A Late Scene At Swanage.

Tuesday evening,

I much regret, dear Reverend Sir,
    I could not come to * * * to meet you;
But this curst gout won’t let me stir--
    Even now I but by proxy greet you;
As this vile scrawl, whate'er its sense is,
Owes all to an amanuensis.
Most other scourges of disease
Reduce men to extremities--
But gout won’t leave one even these.

From all my sister writes, I see
That you and I will quite agree.
I'm a plain man who speak the truth,
    And trust you'll think me not uncivil,
When I declare that from my youth
    I've wisht your country at the devil:
Nor can I doubt indeed from all
    I've heard of your high patriot fame--
From every word your lips let fall--
    That you most truly wish the same.
It p...

Paris, March 30,1833.


You bid me explain, my dear angry Ma'amselle,
How I came thus to bolt without saying farewell;
And the truth is,--as truth you will have, my sweet railer,--
    There are two worthy persons I always feel loath
To take leave of at starting,--my mistress and tailor,--
    As somehow one always has scenes with them both;
The Snip in ill-humor, the Syren in tears,
    She calling on Heaven, and he on the attorney,--
Till sometimes, in short, 'twixt his duns and his dears,
    A young gentleman risks being stopt in his journey.

But to come to the point, tho' you think, I dare say.
That 'tis debt or the Cholera drives me away,
'Pon honor you're wrong;--such a mere bagatelle
    As a pestilence, nobody now-a-days fea...

Who d' ye think we've got here?--quite reformed from the giddy.
    Fantastic young thing that once made such a noise--
Why, the famous Miss Fudge--that delectable Biddy,
    Whom you and I saw once at Paris, when boys,
In the full blaze of bonnets, and ribands, and airs--
    Such a thing as no rainbow hath colors to paint;
Ere time had reduced her to wrinkles and prayers,
    And the Flirt found a decent retreat in the Saint.

Poor "Pa" hath popt off--gone, as charity judges,
To some choice Elysium reserved for the Fudges;
And Miss, with a fortune, besides expectations
From some much revered and much palsied relations,
Now wants but a husband, with requisites meet,--
Age, thirty, or thereabouts--stature six feet,
And warranted godly--to make all complete.

How I grieve you're not with us!--pray, come, if you can,
Ere we're robbed of this dear, oratorical man,
Who combines in himself all the multiple glory
Of, Orangeman, Saint, quondam Papist and Tory;--
(Choice mixture! like that from which, duly confounded,
The best sort of brass was, in old times, compounded.)--
The sly and the saintly, the worldly and godly,
All fused down, in brogue so deliciously oddly!
In short, he's a dear--and such audiences draws,
Such loud peals of laughter and shouts of applause,
As can't but do good to the Protestant cause.

Poor dear Irish Church!--he today sketched a view
Of her history and prospect, to me at least new,
And which (if it takes as it ought) must arouse
The whole Christian w...

STANZAS ENCLOSED.


TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY?--WHAT?--HOW?

Dark comrade of my path! while earth and sky
    Thus wed their charms, in bridal light arrayed,
Why in this bright hour, walkst thou ever nigh;
    Blackening my footsteps, with thy length of shade--
                                Dark comrade, WHY?

Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,
    Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot,
Saddening them as thou goest--say, what means
    So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot--
                                Grim goblin, WHAT?

Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow,
    Thou bendest, too--then risest when I rise;--
Say, mute, mysterious Thing! how is't that thou
    Thus comest between me and those blessed skies--
...

He comes from Erin's speechful shore
Like fervid kettle, bubbling o'er
    With hot effusions--hot and weak;
Sound, Humbug, all your hollowest drums,
He comes, of Erin's martyrdoms
    To Britain's well-fed Church to speak.

Puff him, ye Journals of the Lord,[1]
Twin prosers, Watchman and Record!
Journals reserved for realms of bliss,
Being much too good to sell in this,
Prepare, ye wealthier Saints, your dinners,
    Ye Spinsters, spread your tea and crumpets;
And you, ye countless Tracts for Sinners,
    Blow all your little penny trumpets.
He comes, the reverend man, to tell
    To all who still the Church's part take,
Tales of parsonic woe, that well
    Might make even grim Dissenter's heart ache:--
Of ten whole bis...