THE LAST WORDS OF THE LAST WASP OF SCOTLAND,
—A jeu-d’esprit produced at this time, which owed its origin to a simple remark on the unseasonableness of the weather, made by Mrs Hemans to Mr Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, whom she was in the habit of seeing at Sir David Wedderburn’s. “It is so little like summer,” she said, “that I have not even seen a butterfly.” “A butterfly!” retorted Mr Sharpe, “I have not even seen a wasp!” The next morning, as if in confutation of this calumny, a wasp made its appearance at Lady Wedderburn’s breakfast table. Mrs Hemans immediately proposed that it should be made a prisoner, inclosed in a bottle, and sent to Mr Sharpe: this was accordingly done, and the piquant missive was acknowledged by him as follows:—
“SONNET TO A WASP, IN THE MANNER OF MILTON, &c., BUT MUCH SUPERIOR.
Poor insect! rash as rare!—Thy sovereign,[403] sure,
Hath driven thee to Siberia in disgrace—
Else what delusion could thy sense allure
To buzz and sting in this unwholesome place,
Where e’en the hornet’s hoarser, and the race
Of filmy wing are feeble? Honey here
(Scarce as its rhyme) thou find’st not. Ah, beware
Thy golden mail, to starved Arachne dear![404]
Though fingers famed, that thrill the immortal lyre,
Have pent thee up, a second Asmodeus,
I wail thy doom—I warm thee by the fire,
And blab our secrets—do not thou betray us!
I give thee liberty, I give thee breath,
To fly from Athens, Eurus, Doctors, Death!!”
To this Mrs Hemans returned the following rejoinder:—
Sooth’d by the strain, the Wasp thus made reply—
(The first, last time he spoke not waspishly)—
“Too late, kind Poet! comes thine aid, thy song,
To aught first starved, then bottled up so long.
Yet, for the warmth of this thy genial fire,
Take a Wasp’s blessing ere his race expire:—
Never may provost’s foot find entrance here!
Never may bailie’s voice invade thine ear!
Never may housemaid wipe the verd antique
From coin of thine—Assyrian, Celt, or Greek!
Never may Eurus cross thy path!—to thee
May winds and wynds[405] alike propitious be!
And when thou diest—(live a thousand years!)—
May friends fill classic bottles[406] with their tears!
I can no more—receive my parting gasp!—
Bid Scotland mourn the last, last lingering Wasp!”
[403] Beelzebub is the king of flies.
[404] A beautiful allusion to our starving weavers.
[405] Alluding to antiquarian visits to these renowned closes.
[406] Referring to certain precious lachrymatories in the possession of Mr Sharpe.