Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed
Obscure philosophy's enchanting light!
Until the public, wildered as they read,
Believed they saw that which was not in sight—
Of course 'twas not for me to set them right;
For in my nether heart convinced I am,
Philosophy's as good as any other bam.
Novels three-volumed I shall write no more—
Somehow or other now they will not sell;
And to invent new passions is a bore—
I find the Magazines pay quite as well.
Translating's simple, too, as I can tell,
Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,
And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.
Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed,
Battered and broken are their early lyres.
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,
For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.
A fice for your small poetic ravers,
Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!
Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers,"
Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?"
No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees
My own high brow girt with the bays about.
What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!
THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER. BY W——— E——— A———, ESQ. WILLIAM AYTOUN.
Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;
He has dropp'd—that star of honor—on the field of his renown!
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink,
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!
Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely
flow'd,
I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.
Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet,
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock;
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon,
Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon;
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind,
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined;
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum,
Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels till each gibbering Gael grew
dumb;
But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more—
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir,
He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd—let the rest of us beware!
We shall leave him, as we found him—lying where his manhood fell,
'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.
Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare,
Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air.
Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas,
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass,
We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy,
Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy,
So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of
his,
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!
FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. TO BON GAULTIER. WILLIAM AYTOUN.
ARGUMENT-An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:
Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness!
Dost thou remember, when with stately prance,
Our heads went crosswise in the country dance;
How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm,
Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;
And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?
Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,
Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing,
Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—
A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;
And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel,
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille.
That smiling voice, although it made me start,
Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart;
And, picking at my flowers, I said with free
And usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!"
Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear,
I heard the music burning in my ear,
And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,
If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis.
So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,
And took his place against us with his dame,
I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk
From the stern survey of the soldier-monk,
Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk;
But threading through the figure, first in rule,
I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.
Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars,
Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars—
Not young Apollo, beamily array'd
In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade—
Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,
Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,
Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong,
As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng!
How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love
On thy trim velvet doublet laced above;
The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,
Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!
So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black
So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back.
So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,
So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,
That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,
Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!