and so the kidneys, broiling hot, were wasted;
the brawn—it never enter’d in his thought;
the grated parmesan remained untasted;
the potted shrimps were left as they were bought,
the capelings stood as merely good for nought,
the german sausage did not tempt him better,
whilst juno, licking her poor lips, was taught
[pg 297]
there’s neither bone nor skin about a letter,
gristle, nor scalp, that one can give a setter.
heav’n bless the man who first devised a mail!
heav’n bless that public pile which stands concealing
the goldsmiths’ front with such a solid veil!
heav’n bless the master, and sir francis freeling,
the drags, the nags, the leading or the wheeling,
the whips, the guards, the horns, the coats of scarlet,
the boxes, bags, those evening bells a-pealing!
heav’n bless, in short, each posting thing, and varlet
that helps a werter to a sigh from charlotte.
so felt lorenzo as he oped the sheet,
where, first, the darling signature he kiss’d,
and then, recurring to its contents sweet
with thirsty eyes, a phrase i must enlist,
he gulp’d the words to hasten to their gist;
in mortal ecstasy his soul was bound—
when, lo! with features all at once a-twist,
he gave a whistle, wild enough in sound
to summon faustus’s infernal hound!
alas! what little miffs and tiffs in love,
a snubbish word, or pouting look mistaken,
will loosen screws with sweethearts hand and glove,
oh! love, rock firm when chimney-pots were shaken,
a pettish breath will into huffs awaken,
to spit like hump-back’d cats, and snarling towzers!
till hearts are wreck’d and founder’d, and forsaken,
as ships go to old davy, lord knows how, sirs,
while heav’n is blue enough for dutchmen’s trowsers!
“the moon’s at full, love, and i think of you”—
who would have thought that such a kind p.s.
[pg 298]
could make a man turn white, then red, then blue,
then black, and knit his eyebrows and compress
his teeth, as if about to effervesce
like certain people when they lose at whist!
so look’d the chafed lorenzo, ne’ertheless,
and, in a trice, the paper he had kiss’d
was crumpled like a snowball in his fist!
ah! had he been less versed in scientifics,
more ignorant, in short, of what is what:
he ne’er had flared up in such calorifics;
but he would seek societies, and trot
to clubs, mechanics’ institutes, and got
with birkbeck—bartley—combe—george robins—rennie,
and other lecturing men. and had he not
that work, of weekly parts, which sells so many,
the copper-bottomed magazine—or “penny?”
but, of all learned pools whereon, or in,
men dive like dabchicks, or like swallows skim,
some hardly damp’d, some wetted to the skin,
some drown’d like pigs when they attempt to swim,
astronomy was most lorenzo’s whim,
(’tis studied by a prince amongst the burmans);
he loved those heavenly bodies which, the hymn
of addison declares, preach solemn sermons,
while waltzing on their pivots like young germans.
night after night, with telescope in hand,
supposing that the night was fair and clear,
aloft, on the house-top, he took his stand,
till he obtained to know each twinkling sphere
better, i doubt, than milton’s “starry vere;”
thus, reading thro’ poor ellen’s fond epistle,
he soon espied the flaw—the lapse so sheer
[pg 299]
that made him raise his hair in such a bristle,
and like the boatswain of the storm-ship whistle.
“the moon’s at full, love, and i think of thee,”—
“indeed! i’m very much her humble debtor,
but not the moon-calf she would have me be,
zounds! does she fancy that i know no better?”
herewith, at either corner of the letter
he gave a most ferocious, rending, pull;—
“o woman! woman! that no vows can fetter,
a moon to stay for three weeks at the full!
by jove! a very pretty cock-and-bull!
“the moon at full! ’twas very finely reckon’d!
why so she wrote me word upon the first—
the twelfth, and now upon the twenty-second—
full!—yes—it must be full enough to burst!
but let her go—of all vile jilts the worst”—
here with his thumbs he gave contemptuous snaps,
anon he blubber’d like the child that’s nurs’d,
and then he hit the table frightful raps,
and stamped till he had broken both his straps.
“the moon’s at full—and i am in her thought—
no doubt; i do believe it in my soul!”
here he threw up his head, and gave a snort
like a young horse first harness’d to a pole:
“the moon is full—aye, so is this d—d bowl!”
and, grinning like the sourest of curmudgeons,
globe—water—fishes—he dash’d down the whole,
strewing the carpet with the gasping gudgeons;
men do the strangest things in such love-dudgeons.
“i fill her thoughts—her memory’s vice-gerent?
no, no,—some paltry puppy—three weeks old—
[pg 300]
and round as norval’s shield”—thus incoherent
his fancies grew as he went on to scold;
so stormy waves are into breakers roll’d,
work’d up at last to mere chaotic wroth—
this—that—heads—tails—thoughts jumbled uncontroll’d
as onions, turnips, meat, in boiling broth,
by turns bob up, and splutter in the froth.
