight oil, Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more! For them no more shall booksellers contend, Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim; Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend, While common sense stands wondering at their fame. Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage, While still they found each meaning but the true; Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid’s page, And give to Virgil words he never knew: Yet ere the partial voice of critic scorn Condemn their memory, or their toil deride, Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn A waste of words, and learning ill applied? Can none remember? Yes: I know all can— When readings against different readings jarr’d, While Bentley led the stern scholastic van, And new editions with the old ones warr’d. Not ye, who lightly o’er each work proceed, Unmindful of the graver moral part, Condemn these works, if, as you run and read, You find no trophies of the engraver’s art. Can Bartolozzi’s all-enrapturing power To heavy works the stamp of merit give? Could Grignion’s art protract oblivion’s hour, Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live? In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrew’d, Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade, Some wondrous legend, fill’d with death and blood, Some monkish history, perhaps, is laid! With store of barbarous Latin at command Though arm’d with puns, and jingling quibble’s mights Yet could not these soothe Time’s remorseless hand Or save their labours from eternal night. Full many an Elegy has mourn’d its fate, Beneath some pasty cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d; Full many an Ode has soar’d in lofty state, Fix’d to a kite, and quivering in the wind. Here too perhaps, neglected now, may lie The rude memorial of some ancient song, Whose martial strains and rugged minstrelsy Once waked to rapture every listening throng. To trace fair Science through each wildering course, With new ideas to enlarge the mind, With useful lessons, drawn from classic source, At once to polish and instruct mankind, Their times forbade: nor yet alone repress’d Their opening fancy; but alike confined The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest, And each low triumph of the vulgar mind. Their humbler science never soar’d so far, In studious trifles pleased to waste their time. Or wage with common sense eternal war, In never ending clink of monkish rhyme. 23 Yet were they not averse to noisy fame, Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast, But still aspired to raise their sinking name, And fondly hoped that name might ever last. Hence each proud volume, to the wondering eye, Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel’s[16] urn; Where ships, wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie, And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn. For who with rhymes e’er rack’d his weary brain, Or spent in search of epithets his days, But from his lengthen’d labours hoped to gain Some present profit or some future praise? Though folly’s self inspire each dead-born strain, Still flattery prompts some blockhead to commend; Perhaps e’en Timon hath not toil’d in vain, Perhaps e’en Timon hath as dull a friend. For thee, whose muse with many an uncouth rhyme Dost in these lines neglected worth bewail, If chance (unknowing how to kill the time) Some kindred idler should enquire thy tale; Haply some ancient Fellow may reply— “Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day, E’en till the western sun went down the sky Lounging his lazy listless hours away: “Each morn he sought the cloister’s cool retreat; At noon at Tom’s he caught the daily lie, Or from his window looking o’er the street Would gaze upon the travellers passing by; “At night, encircled with a kindred band, In smoke and ale roll’d their dull lives away; True as the college clock’s unvarying hand, Each morrow was the echo of to-day. “Thus, free from cares, and children, noise and wife, Pass’d his smooth moments; till, by Fate’s command, A lethargy assail’d his harmless life, And check’d his course, and shook his loitering sand. “Where Merton’s towers in Gothic grandeur rise, And shed around each soph a deeper gloom, Beneath the centre aisle interr’d he lies, With these few lines engrav’d upon his tomb”— The Epitaph. Of vice or virtue void, here rests a man By prudence taught each rude excess to shun; Nor Love nor Pity marr’d his sober plan And Dulness claim’d him for her favorite son, By no eccentric passion led astray, Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend, Calmly through life he steer’d his quiet way, Nor made an enemy, nor gain’d a friend. Seek not his faults—his merits—to explore, But quickly drop this uninstructive tale! His works—his faults—his merits—are no more, Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion’s veil. Sir J. H. Moore. From Elegant Extracts from the British Poets. 1824.

Elegy on the Death of Bow-Fair, 1823. (Bow Fair was instituted by Charles II. in 1664.) The Bow-bell tolls the knell of Bow-fair fun, And Richardson winds slowly out of town; Poor old “young Saunders” sees his setting son,— And Gyngell pulls his red tom-tawdry down. Now three cart-horses draw the caravan, O’er smooth MacAdams, to provincial fairs, And pining showmen, with companions wan, Make dreary humour, while the hawbuck stares! No more shall cockneys don their Sunday coats, Stepney, Brook-green, or brighter Bow to fill, No folk shall row to Greenwich Hill in boats, And roll in couples adown One Tree Hill! Girls shall no longer dance in gingham gowns, Nor monkeys sit on organs at the door, Gongs shall be turn’d to frying-pans; and clowns Take to the country, and be clowns no more! No learned pig, no veal, no mutton pie,— No heads be crack’d, no under garments won,— No giants twelve no dwarfs just three feet high— No calves with two heads, shown to calves with one At Scowton’s dire destruction will be seen! The trumpet will give up its tragic truths! The magistrate desiring to be Keen, Will put an end, as usual, to the Booths. No lucky bags, no drums, no three-hand reels, No cocks in breeches, no tobacco-sots! No more shall Wapping learn to dance quadrilles, Or shake a hornpipe ’mid the pewter pots! No more the Fairing shall the fair allure, For fairs no more the fairing may expose; In pleasure-lovers, work shall work a cure; And Sundays only show the Sunday clothes! The magistrates decree that “fair is foul,” And put a stop to profitable sport; They exercise the Lion’s shilling howl, And cut the Irish giant’s income short. No more the backy-box, in dark japan, Shakes on the stick, and lures the rabble rout; No more the lemon, balanced by the man, Flies at the touch and flings its toys about; Take warning then, ye fair! from this fair’s fall! One Act (the Vagrant Act) has been its ruin! Listen, oh listen, to Law’s serious call, For fun and pleasure lead but to undoing! From The Mirror. 1823.

The Long Vacation. My Lord now quits his venerable seat, The six clerk on his padlock turns the key, From business hurries to his snug retreat, And leaves vacation, and the town to me. 24 Now all is hush’d, asleep the eye of care, And Lincoln’s Inn a solemn stillness holds, Save where the porter whistles o’er the square, Or Pompey barks, or basket woman scolds, Save that from yonder pump, and dirty stair, The moping shoe-black and the laundry-maid, Complain of such as from the town repair, And leave their little quarterage unpaid. In those dull chambers where old parchments lie, And useless drafts in many a mouldering heap, Each for parade to catch the client’s eye, Salkeld and Ventris in oblivion sleep. In these dead hours what now remains for me, Still to the stool and to the desk confined, Debarr’d from Autumn shades, and liberty Whose lips are soft as my Cleora’s kind. Hail, beauteous nymph! How does thy presence gild The brow of care, and mitigate my pains! With thee (such ecstacy thy beauties yield) Bondage is free, and hugs thy pleasing chains. Blest in thy love, sincerely I despise The quibble, warmly urged with many a frown, Hear each opinion of the learn’d and wise, Nor envy Cato’s wig, or Tully’s gown. W. R. From The Mirror. 1823.

Lucubrations in an Apothecary’s Shop. The twilight curtains round the busy day, The sliding shutters close the tradesman’s shop, The street lamp now emits its useful ray, And homeward speeds the bustling Doctor Slop, &c. The Mirror. Vol. 4, p. 459.

Elegy. The pealing clock proclaims the close of day, The attorney’s clerk goes slowly to his tea; And mine begins to plod his weary way, And leave my rooms to solitude and me, &c. The Mirror. Vol. 5, p. 131.

Alas! Poor Fallen Sir Francis![17] Elegy written in Westminster Hall. The Judges toll the knell of Burdett’s fame, The rabble-rout disperse with lack of glee; The counsel homeward plod just as they came, And leave the Hall to darkness and to me. Now fades each fairy prospect on my sight; All nature now appears to make a pause, Save where the wits the Chronicle who write Weave drowsy paragraphs to patch my cause. Beneath these ancient walls, once vocal made By vote of thanks, which late I found so cheap, Indignant Justice bids my laurels fade, The dull co-partners of my folly weep. For me no more the flaming press shall teem, Nor busy printers ply their evening care; No patriots flock to propagate my theme, Nor lick my feet the ill-got wreath to share. The fulsome strain of incense-breathing puff, The snuffman bawling to the throng misled; Cobbett’s foul Register, nor all the stuff Of weekly scribes, can raise my drooping head. Oft did the thoughtless to their judgments yield, Their railings oft disloyal rage provoke; How jocund each his secret soul reveal’d, How laugh’d the crowd at ev’ry hackney’d joke Now you, ye loyal, fix on them the fault, If memory to my name no trophies raise Where in the ample page, with zeal unbought, The pen historic gives the meed of praise. Can golden box,[18] though worth a hundred pounds, Back to poor Burdett bring his forfeit fame? Can honour’s voice now on his side be found, Or flattery shield him from contempt and shame? The boast of popularity’s short hour, And all that faction gains by means most base, Await alike exposure, dreaded power! The paths of folly lead but to disgrace. Yes; still my name to rescue from neglect, Some frail memorial that on bookstalls lie, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d, Implore the passing tribute of a sigh. For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Such pleasing transient laurels e’er resign’d, Left his proud height, the idol of a day, Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind? On some frail prop sedition still relies, Some pious souls its frustrate arm admires, E’en from the grave its fetid stench will rise, E’en in its ashes live its wonted fires. For ye, who mindful of my honours dead, Do in your lines my hapless tale relate, If by kind feeling to your office led, Some crazy patriot shall inquire my fate, Ah, woe is me! some wicked wit will tell, “Oft have we seen him, ere the evening fall, 25 Brushing with hasty steps along Pall Mall, To meet Lloyd Wardle at the House’s call. “There to the nodding members, luckless wights! In hackney’d strains, till midnight would he preach ’Bout Magna Charta, and the Bill of Rights, And prate of things far, far, beyond his reach. “To prison sent, he swore they us’d him ill, The room[19] was powerless, as all should see. The trial came, and British Judges still Refused to change the House’s just decree. “And now with judgment due, in sad dismay, He sees himself consign’d to public scorn; Approach and read, if thou can’st read, the lay Penn’d in the Post, to Jacobins a thorn; Epitaph. “Here hides his head, now humbled to the earth, A man to John Horne and his Faction known; Fair talents never smil’d upon his birth, And Disappointment mark’d him for her own. “Large were his wishes, but his lot severe; To Tooke he ow’d his fortune and reverse: He gain’d from John, ’twas all his portion—shame; John gain’d from him, ’twas all he wish’d—his purse. “No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode; Where they have met the awful test he chose, The judgment of his country and his God.” Alfred. From The Morning Post. London. May 20, 1811.

The Pettifogger, Written in Westminster Hall, during the long Vacation of 1812, and addressed to a Little Attorney! The courts are shut, departed every Judge, Each greedy lawyer gripes the double fee, In doleful mood, the suitors homeward trudge, And leave the hall, to silence, and to me. Now, not a Barrister attracts the sight, And all the dome, a solemn stillness holds, Save, at the entrance, where with all her might, The Barrow-wheeler at the Porter scolds. From every court, with ev’ry virtue crown’d! Where numbers gain, and numbers lose their bread, Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle and confound, Attornies, clerks, and counsel—all are fled. Contending fools! too stubborn to agree, The good warm client, name for ever dear The long-drawn brief, the spirit-stirring fee, No more till Michaelmas, shall send them here. ’Till then, no more the orange nymphs shall ply, Their ripen’d fruit, all glossy as their cheek; Nor strive, with jest, and sportive leering eye, The custom of the youthful clerk, to seek. Let not the pedlar, frown with eyes askew, Nor envy them the profits of the hall; Let him not think, that with a spiteful view, They mean to draw the custom from his stall. The cinder wench, in dust-cart seated high, With hands begrim’d, and dirty as her sieve; The ragged sluts—who sprats and herrings cry— The meanest wenches, have a right to live! Nor you, ye Belles! impute the fault to these, If at the glittering ball they don’t appear, Where music hath a thousand charms to please, And with its sweetness, almost wounds the ear, Perhaps in their neglected minds, were sown The seeds of worth, from nature’s rich supply; Such seeds of worth, as might in time have grown, And flourish’d lovely, to the ravish’d eye. Full many a rural lass in Britain’s land, The vile unwarrantable b——s hold; Full many a town-bred damsel walks the Strand, And barters beauty—for a piece of gold. The daring Pettifogger, stern of brow, Who might have done due honor to the spade, Whirl’d the tough flail, or grasp’d the peaceful plough, Presumes, the Courts of Justice to parade. This upstart thing some useful trade to learn, By far more suited to his shallow head, False pride forbade, nor suffer’d him to earn, By honest industry his daily bread! Far from the worthy members of the law, A rogue in grain, he ever kept aloof; By low Jew Bailiffs taught his brief to draw, And where he couldn’t find, he coin’d a proof. Yet doth this wretch, illiterate as proud, With low-life-homage, low-life business meet, And pick the pockets of th’ unhappy crowd ’Mur’d in the Bench, the Counters, and the Fleet. Bound by the creditors, in durance fast, In plaintive murmurs, they bewail their fate, And many an eager, wistful eye they cast, Whene’er the turnkey opes, and shuts the gate. For who to dull imprisonment a prey, The pleasing thoughts of freedom e’er resign’d? From home, from wife—from children—dragg’d away, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind; For you, who traverse to and fro this shrine, And lounge, and saunter, at your wonted rate, If in some future chat, with arch design, Some wag should ask—the Pettifogger’s fate In sneering mood, some brother quill, will say, “I’ve seen him oft at tavern table sit; “Brushing with dirty hands, the crumbs away, “And eye the joint, just taken from the spit, “One morn I miss’d him in this ’custom’d hall, “And at the room, where he was wont to be, “His boy I saw, who register’d my call; “But by yon steps—nor at his desk was he. 26 “The next I learnt (O melancholy tale), “On the profession, what a foul reproach! “That his deserts had sent him to a jail, “Where he was dragg’d (O shame!) without a coach! His Character. “Vulture! the arrant’st cormorant on earth, “At length is caught, and into Newgate thrown; “Fair honesty disclaim’d him at his birth, “And villainy confess’d him for her own! “Grown old in sin, at no one crime dismay’d, “’Gainst nature’s cries, he arm’d his harden’d breast; “For when his parents were to earth convey’d, “He smil’d and spurned compassion, as a jest. “Now press’d with guilt, he’ll feel its sharpest sting; “Great his transgressions, and but small his hope; “He’ll give the Sheriff (all he’ll have) a ring, “And gain from Justice, all he fear’d—a rope! “No farther seek his vices to disclose, “But leave the wretch unpitied to deplore “His ill-spent life, till breaking his repose, “The turnkey leads him to the Debtors’ Door.” J. B. Fisher.

An Elegy Written in the Long Vacation. The vacant streets proclaim the ‘parting day,’ The loaded coaches setting off, you see, The Gownsman homeward bends his joyous way, And leaves the college and the town to me. No wine, no supper-parties glad the sight, O’er all the court a solemn stillness reigns; Save where some gambling Gyps o’er skittles fight, When Fortune robs them of their easy gains. Save that at intervals from yonder tow’r You hear some moping Questionist complain, Condemn’d to toil thro’ many a weary hour O’er Newton, Smith, and ‘Calculus’ again. (Haply the Porter or some Gyp may say, “Oft have we seen him at the break of dawn, Brushing with hasty steps the dew away, And take his seedy walk across the lawn.”) All else is hush’d!—the Spider here has made His web o’er books in many a mould’ring heap; And on the shelf till next October laid Euclid and Wood and Aristotle sleep! Togatus. The Gownsman. Cambridge, January 7, 1831.

Woes of Change, or The Lachrymatory Lament of Laudator Temporis (et Rerum) Acti. By Thomas Dibdin, Esq. Improvement tolls the knell of what, of yore, We loved, and May-day garlands have gone by; And Charleys on their posts now sleep no more, But hourly weep the hours they used to cry! No more grim heads, each stuck upon a pike, On lookers up from Temple Bar look down; The strikers at St. Dunstan’s cease to strike, They gave a quarter’s notice, and left town. (And, could St. Dunstan’s club-mates club to dine, Their “marble jaws” would make a curious clatter; Clay goblets would contain their wall-fruit wine, And all their pastry would be “stony batter!”) The Strand’s so changed, they’ve left no ‘Change at all, Where beasts and beefeaters once held their sway; Exeter ’Change is turned into a hall, And operas that ran have run away! If many a coach, to omnibus enlarged, Takes, for a tizzy, Dandyzettes or drabs, By such a fare the fair are fairly charged, Yet why have chariots dwindled down to cabs? Who but for Porridge Island sheds a tear, Its sav’ry steam’s to ev’ry nose a loss! Shops in arcades to buyers may be dear! But will they give us back one golden cross? All is changed round where King Charles the First Rears his dark motionless Equestrian phiz; That, could he speak, he’d say, “May I be curst If my poor girthless steed knows where he is!” Water in wooden pipes, ran under ground, They’re iron now, and fire runs by their side; And, could but fairy laundresses be found, We might below get iron’d, wash’d, and dried! Stout oars and swelling sails we once did deem Sufficient in a boat for tide and wind; Now only boiling water we esteem, And all, though right before is left behind! Horses were changed, en route to Gretna Green, And “first pair out!” would landlords loudly bawl; But “Polly put the kettle on,” I ween, Will greet us when for horses there’s no call! Three theatres, C. G., D. L., H. M. Were thought enough, but now no limit bars Some three-and-thirty, while the most of them Exist on moonshine to support the stars! Velocipedes have hurried quickly past, Kaliedescopes have changed this many a day, While, o’er McAdam’s dust, wheels slow or fast Maintain the “noiseless tenor of their way.” Churches increase, and chapels ten times more, But, most of all, in streets, and rows, and ranks, Do gin shops grow with temp’rance clubs next door, And lovely little hells and saving banks! 27 With penny periodical reviews; Halfpenny prints precede Old Ladies Mags., And coffee shops present their farthing news, With crumpets, cream, and kidneys done to rags! Thus things will change as long as time doth move! And now upon the humble lay I sing A veto let me lay, lest it should prove The Comic Magazine’s a serious thing! The Comic Magazine, Volume 1. 1832.

The Gambler. The lamps refract the gleam of parting day, The weary vulgar hail the friendly night, The Gamester hies him to his darling play, And leads the way to deeds that shun the light. Now reigns a dreary stillness in each street, And mortal feuds are hush’d in breathless calm, Save where the votaries of Hodges meet, And springing rattles sound the shrill alarm. Save that from yonder lantern lighted walk, The drowsy watchman bawls with clam’rous din, At such as stopping in the streets to talk, Omit the tribute of a glass of gin. Beneath the roof, that ruin fraught retreat, Where beams the fanlight o’er the guarded door, Each wedg’d by numbers in his narrow seat, The faithless gamblers chink their current ore. The triste entreaties of impassion’d grief, The piteous tale of family distressed, The stranger’s ruin, or the friend’s relief, No more shall raise compassion in their breast. For them no more the midnight rush shall burn, Or wearied menial be detain’d from bed; No wives expectant watch for their return, Or anxious listen to each passing tread. Oft do the purses of the victims fail, Their fury oft on box and dice they wreak How jocund look they if their luck prevail! How grand their manner when they deign to speak! Let not the legislator deem it harm That others trifle with the laws he breaks; Nor rich knaves hear, with counterfeit alarm, That men distress’d will often make mistakes. The boast of honesty, the laws dread power, And all that pride of feeling can achieve, Await alike the inevitable hour, The rage for gaming leads us all to thieve. Nor scorn, ye rulers of the states’ finance, The prompt expedients of these pilfering scenes, Where thro’ the aid of rapine they enhance The scanty budget of their ways and means. Can stories sad, or supplicative grief, Back to the owner bring his valued dross? Can blunt rebuffs administer relief, Or aidless pity compensate his loss? Perhaps, amidst that motley group there stand Some who once graced far other scenes of life; Dupes, that have mortgaged the last rood of land, Or lost the fortune of some hapless wife. But rife examples, which bid wisdom think, Their frantic folly never can appal, Blind avarice leads them to the ruin’s brink, And dark despair accelerates their fall. Full many a trinket, pledged for half the cost, Hath raised the means of venturing once more; Full many a watch is destined to be lost, And run its time out in some broker’s store. Some fancy shirt-pin that hath deck’d the breast, On plaited cambric, starch’d in spruce array; Some ring, memento of a friend at rest, Some seal, or snuff box, of a better day. The servile tongues of borrowers to command, The tributary dues of boxes to evade, To spread the paper’d plunder in the hand, And read their consequence in homage paid, Their luck forbids; nor circumscribes alone To them its evils, but its range extends; Forbids the needful purchases at home, And shuts the door of welcome on their friends. The petty processes of law to stop, To prove how groundless are the landlords fears; Or gain fresh credit at the chandler’s shop, By paying off the grocery arrears. Far from all dreams of splendid opulence, Their wish is answered if their way they clear; Well can they dine for twelve or thirteen pence, Including waiter, and a pint of beer. Yet e’en their painful efforts to exist, Some Knaves in heart, as yet unskilled to cheat, With secret whisper when a piece is missed, Will strive from pique, or envy, to defeat. Their names, their means, on which at large they dwell, Invade at intervals the startled ear, And many an anecdote in point they tell, That teaches gaping novices to fear. For who, to damn’d fatality a prey, Gives his last piece, without concern or pain, Leaves the warm circle of the crowded play, Nor asks the table if a chance remain? To some staunch friend is the decision left, Some sturdy swearing the event requires, E’en the chous’d fools are conscious of the theft, E’en on their oaths would not believe such liars! For thee, who, absent from the wonted game, Dost think these lines some pointed truths relate, If, when is heard the mention of thy name, Some fellow-sufferer shall ask thy fate: Haply some wight loquacious may reply, “Oft-times we met him at approach of night, “Brushing with haste along the streets hard by, “As if all matters were not going right. 28 “There, in some house where charges are not high, “And penny candles shed a glimm’ring light, “He give the maid some cheap-bought scrap to fry, “Of which he’d eat with ravenous delight. “There in some corner shunning to be seen, “He’d draw his hat down o’er his prying eyes, “Or with a handkerchief his visage screen, “Like one who fear’d a capture by surprise. “One night we miss’d him in his usual seat, “We searched both kitchen and the scullery; “We search’d again, nor in his old retreat, “Nor at the Tun, nor at the Bell was he. “At length a letter to discovery led, “With separate notice serv’d at each friend’s door “Reminding his creditors he was not dead, “But meant to live to owe them something more.” The Letter. Here rots in jail, with scarce one hope on earth, A wretch that’s sacrificed to love of play; Success, at first to golden dreams gave birth, And fortune flatter’d only to betray. Large were his Losses, yet no loss deterr’d, Those mischiefs followed, such as seldom fail: He gave his friends (t’was all he’d left) his word, He gained by Hazard (as most do) a Jail! Seek not his future projects to reveal, Nor draw conclusions to prejudge the fact; In anxious dread (which most of you must feel), He waits the benefit of the Insolvent Act. From Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports. 1832.

Dry Goods: An Elegy. A Manchester Parody. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The trading herd wind slowly to their tea, The buyers Inn-ward wend their weary way, And leave the street to darkness and to me. Now roll the bleachers’ waggons from my sight, “The market” now a solemn stillness holds, Save where some straggler piles a dizzy height Of “Blackburn seventies,” in unnumber’d folds. Save that some Charley hoarsely bawls the hour, Proves all the padlocks, or may chance complain To such as, wand’ring near his nightly bower, Molest his vigilant and virtuous reign. Beneath their dimities the men of trade, ’Till rainy day upon their eye-lids peep, (Each in his narrow crib in comfort laid,) The clerk and master innocently sleep. The smoky call of sooty-breathing morn, The servants stirring just above their head, The milk-man’s whistle, or a mail-guard’s horn, Shall soon arouse them from their feather bed: For they no more will risk “another turn,” But to their former posts with haste repair, To greet some cousin-German’s safe return, And of his orders crave the bliss—a share. (Thirteen verses omitted here.) Whoe’er to torpid indolence a prey, His busy cares in trade hath oft resign’d; Quitted the race of fortune for a day, Is left by jostling brothers far behind. Thus on the game of chance the soul relies, ’Till fading nature peace and rest requires; ’Till from the tomb are heard death’s warning cries, To join in partnership with buried sires. For thee, who patiently thus far hast read These faithful memoirs of thine humble state, If chance (when thou art number’d with the dead) Some wag, like me, enquire into thy fate, Haply some hoary hooker-in may say, “Oft have we seen him as the clock struck eight, Bending his steps with eager haste away, On new-come customers intent to wait. “There at the end of yonder spacious street, By time and usage nominated ‘High,’ Some few ‘choice spirits’ of his kin he’d meet, To pounce upon the buyers passing by. “Hard by yon Inn, yclep’d the ‘Mosley Arms,’ To circulate his cards he’d daily rove; Now drooping, woeful man, with strange alarms, And craz’d with care that goods he could not move. “One morn I miss’d him at the ’custom’d post, Along the street, and near his fav’rite Inn; Another came,—I thought him surely lost,— ’Twas ten o’clock, and he had never been! “The next, with coaches two, in sad array, Slow to the ‘Rushholme Ground,’ I saw him borne; Go there, and read the plain, but honest lay, Grav’d on the stone above this wight forlorn.” Epitaph. Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth respected, and in town well known; But fortune smil’d not on his humble birth, Though many merchants sought him for their own. Large was his knowledge, and his soul sincere, But they a paltry recompense did send; They gave him only eighty pounds a year, And never paid him till its very end. No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from the silent tomb; There they alike in trembling hope repose, Till he receives his solemn, final doom.

Meditations on Mr. Barry’s New Houses of Parliament. Written on Board the “Lily” Steamboat. The wharf-bell tolls the knell of starting steam The jostling crowd pours quickly o’er the pier; 29 The ladies forward rush with timid scream, And leave the stern to Punch, and bottled beer. Now fades each public building from the sight, As on her course the Lily steamer holds, Till new St. Stephen’s rears its moderate height, Which many a tier of scaffolding infolds. Beneath those beams; those yet unfinished towers, At present echoing with the workman’s clang: Upon their legs, perchance, for weary hours, Shall Britain’s future Senators harangue. Full many a Whig of coldest heart serene, Shall broach his philosophic nonsense there; Full many a Tory, born abuse to screen, Shall waste his humbug on the midnight air. Some future Duncombe, there, with dauntless breast, The tyrant of his diocese shall twit; Some mute, good-humoured Brougham contented rest— Some Sibthorp, guiltless of his country’s wit. Mourn not the Houses burnt some years ago: No vain regrets the ruin’d pile requires. E’en from its dust a voice exclaims “Oh! oh!” Even in our ashes live their wonted fires. Punch, 1844.

Elegy in a London Theatre. The curtain falls, the signal all is o’er, The eager crowd along the lobby throng, The youngsters lean against the crowded door, Ogling the ladies as they pass along. The gas lamps fade, the foot-lights hide their heads, And not a soul beside myself is seen, Save where the lacquey dirty canvas spreads, The painted boxes from the dust to screen. Save that, in yonder gallery enshrined, Some ragged girl complains in angry tone Of such as, sitting in the seat behind, Had ta’en her shawl in preference to their own. There where those rugged planks uneven lie, There on those dirty boards—that darken’d stage Did Kean and Kemble fill the listener’s eye, And add a lustre to the poet’s page. But they are gone—and never, never more Shall prompter’s summons, or the tinkling bell, Or call boy crying at the green-room door, “The stage waits, gentlemen!” their dreams dispel. For them no more the coaches of the great Shall stop up Catherine Street—for them, alas! No more shall anxious crowds expectant wait, Or polish up the gilded opera glass. Oft did the vicious on their accents hang, Their power oft the stubborn heart hath bent, And, whilst the spacious house with plaudits rang, They sent the harden’d homewards to repent. There, in that empty box, perchance hath swell’d A heart with Romeo’s burning passion rife, Hands that “poor Yorick’s” skull might well have held, Or clutch’d at Macbeth’s visionary knife. But unto these the bright and glorious stage Full in their face its holy portals slamm’d, Harsh managers repressed their noble rage, And told them, ungenteelly, they’d be “damned.” Full many a pearl of purest ray serene The rugged oyster-shell doth hold inside, Full many a vot’ry of the tragic queen, The dingy offices of London hide. Some Lear, whose daughters never turn’d his head, Nor changed to gall the honey of his life; Some white Othello who with feather bed Had smothered not, his unoffending wife. The applause of listening houses to command, The critics smile and malice to despise, To win reward from lord and lady’s hand, And the approval of the thundering skies, Their parents hindered, and did thus o’erthrow The brilliant hopes that in their bosom rose To tear Macready’s laurels from his brow, And put out Charley Kean’s immortal nose. Of one of these I heard a drummer say, “Oft have I seen him from the muddy street, Across the crimson benches make his way, To gain his well-loved and accustomed seat, “There, where yon orchestra uprears its rail, On which I hang my drumsticks, many a night I’ve seen him with a dirty shirt, and pale, Watching the motley scene with wild delight. “There, upon yonder seat, which now appears To have rent its robe for grief he is not here, Oft have I seen him sit, dissolved in tears, Veiling his grief in draughts of ginger beer. “One night I missed him from his favourite seat. I wondered strangely where the boy could be. Another night—I gazed—in vain my gaze— Nor in the pit, nor in the house was he! “Come here! I saw him carried to that tomb, With drunken mutes, and all their mock parade, Just read—I’ve left my spectacles at home— The Epitaph a friend has kindly made.” The Epitaph. “Here lieth one beneath the cold damp ground, A youth to London, and the stage unknown, Upon his merits stern Macready frowned, And ‘Swan and Edgar’ marked him for their own. “Large was his bounty, unto aught wherein The stage did mingle, and the cost was sweet, He gave the drama all he could—his ‘tin,’ And gained—’twas all he could—his favourite seat. “No father had he who could interfere To check his nightly wanderings about, And from the best authority we hear, His mother never dreamt that he was out!” Hotspur.

Night Thoughts. Saint Martin tolls the hour of long past day, The gas-lights glimmer through deserted streets, The drunkard staggers on his homeward way, And runs his head against each post he meets: In every house they’ve now put out the light, Save where a rushlight burns with feeble shine, Gin palaces have shut up for the night, And I’m watched closely by B, 59. Here, as I stand, pond’ring on this and that, A cabman pulls his horse up with a “Wo!” And looks me in the face, to touch his hat, While hoarsely asking “Vere I’d wish to go?” To-night invited to a small carouse, I’ve stayed much later than I meant to be, In vain I’ve sought admission to my house, My wife won’t rise, and I forgot the key. To-morrow morning when my spouse shall wake, To mark my absence, wondering what it means, Some rude strange hand shall rouse me with a shake In Covent Garden, slumbering on the greens. From The Man in the Moon, Volume 2 (About 1848.)

An Elegy, Written in a London Churchyard. By a Tradesman in the vicinity. The sexton tolls the knell till parting day, The latest funeral train has paid its fee, The mourners homeward take their dreary way And leave the scene to Typhus and to me. Now fades the crowded graveyard on the sight, But all, its air who scent, their nostrils hold, Save where the beadle drones, contented quite, And drowsy mutes their arms in slumber fold. Save where, hard by yon soot-incrusted tower, A Reverend Man does o’er his port complain, Of such as would, by sanitary power, Invade his ancient customary gain. Beneath those arid mounds, that dead wall’s shade, Where grows no turf above the mouldering heap, All in their narrow cells together laid, The former people of the parish sleep. The queasy call of sewage-breathing morn, The ox, urg’d bellowing to the butcher’s shed, The crowd’s loud clamouring at his threatening horn, No more shall rouse them from their loathly bed. For them no more the chamber-light shall burn, The busy doctor ply his daily care, Nor children to their sire from school return, And climb his knees the dreaded pest to share. Good folks, impute not to their friends the fault, If memory o’er their bones no tombstone raise; Where there lie dozens huddled in one vault, No art can mark the spot where each decays. No doubt, in this revolting place are laid, Hearts lately pregnant with infectious fire; Hands, by whose grasp contagion was conveyed, As sure as electricity by wire. Full many a gas of direst power unclean, The dark o’erpeopled graves of London bear, Full many a poison, born to kill unseen, And spread its rankness in the neighbouring air. Some district Surgeon, that with dauntless breast The epidemic ’mongst the poor withstood, Some brave, humane Physician here may rest, Some Curate, martyrs to infected blood. To some doom’d breast the noxious vapour flies, Some luckless lung the deadly reek inspires, Ev’n from the tomb morbific fumes arise, Ev’n in men’s ashes live Disorder’s fires. For thee, who, shock’d to see th’ unhonoured dead, Dost in these lines their shameful plight relate If, chance, by sanitary musings led, Some graveyard-gleaner shall inquire thy fate. Haply some muddle-headed clerk will say, “We used to see him at the peep of dawn, Shaving with hasty strokes his beard away, Whene’er his window-curtains were undrawn. “There would he stand o’erlooking yonder shed, That hides those relics from the public eye, And watch what we were doing with the dead, And count the funerals daily going by. “One morn we miss’d him, in the ’custom’d shop; Behind the counter where he used to be, Another serv’d; nor at his early chop, Nor at the “Cock,” nor at the “Cheese,” was he. “The next, by special wish, with small array, To Kensall Green we saw our neighbour borne, Thither go read (if thou canst read) the lay With which a chum his headstone did adorn.” The Epitaph. Here rest with decency the bones in earth, Of one to Comfort and to Health unknown, Miasma ever plagued his humble hearth, And Scarlatina mark’d him for her own. Long was his illness, tedious and severe, Hard by a London Churchyard dwelt our friend; He follow’d to the grave a neighbour’s bier, He met thereby (’twas what he fear’d) his end. No longer seek Corruption to enclose Within the places of mankind’s abode; But far from cities let our dust repose, Where daisies blossom on the verdant clod.

Elegy written in a London Churchyard. St. Clement’s tolls the knell of parting day The gaudy shops their portals ’gin to close; The wearied workman homewards wends his way, And leaves the town to silence and repose. 31 Now fades the glare of business from our sight, And o’er the air a solemn stillness rests, Save yon gin-palace’s unholy light, Save yonder crowd’s obscene and drunken jests; Save where the houseless wanderer, forlorn, Casts on yon steeple clock his hopeless eye, Counting the dull, slow hours, until the morn— Another day to suffer, or to die. Beneath that steeple clock, beneath those stones,— Beneath that earth piled up in many a heap, Scarce covering their poor dishonour’d bones, Past generations of our fathers sleep. Sleep! do we mock the word? This crowded tomb, In which this morn those hallow’d ashes lay, Must be to-night re-open’d to make room For others who have died since yesterday. No rest is there. Within that narrow space Full—hideously full long years before,— Still day by day must those now there give place; Still day by day must room be found for more. Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect, Is not the end and object of our song, No, ’tis that others may with us reflect On their sad fate who dwell these graves among. Death in the midst of life! the vapours dank Of churchyards mingling with our every breath; Dead men subduing with their poisons rank Men yet alive! Death propagating Death! Full many an exhalation cursed, unclean, The damp unhallow’d graves of London bear; Full many a poison, virulent and keen, To spread disease upon the wings of air. Then who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Can cease this crying wrong to bear in mind, And suffer those already pass’d away To slay by thousands those still left behind? For thee, unmindful of this horror dread, Nor caring the foul nuisance to abate, If chance by lonely contemplation led, Some fellow-shopkeeper shall ask thy fate. Haply some ancient citizen may say, “Oft have I seen him at the peep of dawn, Putting his shop in order for the day, Dusting the muslins, doing up the lawn. “There, in the heat of yonder stifling shop, Breathing yon crowded graveyard’s fatal airs; Still trying not the hideous wrong to stop, Intent on nothing but to sell his wares. “One morn I miss’d him from th’ accustomed till,— Another victim had that churchyard slain; And yet another, and another still; ‘’Twill slay as long as suffer’d to remain.’” But there are vested rights! these graveyards pay! Although the nation be by them disgraced; And so more men are murder’d every day; And this the epitaph above them placed: Epitaph. Here rest in heaps, scarce cover’d by the earth, A lot of bones unhonour’d and unknown,— Men doom’d to slaughter at their hour of birth, And graveyard jobbers mark’d them as their own. Diogenes. February 5, 1853.

Elegy on a Betting Office. Remove the lists, take down the green baize board, Shut up the shop (the landlord takes the key); Fate lays such heavy odds, that I am floor’d; The Act has made the pace too strong for me. No more behind my office-rail shall I Watch greenhorns, on a chance of gain intent, Into the changes of the market pry, Or commune with a friendly sporting gent: No more for me the pleasing sight remains Of those who thought a fortune here to make,— The waiter hastening with his daily gains, And shop-boys raising from the till their stake. The cabman oft would loiter at my door, To glean the tout’s last information there; Invest what he had earned the hour before, And trust to Fortune for another fare, And if some wight a heavy stake should claim, More than I could conveniently drop, I donn’d a wig and whiskers, changed my name, And open’d, two streets off, another shop, Another shop awaits me now no more— The Finish of my Race arrived, I see; On a Walk-over though I won before, This time I’m done, and Luck walks over me. Diogenes. 1853.

Elegy. Written in a Railway Station. The Station clock proclaims the close of day; The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea; The last train out starts on its dangerous way, And leaves the place to darkness and to me. Now fades the panting engine’s red tail-light, And all the platform solemn stillness holds, Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night, By smothered coughs announce their several colds. Behind that door of three-inch planking made, Those frosted panes placed too high up to peep, All in their iron safes securely laid, The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep. The Debts to credit side so neatly borne, What should be losses profits proved instead; The Dividends those pages that adorn No more shall turn the fond Shareholder’s head. Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield, Their evidence arithmetic could choke: 32 How jocund were they that to them appealed! How many votes of thanks did they provoke! Let not Derision mock King Hudson’s[20] toil, Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure; Nor prudery give hard names to the spoil ’Twas glad to share—while it could share secure. All know the way that he his fortune made, How he bought votes and consciences did hire; How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayed To grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire, Till these accounts at last their doctored page, Thanks to mischance and panic did unrol, When virtue suddenly became the rage, And wiped George Hudson out of fashion’s scroll. Full many a noble Lord who once serene The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share, For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen, Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare. For those who, mindful of their money fled, Rejoice in retribution, sure though late— Should they, by ruin to reflection led, Ask Punch to point the moral of his fate, Haply that wooden-headed sage may say, “Oft have I seen him, in his fortune’s dawn, When at his levees elbowing their way, Peer’s ermine might be seen, and Bishop’s lawn. “There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each Advice, what scrip or shares ’twas best to buy, There his own arts his favourites he would teach, And put them up to good things on the sly. “Till to the House by his admirers borne, Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove, And on through commerce, colonies, and corn, Like engine, without break or driver, drove. “Till when he ceased to dip in fortunes’s till, Out came one cooked account—of our M. P.; Another came—yet men scarce ventured, still, To think their idol such a rogue could be. “Until those figures set in sad array Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn— Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay, Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn.” The Epitaph. Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth, A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known; Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth, God Mammon early marked him for his own. Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear; What he won foully he did freely spend. He plundered no one knows how much a year, But Chancery o’ertook him in the end. No further seek his frailties to disclose: For many, of his sins, should share the load: While he kept rising, who asked how he rose? While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed? Punch. February 26, 1853.

Elegy. Written near a Suburban Station House. By a Ticket-of-Leave-Man. The muffin-bell proclaims the parting day, The City clerks wind, weary, to their tea, The Crusher cookwards plods his steady way, And leaves the streets to Bill Sykes and to me. Now far and wide there’s not a Blue in sight, Like harmless loungers, safe our watch we hold, Save that we grasp the life-preserver tight, And the garotte arrange in artful fold. Meanwhile from yonder station-house the snore Of sleeping Crushers makes it very plain, That Blues who snooze when they the streets should scour, Will ne’er molest our solitary reign. Within those well-warmed rooms Inspectors paid Out of the parish rates the peace to keep, Each in his watch-coat warm and snugly laid— The mild protectors of the public—sleep. The choking call of passengers forlorn, With the garotte twitch’d dext’rous o’er their heads, Cries of “Police!” and “Murder!” faintly borne, No more will rouse them from their cosy beds. For them at morn no pompous beak shall turn To the charge-sheet made out so neat and square, No prisoner nabb’d shall swell the night’s return, Or grace the hand-cuffs o’er the Inspector’s chair. Oft did the cook-maid to their flatt’ries yield, Their fast how oft the rabbit-pie hath broke; How many an area’s been their triumph’s field, How much cold meat fall’n ’neath their sturdy stroke! Let not harsh censure mock their nightly toil, Their stolen chats and area conquests sure; Nor Richard Mayne with too much strictness spoil The short and simple suppers they procure. Nor you, householders, fix on them the fault, If no cold joint e’er lasts its second day, While through the cupboard-shelf and pantry-vault The hungry household cat is free to stray. Can mild reproof, or anger’s hasty gust Back to its dish the rabbit-pie restore? Can master’s threats recall the flaky crust, Or wipe the mopped-up beer from off the score? Perhaps in some neglected spot is laid A heart, well stuffed, brown from the kitchen fire,— Meat, that to water hermit’s chops had made, Or waked a vegetarian’s desire! Say, if it goes, can nought your wrath assuage? No hint of area-sneaks or cats that stroll? Must Missus with the Cook fly in a rage, And the Police still come in for the whole? 33 Full many a gem of the Em’rald Isle so green, The dark ungarnished Crusher’s coat may wear; Can you expect such flowers to blush unseen, Or fill their stomachs with the chill night air? Some village Lovelace, whom with dauntless breast. Rustic Clarissa painfully withstood; Some mute inglorious Dando here may rest; Some Soyer, with a genius for food. The smiles of real ladies to command, Glances to win from more than cookmaid’s eyes, Dinners and suppers in good style to stand, And area-snacks and broken meat despise, Their means forbade—nor circumscribed alone, Their loves and pockets, their beats, too, confined: Forbade to make the pot-house chair their throne, And floor their glass like truncheonless mankind. Far from the dangerous scenes of London life— Garottes and Life-Preservers—let them stay, And past the area-railings, free from strife, Pursue the harmless tenor of their way. For me, who for the Crusher snoring laid, Do in these lines obvious excuses state— If ever to the Hulks or Portland led Some pal should kindly ask about my fate— Haply may some grey-headed warder say, “Oft have we seen him, in the convict rank, Brushing with measured steps the dust away From off the mill, or working at the crank. “There in the school-room where the boys they teach, The Chaplain he would queer, upon the sly; Glib texts would quote, or contrite mug would stretch, Tipping the wink to pals that sniggered by. “When, in the chapel, duller rogues would scorn, The Parson’s pains that to convert them strove; He still would sigh both afternoon and morn, And in his tearless eye his knuckles shove. “One morn I missed him on the ’customed mill, Nor at the crank, nor oakum room was he, Another came his vacant cell to fill, His game had proved the ticket—he was free. “And in our Office here the other day, Upon the prison-books I found him borne, As one who, with his ticket sent away, Would any station (house) in life adorn.” Moral. If Life-Preserver or Garotte you’re worth, O youth, to Portland and the Hulks though known, The capital you’ll find the snuggest berth, Its wide unguarded suburbs all your own. Long though your sentence and your task severe, The pious dodge a ticket soon will send: You give the Chaplain all he asks, a tear, You’ll find the Crusher (all you wish) a friend. No farther seek the system to expose, Or stop the ticket Colonel Jebb bestowed; To spoil the child the British public chose, And on the grown-up Convict spares the rod. Punch. November 29, 1856.

A Lunatic Parody. The curlew rolls amidst the darting spray, And showy birds ride boldly o’er the sea, Striving the foaming clods to clear away, And leave the earth to chaos and to me. The glades are simmering in the red moonlight, And Hanwell all a solemn stillness holds; Nay, e’en the beadle feels the moaning light, And jelly sparkles in the glistening moulds. There on the jagged shells ’neath beauty’s shade, Where melancholy watch the mole doth keep, Each in his waistcoat straight for ever laid, The well-bred lunatics of Hanwell sleep. Haply, some keeper, hard-hearted, may say, Oft have we seen him calling to the moon, Beck’ning, with hasty thumb, the stars away, To meet the sun when he comes out at noon. There at the foot of yonder nodding tower, That breathes so bold beneath the azure sky, He’d form himself of oyster-shells a bower, And pour his look on all that travelled by. One noon we missed him, as about we dodged, He drew his breath, but nothing could we see; Another came—we had him safely lodged In the asylum of Colwell Hanley. Fun. April 1, 1865.

Elegy, Written in the House of Commons. The big clock tolls the knell of parting day, The tired Whips clubward now do adjourn to tea, The Speaker homeward plods his weary way. And leaves the House to darkness, and to me. Now fade the Treasury Benches on the sight, The mace no more my languid eye beholds; No longer Whalley wheels his drony flight; No longer Gladstone eloquently scolds. Only from yonder gilt and fretted tower Big Benjamin doth to the night complain, Recording mournfully the passing hour, And pealing forth his mellow-toned refrain. Unnoticed now beneath the gallery’s shade, Where the mice gambol, and the beetles creep, Prone on the floor-cloth worn and half-decayed, The Echoes of Reform are laid to sleep. The freezing chill of Cranbourne’s bitter scorn, Hope blundering hopelessly through what he said, Sarcastic jibes and platitudes well worn, No more shall rouse them from their dusty bed. For them no more the fierce Debate shall burn, Nor shrewd reporters ply their evening care; No clamour for return upon return Shall change their weary longing to despair. Oft did the Commons to their influence yield, The new-elected ne’er escaped their yoke; Locke-King and Baines through them obtained a field, Administrations fell beneath their stroke. 34 Let not the Upper House disdain the toil, Nor by inaction rouse the slumbering storm; Nor Bishops hear with a disdainful smile Their proud position threatened by reform. The boast of Birmingham may make them cower, And all that Palmerston or Derby gave May yield alike to Nonconformist power, Nor even Shaftesbury his creatures save. Nor you, Reformers, lay to us the fault, If rotten boroughs still their prices raise; If greedy agents still their victims salt, And foul corruption shines with sugary glaze. Can Ballot-urn, where venal voters thrust Their tickers, compensate for perjured breath? Can candidates escape “down with the dust?” As well might mortals hope to cheat grim Death. Perhaps in yonder corner may be laid Some tattered fragments of a former Bill;— Dizzy’s, with fancy franchises o’erlaid,— Or last year’s, which Adullamites did kill. Full many a traitor, outwardly serene, That dark, mysterious cave, Adullam, bore; Full many a plot was hatched, by Brand unseen, Combining men who ne’er combined before. The stalwart Elcho, that with dauntless breast The tyrant of the Treasury withstood; E’en mute inglorious Doulton did his best; And Horsman braved the vengeance dire of Stroud. The applause of listening Tories to command, The threats of Beales and Dickson to despise, To foster agitation through the land, And read their speeches interspersed with lies, Their lot was this; this their reward alone: To Opposition Benches still confined; The Russell Ministry by them o’erthrown. To join the Tories they had not the mind. Far from desirous of avoiding strife, They for official spoils ne’er cared to play; But in the feuds of senatorial life Pursued their own, their independent way. Their names, their deeds, writ in the Daily News, The place of power and salary supply; On them Reform Leaguers shower their foul abuse, And Telegraph and Star their ribaldry. Free was their action—let us hope, sincere, The League a recompense as freely sends; Of “hard and fast lines” they confess a fear;— The League declares they are not Freedom’s friends. No further seek their motives to disclose, Nor cull from speeches phrases undefined; Leave them among the shadows to repose, And in Reform a hopeful future find. From Echoes from the Clubs. July 24, 1867.

An Elegy on Cremation. Above yon mantel, in the new screen’s shade, Where smokes the coal in one dull smouldering heap, Each in his patent urn for ever laid, The baked residua of our fathers sleep— The wheezy call of muffins in the morn, The milkman tottering from his rusty shed, The help’s shrill clarion, or the fish-man’s horn, No more shall rouse them from their lofty bed. For them no more the blazing fire grate burns, Or busy housewife fries her savory soles, Though children run to clasp their sires’ red urns, And roll them in a family game of bowls. Perhaps in this deserted spot is laid, Some heart once pregnant with terrestrial fire, Hands that the rod paternal may have swayed, And waked to ecstasy the living liar. From Scribner’s Monthly. July, 1875.

Lament of the Eminent One. The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The city clerk from daily toil is free, Play-goers t’wards the Strand now wend their way, And throng the theatre “Macbeth” to see. The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, Are seated round at this momentous hour, Waiting to hear the Thane of Cawdor rave. The curtain rises, and reveals to sight The scenes all have assembled to behold; But, long before the witching hour of night, The public are convinced they have been sold. Let not Ambition mock my fruitless toil, My stagey gasp and readings most obscure; I saw, alas! from their disdainful smile, The critics thought Macbeth’s performance poor. (Three verses omitted here.) Haply some hoary-headed scribe[21] may say: “Oft have I seen his ‘Hamlet’ and the ‘Bells.’ He is the greatest actor of the day, The idol of our most fastidious swells.” Thus does he seek my merits to disclose, And leaves my frailties to the world unknown; And thus I find things quite couleur de rose Since the Lyceum marked me for its own. From The Figaro. October 6, 1875.

Elegy. Written in Rotten Row by a Disconsolate Swell. The Park proclaims the season’s had its day, The “upper ten” are wending towards the sea; My friends are gone—such as could get away, And leave the town to emptiness and me. 35 Now fades the glimmering landscape from the sight In picture galleries—solemn stillness holds Where lately Fashion kept its droning flight, And pull-back skirts extended lengthy folds. From Westminster’s electric-lighted tower, Still drowsy M. P.’s to the moon complain That dull debates outlast the midnight hour— ’Tis ever so when ancient Tories reign. The applause of listening Senates to command Some late-elected Member vainly tries, Brings in his Bill, and faltering takes his stand, But reads his fate in every Member’s eyes. Full many a Bill with confidence serene Such Members to the House of Commons bear— Full many a Bill thus brought them dies unseen In wasted talking on St. Stephen’s air. Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife The few remaining Members crave to stray; And hints of cool, sequestered vales are rife. Or mountains, seas, and foreign cities gay. Beneath these Hyde Park elms, this chestnut’s shade, Where heaves the turf in many a flower-clad heap (Haply the brightest effort Lennox made), I muse, or smoke, or read, or softly sleep. Though uncouth squares, with shapeless sculpture deck’d, I pass and give the tribute of a sigh— Don’t care a pin what R. A.’s they elect, Nor head the feud of Mapleson and Gye. No more doth Beauty curl her lip in scorn When the waltz-measure daintily we tread; The four-horse Ascot drag with echoing horn No more awakes me early from my bed. I trust to dumb forgetfulness a prey This smoky city soon will be resigned, That for a season I may pass away, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind. Funny Folks. August 12, 1876.

Elegy. Written in a Country Rink. The church clock strikes the knell of parting day, And all the world is going home to tea, The skater homewards takes his weary way, And leaves the rink to solitude and me. Now darkness o’er the scene a mantle flings, And peace and silence through the air do float Save where the band are packing up their things, And the French horn emits a farewell note. Save too, from yonder corner grumbling steals, The fitter-on does to his mate complain, Of such as coming there to mount their wheels From liberal favours zealously abstain. ’Tis here beneath the bright and azure sky, The rough-laid asphalte seems to rise and sink, Where, under many a sharp maternal eye, The youths and maidens of the village rink. For them no more will croquet have delight, The simple shuttlecock they will despise, No more they’ll watch the winged arrow’s flight, Nor draw the bow in quest of archer’s prize. Let not ambition mock their simple style, Nor from their thoughtless recreation shrink. Nor Grandeur turn with half contemptuous smile From these short simple annals of the Rink. P’r’aps in this quiet spot we may descry Some rinker pregnant with emotions grand; This one, may be, will fill some office high, This the applause of list’ning crowds command. That youth we saw with hands upheld on high, With form erect, pursue his eager way, Though now in rinking lets his time go by, May be the Gladstone of a future day. That youth who “loathed melancholy” dreads, Some mute inglorious Milton doubtless he; While this who binds his fallen comrades’ heads, In him a guiltless Cromwell we may see. Full many a gem of purest ray serene Beneath the ocean’s depth is known to shrink, So many a damsel’s born to skate unseen, And waste her grace upon a village rink. There was a youth to whom I once did give Attention, though from notice he would shrink, Some people told me that he rink’d to live, Though others said he merely lived to rink. Each morn his matutinal meal he’d eat, And then be seen both out of breath and hot, Rushing with eager steps along the street To meet his comrades at the much-loved spot. Then with his skates upon his feet fast strapp’d He’d rink and rink through all the livelong day; Now seemingly in meditation wrapp’d, Now urged by eager thoughts and fancies gay. At first some figure would he deftly trace, Anon the wide-spread eagle would essay, Then madly rush round and around the place, Or in the outside edge his skill display. One morn I miss’d him from his fav’rite spot (The night before he fell and seemed in pain); Another’ morn, but with it he was not, Alas! alas! he never came again. His comrades sore lamented him I fear, For some at least upon his skill did dote, And having dropped a sympathetic tear, This was the epitaph they calmly wrote. The Epitaph. Here rests from skating, by his much loved ground, A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown Science and Learning on him grimly frown’d And Rinking only mark’d him for her own. His birth was simple, and his ending sad, His understanding and his means were small; 36 He gave to rinking all the cash he had, And gain’d, his friends said “Serve him right,” a fall. No father had he to direct his course, Nor e’en from such a dismal fate to save, For skaters own with pensive face, perforce, The paths of rinking lead but to the grave.

The builder tolls the knell of Cremorne’s day The navvy’s spade uproots each flower and tree, Dumb waiters from their tables slink away, And leave the spot to darkness and to me. Now fades the glittering rocket from the sight, And every nook a solemn stillness holds, Save where the hodman climbs the scaffold’s height, Or tinkling trowel the dabby mortar moulds. The waltz and galop on the breezes borne From orchestra with blazing lamps o’erhead, The cornet, fiddle, flute, and echoing horn No more will keep the Cockney from his bed. For him no more will sparkling firework burn, Or busy waiter ply his evening care, No acrobat a somersault will turn, Or from the trapeze leap into the air. Let not North Woolwich mock while they despoil Cremorne’s quaint temples, grots, and glades obscure, Some day the builder, with disdainful smile, Will, too, its leafy avenues secure. Nor you, ye proud, impute to Baum the fault, If Chelsea triumphs while Cremorne decays; And tipplers elsewhere seek their grog and malt, And Canon Cromwell swells the note of praise. Can photograph or picture from the dust The glories of a Ranelagh bequeath? Like Highbury and Vauxhall, Cremorne must The auctioneer’s dread hammer fall beneath. Oft have stern magistrates, in angry tone, Its garish gaiety and “larks” maligned, Forbade its reckless frolics with a groan, And shut the gates of Cremorne on mankind. For oft the madding crowd, in midnight strife, From sober wisdom straying, hither came, Threading the fevered paths of modern “life,” While sleepy Chelseaites were loud to blame. Alas! to dumb forgetfulness a prey, Cremorne will to the builder be resigned; The bard who sees it rudely swept away Yet casts one longing, lingering look behind. The Epitaph. Here lies a garden, famous in its birth, And once among the festive haunts of town; But magistrates have frowned upon its mirth, And Speculation marked it for her own. From Funny Folks. 1878.

The trumpets sound the coming of the Judge; The anxious crowd rush wildly o’er the way: The bustling clerks, well-laden, court ward budge And leave the streets to dulness for the day. Now eager necks are straining for a sight, And all the Court a solemn stillness holds, Save when the crier bawls with all his might Or drowsy pleadings some dull voice unfolds. Save that from yonder silky mantled seat Some solemn owl does to the Judge complain Of such as, wandering in with noisy feet, Disturb the home-spun labours of his brain. Beneath those rugged wigs, uncomely shade, Where books and bags lay strewed in many a heap, Each in a narrow space on elbow laid, The lazy Juniors of the Circuit sleep. A breeze between the Council and my Lord, The tittering laugh at something idly said; The voice of many attuning sweet accord, Can scarcely raise a single heavy head. For their approach no heated suitors burn, Nor briefs delivered task their evening care; No! children run indeed where’er they turn, Or scrambling climb at wig and gown to stare. Oft to their sophistry the sessions yield Their labours oft have set at large a thief; 37 How jocund do they drive to such a field, How bow their heads, when they receive a brief. Let not their seniors mock this humble toil, Which some regret that they can share no more; Nor fain to treat with a disdainful smile, The short and simple cases of the poor. The boast of sergeantry the leaders’ power, And all that purple, all that silk e’er gave, Alike at sessions wait but for that hour When profits path is opened—to the grave! Nor yon, ye crowd, impute to these the fault, If none in aught but stuff his form displays, While o’er the long-drawn ranks incessant vault, Some whom mere chance, and some whom hugging raise. Can well-stored mind, and animated face Call to their lodgings one attorney’s Clerk? Can honor’s course advance a silent race, Or flattering prospects open in the dark? Perhaps neglected in this Court is laid Some, who with fluent art a speech could fire Many whose talent, were it only paid, Might wake to emulate each living liar. But none before their eyes that ample page, Rich with its strong marked fees did e’er unrol. Briefless they come—repressed their noble rage, And frozen all their energy of soul. Full many a mind of purest ray serene To distant climes th’ unfathomed ocean bears; Full many a man is born to live unseen— And eat his fingers—up three pair of stairs. Some village lawyer,[22] who, with dauntless breast The Squire or Parson manfully withstood, Might, perhaps, have drawn one from the inglorious rest, And flushed his talent with a client’s blood. The applause of listening juries to command, The threats of angry judges to despise, To scatter humour through a smiling band And give their speeches to the public eyes Their fates forbid; nor yet alone restrain Their growing genius: but their dulness find, Forbid to some to show their want of brain, And shut their mouths in mercy to mankind. The struggling pangs of still-born speech to bear, To find no thought will come, and wonder when; To load a cause, which prudence asks and care, With nonsense borrowed from the Attorney’s pen. Far from the hope of sharing in the strife, Their wearied minds to other objects stray To that glad moment when with fork and knife, They keep their eager jaws at last in play. Yet e’en in court, some slight relief to gain, Small slips of paper, torn from foolscap nigh, Which wretched rhymes and pointless puns contain, From hand to hand across the table fly. A name—a verse unsanctioned by the muse, The place of wit and poetry supply, And jingling jests which sound with sense confuse, Will make the wags almost with laughter die. For who to dumb attentiveness a prey, This pleasing power of folly e’er resigned, Kept the warm precincts of the court all day, Nor cast one lagging, lingering joke behind? In some fond jest the weary soul relies, Some tinkling thought, the closing eyes require E’en labouring dulness against nature tries, And rakes the ashes of its brain for fire. For thee who mindful of the briefless crew Dost in these lines their hopeless cause relate, If one perchance with nothing else to do Should feel disposed to ask thy after fate. Haply, some stuff-clad rusty sage may say, “Oft have we seen his tall and lanky form Brushing with hasty steps to court away To take his place where all the idle swarm. Then, in the midst of some dull nodding speech, While Gurney all their mirth to hush would try; His listless mind in verse and puns he’d stretch, And pour them on the crew which babbled by, Unchecked his aim by gravity, or scorn, Mustering his scattered forces he would sit, Now drooping woeful at a jest still-born, Now worn with care in trying for a hit. One circuit missed him (’twas the one in Lent) From all the places where he used to be; Another came, nor yet in Hertford, Kent, In Essex, Sussex, Surrey, e’en was he. The next we heard his country he had fled, And died an exile under distant skies; Approach and read—for it may well be read This Epitaph which Bolland’s muse supplied.” Epitaph. Here rests his body in Australia’s land, A youth to naval glory not unknown; But e’er promotion shook him by the hand, The Palace Court had marked him for its own. Large was his practice, as his age could reach, And large his recompense, as well could be; He gave to juries all he had—a speech, He gained from clients all he wished—a fee. No longer seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his blunders from this prison dark; Where cheek by jowl, they lovingly repose, The bosoms of the Attorney and his clerk.

Elegy. On a favourite Washerwoman, Mrs. Bridget Mulligan. Farewell old friend and memory ever dear, Thy earnest labour at the tub is o’er, Let every friend to merit, shed a tear, For Biddy Mulligan is now no more. 38 In peaceful cot she passed a busy life, Secluded from the world, and all its ills; A tender mother—a deserted wife, And matchless in her doing up of frills. Oft have I marked her on a summer’s day, Prone o’er her tub, regardless of the heat With sleeves tuck’d up, she’d stand and scrub away, And then from lines suspend her work so neat. Each closing week at eve, she took the road, With vests, with shirts, with handkerchiefs, and frills Collars and socks, in parcels neatly stowed, Pinned to the parcels were her little bills. One winter’s day I passed her cottage by, And wondered where the worthy dame could be, I saw a heap of clothes disordered lie, Nor at the tub, nor at the lines was she! The piercing cold had laid her low at last, Her busy nimble hands are now at rest, They’re bleaching in the chilly northern blast, Pale as the shirts their skilful fingers press’d. Adieu! ye spotless vests of white Marseilles, So white ye gave me pleasure to put on; Ye snowy bosomed shirts, a long farewell; Alas! poor Biddy’s occupation’s gone. No laundress of the vulgar sort was she, (Cruel the fate which thus could snatch her from me,) A faithful soul, and from pretence so free, It went against her grain to wash a “Tommy.” Full many a worshipper at Fashion’s shrine, Owed half his neatness to her starch and iron; From swells who sport their shirts of cambric fine, To dandy boys with collars à la Byron. Not all the symmetry of well made suits, Nor hats of silk, so exquisitely glossed, Nor spicy ties, nor jetty varnish’d boots, Console me for the treasure I have lost! Oh! Mulligan, thy shirts perfection were, Now I ne’er put one on but feeling pain, And buttoning close my waistcoat in despair, Feel I can never show their like again! Nymphs of the tub attend the fun’ral throng, Plant mangle wortzel near where she is laid, And scatter snowdrops as ye press along,— Fit emblems of the whiteness of her trade. Let no bombastic lines be carved in stone, No fulsome epitaph, no flattering hope, Be this the plain inscription—this alone— “She never yet was badly off for soap.” C. E. Tisdall, D.D. Dublin, The Elocutionist. July 15, 1882.

Gray’s Elegy. (In an Irish Prison.) They think to toll the knell of prisoned Gray, The servile herd who bend to law the knee! Pooh, Pooh! the slaves will soon be “out of play,” And leave the game to Davitt and to me! Vile Saxon scum! a Sheriff held in thrall! (It moves my soul of flame to noble fury) Because he uttered what they choose to call Injurious remarks about a jury. * * * * * Punch. September 2, 1882.

The S. K. Ring’s Requiem. The turret-clock proclaims the hour eleven; Sir Francis Bolton[23] from his tower descends; The last illumined shower drops from heaven, And so the much-bepuff’d “Colinderies” ends. Now fade the glimm’ring lamps amongst the trees, And all seems dismal now, and dark and dead, Save where the crowds still t’wards the station squeeze, And through the Subway plod with weary tread. And save where in a snug official room The members of the S. K. Ring have met To talk of things that in the future loom, And the conclusion of their “Shows” regret. Sad were their faces as they sat and heard The clock strike out the Exhibition’s close, And gloomily together they conferr’d As to the Epitaph they would propose.