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Did e'er wise Shakspeare brood upon thy mass,
And whimsey thee to any wondrous use
Of sage forefathers, in his verse to class
That which a worse bard had despis'd to choose,
Unconscious how the meanest objects grow,
Giants of notice in the poet's show?
Canst thou not tell a tale of varied life,
That gave Time's annals their recording name?
No notes of Cade, marching with mischief rife,
By Britain's misery to raise his fame?
Wert thou the hone that "City's Lord" essay'd5
To make the whetstone of his rebel blade?
Wert thou—'tis pleasant to imagine it,
Howe'er absurd such notions may be thought—
When the wide heavens, wild with thunder fit,
Huge hailstones to distress the nation wrought,
A mass congeal'd of heaven's artill'ry wain,6
A "hailstone chorus" of a Mary's reign?
Or, wert thou part of monumental shrine
Rais'd to a genius, who, for daily bread,
While living, the base world had left to pine,
Only to find his value out when dead?
Say, wert thou any such memento lone,
Of bard who wrote for bread, and got a stone?
How many nations slumber on their deeds.
The all that's left them of their mighty race?
How may heroes' bosoms, wars, and creeds
Have sought in stilly death a resting place,
Since thou first gave thy presence to the air,
Thou, who art looking scarce the worse for wear!
Oft may each wave have travell'd to the shore,
That ends the vasty ocean's unknown sway,
Since thou wert first from earth's remotest pore,
Rais'd as an emblem of man's craft to lay;
Yet those same waves shall dwindle into earth,
Ere, lost in time, we learn thy primal worth.
They tell us "walls have ears"—then why, forsooth,
Hast thou no tongue, like ancient stones of Rome,
To paint the gory days of Britain's youth,
And what thou wert when viler was thy home?
Man makes thy kindred record of his name—
Hast thou no tongue to historize thy fame?
But thou! O, thou hast nothing to repeat!
Lump of mysteriousness, the hand of Time
No early pleasures from thy breast could cheat,
Or witness in decay thine early prime!
Yes, thou didst e'er in stony slumbers lay,
Defying each M'Adam of his day.
Eternity of stone! Time's lasting shrine!
Whose minutes shall by thee unheeded pour!
With whom in still companionship thou'lt twine
The past, the present, shall be evermore,
While innate strength shall shield thee from his hurt,
And worlds remain stone blind to what thou wert.
P.T.
THE NECK. 7
A SWEDISH TRADITION
His cheek was blanch'd, but beautiful and soft, each curling tress
Wav'd round the harp, o'er which he bent with zephyrine caress;
And as that lyrist sat all lorn, upon the silv'ry stream,
The music of his harp was as the music of a dream,
Most mournfully delicious, like those tones that wound the heart,
Yet soothe it, when it cherishes the griefs that ne'er depart.
"O Neck! O water-spirit! demon, delicate, and fair!"
The young twain cried, who heard his lay, "why art thou harping there?
Thine airy form is drooping, Neck! thy cheek is pale with dree,
And torrents shouldst thou weep, poor fay, no Saviour lives for thee!"
All mournful look'd the elflet then, and sobbing, cast aside
His harp, and with a piteous wail, sunk fathoms in the tide.
Keen sorrow seiz'd those gentle youths, who'd given cureless pain—
In haste they sought their priestly sire, in haste return'd again;
Return'd to view the elf enthron'd in waters as before,
Whose music now was sighs, whose tears gush'd e'en from his heart's core.
"Why weeping, Neck? look up, and clear those tearful eyes of blue—
Our father bids us say, that thy Redeemer liveth too!"
Oh, beautiful! blest words! they sooth'd the Nikkar's anguish'd breast,
As breezy, angel-whisperings lull holy ones to rest.
He seiz'd his harp—its airy strings, beneath a master hand,
Woke melodies, too, too divine for earth or elfin land;
He rais'd his glad, rich voice in song, and sinking saw the sun,
Ere in that hymn of love he paus'd, for Paradise begun!
PLAN FOR SNUFF TAKERS TO PAY OFF THE NATIONAL DEBT
As snuff-taking seems to increase, the following plan might be adopted by the patrons of that art, to ease John Bull of his weight, and make him feel as light and easy, as if he had taken a pinch of the "Prince Regent's Mixture.'"
Lord Stanhope says, "Every professed, inveterate, and incurable snuff-taker, at a moderate computation, takes one pinch in ten minutes. Every pinch, with the agreeable ceremony of blowing and wiping the nose, and other incidental circumstances, consumes a minute and a half. One minute and a half out of every ten, allowing sixteen hours and a half to a snuff-taking day, amounts to two hours and twenty-four minutes out of every natural day, or one day out of every ten. One day out of every ten amounts to thirty-six days and a half in a-year. Hence, if we suppose the practice to be persisted in forty years, two entire years of the snuff-taker's life will be dedicated to tickling his nose, and two more to blowing it. The expense of snuff, snuff-boxes, and handkerchiefs, will be the subject of a second essay, in which it will appear, that this luxury encroaches as much on the income of the snuff-taker as it does on his time; and that by a proper application of the time and money thus lost to the public, a fund might be constituted for the discharge of the national debt."
Queries.—Is not this subject worthy the attention of the finance committee? Might not the cigar gentlemen add to the discharge of the debt?
P.T.W.
СКАЧАТЬ
"Now is Mortimer lord of the city."—Vide Shakspeare.
In the reign of Mary, hailstones, which measured fifteen inches in circumference, fell upon and destroyed two small towns near Nottingham.—Cooper's Hist. England.
"The Neck, a water-spirit, answering, in Sweden, &c. to the Scottish kelpie, as to its place of abode; but we believe its character is not so mischievous. The northern idea, that all fairies, demons, &c. who resided in this world, were spirits out of the pale of salvation, is very ancient. Mr. Keightley assures us, that the legend of which these stanzas attempt a versification, is extremely popular in Sweden."—Vide "Fairy Mythology."