I like thy Kenilworth--but I'm not going To take a Retrospective Re-Review Of all thy dainty novels--merely showing The old familiar faces of a few, The question to renew, How thou canst leave such deeds without a name, Forego the unclaim'd Dividends of fame, Forego the smiles of literary houris-- Mid-Lothian's trump, and Fife's shrill note of praise, And all the Carse of Gowrie's, When thou might'st have thy statue in Cromarty-- Or see thy image on Italian trays, Betwixt Queen Caroline and Buonaparte, Be painted by the Titian of R.A's, Or vie in signboards with the Royal Guelph!

P'rhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with Homer's, P'rhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself To other Englands with Australian roamers-- Mayhap, in Literary Owhyhee Displace the native wooden gods, or be The china-Lar of a Canadian shelf!

XIII.

It is not modesty that bids thee hide-- She never wastes her blushes out of sight: It is not to invite The world's decision, for thy fame is tried,-- And thy fair deeds are scatter'd far and wide, Even royal heads are with thy readers reckon'd,-- From men in trencher caps to trencher scholars In crimson collars, And learned serjeants in the Forty-Second!

Whither by land or sea art thou not beckon'd?

Mayhap exported from the Frith of Forth, Defying distance and its dim control; Perhaps read about Stromness, and reckon'd worth A brace of Miltons for capacious soul-- Perhaps studied in the whalers, further north, And set above ten Shakspeares near the pole!

XIV.

Oh, when thou writest by Aladdin's lamp, With such a giant genius at command, Forever at thy stamp, To fill thy treasury from Fairy Land, When haply thou might'st ask the pearly hand Of some great British Vizier's eldest daughter, Tho' princes sought her, And lead her in procession hymeneal, Oh, why dost thou remain a Beau Ideal!

Why stay, a ghost, on the Lethean Wharf, Envelop'd in Scotch mist and gloomy fogs?

Why, but because thou art some puny Dwarf, Some hopeless Imp, like Biquet with the Tuft, Fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff'd, Or bullied by our great reviewing Gogs?

XV.

What in this masquing age Maketh Unknowns so many and so shy?

What but the critic's page?

One hath a cast, he hides from the world's eye; Another hath a wen,--he won't show where; A third has sandy hair, A hunch upon his back, or legs awry, Things for a vile reviewer to espy!

Another hath a mangel-wurzel nose,-- Finally, this is dimpled, Like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled, Things for a monthly critic to expose-- Nay, what is thy own case--that being small, Thou choosest to be nobody at all!

XVI.

Well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones-- E'en like Elshender, the mysterious elf, That shadowy revelation of thyself-- To build thee a small hut of haunted stones-- For certainly the first pernicious man That ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee In some vile literary caravan-- Shown for a shilling Would be thy killing, Think of Crachami's miserable span!

No tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in Than there it fell in-- But when she felt herself a show, she tried To shrink from the world's eye, poor dwarf! and died!

XVII.

O since it was thy fortune to be born A dwarf on some Scotch _Inch_, and then to flinch From all the Gog-like jostle of great men, Still with thy small crow pen Amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn-- Still Scottish story daintily adorn, Be still a shade--and when this age is fled, When we poor sons and daughters of reality Are in our graves forgotten and quite dead, And Time destroys our mottoes of morality-- The lithographic hand of Old Mortality Shall still restore thy emblem on the stone, A featureless death's head, And rob Oblivion ev'n of the Unknown!

ODE TO JOSEPH GRIMALDI, SENIOR.

"This fellow's wise enough to play the fool, And to do that well craves a kind of wit."

_Twelfth Night_.

I.

Joseph! they say thou'st left the stage, To toddle down the hill of life, And taste the flannel'd ease of age, Apart from pantomimic strife-- "Retir'd--(for Young would call it so)-- The world shut out"--in Pleasant Row!

II.

And hast thou really wash'd at last From each white cheek the red half-moon!

And all thy public Clownship cast, To play the private Pantaloon?

All youth--all ages--yet to be Shall have a heavy miss of thee!

III.

Thou didst not preach to make us wise-- Thou hadst no finger in our schooling-- Thou didst not "lure us to the skies"-- Thy simple, simple trade was--Fooling!

And yet, Heav'n knows! we could--we can Much "better spare a better man!"

IV.

Oh, had it pleased the gout to take The reverend Croly from the stage, Or Southey, for our quiet's sake, Or Mr. Fletcher, Cupid's sage, Or, damme! namby-pamby Poole,-- Or any other clown or fool!

V.

Go, Dibdin--all that bear the name, Go, Byeway Highway man! go! go!

Go, Skeffy--man of painted fame, But leave thy partner, painted Joe!

I could bear Kirby on the wane, Or Signor Paulo with a sprain!

VI.

Had Joseph Wilfrid Parkins made His gray hairs scarce in private peace-- Had Waithman sought a rural shade-- Or Cobbett ta'en a turnpike lease-- Or Lisle Bowles gone to _Balaam_ Hill-- I think I could be cheerful still!

VII.

Had Medwin left off, to his praise, Dead lion kicking, like--a friend!-- Had long, long Irving gone his ways, To Muse on death at _Ponder's End_ Or Lady Morgan taken leave Of Letters--still I might not grieve!

VIII.

But, Joseph--everybody's Jo!-- Is gone--and grieve I will and must!

As Hamlet did for Yorick, so Will I for thee (though not yet dust), And talk as he did when he miss'd The kissing-crust that he had kiss'd!

IX.

Ah, where is now thy rolling head!

Thy winking, reeling, _drunken_ eyes, (As old Catullus would have said), Thy oven-mouth, that swallow'd pies-- Enormous hunger--monstrous drowth!

Thy pockets greedy as thou mouth!

X.