Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really raise the wind;
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best trade-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse now taking to the till
Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows):
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (at sight) of inspiration,
Touches the notes for each new theme,
While still fresh "change comes o'er her dream."
What Steam is on the deep—and more—
Is the vast power of Puff on shore;
Which jumps to glory's future tenses
Before the present even commences;
And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us
Before the world has read one line of us.
In old times, when the God of Song
Drove his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two,
Bookt for posterity "all thro';"—
Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times—
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road;—
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his night-cap on the way.
Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in no time!
Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author—that's enough.
In vain the critics set to watch him
Try at the starting post to catch him:
He's off—the puffers carry it hollow—
The critics, if they please, may follow.
Ere they've laid down their first positions,
He's fairly blown thro' six editions!
In vain doth Edinburgh dispense
Her blue and yellow pestilence
(That plague so awful in my time
To young and touchy sons of rhyme)—
The Quarterly, at three months' date,
To catch the Unread One, comes too late;
And nonsense, littered in a hurry,
Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.
But bless me!—while I thus keep fooling,
I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling."
That postman too (who, truth to tell,
'Mong men of letters bears the bell,)
Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally
That I must stop—
Yours sempiternally.
THOUGHTS ON MISCHIEF.
BY LORD STANLEY.
(HIS FIRST ATTEMPT IN VERSE.)
"Evil, be thou my good."
—MILTON.
How various are the inspirations
Of different men in different nations!
As genius prompts to good or evil,
Some call the Muse, some raise the devil.
Old Socrates, that pink of sages,
Kept a pet demon on board wages
To go about with him incog.,
And sometimes give his wits a jog.
So Lyndhurst, in our day, we know,
Keeps fresh relays of imps below,
To forward from that nameless spot;
His inspirations, hot and hot.
But, neat as are old Lyndhurst's doings—
Beyond even Hecate's "hell-broth" brewings—
Had I, Lord Stanley, but my will,
I'd show you mischief prettier still;
Mischief, combining boyhood's tricks
With age's sourest politics;
The urchin's freaks, the veteran's gall,
Both duly mixt, and matchless all;
A compound naught in history reaches
But Machiavel, when first in breeches!
Yes, Mischief, Goddess multiform,
Whene'er thou, witch-like, ridest the storm,
Let Stanley ride cockhorse behind thee—
No livelier lackey could they find thee.
And, Goddess, as I'm well aware,
So mischief's done, you care not where,
I own, 'twill most my fancy tickle
In Paddyland to play the Pickle;
Having got credit for inventing
A new, brisk method of tormenting—
A way they call the Stanley fashion,
Which puts all Ireland in a passion;
So neat it hits the mixture due
Of injury and insult too;
So legibly it bears upon't
The stamp of Stanley's brazen front.
Ireland, we're told, means the land of Ire;
And why she's so, none need inquire,
Who sees her millions, martial, manly,
Spat upon thus by me, Lord Stanley.
Already in the breeze I scent
The whiff of coming devilment;
Of strife, to me more stirring far
Than the Opium or the Sulphur war,
Or any such drug ferments are.
Yes—sweeter to this Tory soul
Than all such pests, from pole to pole,
Is the rich, "sweltered venom" got
By stirring Ireland's "charmed pot;"
And thanks to practice on that land
I stir it with a master-hand.