The rude Bridge, and the Figures, whatever you will,
Are as black as the spots on your ermine.
It is true, none the less, that a dark-looking scrap,
With a sort of Blackheath, and Black Forest, mayhap,
Is considered as rather Rembrandty;
And that very black cattle, and very black sheep,
A black dog, and a shepherd as black as a sweep,
Are the pets of some great Dilettante.
So with certain designers, one needs not to name,
All this life is a dark scene of sorrow and shame,
From our birth to our final adjourning —
Yea, this excellent earth and its glories, alack!
What with ravens, palls, cottons, and devils, as black
As a Warehouse for Family Mourning!
But before your own picture arrives at that pitch,
While the lights are still light, and the shadows, though rich,
More transparent than ebony shutters,
Never minding what Black-Arted critics may say,
Stop the biting, and pour the green fluid away,
As you please, into bottles or gutters.
Then removing the ground and the wax at a heat,
Cleanse the surface with oil, spermaceti, or sweet-
For your hand a performance scarce proper-
So some careful professional person secure
For the Laundress will not be a safe amateur
To assist you in cleaning the copper.
And, in truth, 't is a rather unpleasantish job,
To be done on a hot German stove, or a hob
Though as sure of an instant forgetting
When as after the dark clearing off of a storm
The fair landscape shines out in a lustre as warm
As the glow of the sun in its setting !
Thus your Etching complete, it remains but to hint,
That with certain assistance from paper and print,
Which the proper Mechanic will settle,
You may charm all your Friends without any
Of such perils and ills as beset Lady Sale-
With a fine India Proof of your Metal.
ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY.
АH me! those old familiar bounds!
That classic house, those classic grounds,
My pensive thought recalls!
What tender urchins now confine,
What little captives now repine,
Within yon irksome walls!
Ay, that's the very house! I know
Its ugly windows, ten a-row!
Its chimneys in the rear!
And there's the iron rod so high,
That drew the thunder from the sky
And turned our table-beer!
There I was birched! there I was bred!
There like a little Adam fed
From Learning's woful tree!
The
weary tasks I used to con!
The hopeless leaves I wept upon !
Most fruitless leaves to me!
The summoned class! the awful bow! -
I wonder who is master now
And wholesome anguish sheds!
How many ushers now employs,
How many maids to see the boys
Have nothing in their heads!
And Mrs. S***?-Doth she abet
(Like Pallas in the palour) yet
Some favored two or three,-
The little Crichtons of the hour,
Her muffin-medals that devour,
And swill her prize—bohea?
Ay, there's the playground! there's the lime,
Beneath whose shade in summer's prime
So wildly I have read! -
Who sits there now, and skims the cream
Of young Romance, and weaves a dream
Of Love and Cottage-bread?
Who struts the Randall of the walk?
Who models tiny heads in chalk?
Who scoops the light canoe?
What early genius buds apace?
Where's Poynter? Harris ? Bowers? Chase?
Hal Baylis ? blithe Carew?
Alack! they're gone-a thousand ways!
And some are serving in "the Greys,
And some have perished young!
Jack Harris weds his second wife;
Hal Baylis drives the wayne of life;
And blithe Carew-is hung!
Grave Bowers teaches ABC
To Savages at Owhyee;
Poor Chase is with the worms!
All, all are gone- the olden breed!-
New crops of mushroom boys succeed,
"And push us from our forms!"
Lo! where they scramble forth, and shout, And leap, and skip, and mob about,
At play where we have played!
Some hop, some run, (some fall), some twine
Their crony arms; some in the shine,
And some are in the shade!
Lo there what mixed conditions run !
The orphan lad; the widow's son;
And Fortune's favored care
The wealthy born, for whom she hath
Macadamized the future path-
The nabob's pampered heir!
Some brightly starred some evil born,—
For honor some, and some for scorn,-
For fair or foul renown!
Good, bad, indifferent none they lack !
Look, here's a white, and there's a black!
And there's a creole brown!
Some laugh and sing, some mope and weep,
And wish their frugal sires would keep
Their only sons at home;
Some tease the future tense, and plan
The full-grown doings of the man,
And pant for years to come!
A foolish wish! There's one at hoop;
And four at fives! and five who stoop
The marble taw to speed!
And one that curvets in and out,
Reining his fellow-cob about,
Would I were in his steed!
Yet he would gladly halt and drop
That boyish harness off, to swop
With this world's heavy van-
To toil, to tug. O little fool!
While thou can be a horse at school
To wish to be a man!
Perchance thou deem'st it were a thing
To wear a crown, to be a king!
And sleep on regal down!
Alas! thou know'st not kingly cares;
Far happier is thy head that wears
That hat without a crown!
And dost thou think that years acquire
New added joys? Dost think thy sire
More happy than his son?
That manhood's mirth?-O, go thy ways
To Drury-lane when
And see how forced our fun!
Thy taws are brave! - thy tops are rare! Our tops are spun with coils of care,
Our dumps are no delight!
The Elgin marbles are but tame,
And 'tis at best a sorry game
To fly the Muse's kite!
Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead,
Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye
We look behind, and send a sigh
Towards that merry ground!
Then be contented. Thou hast got
The most of heaven in thy young lot;
There's sky-blue in thy cup!
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