THE EXILED LONDONER.
"Since I have been at this place I have lost as many as three copies of The Times in a week, while Punch was as regularly stolen as it was posted."—Times, January 10.
WITH black ennui the Exile sits,
Watching the rain-drops as they fall;
The bluebottle about him flits,
That ate the peach on the garden wall.
No Times nor Punch, 'tis very strange;
Unlifted is the iron latch;
Of papers he's without the batch
That gives his days their only change.
At first he only said, "Oh deary!
The post is late," he said;
"Of waiting I am rather weary,
I would my Punch I'd read."
About the middle of the day
The postman's form its shadow cast,
The door he sought with footsteps gay,
The Times and Punch are here at last.
Out with them; but 'tis very strange,
The envelope is open torn—
'Tis but the Herald of the morn;
His paper they have dared to change.
He only said, "The Herald's dreary,
Dreary, indeed," he said;
"It's very look has made me weary;
It never can be read."
Upon some stones—a hillock small,
The Londoner in exile leapt,
And over objects large and small
A telescopic watch he kept;
He saw the postman walk away,
He gazed till it was nearly dark,
Then only made this sad remark,
"Nor Times nor Punch will come to-day."
He only said, "'Tis very dreary
They do not come," he said;
"While I for want of them am weary,
They're elsewhere being read."
And even when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds a game did play,
Blowing the sign-boards to and fro,
As if 'twould blow them right away;
He'd with the spider, as it climbs,
Hold converse—asking if 'twould tell
Whether the postman dared to sell
The weekly Punch and daily Times.
He only said, "'Tis very dreary,
Dreary, indeed," he said;
"Of life I'm almost getting weary,
My Times and Punch unread."
All day within the dreamy house
His shoes had in the passage creak'd;
The maid-of-all-work, like a mouse,
Out of her master's presence sneak'd,
Or from the kitchen peer'd about,
Or listen'd at the open doors,
To hear his footsteps tread the floors
With the short hurried pace of doubt.
She only said, "My master's weary,
And angry, too," she said;
She said, "Oh deary me! oh deary!
I wish he'd go to bed."
The crickets chirrup on the hearth,
The slow clock ticking—and the sound
Of rain upon the gravel path
That hems the Exile's cottage round;
All these, but most of all the power
Of sleep after an anxious day,
Up-stairs had hurried him away.
He paced his chamber for an hour,
Then said he, "This, indeed, is dreary,
My Times, my Punch," he said,
"Without you I am always weary;
I'll tumble into bed."
Punch, January 22, 1848.