A Letter to His Lordship.
76, Upper Ebury Street, Pimlico, S.W.,
6th May, 1865.
My Lord,
I’ve scann’d your answer to my meek request,
Which prompts the feeling in my studious breast—
A silent hoping—that, some future day,
My pen may gain thy Lordship’s solacy.
* * * * *
Being train’d to disappointment, trust me, lord,
I lie not down; but steadfast to my word,
Shall persevere with all my heart and soul;
Shall still dip pens into the inken-bowl;
Shall strive to write my F (two) o o (and) t,
And trust they’ll grace a book of poetry,—
If not of merit such as Wits admire,
I must expect their silence, or satire:
Ah! should it be the latter, I obtain,
’Twill be encouragement to try again.
O, had I but a tithe of Alfred’s[100] spark,
I’d launch again my little hopeful bark,
Into the ocean of my soul’s delight!
Would prose all day, and sometimes half the night;
Would scribble out blank verse, or couplets, free;
Would ’queath its pages to futurity.
And when my sand-glass had run out its last,—
My eyes for ever had been closed and fast,—
Perchance some kindred creature would have fix’d
On some plain stone, the lines herewith annex’d:—
“Oh! grant, here—reader, but one moment’s pause—
Behold—this man did ransack o’er his brain;
And found a word or two to help the cause,
So strove to rhythm them in humble strain.”
* * * * *
But ere, my lord, I stop my feeble muse,
I ask of thee, and feel thou’lt not refuse,
To send me back those manuscripts of mine—
That I may write them in corrected line:
And when my scroll[101] is publish’d, I shall crave
Your Lordship’s care of one. (Now, to be grave)—
Pray give allowance for my ignorance—
If I am pert; if I, through lack of sense,
Have trespass’d on your Lordship’s valued time—
Some specimens of my attempted rhyme.
’Tis not my wish to cornet forth my name,
Nor can I e’er expect to gather fame,
But only hope, my lord, you kindly will
Assist me up the literary hill.
I am, My Lord,
Your Lordship’s most obedient Servant,
EDWARD E. FOOT.
To the Right Honorable Viscount Palmerston, K.G. &c., Cambridge House, Piccadilly, W.C.
[100] Tennyson, poet laureat.
[101] Book.
My dear friend John.[102]
Pray, let my pen interpret now
The silent throbbings of my heart,—
Believe me when I make this vow—
My gratitude can ne’er depart.
Thou hast rebuked me, I must own,
With smart precision, and ’tis just;
But still there’s with it meetly flown
The rod of love, which ne’er can rust.
Oh! think not this, “that I can be
A creature without gratitude:”
On foreign lands; the briny sea;
In north and southern latitude,
I’ve ponder’d ’neath the starry height—
Thank’d thee, dear John, my dearest friend;
Dwelt o’er past pleasures with delight,
And shall till Death defines my end.
Then, let no angry thoughts possess
Your mind, or mine; my mind, nor your’s;
I seek to offer you redress;
And when thine eye upon it soars,
You, too, I’m sure, will say (with me,)
“Come what there may—our love’s the same.”
So now, dear friend, pray let there be
No future enmity, or blame.
[102] Composed on the occasion of receiving a letter from his great friend, J. Cutcliffe, Esq., complaining of the Author’s negligence in correspondence, and which “few lines” form’d part of his letter, in reply. 1865.
Christmas Eve. (1864.[103])
Fill the punch-bowl to the brim,
Merry be—’tis Christmas-time,
In it let sliced lemons swim,
’Til the midnight bell doth chime.
Eye the holly, fresh and green,
Intertwined with mistletoe;
Cast the ashen faggot[104] in,
Fan it till it crack and glow.
Pass the rosy goblet round;
Bathe thy lips in liquors choice;
Pour thy pleasure out in sound;
Make an effort with thy voice:
Thus enhance the jubilee—
Let fair damsels lead the songs,
Follow them, in harmony;
For with music love belongs.
Haste ye, and repeat the glee,
Solo-song, or madrigal:—
Quoth the host—“It pleases me,
Bravo!—thou hast sung it well.”
Hark! the church-clock, striking twelve,
Tingles through the merry hall;
Put the tankard on the shelf—
Rich or poor,—and stop the ball.[105]
Now, with solemn gratitude,
Thank Him, who provides us cheer;
And with equal promptitude
Reverence the fast fleeting year.
Spend the Sabbath, (’tis the last
That will count in ’sixty-four,)—
With a right becoming fast,
’Til the Monday sun shall soar.
Then with seemly merriment,
’Neath the mistletoe be gay;
And with chasty sentiment
Join the choral roundelay.
Dance together, young and old,
To the sound of violin:
Who will venture—who so bold—
To assert it is a sin?—
Thus, for youths, in measured pace,
To trip o’er the planken floor;
Parents, with their wonted grace,
Skipping as in days of yore?
No! this never can be sin,—
So dance on—enjoy the hour;
And when done—go, think of Him,
Who, alone, can blessings show’r.
[103] Christmas Day, in this year, happened to be on Sunday.
[104] In Devonshire farmhouses, it is a very customary practice, on Christmas Eve, to put a number of wooden binders around an ashen or oaken faggot, and according to the quantity of them (the binders), so is the quantity of cider regulated for the evening’s entertainment.
[105] The dance.
THE
DEATH, BURIAL, AND DESTRUCTION
OF
BACCHUS;
OR,
THE FRUITS OF LASCIVIOUSNESS.
AN ALLEGORICAL POEM.
IN
TWO CANTOS.
By
E. E. FOOT.
Prologue.—It may be considered presumptuous of the Author that he should have dared to venture in the paths of Allegory; but since he has been guilty of doing so, he must bear whatever chastisement may be inflicted upon him. The Poem is intended, in the first instance, to illustrate in a figurative manner the frailty of the human mind—or rather, the natural propensity of the human heart—in the pursuit of pleasure; which, if not mercifully prevented by the interposition of Divine Providence, tends to create an insatiate desire for new and unattainable delights; fosters an intemperate habit; promotes an incessant craving after carnal joys; and which inevitably involves a person in the whirlpool of vice, and ultimately leads to the destruction of the Soul. In the second instance, to depict (according to the Author’s humble ideas) the manner of mystic glorification—instituted by the Sovereign of the Outer World—continually going on in the dominions of his Satanic Majesty; but which, to the unredeemed souls of departed creatures, is the sad state of everlasting torment, consequent to perdition. And thirdly, the Author hopes this representation[106] of the unblissful regions may have the effect of retarding, at least—in some degree, the appetite for the pleasures, or he would say: vanities of this life; and of eventually averting the evil and direful calamity, by—“Turning the hearts of the disobedient unto the wisdom of the just.”
[106] For it scarcely can be believed that there is such a place in reality—viz., of a tangible nature; but if so, in what direction of the boundless Profound can it be? and where are we to look for it?