Thro' any horse's side, must ache to spy

That horrid window fronting Fetter-lane,

For there's a nag the crows have pick'd for victual, Or some man painted in a bloody vein

Gods! is there no Horse-spital!

That such raw shows must sicken the humane!
Sure Mr. Whittle

Loves thee but little,

To let that poor horse linger in his pane!

VI

O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses!
O wipe away the national reproach-
And find a decent Vulture for their corses !
And in thy funeral track

Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach!
Steeds that confess "the luxury of wo!"
True mourning steeds, in no extempore black,
And many a wretched hack

Shall sorrow for thee,-sore with kick and blow
And bloody gash-it is the Indian knack-
(Save that the savage is his own tormentor)—
Banting shall weep too in his sable scarf-
The biped woe the quadruped shall enter,
And Man and Horse go half and half,
As if their griefs met in a common Centaur!

ODE TO THE GREAT UNKNOWN

"O breathe not his name!"-Moore.

I

THOU Great Unknown!

I do not mean Eternity, nor Death,

That vast incog!

For I suppose thou hast a living breath,
Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown,
Thou man of fog!

Parent of many children-child of none !
Nobody's son!

Nobody's daughter-but a parent still!
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch
Of orphan eggs,-left to the world to hatch.
Superlative Nil!

A vox and nothing more,-yet not Vauxhall;
A head in papers, yet without a curl !
Not the Invisible Girl!

No hand—but a handwriting on a wall—
A popular nonentity,

Still call'd the same,-without identity!
A lark, heard out of sight,-

A nothing shin'd upon,-invisibly bright,
"Dark with excess of light!"

Constable's literary John-a-nokes-
The real Scottish wizard-and not which,

Nobody-in a niche;

Every one's hoax !

Maybe Sir Walter Scott

Perhaps not!

Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?

II

Thou,-whom the second-sighted never saw,
The Master Fiction of fictitious history!
Chief Nong-tong-paw!

No mister in the world—and yet all mystery!
The "tricksy spirit" of a Scotch Cock Lane-
A novel Junius puzzling the world's brain—
A man of Magic—yet no talisman !

A man of clair obscure-not he o' the moon!
A star at noon.

A non-descriptus in a caravan,

A private—of no corps-a northern light
In a dark lantern,-Bogie in a crape—
A figure-but no shape;

A vizor—and no knight;

The real abstract hero of the age;
The staple Stranger of the stage;

A Some One made in every man's presumption,
Frankenstein's monster-but instinct with gumption;
Another strange state captive in the north,
Constable-guarded in an iron mask-
Still let me ask,

Hast thou no silver platter,

No door-plate, or no card-or some such matter,
To scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth?

III

Thou Scottish Barmecide, feeding the hunger
Of Curiosity with airy gammon !

Thou mystery-monger,

Dealing it out like middle cut of salmon,

That people buy and can't make head or tail of it;
(Howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it ;)
Thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical,
That lay their proper bodies on the shelf—
Keeping thyself so truly to thyself,

Thou Zimmerman made practical !

Thou secret fountain of a Scottish style,
That, like the Nile,

Hideth its source wherever it is bred,
But still keeps disemboguing
(Not disembroguing)

Thro' such broad sandy mouths without a head!
Thou disembodied author-not yet dead,-
The whole world's literary Absentee!

Ah! wherefore hast thou fled,

Thou learned Nemo-wise to a degree,
Anonymous LL.D.!

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
The curiosity of all invaders—

I hope thou art merely closeted with Colton,
Who knows a little of the Holy Land,

Writing thy next new novel-The Crusaders!

V

Perhaps thou wert even born

To be Unknown.-Perhaps hung, some foggy morn,
At Captain Coram's charitable wicket,

Pinn'd to a ticket
That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing
The future great unmentionable being.-
Perhaps thou hast ridden

A scholar poor on St. Augustine's Back,
Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack

Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden;

A little hoard of clever simulation,

That took the town-and Constable has bidden
Some hundred pounds for a continuation—
To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation.

VI

I liked thy Waverley-first of thy breeding;
I like its modest "sixty years ago,"
As if it was not meant for ages' reading.
I don't like Ivanhoe,

Tho' Dymoke does it makes him think of clattering
In iron overalls before the king,
Secure from battering, to ladies flattering,
Tuning his challenge to the gauntlet's ring-
Oh better far than all that anvil clang

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
Of Brown :—I like that literary Sampson,
Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson.
I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson
That slew the Gauger;

And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major;
And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender,
That Scottish Witch of Endor,

That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it,
To tell a great man's fortune-or to make it!

VIII

I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on,
He makes me think of Mr. Britton,
Who has-or had-within his garden wall,
A miniature Stone Henge, so very small

That sparrows find it difficult to sit on;