II Thou,-whom the second-sighted never saw, No mister in the world-and yet all mystery! A man of clair obscure-not he o' the moon! A non-descriptus in a caravan, A private of no corps-a northern light A vizor and no knight; The real abstract hero of the age; A Some One made in every man's presumption, Hast thou no silver platter, No door-plate, or no card—or some such matter, III Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger Thou mystery-monger, Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon, That people buy and can't make head or tail of it; Thou Zimmerman made practical! Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style, Hideth its source wherever it is bred, Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head! Ah! wherefore hast thou fled, Thou learned Nemo-wise to a degree, IV Thou nameless captain of the nameless gang That do—and inquests cannot say who did it! Wert thou at Mrs. Donatty's death-pang? Hast thou made gravy of Weare's watch-or hid it? Hast thou a Blue-Beard chamber? Heaven forbid it! I should be very loth to see thee hang! I hope thou hast an alibi well plann'd, An innocent, altho' an ink-black hand. Tho' thou hast newly turn'd thy private bolt on I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton, Writing thy next new novel-The Crusaders! V Perhaps thou wert even born To be Unknown.-Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, Pinn'd to a ticket A scholar poor on St. Augustine's Back, Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden; A little hoard of clever simulation, That took the town-and Constable has bidden VI I liked thy Waverley-first of thy breeding; Tho' Dymoke does it makes him think of clattering Tuning his challenge to the gauntlet's ring- It was to hear thee touch the famous string Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang, Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, Like Sagittarian Pan! VII I like Guy Mannering-but not that sham son And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major; That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, VIII I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, That sparrows find it difficult to sit on; And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly! IX I like long-arm'd Rob Roy.-His very charms Fashion'd him for renown!-In sad sincerity, The man that robs or writes must have long arms, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy! Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand? X I like thy Landlord's Tales !—I like that Idol And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal! To light the serious legend of Montrose.— Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows! ΧΙ I like St. Leonard's Lily-drench'd with dew! The hurly-burlys bravely done, The warlike gallops and the warlike canters ! And one upon the Word, How he would cram the Caledonian Chapel ! Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse- XII I like thy Kenilworth-but I'm not going The question to renew, How thou canst leave such deeds without a name, Forego the smiles of literary houris Mid-Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty- Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph! P'rhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, P'rhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself To other Englands with Australian roamers— |