HOOD'S POETICAL WORKS. (continued 4)

THE LEE SHORE. Sleet! and Hail! and Thunder! And ye Winds that rave, Till the sands thereunder Tinge the sullen wave— Winds, that like a Demon, Howl with horrid note Round the toiling Seaman, In his tossing boat— From his humble dwelling, On the shingly shore, Where the billows swelling, Keep such hollow roar— From that weeping Woman, Seeking with her cries Succor superhuman From the frowning skies— From the Urchin pining For his Father's knee— From the lattice shining— Drive him out to sea! Let broad leagues dissever Him from yonder foam— Oh, God! to think Man ever Comes too near his Home!

SONNET. The world is with me, and its many cares, Its woes—its wants—the anxious hopes and fears That wait on all terrestrial affairs— The shades of former and of future years— Foreboding fancies, and prophetic tears, Quelling a spirit that was once elate:— Heavens! what a wilderness the earth appears, Where Youth, and Mirth, and Health are out of date! But no—a laugh of innocence and joy Resounds, like music of the fairy race, And gladly turning from the world's annoy I gaze upon a little radiant face, And bless, internally, the merry boy Who "makes a son-shine in a shady-place."

THE ELM TREE. A DREAM IN THE WOODS. "And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees."—As You Like It. 'Twas in a shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound— And from a Tree There came to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground. Amongst the leaves it seem'd to sigh, Amid the boughs to moan; It mutter'd in the stem, and then The roots took up the tone; As if beneath the dewy grass The dead began to groan. No breeze there was to stir the leaves; No bolts that tempests launch, To rend the trunk or rugged bark; No gale to bend the branch; No quake of earth to heave the roots, That stood so stiff and staunch. No bird was preening up aloft, To rustle with its wing; No squirrel, in its sport or fear. From bough to bough to spring. The solid bole Had ne'er a hole To hide a living thing! No scooping hollow cell to lodge A furtive beast or fowl, The martin, bat, Or forest cat That nightly loves to prowl, Nor ivy nooks so apt to shroud The moping, snoring owl. But still the sound was in my ear, A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground— 'Twas in a shady Avenue Where lofty Elms abound. Oh hath the Dryad still a tongue In this ungenial clime? Have Sylvan Spirits still a voice As in the classic prime— To make the forest voluble, As in the olden time? The olden time is dead and gone; Its years have fill'd their sum— And e'en in Greece—her native Greece— The Sylvan Nymph is dumb— From ash, and beech, and aged oak, No classic whispers come, From Poplar, Pine, and drooping Birch, And fragrant Linden Trees; No living sound E'er hovers round, Unless the vagrant breeze, The music of the merry bird, Or hum of busy bees. But busy bees forsake the Elm That bears no bloom aloft— The Finch was in the hawthorn-bush, The Blackbird in the croft; And among the firs the brooding Dove, That else might murmur soft. Yet still I heard that solemn sound, And sad it was to boot, From ev'ry overhanging bough, And each minuter shoot; From rugged trunk and mossy rind, And from the twisted root. From these,—a melancholy moan; From those,—a dreary sigh; As if the boughs were wintry bare, And wild winds sweeping by— Whereas the smallest fleecy cloud Was steadfast in the sky. No sign or touch of stirring air Could either sense observe— The zephyr had not breath enough The thistle-down to swerve, Or force the filmy gossamers To take another curve. In still and silent slumber hush'd All Nature seem'd to be: From heaven above, or earth beneath, No whisper came to me— Except the solemn sound and sad From that MYSTERIOUS TREE! A hollow, hollow, hollow, sound, As is that dreamy roar When distant billows boil and bound Along a shingly shore— But the ocean brim was far aloof, A hundred miles or more. No murmur of the gusty sea, No tumult of the beach, However they may foam and fret, The bounded sense could reach— Methought the trees in mystic tongue Were talking each to each!— Mayhap, rehearsing ancient tales Of greenwood love or guilt, Of whisper'd vows Beneath their boughs; Or blood obscurely spilt, Or of that near-hand Mansion House A royal Tudor built. Perchance, of booty won or shared Beneath the starry cope— Or where the suicidal wretch Hung up the fatal rope; Or Beauty kept an evil tryste, Insnared by Love and Hope. Of graves, perchance, untimely scoop'd At midnight dark and dank— And what is underneath the sod Whereon the grass is rank— Of old intrigues, And privy leagues, Tradition leaves in blank. Of traitor lips that mutter'd plots— Of Kin who fought and fell— God knows the undiscovered schemes, The arts and acts of Hell, Perform'd long generations since, If trees had tongues to tell! With wary eyes, and ears alert, As one who walks afraid, I wander'd down the dappled path Of mingled light and shade— How sweetly gleam'd that arch of blue Beyond the green arcade! How cheerily shone the glimpse of Heav'n Beyond that verdant aisle! All overarch'd with lofty elms, That quench'd the light, the while, As dim and chill As serves to fill Some old Cathedral pile! And many a gnarlèd trunk was there, That ages long had stood, Till Time had wrought them into shapes Like Pan's fantastic brood; Or still more foul and hideous forms That Pagans carve in wood! A crouching Satyr lurking here— And there a Goblin grim— As staring full of demon life As Gothic sculptor's whim— A marvel it had scarcely been To hear a voice from him! Some whisper from that horrid mouth Of strange, unearthly tone; Or wild infernal laugh, to chill One's marrow in the bone. But no—it grins like rigid Death, And silent as a stone! As silent as its fellows be, For all is mute with them— The branch that climbs the leafy roof— The rough and mossy stem— The crooked root, And tender shoot, Where hangs the dewy gem. One mystic Tree alone there is, Of sad and solemn sound— That sometimes murmurs overhead, And sometimes underground— In all that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound. PART II. The Scene is changed! No green Arcade, No Trees all ranged a-row— But scatter'd like a beaten host, Dispersing to and fro; With here and there a sylvan corse, That fell before the foe. The Foe that down in yonder dell Pursues his daily toil; As witness many a prostrate trunk, Bereft of leafy spoil, Hard by its wooden stump, whereon The adder loves to coil. Alone he works—his ringing blows Have banish'd bird and beast; The Hind and Fawn have canter'd off A hundred yards at least; And on the maple's lofty top The linnet's song has ceased. No eye his labor overlooks, Or when he takes his rest, Except the timid thrush that peeps Above her secret nest, Forbid by love to leave the young Beneath her speckled breast. The Woodman's heart is in his work, His axe is sharp and good: With sturdy arm and steady aim He smites the gaping wood; From distant rocks His lusty knocks Re-echo many a rood. His axe is keen, his arm is strong; The muscles serve him well; His years have reach'd an extra span, The number none can tell; But still his lifelong task has been The Timber Tree to fell. Through Summer's parching sultriness, And Winter's freezing cold, From sapling youth To virile growth. And Age's rigid mould, His energetic axe hath rung Within that Forest old. Aloft, upon his poising steel The vivid sunbeams glance— About his head and round his feet The forest shadows dance; And bounding from his russet coat The acorn drops askance. His face is like a Druid's face, With wrinkles furrow'd deep, And tann'd by scorching suns as brown As corn that's ripe to reap; But the hair on brow, and cheek, and chin, Is white as wool of sheep. His frame is like a giant's frame; His legs are long and stark; His arms like limbs of knotted yew; His hands like rugged bark; So he felleth still With right good will, As if to build an Ark! Oh! well within His fatal path The fearful Tree might quake Through every fibre, twig, and leaf, With aspen tremor shake; Through trunk and root, And branch and shoot, A low complaining make! Oh! well to Him the Tree might breathe A sad and solemn sound, A sigh that murmur'd overhead, And groans from underground; As in that shady Avenue Where lofty Elms abound! But calm and mute the Maple stands, The Plane, the Ash, the Fir, The Elm, the Beech, the drooping Birch, Without the least demur; And e'en the Aspen's hoary leaf Makes no unusual stir. The Pines—those old gigantic Pines, That writhe—recalling soon The famous Human Group that writhes With Snakes in wild festoon— In ramous wrestlings interlaced A Forest Laocoon— Like Titans of primeval girth By tortures overcome, Their brown enormous limbs they twine, Bedew'd with tears of gum— Fierce agonies that ought to yell, But, like the marble, dumb. Nay, yonder blasted Elm that stands So like a man of sin, Who, frantic, flings his arms abroad To feel the Worm within— For all that gesture, so intense, It makes no sort of din! An universal silence reigns In rugged bark or peel, Except that very trunk which rings Beneath the biting steel— Meanwhile the Woodman plies his axe With unrelenting zeal! No rustic song is on his tongue, No whistle on his lips; But with a quiet thoughtfulness His trusty tool he grips, And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out The bright and flying chips. Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint He spreads the fatal gash; Till, lo! the remnant fibres rend, With harsh and sudden crash, And on the dull resounding turf The jarring branches lash! Oh! now the Forest Trees may sigh, The Ash, the Poplar tall, The Elm, the Beech, the drooping Birch, The Aspens—one and all, With solemn groan And hollow moan Lament a comrade's fall! A goodly Elm, of noble girth, That, thrice the human span— While on their variegated course The constant Seasons ran— Through gale, and hail, and fiery bolt, Had stood erect as Man. But now, like mortal Man himself, Struck down by hand of God, Or heathen Idol tumbled prone Beneath th' Eternal's nod, In all its giant bulk and length It lies along the sod! Ay, now the Forest Trees may grieve And make a common moan Around that patriarchal trunk So newly overthrown; And with a murmur recognize A doom to be their own! The Echo sleeps: the idle axe, A disregarded tool, Lies crushing with its passive weight The toad's reputed stool— The Woodman wipes his dewy brow Within the shadows cool. No Zephyr stirs: the ear may catch The smallest insect-hum; But on the disappointed sense No mystic whispers come; No tone of sylvan sympathy, The Forest Trees are dumb. No leafy noise, nor inward voice, No sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmurs overhead, And sometimes underground; As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound! PART III. The deed is done: the Tree is low That stood so long and firm; The Woodman and his axe are gone, His toil has found its term; And where he wrought the speckled Thrush Securely hunts the worm. The Cony from the sandy bank Has run a rapid race, Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern, To seek the open space; And on its haunches sits erect To clean its furry face. The dappled Fawn is close at hand, The Hind is browsing near,— And on the Larch's lowest bough The Ousel whistles clear; But checks the note Within its throat, As choked with sudden fear! With sudden fear her wormy quest The Thrush abruptly quits— Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern The startled Cony flits; And on the Larch's lowest bough No more the Ousel sits. With sudden fear The dappled Deer Effect a swift escape; But well might bolder creatures start, And fly, or stand agape, With rising hair, and curdled blood, To see so grim a Shape! The very sky turns pale above; The earth grows dark beneath; The human Terror thrills with cold And draws a shorter breath— An universal panic owns The dread approach of DEATH! With silent pace, as shadows come, And dark as shadows be, The grisly Phantom takes his stand Beside the fallen Tree, And scans it with his gloomy eyes, And laughs with horrid glee— A dreary laugh and desolate, Where mirth is void and null, As hollow as its echo sounds Within the hollow skull— "Whoever laid this tree along, His hatchet was not dull! "The human arm and human tool Have done their duty well! But after sound of ringing axe Must sound the ringing knell; When Elm or Oak Have felt the stroke, My turn it is to fell! "No passive unregarded tree, A senseless thing of wood, Wherein the sluggish sap ascends To swell the vernal bud— But conscious, moving, breathing trunks That throb with living blood! "No forest Monarch yearly clad In mantle green or brown; That unrecorded lives, and falls By hand of rustic clown— But Kings who don the purple robe, And wear the jewell'd crown. "Ah! little recks the Royal mind, Within his Banquet Hall, While tapers shine and Music breathes And Beauty leads the Ball,— He little recks the oaken plank Shall be his palace wall! "Ah, little dreams the haughty Peer, The while his Falcon flies— Or on the blood-bedabbled turf The antler'd quarry dies— That in his own ancestral Park The narrow dwelling lies! "But haughty Peer and mighty King One doom shall overwhelm! The oaken cell Shall lodge him well Whose sceptre ruled a realm— While he, who never knew a home, Shall find it in the Elm! "The tatter'd, lean, dejected wretch, Who begs from door to door, And dies within the cressy ditch, Or on the barren moor, The friendly Elm shall lodge and clothe That houseless man and poor! "Yea, this recumbent rugged trunk, That lies so long and prone, With many a fallen acorn-cup, And mast, and furry cone— This rugged trunk shall hold its share Of mortal flesh and bone! "A Miser hoarding heaps of gold, But pale with ague-fears— A Wife lamenting love's decay, With secret cruel tears, Distilling bitter, bitter drops From sweets of former years— "A Man within whose gloomy mind Offence had deeply sunk, Who out of fierce Revenge's cup Hath madly, darkly drunk— Grief, Avarice, and Hate shall sleep Within this very trunk! "This massy trunk that lies along, And many more must fall— For the very knave Who digs the grave, The man who spreads the pall, And he who tolls the funeral bell, The Elm shall have them all! "The tall abounding Elm that grows In hedgerows up and down; In field and forest, copse and park, And in the peopled town, With colonies of noisy rooks That nestle on its crown. "And well th' abounding Elm may grow In field and hedge so rife, In forest, copse, and wooded park, And 'mid the city's strife, For, every hour that passes by Shall end a human life!" The Phantom ends: the shade is gone; The sky is clear and bright; On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree, There glows a ruddy light; And bounding through the golden fern The Rabbit comes to bite. The Thrush's mate beside her sits And pipes a merry lay; The Dove is in the evergreen; And on the Larch's spray The Fly-bird flutters up and down, To catch its tiny prey. The gentle Hind and dappled Fawn Are coming up the glade; Each harmless furr'd and feather'd thing Is glad, and not afraid— But on my sadden'd spirit still The Shadow leaves a shade. A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, As though by certain mark I knew the fore-appointed Tree, Within whose rugged bark This warm and living frame shall find Its narrow house and dark. That mystic Tree which breathed to me A sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmur'd overhead, And sometimes underground; Within that shady Avenue Where lofty Elms abound.

LEAR. A poor old king, with sorrow for my crown, Throned upon straw, and mantled with the wind— For pity, my own tears have made me blind That I might never see my children's frown; And, may be, madness, like a friend, has thrown A folded fillet over my dark mind, So that unkindly speech may sound for kind— Albeit I know not.—I am childish grown— And have not gold to purchase wit withal— I that have once maintain'd most royal state— A very bankrupt now that may not call My child, my child—all beggar'd save in tears, Wherewith I daily weep an old man's fate, Foolish—and blind—and overcome with years!

SONNET. My heart is sick with longing, tho' I feed On hope; Time goes with such a heavy pace That neither brings nor takes from thy embrace, As if he slept—forgetting his old speed: For, as in sunshine only we can read The march of minutes on the dial's face, So in the shadows of this lonely place There is no love, and Time is dead indeed. But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart, Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies, It seems we only meet to tear apart, With aching hands and lingering of eyes. Alas, alas! that we must learn hours' flight By the same light of love that makes them bright!

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt." "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work—work—work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work—work—work Till the brain begins to swim; Work—work—work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch—stitch—stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. "But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape, It seems so like my own— It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap!" "Work—work—work!" My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread—and rags. That shattered roof—and this naked floor— A table—a broken chair— And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work—work—work! From weary chime to chime, Work—work—work— As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. "Work—work—work, In the dull December light, And work—work—work, When the weather is warm and bright— While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread— Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch— Would that its tone could reach the Rich!— She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

THE PAUPER'S CHRISTMAS CAROL. Full of drink and full of meat, On our SAVIOUR'S natal day, CHARITY'S perennial treat; Thus I heard a Pauper say:— "Ought not I to dance and sing Thus supplied with famous cheer? Heigho! I hardly know— Christmas comes but once a year. "After labor's long turmoil, Sorry fare and frequent fast, Two-and-fifty weeks of toil, Pudding-time is come at last! But are raisins high or low, Flour and suet cheap or dear? Heigho! I hardly know— Christmas comes but once a year. "Fed upon the coarsest fare Three hundred days and sixty-four, But for one on viands rare, Just as if I wasn't poor! Ought not I to bless my stars, Warden, clerk, and overseer? Heigho! I hardly know— Christmas comes but once a year. "Treated like a welcome guest, One of Nature's social chain, Seated, tended on, and press'd— But when shall I be press'd again, Twice to pudding, thrice to beef, A dozen times to ale and beer? Heigho! I hardly know— Christmas comes but once a year. "Come to-morrow how it will; Diet scant and usage rough, Hunger once has had its fill, Thirst for once has had enough, But shall I ever dine again? Or see another feast appear? Heigho! I only know— Christmas comes but once a year! "Frozen cares begin to melt, Hopes revive and spirits flow— Feeling as I have not felt Since a dozen months ago— Glad enough to sing a song— To-morrow shall I volunteer? Heigho! I hardly know— Christmas comes but once a year. "Bright and blessed is the time, Sorrows end and joys begin, While the bells with merry chime Ring the Day of Plenty in! But the happy tide to hail, With a sigh or with or a tear, Heigho! I hardly know— Christmas comes but once a year!"

THE HAUNTED HOUSE[18] A ROMANCE. "A jolly place, said he, in days of old, But something ails it now: the spot is curst." WORDSWORTH.

PART I. Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural, and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions. It might be only on enchanted ground; It might be merely by a thought's expansion; But, in the spirit or the flesh, I found An old deserted Mansion. A residence for woman, child, and man, A dwelling place,—and yet no habitation; A House,—but under some prodigious ban Of excommunication. Unhinged the iron gates half open hung, Jarr'd by the gusty gales of many winters, That from its crumbled pedestal had flung One marble globe in splinters. No dog was at the threshold, great or small; No pigeon on the roof—no household creature— No cat demurely dozing on the wall— Not one domestic feature. No human figure stirr'd, to go or come, No face look'd forth from shut or open casement; No chimney smoked—there was no sign of Home From parapet to basement. With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd; The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after; And thro' the ragged roof the sky shone, barr'd With naked beam and rafter. O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear; A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted! The flow'r grew wild and rankly as the weed, Roses with thistles struggled for espial, And vagrant plants of parasitic breed Had overgrown the Dial. But gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm, No heart was there to heed the hour's duration; All times and tides were lost in one long term Of stagnant desolation. The wren had built within the Porch, she found Its quiet loneliness so sure and thorough; And on the lawn,—within its turfy mound,— The rabbit made his burrow. The rabbit wild and gray, that flitted thro' The shrubby clumps, and frisk'd, and sat, and vanish'd, But leisurely and bold, as if he knew His enemy was banish'd. The wary crow,—the pheasant from the woods— Lull'd by the still and everlasting sameness, Close to the mansion, like domestic broods, Fed with a "shocking tameness." The coot was swimming in the reedy pond, Beside the water-hen, so soon affrighted; And in the weedy moat the heron, fond Of solitude, alighted. The moping heron, motionless and stiff, That on a stone, as silently and stilly, Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if To guard the water-lily. No sound was heard except, from far away, The ringing of the witwall's shrilly laughter, Or, now and then, the chatter of the jay, That Echo murmur'd after. But Echo never mock'd the human tongue; Some weighty crime, that Heaven could not pardon, A secret curse on that old Building hung, And its deserted Garden. The beds were all untouch'd by hand or tool; No footstep marked the damp and mossy gravel, Each walk as green as is the mantled pool, For want of human travel. The vine unpruned, and the neglected peach, Droop'd from the wall with which they used to grapple; And on the canker'd tree, in easy reach, Rotted the golden apple. But awfully the truant shunn'd the ground, The vagrant kept aloof, and daring Poacher; In spite of gaps that thro' the fences round Invited the encroacher. 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! The pear and quince lay squander'd on the grass; The mould was purple with unheeded showers Of bloomy plums—a Wilderness it was Of fruits, and weeds, and flowers! The marigold amidst the nettles blew, The gourd embraced the rose bush in its ramble, The thistle and the stock together grew, The holly-hock and bramble. The bear-bine with the lilac interlaced, The sturdy bur-dock choked its slender neighbor, The spicy pink. All tokens were effaced Of human care and labor. The very yew Formality had train'd To such a rigid pyramidal stature, For want of trimming had almost regain'd The raggedness of nature. The Fountain was a-dry—neglect and time Had marr'd the work of artisan and mason, And efts and croaking frogs, begot of slime, Sprawl'd in the ruin'd bason. The Statue, fallen from its marble base, Amidst the refuse leaves, and herbage rotten, Lay like the Idol of some bygone race, Its name and rites forgotten. On ev'ry side the aspect was the same, All ruin'd, desolate, forlorn, and savage: No hand or foot within the precinct came To rectify or ravage. 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!

PART II. O, very gloomy is the House of Woe, Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling, With all the dark solemnities which show That Death is in the dwelling! O very, very dreary is the room Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles, But, smitten by the common stroke of doom, The Corpse lies on the trestles! But House of Woe, and hearse, and sable pall, The narrow home of the departed mortal, Ne'er look'd so gloomy as that Ghostly Hall, With its deserted portal! The centipede along the threshold crept, The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle, And in its winding-sheet the maggot slept, At every nook and angle. The keyhole lodged the earwig and her brood, The emmets of the steps had old possession, And march'd in search of their diurnal food In undisturb'd procession. As undisturb'd as the prehensile cell Of moth or maggot, or the spider's tissue, For never foot upon that threshold fell, To enter or to issue. 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! Howbeit, the door I push'd—or so I dream'd— Which slowly, slowly gaped,—the hinges creaking With such a rusty eloquence, it seem'd That Time himself was speaking. But Time was dumb within that Mansion old, Or left his tale to the heraldic banners, That hung from the corroded walls, and told Of former men and manners:— Those tatter'd flags, that with the open'd door, Seem'd the old wave of battle to remember, While fallen fragments danced upon the floor, Like dead leaves in December. The startled bats flew out,—bird after bird,— The screech-owl overhead began to flutter, And seem'd to mock the cry that she had heard Some dying victim utter! A shriek that echoed from the joisted roof, And up the stair, and further still and further, Till in some ringing chamber far aloof It ceased its tale of murther! Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round, The banner shudder'd, and the ragged streamer; All things the horrid tenor of the sound Acknowledged with a tremor. The antlers, where the helmet hung, and belt, Stirr'd as the tempest stirs the forest branches, Or as the stag had trembled when he felt The blood-hound at his haunches. The window jingled in its crumbled frame, And thro' its many gaps of destitution Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came, Like those of dissolution. The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball, Touch'd by some impulse occult or mechanic; And nameless beetles ran along the wall In universal panic. The subtle spider, that from overhead Hung like a spy on human guilt and error, Suddenly turn'd, and up its slender thread Ran with a nimble terror. The very stains and fractures on the wall, Assuming features solemn and terrific, Hinted some Tragedy of that old Hall, Lock'd up in hieroglyphic. Some tale that might, perchance, have solved the doubt, Wherefore amongst those flags so dull and livid, The banner of the BLOODY HAND shone out So ominously vivid. Some key to that inscrutable appeal, Which made the very frame of Nature quiver; And ev'ry thrilling nerve and fibre feel So ague-like a shiver. 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! If but a rat had lingered in the house, To lure the thought into a social channel! But not a rat remain'd, or tiny mouse, To squeak behind the panel. Huge drops roll'd down the walls, as if they wept; And where the cricket used to chirp so shrilly The toad was squatting, and the lizard crept On that damp hearth and chilly. For years no cheerful blaze had sparkled there, Or glanced on coat of buff or knightly metal; The slug was crawling on the vacant chair,— The snail upon the settle. The floor was redolent of mould and must, The fungus in the rotten seams had quicken'd; While on the oaken table coats of dust Perennially had thicken'd. No mark of leathern jack or metal can, No cup—no horn—no hospitable token,— All social ties between that board and Man Had long ago been broken. There was so foul a rumor in the air, The shadow of a Presence so atrocious; No human creature could have feasted there, Even the most ferocious. 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!

PART III. '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.

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]

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.

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.

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 Pittite 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.

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.

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— 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—