O Graham, Graham, how I blame
The bastard blush,-the petty shame,
That used to fret me quite,—
The little sores I cover'd then,
No sores on earth, nor sorrows when
The world is out of sight!
My name is Tims.-I am the man
That North's unseen diminish'd clan
So scurvily abused!
I am the very P. A. Z.
The London's Lion's small pin's head
So often hath refused!
Campbell (you cannot see him here)-
Hath scorn'd my lays:-do his appear
Such great eggs from the sky ?—
And Longman, and his lengthy Co.
Long, only, in a little Row,
Have thrust my poems by!
What else?—I'm poor, and much beset With damn'd small duns-that is-in debt Some grains of golden dust!
But only worth, above, is worth.—
What's all the credit of the earth?
An inch of cloth on trust!
What's Rothschild here, that wealthy man! Nay, worlds of wealth ?-Oh, if you can
Spy out, the Golden Ball!
Sure as we rose, all money sank:
What's gold or silver now?-the Bank
Is gone the 'Change and all!
What's all the ground-rent of the globe?
Oh, Graham, it would worry Job
To hear its landlords prate!
But after this survey, I think
I'll ne'er be bullied more, nor shrink
From men of large estate!
And less, still less, will I submit
To poor mean acres' worth of wit-
I that have heaven's span―
I that like Shakspeare's self may dream
Beyond the very clouds, and seem
An Universal Man!
Mark, Graham, mark those gorgeous crowds! Like Birds of Paradise the clouds
Are winging on the wind!
But what is grander than their range?
More lovely than their sun-set change?—-
The free creative mind!
Well! the Adults' School's in the air!
The greatest men are lesson'd there
As well as the Lessee!
Oh could Earth's Ellistons thus small
Behold the greatest stage of all,
How humbled they would be!
"Oh would some Power the giftie gie 'em, To see themselves as others see 'em,"
"Twould much abate their fuss!
If they could think that from the skies
They are as little in our eyes
As they can think of us!
Of us! are we gone out of sight?
Lessen'd! diminish'd! vanish'd quite !
Lost to the tiny town!
Beyond the Eagle's ken-the grope
Of Dollond's longest telescope!
Graham! we're going down!
Ah me! I've touch'd a string that opes The airy valve !—the gas elopes— Down goes our bright Balloon !Farewell the skies! the clouds! I smell The lower world! Graham, farewell, Man of the silken moon!
The earth is close! the City nears-
Like a burnt paper it appears,
Studded with tiny sparks !
Methinks I hear the distant rout
Of coaches rumbling all about—
We're close above the Parks !
I hear the watchmen on their beats,
Hawking the hour about the streets.
Lord! what a cruel jar
It is upon the earth to light!
Well there's the finish of our flight!
I've smoked my last segar!
A FRIENDLY ADDRESS TO MRS. FRY IN
"Sermons in stones."-As You Like It.
"Out! out! damned spot!"-Macbeth.
I LIKE you, Mrs. Fry! I like your name!
It speaks the very warmth you feel in pressing
In daily act round Charity's great flame-
I like the crisp Browne way you have of dressing,
Good Mrs. Fry! I like the placid claim
You make to Christianity, professing
Love, and good works-of course you buy of Barton, Beside the young fry's bookseller, Friend Darton !
I like, good Mrs. Fry, your brethren mute—
Those serious, solemn gentlemen that sport-
I should have said, that wear, the sober suit
Shap'd like a court dress-but for heaven's court.
I like your sisters too, sweet Rachel's fruit—
Protestant nuns ! I like their stiff support
Of virtue and I like to see them clad
With such a difference-just like good from bad!
I like the sober colours-not the wet;
Those gaudy manufactures of the rainbow—
Green, orange, crimson, purple, violet-
In which the fair, the flirting, and the vain, go—
The others are a chaste, severer set,
In which the good, the pious, and the plain, go-
They're moral standards, to know Christians by-
In short, they are your colours, Mrs. Fry!
As for the naughty tinges of the prism-
Crimson's the cruel uniform of war-
Blue-hue of brimstone! minds no catechism;
And green is young and gay-not noted for
Goodness, or gravity, or quietism,
Till it is sadden'd down to tea-green, or
Olive-and purple's giv'n to wine, I guess;
And yellow is a convict by its dress!
They're all the devil's liveries, that men
And women wear in servitude to sin-
But how will they come off, poor motleys, when
Sin's wages are paid down, and they stand in
The Evil presence? You and I know, then,
How all the party colours will begin
To part-the Pittite hues will sadden there,
Whereas the Foxite shades will all show fair!
Witness their goodly labours one by one!
Russet makes garments for the needy poor-
Dove-colour preaches love to all-and dun
Calls every day at Charity's street door-
Brown studies scripture, and bids woman shun
All gaudy furnishing-olive doth pour
Oil into wounds: and drab and slate supply
Scholar and book in Newgate, Mrs. Fry!
Well! Heaven forbid that I should discommend
The gratis, charitable, jail-endeavour!
When all persuasions in your praises blend-
The Methodist's creed and cry are, Fry for ever!
No-I will be your friend-and, like a friend,
Point out your very worst defect-Nay, never
Start at that word! But I must ask you why
You keep your school in Newgate, Mrs. Fry?
|