but still the sea was mild, and quite disclaim’d
the recent violence.—each after each
[pg 44]
the gentle waves a gentle murmur framed,
tapping, like woodpeckers, the hollow beach.
howbeit his weather eye the seaman aim’d
across the calm, and hinted by his speech
a gale next morning—and when morning broke
there was a gale—“quite equal to bespoke.”
before high water—(it were better far
to christen it not water then, but waiter,
for then the tide is serving at the bar)
rose such a swell—i never saw one greater!
black, jagged billows rearing up in war
like ragged roaring bears against the baiter,
with lots of froth upon the shingle shed,
like stout pour’d out with a fine beachy head.
no open boat was open to a fare,
or launch’d that morn on seven-shilling trips;
no bathing woman waded—none would dare
a dipping in the wave—but waived their dips;
no seagull ventured on the stormy air,
and all the dreary coast was clear of ships;
for two lea shores upon the river lea
are not so perilous as one at sea.
awe-struck we sat, and gazed upon the scene
before us in such horrid hurly-burly,—
a boiling ocean of mix’d black and green,
a sky of copper colour, grim and surly,—
when lo, in that vast hollow scoop’d between
two rolling alps of water,—white and curly!
we saw a pair of little arms a-skimming,
much like a first or last attempt at swimming!
[pg 45]
sometimes a hand—sometimes a little shoe—
sometimes a skirt—sometimes a hank of hair,
just like a dabbled seaweed, rose to view,
sometimes a knee, sometimes a back was bare—
at last a frightful summerset he threw
right on the shingles. any one could swear
the lad was dead—without a chance of perjury,
and batter’d by the surge beyond all surgery!
however, we snatch’d up the corse thus thrown,
intending, christian-like, to sod and turf it,
and after venting pity’s sigh and groan,
then curiosity began with her fit;
and lo! the features of the small unknown!
’twas he that of the surf had had this surfeit!—
and in his fob, the cause of late monopolies!
we found a contract signed mephistopheles!
a bond of blood, whereby the sinner gave
his forfeit soul to satan in reversion,
providing in this world he was to have
a lordship over luck, by whose exertion
he might control the course of cards, and brave
all throws of dice,—but on a sea excursion
the juggling demon, in his usual vein,
seized the last cast—and nick’d him in the main!
lines
to a lady on her departure for india.
go where the waves run rather holborn-hilly,
and tempests make a soda-water sea,
almost as rough as our rough piccadilly,
and think of me!
[pg 46]
go where the mild madeira ripens her juice,—
a wine more praised that it deserves to be:
go pass the cape, just capable of ver-juice,
and think of me!
