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! Loves thee but little, To let that poor horse linger in his pane! VI O build a Brookes's Theatre for horses! Four sorry steeds shall follow in each coach! Shall sorrow for thee,-sore with kick and blow 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, Parent of many children-child of none ! Nobody's daughter-but a parent still! A vox and nothing more,-yet not Vauxhall; No hand—but a handwriting on a wall— Still call'd the same,-without identity! A nothing shin'd upon,-invisibly bright, Constable's literary John-a-nokes- 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, 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 It was to hear thee touch the famous string 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; |