OVER THE WAY.
“I sat over against a window where there stood a pot with very pretty flowers; and I had my eyes fixed on it, when on a sudden the window opened and a young lady appeared whose beauty struck me.”—ARABIAN NIGHTS.
ALAS! the flames of an unhappy lover
About my heart and on my vitals prey;
I’ve caught a fever that I can’t get over,
Over the way!
Oh! why are eyes of hazel? noses Grecian!
I’ve lost my rest by night, my peace by day,
For want of some brown Holland or Venetian
Over the way!
I’ve gazed too often, till my heart’s as lost
As any needle in a stack of hay:
Crosses belong to love, and mine is crossed
Over the way!
I cannot read or write, or thoughts relax—
Of what avail Lord Althorp or Earl Grey?
They cannot ease me of my window-tax
Over the way!
Even on Sunday my devotions vary,
And from St. Bennet Fink they go astray
To dear St. Mary Overy—the Mary
Over the way!
Oh! if my godmother were but a fairy,
With magic wand, how I would beg and pray
That she would change me into that canary
Over the way!
I envy everything that’s near Miss Lindo,
A pug, a poll, a squirrel or a jay—
Blest blue-bottles! that buzz about the window
Over the way!
Even at even, for there be no shutters,
I see her reading on from grave to gay,
Some tale or poem, till the candle gutters
Over the way!
And then—oh! then—while the clear waxen taper
Emits, two stories high, a starlike ray,
I see twelve auburn curls put into paper
Over the way!
But how breathe unto her my deep regards,
Or ask her for a whispered ay or nay,—
Or offer her my hand, some thirty yards
Over the way!
Cold as the pole she is to my adoring;—
Like Captain Lyon, at Repulse’s Bay,
I meet an icy end to my exploring
Over the way!
Each dirty little Savoyard that dances
She looks on—Punch—chimney sweeps in May.
Zounds! wherefore cannot I attract her glances
Over the way?
Half out she leans to watch a tumbling brat,
Or yelping cur, run over by a dray;
But I’m in love—she never pities that!
Over the way!
I go to the same church—a love-lost labour;
Haunt all her walks, and dodge her at the play;
She does not seem to know she has a neighbour
Over the way!
At private theatres she never acts;
No Crown-and-Anchor balls her fancy sway;
She never visits gentlemen with tracts
Over the way!
To billets-doux by post she shows no favour—
In short, there is no plot that I can lay
To break my window-pains to my enslaver
Over the way!
I play the flute—she heeds not my chromatics—
No friend an introduction can purvey;
I wish a fire would break out in the attics
Over the way!
My wasted form ought of itself to touch her;
My baker feels my appetite decay;
And as for butchers’ meat—oh! she’s my butcher
Over the way!
At beef I turn; at lamb or veal I pout;
I never ring now to bring up the tray;
My stomach grumbles at my dining out
Over the way!
I’m weary of my life; without regret
I could resign this miserable clay
To lie within that box of mignonette
Over the way!
I’ve fitted bullets to my pistol-bore;
I’ve vowed at times to rush where trumpets bray,
Quite sick of number one—and number four
Over the way!
Sometimes my fancy builds up castles airy,
Sometimes it only paints a ferme orneé,
A horse—a cow—six fowls—a pig—and Mary
Over the way!
Sometimes I dream of her in bridal white,
Standing before the altar, like a fay;
Sometimes of balls, and neighbourly invite
Over the way!
I’ve coo’d with her in dreams, like any turtle,
I’ve snatch’d her from the Clyde, the Tweed, and Tay;
Thrice I have made a grove of that one myrtle
Over the way!
Thrice I have rowed her in a fairy shallop,
Thrice raced to Gretna in a neat “poshay,”
And showered crowns to make the horses gallop
Over the way!
And thrice I’ve started up from dreams appalling
Of killing rivals in a bloody fray—
There is a young man very fond of calling
Over the way!
Oh! happy man—above all kings in glory,
Whoever in her ear may say his say,
And add a tale of love to that one story
Over the way!
Nabob of Arcot—Despot of Japan—
Sultan of Persia—Emperor of Cathay—
Much rather would I be the happy man
Over the way!
With such a lot my heart would be in clover—
But what—oh horror!—what do I survey!
Postillions and white favours!—all is over
Over the way!
A RUNAWAY MATCH.
A PLAN FOR
WRITING BLANK VERSE IN RHYME,
IN A LETTER TO THE EDITOR.
RESPECTED SIR,
In a morning paper justly celebrated for the acuteness of its reporters, and their almost prophetic insight into character and motives—the Rhodian length of their leaps towards results, and the magnitude of their inferences, beyond the drawing of Moux’s dray horses,—there appeared, a few days since, the following paragraph.
“Mansion House. Yesterday, a tall emaciated being, in a brown coat, indicating his age to be about forty-five, and the raggedness of which gave a great air of mental ingenuity and intelligence to his countenance, was introduced by the officers to the Lord Mayor. It was evident from his preliminary bow that he had made some discoveries in the art of poetry, which he wished to lay before his Lordship, but the Lord Mayor perceiving by his accent that he had already submitted his project to several of the leading Publishers, referred him back to the same jurisdiction, and the unfortunate Votary of the Muses withdrew, declaring by another bow, that he should offer his plan to the Editor of the Comic Annual.”
The unfortunate above referred to, Sir, is myself, and with regard to the Muses, indeed a votary, though not a £10 one, if the qualification depends on my pocket—but for the idea of addressing myself to the Editor of the Comic Annual, I am indebted solely to the assumption of the gentlemen of the Press. That I have made a discovery is true, in common with Hervey, and Herschell, and Galileo, and Roger Bacon, or rather, I should say, with Columbus,—my invention concerning a whole hemisphere, as it were, in the world of poetry—in short, the whole continent of blank verse. To an immense number of readers this literary land has been hitherto a complete terra incognita, and from one sole reason,—the want of that harmony which makes the close of one line chime with the end of another. They have no relish for numbers that turn up blank, and wonder accordingly at the epithet of “Prize,” prefixed to Poems of the kind which emanate in—I was going to say from—the University of Oxford. Thus many very worthy members of society are unable to appreciate the Paradise Lost, the Task, the Chase, or the Seasons,—the Winter especially,—without rhyme. Others, again, can read the Poems in question, but with a limited enjoyment; as certain persons can admire the architectural beauties of Salisbury steeple, but would like it better with a ring of bells. For either of these tastes my discovery will provide, without affronting the palate of any other; for although the lover of rhyme will find in it a prodigality hitherto unknown, the heroic character of blank verse will not suffer in the least, but each line will “do as it likes with its own,” and sound as independently of the next as “milkmaid,” and “water-carrier.” I have the honour to subjoin a specimen—and if, through your publicity, Mr. Murray should be induced to make me an offer for an Edition of Paradise Lost on this principle, for the Family Library, it will be an eternal obligation on,
Respected Sir, your most obliged, and humble servant,
* * * * * * *
A NOCTURNAL SKETCH.
Even is come; and from the dark Park, hark,
The signal of the setting sun—one gun!
And six is sounding from the chime, prime time
To go and see the Drury-Lane Dane slain,—
Or hear Othello’s jealous doubt spout out,—
Or Macbeth raving at that shade-made blade,
Denying to his frantic clutch much touch;—
Or else to see Ducrow with wide stride ride
Four horses as no other man can span;
Or in the small Olympic Pit, sit split
Laughing at Liston, while you quiz his phiz.
Anon Night comes, and with her wings brings things
Such as, with his poetic tongue, Young sung;
The gas up-blazes with its bright white light,
And paralytic watchmen prowl, howl, growl,
About the streets and take up Pall-Mal Sal,
Who, hasting to her nightly jobs, robs fobs.
Now thieves to enter for your cash, smash, crash.
Past drowsy Charley, in a deep sleep creep,
But frightened by Policeman B. 3, flee,
And while they’re going, whisper low, “No go!”
Now puss, while folks are in their beds, treads leads,
And sleepers waking, grumble—“Drat that cat!”
Who in the gutter caterwauls, squalls, mauls
Some feline foe, and screams in shrill ill-will.
A-LAD-IN, OR THE WONDERFUL LAMP.
Now Bulls of Bashan, of a prize size, rise
In childish dreams and with a roar gore poor
Georgy, or Charley, or Billy, willy-nilly;—
But Nursemaid in a nightmare rest, chest-press’d,
Dreameth of one of her old flames, James Games,
And that she hears—what faith is man’s—Ann’s bans
And his, from Reverend Mr. Rice, twice, thrice:
White ribbons flourish, and a stout shout out,
That upward goes, shows Rose knows those bows’ woes!
WHITE FAVOURS.