Chapter III: Introduction (3)

But science from their mind, with piercing rays,
The fogs of ignorance did ne’er dispel,
Mechanic toil consum’d their youthful days,
And scarcely left them time to scrawl or spell.

Full many an acre of uncultur’d land
Fertility within its womb contains,
Full many a rugged mass of sordid sand
Conceals of virgin gold the latent grains.

Some Wolfe that ne’er shall see pale Gallia fly,
Nor in bright victory’s arms resign his breath,
Some Marlb’rough inglorious here may lie,
Some Coote unskilful in the art of death.

Th’ applause of hoary vet’rans to command,
The bribes and threats of monarch’s to despise,
To raise the glory of their native land,
And read their praises in an army’s eyes,

Their lot forbids;――nor circumscribes alone
Their martial genius, but their crimes restrain,
Forbids to place a tyrant on a throne,
And forge for free-born men dire slav’ry’s chains.

Unmov’d to mark the frantic widow’s woe,
And hear her orphans wail their slaughter’d sire,
Or swell of guiltless blood the crimson flow,
With fury kindled by ambition’s fire.

Fix’d in the fav’rite seat of noise and strife,
They never can enjoy one tranquil day,
Along the rough walk of an irksome life
They keep the restless tenor of their way.

Yet from grave thoughts their feelings to protect,
Frail temporary huts erected nigh,
With uncouth phrase and wretched daubing deck’d,
Invite their lips a cordial draught to try.

Their mantling mug, their song’s sonorous swell,
The place of port and repartee supply;
And many a smutty tale around they tell
That teach the social hour with speed to fly.

For who, within the ranks by reason led,
The joys of Bacchus to his soul denies,
Treads the gay precincts of a sutler’s shed,
Nor cast upon the door his longing eyes?

On some base hearts gold has a sov’reign sway,
Some pious minds delight in sighs and tears,
Fame can the poet’s midnight toil repay,
But ale and brandy sooth a soldier’s cares.

For thee who by thy natal stars compell’d,
Dost touch with artless hand the warbling lyre,
If chance, by friendship’s soft regard impell’d,
Some kind companion shall thy fate inquire;

Haply some brother sub, shall smiling say:
“Oft in his tent retir’d the youth was seen,
“Scribbling with hasty hand a hum’rous lay,
“To fill a page in Urban’s magazine.

“There in that field, beside that holy pile,
“That rears his Gothic steeple to the sky
“Each noon beneath those elms he mus’d awhile,
“Then por’d upon a book with greedy eye.

“Along the mazes of yon murm’ring stream,
“With pensive pace at ev’ning would he stray,
“’Till wrapt in wand’ring fancy’s airy dream
“He mutter’d metre to the lunar ray.

“One morn I sought him vainly through the line,
“Among the elms and o’er the verdant lea,
“Another came, nor near the house divine,
“Nor by the stream, nor in his tent was he.

“The next he wrote that, prompted by his muse,
“In rural mansions Pegasus he pac’d,
“To camps and courts had made his last adieus,
“And o’er his antique gate these verses trac’d.”

THE INSCRIPTION.

Here let me rest in this sequester’d cell,
Where pomp and noise and riot are unknown,
Where raptur’d Contemplation loves to dwell,
And whose low roof Contentment calls her own.

Large splendid halls where gold and silver glare,
My mind’s undazzled eye would never please;
Here am I freed from all that vex’d me――care,
And bless’d with all I wish――poetic ease.

No more blind folly my desires shall raise,
Nor draw my footsteps from this lov’d abode;
Here will I breathe the remnant of my days,
And court the favors of the tuneful god.

H. 1806.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY ON A PAIR OF BREECHES,
_Thrown upon a Dust-heap by a Miser._

Here rest my _breeches_ on the _lap_ of earth
By Time destroyed, by Pride now cast away;
Whose _waistband_ never knew the stretch of mirth,
Whose _lining_ long ere this had felt decay.

Oft has the _needle_ tried its skill in vain,
Patch over _patch_ full oft their _knees_ have borne,
Oft have their rents my bosom doom’d to pain,
That sympathiz’d with them when they were _torn_.

Not half so tough the hide of roasted pig,
Not more ambrosial was the damask rose;
Not half so comely was the parson’s wig,
As ye my Breeches――best of all my clothes!

’Till Time’s unpitying hand (by fate design’d),
Your stitches, strength, and youth, hath from you borne
So falls the flow’r before the ruthless wind,
So from its mate the guiltless turtle’s torn,

Here, while ye lie upon the teeming earth,
Altho’ no shell your funeral pomp displays,
Far from your grave shall fly the rebel Mirth,
And dust and ashes serve instead of _bays_.

THOMAS BRAND,

From _The British Minerva_, printed in Hamburgh. 1818.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY,
_Written in a College Library._

The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound,
Awakes the fellows, slumbering o’er their fires;
Roused by the ’custom’d note, each stares around,
And sullen from th’ unfinish’d pipe retires.

Now from the common hall’s restriction free,
The sot’s full bottles in quick order move,
While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,
And barbers’ daughters soothe with tales of love.

Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,
Save where the broken battlements among
The east wind murmurs through the shatter’d panes,
And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.

Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight,
Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows,
In peaceful pomp and undisturb’d retreat,
The labours of our ancestors repose.

No longer sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil,
The half-starved student o’er their leaves shall pore,
For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,
Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more!

For them no more shall booksellers contend,
Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim;
Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend,
While common sense stands wondering at their fame.

Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,
While still they found each meaning but the true;
Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid’s page,
And give to Virgil words he never knew:

Yet ere the partial voice of critic scorn
Condemn their memory, or their toil deride,
Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn
A waste of words, and learning ill applied?

Can none remember? Yes: I know all can――
When readings against different readings jarr’d,
While Bentley led the stern scholastic van,
And new editions with the old ones warr’d.

Not ye, who lightly o’er each work proceed,
Unmindful of the graver moral part,
Condemn these works, if, as you run and read,
You find no trophies of the engraver’s art.

Can Bartolozzi’s all-enrapturing power
To heavy works the stamp of merit give?
Could Grignion’s art protract oblivion’s hour,
Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?

In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrew’d,
Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade,
Some wondrous legend, fill’d with death and blood,
Some monkish history, perhaps, is laid!

With store of barbarous Latin at command
Though arm’d with puns, and jingling quibble’s mights
Yet could not these soothe Time’s remorseless hand
Or save their labours from eternal night.

Full many an Elegy has mourn’d its fate,
Beneath some pasty cabin’d, cribb’d, confin’d;
Full many an Ode has soar’d in lofty state,
Fix’d to a kite, and quivering in the wind.

Here too perhaps, neglected now, may lie
The rude memorial of some ancient song,
Whose martial strains and rugged minstrelsy
Once waked to rapture every listening throng.

To trace fair Science through each wildering course,
With new ideas to enlarge the mind,
With useful lessons, drawn from classic source,
At once to polish and instruct mankind,

Their times forbade: nor yet alone repress’d
Their opening fancy; but alike confined
The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,
And each low triumph of the vulgar mind.

Their humbler science never soar’d so far,
In studious trifles pleased to waste their time.
Or wage with common sense eternal war,
In never ending clink of monkish rhyme.

Yet were they not averse to noisy fame,
Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,
But still aspired to raise their sinking name,
And fondly hoped that name might ever last.

Hence each proud volume, to the wondering eye,
Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel’s[16] urn;
Where ships, wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,
And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.

For who with rhymes e’er rack’d his weary brain,
Or spent in search of epithets his days,
But from his lengthen’d labours hoped to gain
Some present profit or some future praise?

Though folly’s self inspire each dead-born strain,
Still flattery prompts some blockhead to commend;
Perhaps e’en Timon hath not toil’d in vain,
Perhaps e’en Timon hath as dull a friend.

For thee, whose muse with many an uncouth rhyme
Dost in these lines neglected worth bewail,
If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)
Some kindred idler should enquire thy tale;

Haply some ancient Fellow may reply――
“Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day,
E’en till the western sun went down the sky
Lounging his lazy listless hours away:

“Each morn he sought the cloister’s cool retreat;
At noon at Tom’s he caught the daily lie,
Or from his window looking o’er the street
Would gaze upon the travellers passing by;

“At night, encircled with a kindred band,
In smoke and ale roll’d their dull lives away;
True as the college clock’s unvarying hand,
Each morrow was the echo of to-day.

“Thus, free from cares, and children, noise and wife,
Pass’d his smooth moments; till, by Fate’s command,
A lethargy assail’d his harmless life,
And check’d his course, and shook his loitering sand.

“Where Merton’s towers in Gothic grandeur rise,
And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,
Beneath the centre aisle interr’d he lies,
With these few lines engrav’d upon his tomb”――

THE EPITAPH.

Of vice or virtue void, here rests a man
By prudence taught each rude excess to shun;
Nor Love nor Pity marr’d his sober plan
And Dulness claim’d him for her favorite son,

By no eccentric passion led astray,
Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend,
Calmly through life he steer’d his quiet way,
Nor made an enemy, nor gain’d a friend.

Seek not his faults――his merits――to explore,
But quickly drop this uninstructive tale!
His works――his faults――his merits――are no more,
Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion’s veil.

SIR J. H. MOORE.

From _Elegant Extracts from the British Poets_. 1824.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BOW-FAIR, 1823.
(_Bow Fair was instituted by Charles II. in 1664._)

The _Bow-bell_ tolls the knell of Bow-fair fun,
And _Richardson_ winds slowly out of town;
Poor old “young Saunders” sees his setting son,――
And _Gyngell_ pulls his red tom-tawdry down.

Now three cart-horses draw the caravan,
O’er smooth MacAdams, to provincial fairs,
And pining showmen, with companions wan,
Make dreary humour, while the hawbuck stares!

No more shall cockneys don their Sunday coats,
Stepney, Brook-green, or brighter Bow to fill,
No folk shall row to Greenwich Hill in boats,
And roll in couples adown One Tree Hill!

Girls shall no longer dance in gingham gowns,
Nor monkeys sit on organs at the door,
_Gongs_ shall be turn’d to frying-pans; and clowns
Take to the country, and be clowns no more!

No learned pig, no veal, no mutton pie,――
No heads be crack’d, no under garments won,――
No giants twelve no dwarfs just three feet high――
No calves with two heads, shown to calves with one

At Scowton’s dire destruction will be seen!
The trumpet will give up its tragic truths!
The magistrate desiring to be _Keen_,
Will put an end, as usual, to the _Booths_.

No lucky bags, no drums, no three-hand reels,
No cocks in breeches, no tobacco-sots!
No more shall Wapping learn to dance quadrilles,
Or shake a hornpipe ’mid the pewter pots!

No more the Fairing shall the fair allure,
For fairs no more the fairing may expose;
In pleasure-lovers, work shall work a cure;
And Sundays only show the Sunday clothes!

The magistrates decree that “fair is foul,”
And put a stop to profitable sport;
They exercise the Lion’s shilling howl,
And cut the Irish giant’s income short.

No more the backy-box, in dark japan,
Shakes on the stick, and lures the rabble rout;
No more the lemon, balanced by the man,
Flies at the touch and flings its toys about;

Take warning then, ye fair! from this fair’s fall!
_One Act_ (the Vagrant Act) has been its ruin!
Listen, oh listen, to _Law’s serious call_,
For fun and pleasure lead but to undoing!

From _The Mirror_. 1823.

――――:o:――――

THE LONG VACATION.

My Lord now quits his venerable seat,
The six clerk on his padlock turns the key,
From business hurries to his snug retreat,
And leaves vacation, and the town to me.

Now all is hush’d, asleep the eye of care,
And Lincoln’s Inn a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the porter whistles o’er the square,
Or Pompey barks, or basket woman scolds,

Save that from yonder pump, and dirty stair,
The moping shoe-black and the laundry-maid,
Complain of such as from the town repair,
And leave their little quarterage unpaid.

In those dull chambers where old parchments lie,
And useless drafts in many a mouldering heap,
Each for parade to catch the client’s eye,
Salkeld and Ventris in oblivion sleep.

In these dead hours what now remains for me,
Still to the stool and to the desk confined,
Debarr’d from Autumn shades, and liberty
Whose lips are soft as my Cleora’s kind.

Hail, beauteous nymph! How does thy presence gild
The brow of care, and mitigate my pains!
With thee (such ecstacy thy beauties yield)
Bondage is free, and hugs thy pleasing chains.

Blest in thy love, sincerely I despise
The quibble, warmly urged with many a frown,
Hear each opinion of the learn’d and wise,
Nor envy Cato’s wig, or Tully’s gown.

W. R.

From _The Mirror_. 1823.

Part of this parody was quoted in _Doings in London_, 1828; and also in _The Mirror_, May 28, 1831.

――――:o:――――

The following parodies of _The Elegy_ may also be found in early volumes of _The Mirror_:――

LUCUBRATIONS IN AN APOTHECARY’S SHOP.

The twilight curtains round the busy day,
The sliding shutters close the tradesman’s shop,
The street lamp now emits its useful ray,
And homeward speeds the bustling Doctor Slop, &c.

_The Mirror._ Vol. 4, p. 459.

――――

ELEGY.

The pealing clock proclaims the close of day,
The attorney’s clerk goes slowly to his tea;
And mine begins to plod his weary way,
And leave my rooms to solitude and me, &c.

_The Mirror._ Vol. 5, p. 131.

――――:o:――――

ALAS! POOR FALLEN SIR FRANCIS![17]
_Elegy written in Westminster Hall._

The Judges toll the knell of Burdett’s fame,
The rabble-rout disperse with lack of glee;
The counsel homeward plod just as they came,
And leave the Hall to darkness and to me.

Now fades each fairy prospect on my sight;
All nature now appears to make a pause,
Save where the wits the _Chronicle_ who write
Weave drowsy paragraphs to patch my cause.

Beneath these ancient walls, once vocal made
By vote of thanks, which late I found so cheap,
Indignant Justice bids my laurels fade,
The dull co-partners of my folly weep.

For me no more the flaming press shall teem,
Nor busy printers ply their evening care;
No patriots flock to propagate my theme,
Nor lick my feet the ill-got wreath to share.

The fulsome strain of incense-breathing puff,
The _snuffman_ bawling to the throng misled;
Cobbett’s foul Register, nor all the stuff
Of _weekly_ scribes, can raise my drooping head.

Oft did the thoughtless to their judgments yield,
Their railings oft disloyal rage provoke;
How jocund each his secret soul reveal’d,
How laugh’d the crowd at ev’ry hackney’d joke

Now you, ye loyal, fix on them the fault,
If memory to my name no trophies raise
Where in the ample page, with zeal unbought,
The pen historic gives the meed of praise.

Can golden box,[18] though worth a hundred pounds,
Back to poor Burdett bring his forfeit fame?
Can honour’s voice now on his side be found,
Or flattery shield him from contempt and shame?

The boast of popularity’s short hour,
And all that faction gains by means most base,
Await alike exposure, dreaded power!
The paths of folly lead but to disgrace.

Yes; still my name to rescue from neglect,
Some frail memorial that on bookstalls lie,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,
Implore the passing tribute of a sigh.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
Such pleasing transient laurels e’er resign’d,
Left his proud height, the idol of a day,
Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

On some frail prop sedition still relies,
Some _pious souls_ its frustrate arm admires,
E’en from the grave its fetid stench will rise,
E’en in its ashes live its wonted fires.

For ye, who mindful of my honours dead,
Do in your lines my hapless tale relate,
If by kind feeling to your office led,
Some crazy patriot shall inquire my fate,

Ah, woe is me! some wicked wit will tell,
“Oft have we seen him, ere the evening fall,
Brushing with hasty steps along Pall Mall,
To meet Lloyd Wardle at the House’s call.

“There to the nodding members, luckless wights!
In hackney’d strains, till midnight would he preach
’Bout Magna Charta, and the Bill of Rights,
And prate of things far, far, beyond his reach.

“To prison sent, he swore they us’d him ill,
The _room_[19] was powerless, as all should see.
The trial came, and British Judges still
Refused to change the House’s just decree.

“And now with judgment due, in sad dismay,
He sees himself consign’d to public scorn;
Approach and read, if thou can’st read, the lay
Penn’d in the _Post_, to Jacobins a thorn;

EPITAPH.

“Here hides his head, now humbled to the earth,
A man to John Horne and his Faction known;
Fair talents never smil’d upon his birth,
And Disappointment mark’d him for her own.

“Large were his wishes, but his lot severe;
To Tooke he ow’d his fortune and reverse:
He gain’d from John, ’twas all his portion――shame;
John gain’d from him, ’twas all he wish’d――his purse.

“No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from their dread abode;
Where they have met the awful test he chose,
The judgment of his country and his God.”

ALFRED.

From _The Morning Post_. London. May 20, 1811.

――――:o:――――

THE PETTIFOGGER,

_Written in Westminster Hall, during the long
Vacation of_ 1812, _and addressed to a_

LITTLE ATTORNEY!

The courts are shut, departed every Judge,
Each greedy lawyer gripes the double fee,
In doleful mood, the suitors homeward trudge,
And leave the hall, to silence, and to me.

Now, not a Barrister attracts the sight,
And all the dome, a solemn stillness holds,
Save, at the entrance, where with all her might,
The Barrow-wheeler at the Porter scolds.

From every court, with ev’ry virtue crown’d!
Where numbers gain, and numbers lose their bread,
Elsewhere to squabble, puzzle and confound,
Attornies, clerks, and counsel――all are fled.

Contending fools! too stubborn to agree,
The good warm client, name for ever dear
The long-drawn brief, the spirit-stirring fee,
No more till Michaelmas, shall send them here.

’Till then, no more the orange nymphs shall ply,
Their ripen’d fruit, all glossy as their cheek;
Nor strive, with jest, and sportive leering eye,
The custom of the youthful clerk, to seek.

Let not the pedlar, frown with eyes askew,
Nor envy them the profits of the hall;
Let him not think, that with a spiteful view,
They mean to draw the custom from his stall.

The cinder wench, in dust-cart seated high,
With hands begrim’d, and dirty as her sieve;
The ragged sluts――who sprats and herrings cry――
The meanest wenches, have a right to live!

Nor you, ye Belles! impute the fault to these,
If at the glittering ball they don’t appear,
Where music hath a thousand charms to please,
And with its sweetness, almost wounds the ear,

Perhaps in their neglected minds, were sown
The seeds of worth, from nature’s rich supply;
Such seeds of worth, as might in time have grown,
And flourish’d lovely, to the ravish’d eye.

Full many a rural lass in Britain’s land,
The vile unwarrantable b――――s hold;
Full many a town-bred damsel walks the Strand,
And barters beauty――for a piece of gold.

The daring _Pettifogger_, stern of brow,
Who might have done due honor to the spade,
Whirl’d the tough flail, or grasp’d the peaceful plough,
Presumes, the Courts of Justice to parade.

This upstart _thing_ some useful trade to learn,
By far more suited to his shallow head,
False pride forbade, nor suffer’d him to earn,
By _honest_ industry his daily bread!

Far from the _worthy_ members of the law,
A rogue in grain, he ever kept aloof;
By low _Jew Bailiffs_ taught his brief to draw,
And where he couldn’t find, he coin’d a proof.

Yet doth this wretch, illiterate as proud,
With low-life-homage, low-life business meet,
And pick the pockets of th’ unhappy crowd
’Mur’d in the Bench, the Counters, and the Fleet.

Bound by the creditors, in durance fast,
In plaintive murmurs, they bewail their fate,
And many an eager, wistful eye they cast,
Whene’er the turnkey opes, and shuts the gate.

For who to dull imprisonment a prey,
The pleasing thoughts of freedom e’er resign’d?
From home, from wife――from children――dragg’d away,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind;

For you, who traverse to and fro this shrine,
And lounge, and saunter, at your wonted rate,
If in some future chat, with arch design,
Some wag should ask――the Pettifogger’s fate

In sneering mood, some brother quill, will say,
“I’ve seen him oft at tavern table sit;
“Brushing with dirty hands, the crumbs away,
“And eye the joint, just taken from the spit,

“One morn I miss’d him in this ’custom’d hall,
“And at the room, where he was wont to be,
“His boy I saw, who register’d my call;
“But by yon steps――nor at his desk was he.

“The next I learnt (O melancholy tale),
“On the profession, what a foul reproach!
“That his deserts had sent him to a jail,
“Where he was dragg’d (O shame!) without a coach!

HIS CHARACTER.

“Vulture! the arrant’st cormorant on earth,
“At length is caught, and into Newgate thrown;
“Fair honesty disclaim’d him at his birth,
“And villainy confess’d him for her own!

“Grown old in sin, at no one crime dismay’d,
“’Gainst nature’s cries, he arm’d his harden’d breast;
“For when his parents were to earth convey’d,
“He smil’d and spurned compassion, as a jest.

“Now press’d with guilt, he’ll feel its sharpest sting;
“Great his transgressions, and but small his hope;
“He’ll give the Sheriff (all he’ll have) a ring,
“And gain from Justice, all he fear’d――a rope!

“No farther seek his vices to disclose,
“But leave the wretch unpitied to deplore
“His ill-spent life, till breaking his repose,
“The turnkey leads him to _the Debtors’ Door_.”

J. B. FISHER.

This parody originally appeared in a publication called _Town-Talk_, but was afterwards reprinted in a scarce little volume of poems entitled “_Plaintive Tales_,” by a Comedian. Published by W. Tilley, Chelsea, London, in 1819. This book is now principally sought after by collectors because it has an early illustration by George Cruikshank, on which the name is incorrectly spelt _Cruikshanks_.

――――:o:――――

AN ELEGY

WRITTEN IN THE LONG VACATION.

The vacant streets proclaim the ‘_parting_ day,’
The loaded coaches setting off, you see,
The Gownsman homeward bends his joyous way,
And leaves the college and the town to me.

No wine, no supper-parties glad the sight,
O’er all the court a solemn stillness reigns;
Save where some gambling Gyps o’er skittles fight,
When Fortune robs them of their easy gains.

Save that at intervals from yonder tow’r
You hear some moping Questionist complain,
Condemn’d to toil thro’ many a weary hour
O’er Newton, Smith, and ‘Calculus’ again.

(Haply the Porter or some Gyp may say,
“Oft have we seen him at the break of dawn,
Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,
And take his seedy walk across the lawn.”)

All else is hush’d!――the Spider here has made
His web o’er books in many a mould’ring heap;
And on the shelf till next October laid
Euclid and Wood and Aristotle sleep!

TOGATUS.

_The Gownsman._ Cambridge, January 7, 1831.
――――

WOES OF CHANGE,
or
The Lachrymatory Lament
of
Laudator Temporis (et Rerum) Acti.

By _Thomas Dibdin, Esq._

Improvement tolls the knell of what, of yore,
We loved, and May-day garlands have gone by;
And _Charleys_ on their posts now sleep no more,
But hourly _weep_ the hours they used to cry!

No more grim heads, each stuck upon a pike,
On lookers _up_ from Temple Bar look _down_;
The strikers at St. Dunstan’s cease to strike,
They gave a _quarter’s_ notice, and left town.

(And, could St. Dunstan’s _club_-mates _club_ to dine,
Their “marble jaws” would make a curious clatter;
Clay goblets would contain their wall-fruit wine,
And all their pastry would be “stony batter!”)

The Strand’s so _changed_, they’ve left no ‘_Change_ at all,
Where beasts and beefeaters once held their sway;
Exeter ’Change is turned into a hall,
And operas that _ran_ have _run_ away!

If many a coach, to _omnibus_ enlarged,
Takes, for a tizzy, Dandyzettes or drabs,
By such a fare the fair are fairly charged,
Yet why have chariots dwindled down to _cabs_?

Who but for _Porridge Island_ sheds a tear,
Its sav’ry steam’s to ev’ry nose a loss!
Shops in _arcades_ to buyers may be dear!
But will they give us back one golden cross?

All is changed round where King Charles the First
Rears his dark motionless Equestrian phiz;
That, could he speak, he’d say, “May I be curst
If my poor _girthless_ steed knows where he is!”

Water in _wooden_ pipes, ran under ground,
They’re _iron_ now, and fire runs by their side;
And, could but fairy laundresses be found,
We might _below_ get iron’d, wash’d, and dried!

Stout oars and swelling sails we once did deem
Sufficient in a boat for tide and wind;
Now only boiling water we esteem,
And all, though _right before_ is _left behind_!

Horses were changed, _en route_ to Gretna Green,
And “first pair out!” would landlords loudly bawl;
But “Polly put the kettle on,” I ween,
Will greet us when for horses there’s _no call_!

Three theatres, C. G., D. L., H. M.
Were thought enough, but now no limit bars
Some _three-and-thirty_, while the most of _them_
Exist on _moonshine_ to support the _stars_!

_Velocipedes_ have hurried _quickly_ past,
_Kaliedescopes_ have _changed_ this many a day,
While, o’er McAdam’s dust, wheels slow or fast
Maintain the “_noiseless tenor_ of their way.”

Churches increase, and _chapels_ ten times more,
But, most of all, in streets, and rows, and ranks,
Do gin shops grow with temp’rance clubs next door,
And lovely little hells and saving banks!

With _penny_ periodical reviews;
_Halfpenny_ prints precede _Old Ladies Mags._,
And coffee shops present their farthing news,
With crumpets, cream, and kidneys done to rags!

Thus things will change as long as time doth move!
And now upon the humble _lay_ I sing
A veto let me lay, lest it should prove
THE COMIC MAGAZINE’S a serious thing!

_The Comic Magazine_, Volume 1. 1832.

――――:o:――――

THE GAMBLER.

The lamps refract the gleam of parting day,
The weary vulgar hail the friendly night,
The GAMESTER hies him to his darling play,
And leads the way to deeds that shun the light.

Now reigns a dreary stillness in each street,
And mortal feuds are hush’d in breathless calm,
Save where the votaries of _Hodges_ meet,
And springing rattles sound the shrill alarm.

Save that from yonder lantern lighted walk,
The drowsy watchman bawls with clam’rous din,
At such as stopping in the streets to talk,
Omit the tribute of a glass of gin.

Beneath the roof, that ruin fraught retreat,
Where beams the fanlight o’er the guarded door,
Each wedg’d by numbers in his narrow seat,
The _faithless_ gamblers chink their current ore.

The triste entreaties of impassion’d grief,
The piteous tale of family distressed,
The stranger’s ruin, or the friend’s relief,
No more shall raise compassion in their breast.

For them no more the midnight rush shall burn,
Or wearied menial be detain’d from bed;
No wives expectant watch for their return,
Or anxious listen to each passing tread.

Oft do the purses of the victims fail,
Their fury oft on box and dice they wreak
How jocund look they if their luck prevail!
How grand their manner when they deign to speak!

Let not the legislator deem it harm
That _others_ trifle with the laws _he_ breaks;
Nor rich knaves hear, with counterfeit alarm,
That men distress’d will often _make mistakes_.

The boast of honesty, the laws dread power,
And all that pride of feeling can achieve,
Await alike the inevitable hour,
The rage for gaming leads us all to thieve.

Nor scorn, ye rulers of the states’ finance,
The prompt expedients of these pilfering scenes,
Where thro’ the aid of rapine they enhance
The scanty budget of their ways and means.

Can stories sad, or supplicative grief,
Back to the owner bring his valued dross?
Can blunt rebuffs administer relief,
Or aidless pity compensate his loss?

Perhaps, amidst that motley group there stand
Some who once graced far other scenes of life;
Dupes, that have mortgaged the last rood of land,
Or lost the fortune of some hapless wife.

But rife examples, which bid wisdom think,
Their frantic folly never can appal,
Blind avarice leads them to the ruin’s brink,
And dark _despair_ accelerates their fall.

Full many a trinket, pledged for half the cost,
Hath raised the means of venturing _once_ more;
Full many a _watch_ is destined to be lost,
And run its time out in some broker’s store.

Some fancy shirt-pin that hath deck’d the breast,
On plaited cambric, starch’d in spruce array;
Some ring, memento of a friend at rest,
Some seal, or snuff box, of a better day.

The servile tongues of borrowers to command,
The tributary dues of boxes to evade,
To spread the paper’d plunder in the hand,
And read their consequence in homage paid,

Their luck forbids; nor circumscribes alone
To them its evils, but its range extends;
Forbids the needful purchases at home,
And shuts the door of welcome on their friends.

The petty processes of law to stop,
To prove how groundless are the landlords fears;
Or gain fresh credit at the chandler’s shop,
By paying off the grocery arrears.

Far from all dreams of splendid opulence,
Their wish is answered if their way they clear;
Well can they dine for twelve or thirteen pence,
Including waiter, and a pint of beer.

Yet e’en their painful efforts to exist,
Some _Knaves in heart_, as yet _unskilled_ to cheat,
With secret whisper when a piece is missed,
Will strive from pique, or envy, to defeat.

Their _names_, their means, on which at large they dwell,
Invade at intervals the startled ear,
And many an anecdote in point they tell,
That teaches gaping _novices_ to fear.

For who, to damn’d fatality a prey,
Gives his last piece, without concern or pain,
Leaves the warm circle of the crowded play,
Nor asks the table if a chance remain?

To some staunch friend is the decision left,
Some sturdy swearing the event requires,
E’en the chous’d fools are conscious of the theft,
E’en on their oaths would not believe such liars!

For thee, who, absent from the wonted game,
Dost think these lines some pointed truths relate,
If, when is heard the mention of thy name,
Some fellow-sufferer shall ask thy fate:

Haply some wight loquacious may reply,
“Oft-times we met him at approach of night,
“Brushing with haste along the streets hard by,
“As if all matters were not going right.

“There, in some house where charges are not high,
“And penny candles shed a glimm’ring light,
“He give the maid some cheap-bought scrap to fry,
“Of which he’d eat with ravenous delight.

“There in some corner shunning to be seen,
“He’d draw his hat down o’er his prying eyes,
“Or with a handkerchief his visage screen,
“Like one who fear’d a capture by surprise.

“One night we miss’d him in his usual seat,
“We searched both kitchen and the scullery;
“We search’d again, nor in his old retreat,
“Nor at the _Tun_, nor at the _Bell_ was he.

“At length a letter to discovery led,
“With separate notice serv’d at each friend’s door
“Reminding his creditors he was not dead,
“But meant to _live_ to owe them something more.”

THE LETTER.

Here rots in jail, with scarce one hope on earth,
A wretch that’s sacrificed to love of play;
Success, _at first_ to golden dreams gave birth,
And fortune flatter’d _only_ to betray.

Large were his LOSSES, yet no _loss_ deterr’d,
Those mischiefs followed, such as seldom fail:
He gave his friends (_t’was all he’d left_) his _word_,
He gained by Hazard (_as most do_) a JAIL!

Seek not his future projects to reveal,
Nor draw conclusions to prejudge the fact;
In anxious dread (_which most of you must feel_),
He waits the benefit of the INSOLVENT ACT.

From _Pierce Egan’s Book of Sports_. 1832.

――――:o:――――

DRY GOODS: AN ELEGY.
_A Manchester Parody._

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The trading herd wind slowly to their tea,
The buyers _Inn_-ward wend their weary way,
And leave the street to darkness and to me.

Now roll the bleachers’ waggons from my sight,
“The market” now a solemn stillness holds,
Save where some straggler piles a dizzy height
Of “Blackburn seventies,” in unnumber’d folds.

Save that some _Charley_ hoarsely bawls the hour,
Proves all the padlocks, or may chance complain
To such as, wand’ring near his nightly bower,
Molest his vigilant and _virtuous_ reign.

Beneath their dimities the men of trade,
’Till _rainy day_ upon their eye-lids peep,
(Each in his narrow crib in comfort laid,)
The clerk and master innocently sleep.

The smoky call of sooty-breathing morn,
The servants stirring just above their head,
The milk-_man’s_ whistle, or a mail-guard’s horn,
Shall soon arouse them from their feather bed:

For they no more will risk “another turn,”
But to their former posts with haste repair,
To greet some cousin-German’s safe return,
And of his orders crave the bliss――a share.

(_Thirteen verses omitted here._)

Whoe’er to torpid indolence a prey,
His busy cares in trade hath oft resign’d;
Quitted the race of fortune for a day,
Is left by jostling brothers far behind.

Thus on the game of chance the soul relies,
’Till fading nature peace and rest requires;
’Till from the tomb are heard death’s warning cries,
To join in partnership with buried sires.

For thee, who patiently thus far hast read
These faithful memoirs of thine humble state,
If chance (when thou art number’d with the dead)
Some wag, like me, enquire into thy fate,

Haply some hoary hooker-in may say,
“Oft have we seen him as the clock struck eight,
Bending his steps with eager haste away,
On new-come customers intent to wait.

“There at the end of yonder spacious street,
By time and usage nominated ‘High,’
Some few ‘choice spirits’ of his kin he’d meet,
To pounce upon the buyers passing by.

“Hard by yon Inn, yclep’d the ‘Mosley Arms,’
To circulate his cards he’d daily rove;
Now drooping, woeful man, with strange alarms,
And craz’d with care that goods he could not move.

“One morn I miss’d him at the ’custom’d post,
Along the street, and near his fav’rite Inn;
Another came,――I thought him surely lost,――
’Twas ten o’clock, and he had never been!

“The next, with coaches two, in sad array,
Slow to the ‘Rushholme Ground,’ I saw him borne;
Go there, and read the plain, but honest lay,
Grav’d on the stone above this wight forlorn.”

EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth,
A youth respected, and in town well known;
But fortune smil’d not on his humble birth,
Though many merchants sought him for their own.

Large was his knowledge, and his soul sincere,
But they a paltry recompense did send;
They gave him only eighty pounds a year,
And never paid him till its very end.

No further seek his merits to disclose,
Or draw his frailties from the silent tomb;
There they alike in trembling hope repose,
Till he receives his solemn, final doom.

From “_Gimcrackiana_, or Fugitive pieces on Manchester Men and Manners.” By Geoffrey Gimcrack. Manchester. 1833.

――――:o:――――

MEDITATIONS ON MR. BARRY’S NEW HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT.
_Written on Board the “Lily” Steamboat._

The wharf-bell tolls the knell of starting steam
The jostling crowd pours quickly o’er the pier;
The ladies forward rush with timid scream,
And leave the stern to _Punch_, and bottled beer.

Now fades each public building from the sight,
As on her course the _Lily_ steamer holds,
Till new St. Stephen’s rears its moderate height,
Which many a tier of scaffolding infolds.

Beneath those beams; those yet unfinished towers,
At present echoing with the workman’s clang:
Upon their legs, perchance, for weary hours,
Shall Britain’s future Senators harangue.

Full many a Whig of coldest heart serene,
Shall broach his philosophic nonsense there;
Full many a Tory, born abuse to screen,
Shall waste his humbug on the midnight air.

Some future DUNCOMBE, there, with dauntless breast,
The tyrant of his diocese shall twit;
Some mute, good-humoured BROUGHAM contented rest――
Some SIBTHORP, guiltless of his country’s wit.

Mourn not the Houses burnt some years ago:
No vain regrets the ruin’d pile requires.
E’en from its dust a voice exclaims “Oh! oh!”
Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.

_Punch_, 1844.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY IN A LONDON THEATRE.

The curtain falls, the signal all is o’er,
The eager crowd along the lobby throng,
The youngsters lean against the crowded door,
Ogling the ladies as they pass along.

The gas lamps fade, the foot-lights hide their heads,
And not a soul beside myself is seen,
Save where the lacquey dirty canvas spreads,
The painted boxes from the dust to screen.

Save that, in yonder gallery enshrined,
Some ragged girl complains in angry tone
Of such as, sitting in the seat behind,
Had ta’en her shawl in preference to their own.

There where those rugged planks uneven lie,
There on those dirty boards――that darken’d stage
Did Kean and Kemble fill the listener’s eye,
And add a lustre to the poet’s page.

But they are gone――and never, never more
Shall prompter’s summons, or the tinkling bell,
Or call boy crying at the green-room door,
“The stage waits, gentlemen!” their dreams dispel.

For them no more the coaches of the great
Shall stop up Catherine Street――for them, alas!
No more shall anxious crowds expectant wait,
Or polish up the gilded opera glass.

Oft did the vicious on their accents hang,
Their power oft the stubborn heart hath bent,
And, whilst the spacious house with plaudits rang,
They sent the harden’d homewards to repent.

There, in that empty box, perchance hath swell’d
A heart with Romeo’s burning passion rife,
Hands that “poor Yorick’s” skull might well have held,
Or clutch’d at Macbeth’s visionary knife.

But unto these the bright and glorious stage
Full in their face its holy portals slamm’d,
Harsh managers repressed their noble rage,
And told them, ungenteelly, they’d be “_damned_.”

Full many a pearl of purest ray serene
The rugged oyster-shell doth hold inside,
Full many a vot’ry of the tragic queen,
The dingy offices of London hide.

Some Lear, whose daughters never turn’d his head,
Nor changed to gall the honey of his life;
Some white Othello who with feather bed
Had smothered not, his unoffending wife.

The applause of listening houses to command,
The critics smile and malice to despise,
To win reward from lord and lady’s hand,
And the approval of the thundering skies,

Their parents hindered, and did thus o’erthrow
The brilliant hopes that in their bosom rose
To tear Macready’s laurels from his brow,
And put out Charley Kean’s immortal nose.

Of one of these I heard a drummer say,
“Oft have I seen him from the muddy street,
Across the crimson benches make his way,
To gain his well-loved and accustomed seat,

“There, where yon orchestra uprears its rail,
On which I hang my drumsticks, many a night
I’ve seen him with a dirty shirt, and pale,
Watching the motley scene with wild delight.

“There, upon yonder seat, which now appears
To have rent its robe for grief he is not here,
Oft have I seen him sit, dissolved in tears,
Veiling his grief in draughts of ginger beer.

“One night I missed him from his favourite seat.
I wondered strangely where the boy could be.
Another night――I gazed――in vain my gaze――
Nor in the _pit_, nor in the _house_ was he!

“Come here! I saw him carried to that tomb,
With drunken mutes, and all their mock parade,
Just read――I’ve left my spectacles at home――
_The Epitaph_ a friend has kindly made.”

THE EPITAPH.

“Here lieth one beneath the cold damp ground,
A youth to London, and the stage unknown,
Upon his merits stern Macready frowned,
And ‘Swan and Edgar’ marked him for their own.

“Large was his bounty, unto aught wherein
The stage did mingle, and the cost was sweet,
He gave the drama all he could――his ‘tin,’
And gained――’twas all he could――his favourite seat.

“No father had he who could interfere
To check his nightly wanderings about,
And from the best authority we hear,
His mother never dreamt that he was out!”

HOTSPUR.

From _Bentley’s Miscellany_. 1843. This parody was afterwards republished, with alterations, and omissions, in _The Bentley Ballads_.

NIGHT THOUGHTS.

Saint Martin tolls the hour of long past day,
The gas-lights glimmer through deserted streets,
The drunkard staggers on his homeward way,
And runs his head against each post he meets:

In every house they’ve now put out the light,
Save where a rushlight burns with feeble shine,
Gin palaces have shut up for the night,
And I’m watched closely by B, 59.

Here, as I stand, pond’ring on this and that,
A cabman pulls his horse up with a “Wo!”
And looks me in the face, to touch his hat,
While hoarsely asking “Vere I’d wish to go?”

To-night invited to a small carouse,
I’ve stayed much later than I meant to be,
In vain I’ve sought admission to my house,
My wife won’t rise, and I forgot the key.

To-morrow morning when my spouse shall wake,
To mark my absence, wondering what it means,
Some rude strange hand shall rouse me with a shake
In Covent Garden, slumbering on the greens.

From _The Man in the Moon_, Volume 2 (About 1848.)

――――:o:――――

AN ELEGY, WRITTEN IN A LONDON CHURCHYARD.
_By a Tradesman in the vicinity._

The sexton tolls the knell till parting day,
The latest funeral train has paid its fee,
The mourners homeward take their dreary way
And leave the scene to Typhus and to me.

Now fades the crowded graveyard on the sight,
But all, its air who scent, their nostrils hold,
Save where the beadle drones, contented quite,
And drowsy mutes their arms in slumber fold.

Save where, hard by yon soot-incrusted tower,
A Reverend Man does o’er his port complain,
Of such as would, by sanitary power,
Invade his ancient customary gain.

Beneath those arid mounds, that dead wall’s shade,
Where grows no turf above the mouldering heap,
All in their narrow cells together laid,
The former people of the parish sleep.

The queasy call of sewage-breathing morn,
The ox, urg’d bellowing to the butcher’s shed,
The crowd’s loud clamouring at his threatening horn,
No more shall rouse them from their loathly bed.

For them no more the chamber-light shall burn,
The busy doctor ply his daily care,
Nor children to their sire from school return,
And climb his knees the dreaded pest to share.

Good folks, impute not to their friends the fault,
If memory o’er their bones no tombstone raise;
Where there lie dozens huddled in one vault,
No art can mark the spot where each decays.

No doubt, in this revolting place are laid,
Hearts lately pregnant with infectious fire;
Hands, by whose grasp contagion was conveyed,
As sure as electricity by wire.

Full many a gas of direst power unclean,
The dark o’erpeopled graves of London bear,
Full many a poison, born to kill unseen,
And spread its rankness in the neighbouring air.

Some district Surgeon, that with dauntless breast
The epidemic ’mongst the poor withstood,
Some brave, humane Physician here may rest,
Some Curate, martyrs to infected blood.

To some doom’d breast the noxious vapour flies,
Some luckless lung the deadly reek inspires,
Ev’n from the tomb morbific fumes arise,
Ev’n in men’s ashes live Disorder’s fires.

For thee, who, shock’d to see th’ unhonoured dead,
Dost in these lines their shameful plight relate
If, chance, by sanitary musings led,
Some graveyard-gleaner shall inquire thy fate.

Haply some muddle-headed clerk will say,
“We used to see him at the peep of dawn,
Shaving with hasty strokes his beard away,
Whene’er his window-curtains were undrawn.

“There would he stand o’erlooking yonder shed,
That hides those relics from the public eye,
And watch what we were doing with the dead,
And count the funerals daily going by.

“One morn we miss’d him, in the ’custom’d shop;
Behind the counter where he used to be,
Another serv’d; nor at his early chop,
Nor at the “Cock,” nor at the “Cheese,” was he.

“The next, by special wish, with small array,
To Kensall Green we saw our neighbour borne,
Thither go read (if thou canst read) the lay
With which a chum his headstone did adorn.”

THE EPITAPH.

Here rest with decency the bones in earth,
Of one to Comfort and to Health unknown,
Miasma ever plagued his humble hearth,
And Scarlatina mark’d him for her own.

Long was his illness, tedious and severe,
Hard by a London Churchyard dwelt our friend;
He follow’d to the grave a neighbour’s bier,
He met thereby (’twas what he fear’d) his end.

No longer seek Corruption to enclose
Within the places of mankind’s abode;
But far from cities let our dust repose,
Where daisies blossom on the verdant clod.

(_Published during the dreadful Cholera Visitation, when attention was being called to the danger of burials in the crowded churchyards of the City of London._)

_Punch._ September 15, 1849.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A LONDON CHURCHYARD.

St. Clement’s tolls the knell of parting day
The gaudy shops their portals ’gin to close;
The wearied workman homewards wends his way,
And leaves the town to silence and repose.

Now fades the glare of business from our sight,
And o’er the air a solemn stillness rests,
Save yon gin-palace’s unholy light,
Save yonder crowd’s obscene and drunken jests;

Save where the houseless wanderer, forlorn,
Casts on yon steeple clock his hopeless eye,
Counting the dull, slow hours, until the morn――
Another day to suffer, or to die.

Beneath that steeple clock, beneath those stones,――
Beneath that earth piled up in many a heap,
Scarce covering their poor dishonour’d bones,
Past generations of our fathers sleep.

Sleep! do we mock the word? This crowded tomb,
In which this morn those hallow’d ashes lay,
Must be to-night re-open’d to make room
For others who have died since yesterday.

No rest is there. Within that narrow space
Full――hideously full long years before,――
Still day by day must those now there give place;
Still day by day must room be found for more.

Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect,
Is not the end and object of our song,
No, ’tis that others may with us reflect
On their sad fate who dwell these graves among.

Death in the midst of life! the vapours dank
Of churchyards mingling with our every breath;
Dead men subduing with their poisons rank
Men yet alive! Death propagating Death!

Full many an exhalation cursed, unclean,
The damp unhallow’d graves of London bear;
Full many a poison, virulent and keen,
To spread disease upon the wings of air.

Then who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,
Can cease this crying wrong to bear in mind,
And suffer those already pass’d away
To slay by thousands those still left behind?

For thee, unmindful of this horror dread,
Nor caring the foul nuisance to abate,
If chance by lonely contemplation led,
Some fellow-shopkeeper shall ask thy fate.

Haply some ancient citizen may say,
“Oft have I seen him at the peep of dawn,
Putting his shop in order for the day,
Dusting the muslins, doing up the lawn.

“There, in the heat of yonder stifling shop,
Breathing yon crowded graveyard’s fatal airs;
Still trying not the hideous wrong to stop,
Intent on nothing but to sell his wares.

“One morn I miss’d him from th’ accustomed till,――
Another victim had that churchyard slain;
And yet another, and another still;
‘’Twill slay as long as suffer’d to remain.’”

But there are vested rights! these graveyards pay!
Although the nation be by them disgraced;
And so more men are murder’d every day;
And this the epitaph above them placed:

EPITAPH.

Here rest in heaps, scarce cover’d by the earth,
A lot of bones unhonour’d and unknown,――
Men doom’d to slaughter at their hour of birth,
And graveyard jobbers mark’d them as their own.

_Diogenes._ February 5, 1853.

――――:o:――――

There was another short parody in _Diogenes_ entitled――

ELEGY ON A BETTING OFFICE.

Remove the lists, take down the green baize board,
Shut up the shop (the landlord takes the key);
Fate lays such heavy odds, that I am floor’d;
The Act has made the pace too strong for me.

No more behind my office-rail shall I
Watch greenhorns, on a chance of gain intent,
Into the changes of the market pry,
Or commune with a friendly sporting gent:

No more for me the pleasing sight remains
Of those who thought a fortune here to make,――
The waiter hastening with his daily gains,
And shop-boys raising from the till their stake.

The cabman oft would loiter at my door,
To glean the tout’s last information there;
Invest what he had earned the hour before,
And trust to Fortune for another fare,

And if some wight a heavy stake should claim,
More than I could conveniently drop,
I donn’d a wig and whiskers, changed my name,
And open’d, two streets off, another shop,

Another shop awaits me now no more――
The Finish of my Race arrived, I see;
On a Walk-over though I won before,
This time I’m done, and Luck walks over me.

_Diogenes._ 1853.

――――:o:――――

ELEGY.
_Written in a Railway Station._

The Station clock proclaims the close of day;
The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea;
The last train out starts on its dangerous way,
And leaves the place to darkness and to me.

Now fades the panting engine’s red tail-light,
And all the platform solemn stillness holds,
Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night,
By smothered coughs announce their several colds.

Behind that door of three-inch planking made,
Those frosted panes placed too high up to peep,
All in their iron safes securely laid,
The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep.

The Debts to credit side so neatly borne,
What should be losses profits proved instead;
The Dividends those pages that adorn
No more shall turn the fond Shareholder’s head.

Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield,
Their evidence arithmetic could choke:
How jocund were they that to them appealed!
How many votes of thanks did they provoke!

Let not Derision mock KING HUDSON’S[20] toil,
Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure;
Nor prudery give hard names to the spoil
’Twas glad to share――while it could share secure.

All know the way that he his fortune made,
How he bought votes and consciences did hire;
How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayed
To grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire,

Till these accounts at last their doctored page,
Thanks to mischance and panic did unrol,
When virtue suddenly became the rage,
And wiped GEORGE HUDSON out of fashion’s scroll.

Full many a noble Lord who once serene
The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share,
For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen,
Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare.

For those who, mindful of their money fled,
Rejoice in retribution, sure though late――
Should they, by ruin to reflection led,
Ask _Punch_ to point the moral of his fate,

Haply that wooden-headed sage may say,
“Oft have I seen him, in his fortune’s dawn,
When at his levees elbowing their way,
Peer’s ermine might be seen, and Bishop’s lawn.

“There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each
Advice, what scrip or shares ’twas best to buy,
There his own arts his favourites he would teach,
And put them up to good things on the sly.

“Till to the House by his admirers borne,
Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove,
And on through commerce, colonies, and corn,
Like engine, without break or driver, drove.

“Till when he ceased to dip in fortunes’s till,
Out came one cooked account――of our M. P.;
Another came――yet men scarce ventured, still,
To think their idol such a rogue could be.

“Until those figures set in sad array
Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn――
Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay,
Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn.”

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth,
A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known;
Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth,
God Mammon early marked him for his own.