SONNET.—A SOMNAMBULIST.
“A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.”—BYRON.
Methought—for Fancy is the strangest gadder
When sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven—
Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder,
With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven:
Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven
When I set foot upon that long one-pair;
And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven,
Nor yet of landing-place became aware;
Step after step in endless flight seem’d there;
But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still,
To gain that blessed haven from all care,
Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill,
When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair—
Tramp—tramp—tramp—tramp—upon the Brixton Mill!
FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH.
“Aurum potabile:”—Gold biles the pot.—FREE TRANSLATION.
FAREWELL then, my golden repeater,
We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop;
And hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!
To quit thee, my comrade diurnal,
My feelings will certainly scotch;
But oh! there’s a riot internal,
And Famine calls out for the Watch!
Oh! hunger’s a terrible trial,
I really must have a relief,—
So here goes the plate of your dial
To fetch me some Williams’s beef!
As famish’d as any lost seaman,
I’ve fasted for many a dawn,
And now must play chess with the Demon,
And give it a check with a pawn.
I’ve fasted, since dining at Buncle’s,
Two days with true Perceval zeal—
And now must make up at my Uncle’s.
By getting a duplicate meal.
No Peachum it is, or young Lockit,
That rifles my fob with a snatch;
Alas! I must pick my own pocket,
And make gravy-soup of my watch!
So long I have wander’d a starver,
I’m getting as keen as a hawk;
Time’s long hand must take up a carver,
His short hand lay hold of a fork.
Right heavy and sad the event is,
But oh! it is Poverty’s crime;
I’ve been such a Brownrigg’s Apprentice,
I thus must be “out of my Time.”
Alas! when in Brook Street the Upper,
In comfort I lived between walls,
I’ve gone to a dance for my supper;
But now I must go to Three Balls!
Folks talk about dressing for dinner,
But I have for dinner undrest;
Since Christmas, as I am a sinner,
I’ve eaten a suit of my best.
I haven’t a ram or a mummock
To fetch me a chop or a steak;
I wish that the coats of my stomach
Were such as my uncle would take!
When dishes were ready with garnish
My watch used to warn with a chime—
But now my repeater must furnish
The dinner in lieu of the time!
My craving will have no denials,
I can’t fob it off, if you stay,
So go,—and the old Seven Dials
Must tell me the time of the day.
Your chimes I shall never more hear ’em,
To part is a Tic Douloureux!
But Tempus has his edax rerum,
And I have my Feeding-Time too!
Farewell then, my golden repeater,
We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop—
And Hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter,
The Cerberus growls for a sop!