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' that 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 like 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, I like thy Antiquary. With Ins fit on, It makes me think Who has--or had--within his garden wall, A _miniature Stone Henge_, so very small That sparrows find it difficult to sit on; And Dousterwivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; And Edie Ochiltree, that old _Blue Beggar_, Painted so cleverly, I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly!

I like thy Barber--him that fir'd the _Beacon--_ But that's a tender subject now to speak on!

IX.

I like long-arm'd Rob Roy.--His very charms Fashion'd him for renown!--In sad sincerity, The man that robs or writes must have long arms, If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity!

Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity, Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) Bearing the name she bore, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy!

But Roys can never die--why else, in verity, Is Paris echoing with "Vive le _Roy_"!

Aye, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di Vernon, of course, shall often live again-- Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, Who can pass by Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand?

There be Old Bailey Jarvies on the stand!

X.

I like thy Landlord's Tales!--I like that Idol Of love and Lammermoor--the blue-eyed maid That led to church the mounted cavalcade, And then pull'd up with such a bloody bridal!

Throwing equestrian Hymen on his haunches-- I like the family (not silver) branches That hold the tapers To light the serious legend of Montrose.-- I like M'Aulay's second-sighted vapors, As if he could not walk or talk alone, Without the devil--or the Great Unknown,-- Dalgetty is the dearest of Ducrows!

XI.

I like St. Leonard's Lily--drench'd with dew!

I like thy Vision of the Covenanters, That bloody-minded Grahame shot and slew.

I like the battle lost and won; The hurly-burlys bravely done, The warlike gallop and the warlike canters!

I like that girded chieftain of the ranters, Ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple, With one eye on his sword, And one upon the Word,-- How _he_ would cram the Caledonian Chapel!

I like stern Claverhouse, though he cloth dapple His raven steed with blood of many a corse-- I like dear Mrs. Headrigg, that unravels Her texts of scripture on a trotting horse-- She is so like Rae Wilson when he travels!

XII.