The Fancy :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Fancy

A Selection from the Poetical Remains of the late Peter Corcoran, of Gray's Inn, Student at Law. With a brief memoir of his life [by J. H. Reynolds]

Reynolds, John Hamilton (1794-1852)

[epigraph]

[section]

STANZAS.

SONNET.

THE FIELDS OF TOTHILL:

POEMS.

STANZAS TO KATE,

PETER BELLv. PETER BELL.

LINES TO PHILIP SAMSON,

SONNET ON THE NONPAREIL.

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xiii

STANZAS.

Hark! Italy's music
Melts over the sea;
Falling light from some lattice,
Where cavaliers be:

xiv

And sweet lady voices
Steal over the deep,
To hush all around us
The billows to sleep.

Our gondola gently
Goes over the wave;
As though it were dreaming
To sounds that enslave:—
We listen—we listen!
How blessed are we,
Who hear this dim music
O'er Italy's sea!

xix

SONNET.

[Were this a feather from an eagle's wing]

Were this a feather from an eagle's wing,
And thou, my tablet white! a marble tile
Taken from ancient Jove's majestic pile,—
And might I dip my feather in some spring,
A down Mount Ida, thread-like, wandering:—
And were my thoughts brought from some starry isle
In heaven's blue sea,—I then might with a smile
Write down a hymn to Fame, and proudly sing!
But I am mortal; and I cannot write
Aught that may foil the fatal wing of Time.
Silent, I look at Fame: I cannot climb
To where her temple is—Not mine the might:—
I have some glimmering of what is sublime—
But, ah! it is a most inconstant light.

P. C.

SONNET.

[I once had thought to have embalm'd my name]

I once had thought to have embalm'd my name
With Poesy:—to have serv'd the gentle Muses
With high sincerity:—but Fate refuses,
And I am now become most strangely tame,
And careless what becomes of Glory's game—
Who strives—who wins the wondrous prize—who loses!
Not that the heavy world my spirit bruises;
But I have not the heart to rush at Fame.
Magnificent and mental images
Have visited me oftentimes, and given
My mind to proud delights—but now it sees
Those visions going like the lights of even:
All intellectual grandeur dimly flees,—
And I am quiet at the stars of heaven!

P. C.

THE FIELDS OF TOTHILL:

A FRAGMENT.

[_]

The Poem from which the present Canto is selected, was written before that clever, rambling little story, yclept Beppo, appeared; but I believe that Corcoran had seen the national specimen which Messrs. Whistlecraft of Stowmarket had published,—and that he chose his measure from that facetious performance. Peter has suffered his muse to play most fantastic tricks before the Public; but though she is skittish, she is decent; and unlike her sisters, who generally figure away to the Italian measure, it may safely be said that she never shews more than the ancle. The first Canto scarcely ventures into the story, being much occupied by the indecision and gaiety of the author,—and, perhaps, he is rather too indecisive in all that he notices; but he is so unreserved in his misgivings and his wanderings, so candid in his communications, and so amiable in his explanations, that it is thought the public will love it if

only for its record of Peter's eager, rattling, rambling, and fanciful nature.

There are two other Cantos finished, but the Editor did not choose to hazard their publication till he was informed, by the success or failure of a portion of the Poem, of the manner in which the whole would be received. Some few stanzas have been omitted on account of severe allusions to persons whose feelings the Editor and the world respect, and to whom Peter could only have alluded harshly in those hours of feverish irritation and lonely depression which visit all persons at times, and none more than men of ardent and poetical temperament.

I

The Gods have made the Brother Smiths poetical,
As Touchstone saith, though not of either Smith;
And there hath, too, been many a great and petty call
Of Bards on either side the Thames and Nith.
But verse, like ink, must be a kind of jetty gall,
Or folk will think it not worth meddling with:
Most men of any nous will tell you this,
From Juvenal's time:—(This stanza's not amiss!)

II

I long to be a writer of the rhyme;
And since men may be Poets, and not know it,
Why may not I be fit for the soft crime
Of linking language with the view to show it.
I do not make a fuss about “all time,”
Give me to be the fleeting darling Poet,
That simmers on the pot of life, and then
Is skimmed away with other scum of men.

III

Epic is not my passion; nor thin lines
To thinner dames, who sicken on romance;
Nor the slim elegy, that crawls and whines
Like German women through a solemn dance.
I hate the language or the lass that pines;
And epigrams are far too apt to glance
Away, ere we can win them; so that I
Am very hard to please—but I must try.

IV

I have no notion what I mean to do,
Though I have started with the pen in hand;
But if a man his whim or wish pursue,
'Tis ten to one he safely comes to land.
I've heard of men whose very errors too
Have caught the plan their reason never scann'd;
As some who have been swearers—sad oath givers—
Have ta'en to blasting rocks and damming rivers.

V

There is no doubt that stories told in verse,
Of ruffian suitors, most successful prove;
Of dames that take for better or for worse
Knights, quite as full of fight as full of love:
The cant must be kept up that life's a curse,
(A lover's oath, nought else.) For Venus' dove
Is but a very pigeon when 'tis pluck'd;—
Even she herself in early life was duck'd.

VI

How fine are Wooers when they're desperate men !
The souls of dear tempestuous tenderness!
What beauty in their fiery natures, when
They tread highways or wood-walks, to caress
The traveller's throat or lady's hand! And then
They wear so very spirited a dress,
It quite takes off a robbery's vulgarity,
And varnishes a murder's cold barbarity.

VII

They may cut throats as fast as cooks cut capers,
And help themselves to ladies without leave,
And be deep damn'd in all the daily papers,
For being so sadly prone to slay and thieve;
They may give warmth to ricks and rooms, with tapers,
And husbands of their amorous wives relieve;
Still they've a saving grace o'er all inclining,
Like one star over Newgate gently shining:

VIII

They love—they pick a pocket—but they love!
Their dames too, it may be, are not nun-astical,
But they are passionate creatures, much above
Folk that are meek, demure, ecclesiastical,
Whose web of life dame Nature never wove
To be eccentric, dissolute, fantastical.
Your common crawling lives are not worth leading,
The balmy brutal make the prettiest reading

IX

But to return:—I wish that I could settle
To tell a tale right out, like Walter Scott,
Who surely is successful, and must nettle
Your tale-mechanics:—Whether Bard or not,
I should be very glad to boil the kettle,
I know my verse will never boil the pot,
With annual heaps of profitable rhyme,
Food for the day, if famine for “all time.”

XI

O Walter Scott! give me that sweet disorder,
Of making first the verse, and then the most of it;
Send Mr. Constable across the Border
To take my bastard up, and pay the cost of it.
Oh, be of me, and not of Hogg the lauder,
And I will make a profit and a boast of it:
I'd go as far as Market Street, or Dunstable,
To pick and split a straw with Mr. Constable.

X

I'm not the author of Guy Mannering,
If I confess'd it, I should be a liar;
Nor is Rob Roy a chicken from my wing,
But that is not the fault of my desire:
I should be very glad indeed to string
A bunch of tales, like honest Jedediah;
And sell them well, and never more beg alms,
But take a cottage in the Isle of Palms:—

XII

Or be an Ettrick shepherd in far lands,
A thing with prudent Scotchmen not uncommon,
And live and linger there till all the sands
Of life had pass'd: and with some gentle woman
Feed the sweet hours with beauty—and take hands,
And dance, and sing, and gambol, like a true man
Who scorns to check his money, till he must
Come down, as honest folks say, with the dust.

XIII

A beautiful high forehead, where the snow
Is never absent, as on lofty hills;
With hair that hath indeed a sunlike glow,
And wanders round it like its golden rills!—
I cannot bend my eyes on such a brow,
And not forget the world and all its ills:
I tremble at a star-like eye—and start,
Feeling the blood-tide flow upon the heart.

XIV

The touch of the white hand—all white, but warm;
The inconstant rose that creeps upon the cheek,
And sheds its glowing leaf at the soft storm
Of hurried feelings:—and the lily meek
Invading where the rose had set its form,
All these a fatal language to me speak:—
Fatal, yet sweet—I take it to my breast,
And feel that knowledge robs me of all rest.

XV

But they, who mean to love, must pay their taxes,
For gatherers molest us at the door;
The gathering, as I opine by praxis,
Differs on Scotland's and on England's shore!
Beauty avails not when the gatherer waxes
Impatient for the sum of one pound four;
She may be exquisite, but he will not
Take off a penny or relax a jot.

XVI

But how I speculate and stagger on,
Through stanzas to no purpose and no end;
The misery of this measure is, that one
Can never well and steadily attend
To the main subject:—but I'm too far gone
In it, to choose a new one or amend;
Besides I have no subject—though 'tis time
There should be one, as ballast for the rhyme.

XVII

The tale I now begin is as romantic
As any thing in Tom Moore's Lalla Rookh;
The lovers are as mystic and as frantic,
But they're not Turkish—that's against the book.
I wish they had play'd off some Eastern antic,
Or liv'd in any Haram's palmy nook,
But they have not—and I would sooner die
Than make them oriental, with a lie.

XVIII

Southey would put them into India quickly,
Make them amenable to wooden gods;
But I, who do not wish to act so strictly,
Would not expose them to such solemn rods:
They can't be foreign, but they might be sickly,
Though snug at home as peas are in their pods;
There's something grand tho' in Hindoo mythology,
Yet what to them or me is dusk Theology.

XIX

They were not Catholics, nor Calvinists,
Nor Swedenborgians, nor yet Armenians;
They were not amorous with the Methodists,
Nor fetter'd heart and hand to the Socinians:
They were not even, what the state insists,
Church people in his Majesty's dominions;
They were, in short, or else their tales belie us,
Exceeding fond, but very far from pious.

XX

I wish to heaven they had been born in Turkey,
For booksellers despise an English book;
And though I held my head a little perky,
And cultivated an immortal look,
Unless the hero's mind and face were murky,
They'd see me in the Counter ere they took
A page to sell, although the whole was made for it,
And deuce a penny should I e'er get paid for it.

XXI

And I am looking forward to the dawning
Of days when I may breathe a little air;
At present I give welcome to the morning
In Vine Street, Piccadilly, up three pair:
But if my copy sells, I'll sure give warning,
And pay the landlord, which will make him stare;
For his two rooms are naked, dun, and muggy,—
And somewhat tatter'd, and exceeding buggy!

XXII

Besides, it is extremely necessary
To give the o'er—fraught mind a relaxation;
The wisest find it requisite to vary
Their time 'twixt carelessness and cogitation:
I hate the smoky, but I love the airy,
As well as any of the English nation;
In fields and woods, if not too near the town,
I find my mind re-beaver'd, I must own.

XXIII

'Tis dreadful to endure a worsted climate,
To breathe an atmosphere of dingy woollen;
It is enough to make one place and time hate,
To render one untractable and sullen.
I'm sure the effects are dreary upon my mate,
And I can feel my intellect a dull one;
I dread lest strangers should be strange and close, or I
Would seek a better air than fleecy-hosiery.

XXIV

How sweet to feed the pocket with some cash,
That after feeding you may not look silly;
To breakfast first, to next lift up the sash,
Look at the morn, if cheerful or if chilly,
And then in joyous mood, but nothing rash,
Get on a Chiswick stage at Piccadilly;
And travel down with a determin'd face,
To play the devil with the roach and dace.

XXV

To nibble cold meat at the water's side,
And watch the float, is one of my delights;
To see the ripple of the restless tide,
To tug and struggle when the barbel fights;
To put new worms on when the old have died,
Or try a maggot, as the maggot bites:
All these are things at which I'm quite at home,
If such a phrase is fitting when I roam.

XXVI

Or else to lie along the grass and slumber,
Under the blue sky's summer canopy;
Or throw aside the garments which encumber
A body that delighteth to be free,
And bathe where lilies blossom without number:
This is, perhaps, a sort of poetry,
Which all who lead a life of prose, would find
A cheap, luxurious pleasure of its kind.

XXVII

But when shall I get on?—I marvel greatly
At my own indolence and strange assurance;
In verse like this which should be staid and stately,
I hunt my butterflies past all endurance.
The lovers whom I introduc'd so lately
Are not described as yet:—there's no insurance,
Upon my life, against this monstrous failing
Of tacking, when it ought to be plain sailing.

XXVIII

Well—I have told, some trifling stanzas back,
What sort of creatures my good souls were not;
And now I'll try, if I can get the knack,
To picture what they were, and paint their lot.
My Pegasus is but a bungling hack,
By no means such a beast as Walter Scott
Mounts when he rides a foraging in verse,
Hunting wild characters, if nothing worse.

XXIX

But first I must make known the matchless scene
In which I place my Poem; and 'tis one,
Though little given to trees, that hath been green
In other days—those days of course are gone.
It hath its alleys and its nooks, I ween,
And, by it, waters make a pleasant moan;
In it were fought old Battles of Appeals:—
(Vide the Term Reports)—'tis Tothill Fields.

XXX

The reason why I quote authorities,
And give as upon evidence my statement,
Is that my practice rather that way lies;
Though, God knows! it has puzzled me what Fate meant
By mixing me with writs, recoveries,
Bills, judgments, pleas, and all the things for hate meant:—
But so it is. Though now and then I glean as
Much time as my betters from subpœnas.

XXXI

These Tothill Fields are by the knowing ones
Known very generally as Tothill Downs,
'Tis something more romantic—the name runs
More trippingly from off the tongue. Most towns
Have their resorts for enterprising sons
Of pillage and enjoyment—two mild nouns,
Which if I must translate, would surely wear
A fouler meaning—so I'll leave them fair.

XXXII

My heroine's name is at the best call'd Bessy,
A very laughing, rosy sort of creature:
The more romantic name of Rose or Jessy
Was due, beyond a doubt, to her sweet nature.
Her hair is what the Cockney School call tressy;
And loveliness, like oil, glosses each feature
Of her round dimpling countenance, and lends
A quakerish look—but warmer than a friend's.

XXXIII

While you gaze slily at her eyes, you're brewing
A cup of dangerous mischief for your drinking;
They look all full of sweet and maddening ruin,
And do a deal of havoc with their winking;
They're like the darkest flowrets with the dew in;
And if you meet them fully there's no slinking;
They snare one like the serpent's, till one feels
Very confus'd between the head and heels.

XXXIV

Around her lips there is a smiling sweetness,
Which much inviteth other lips to kissing:
I wish I ne'er had witness'd such completeness
Of face—there's not a charm of value missing.
Her words trip from her tongue with all the neatness
Of morning dairy-maids, when winds are hissing
In the early leaves. I would that I were wittier,
To liken her to something that is prettier.

XXXV

There is no picture in the magazines
Sufficiently divine for such a face;
I've seen fac-similes of cheeks and chins,
But none with all her warmth, or half her grace.
Some of the scarcest portraits of choice queens,
Such as the Scottish Mary, give a trace;
But her sweet visage always looks the cosier—
She's something like Miss Stevens—only rosier.

XXXVI

Her dress—I've said no word about her dress,
And surely that deserves a stanza wholly;
It wreathes simplicity with loveliness,
And is a perfect alien to all folly:
You look at her—you look at it no less—
It throws an air of pastoral melancholy,
As Wordsworth phrases it, serene around her.
(I never saw an arm or bosom rounder!)

XXXVII

'Tis muslin on high days and holidays,
'Tis “seventeen-hunder-linen” when in common;
For its chaste neatness it deserves my praise,
It lets the neck and arms be seen by no man.
I like for my part these particular ways,
And recommend them much to every woman.
With her fine heart, and head-dress simply gay—
She's capp'd and jewell'd, watch-makers would say.

XXXVIII

Bessy the beautiful, you needs must think,
Was not without her feelings or her suitors:
She was adored by those who are the pink
Of that wild neighbourhood—by college tutors,
And sober serjeants:—privates too in drink,
While pamper'd by those red kites their recruitors,
Would ope their minds, when, from the feverish drouth
Of gin and beer, they scarce could ope their mouth.

XXXIX

The highest in the Fancy—all the game ones
Who were not very much beneath her weight,
Would take her ivory fingers in their lame ones,
And woo her very ardently to mate:
But she, although she did not love the tame ones,
Was not for men of such a desperate fate;
She knew a smart blow, from a handsome giver,
Could darken lights, and much abuse the liver.

XL

And eyes are things that may be bung'd, or blacken'd—
And noses may lie down upon the face—
Unless the pace of a quick fist is slacken'd;
And jawbones will break down, to their disgrace;
And oftentimes a facer from the back hand,
Will leave of poor Humanity no trace.
She, like a prudent woman, well reflected
On all these things, and dozens she rejected.

XLI

But many of my readers may not know
What 'tis the Fancy means, so I'll explain it.
I hope the very learned will not throw
Slurs on my explanation, and disdain it;
The best of language can but be so so—
Tho' Berkley breed it, and tho' Barclay train it.
I struggle all I can—I do my best;
The thing is difficult—but let that rest.

XLII

Fancy's a term for every blackguardism—
A term for favourite men, and favourite cocks—
A term for gentlemen who make a schism
Without the lobby, or within the box—
For the best rogues of polish'd vulgarism,
And those who deal in scientific knocks—
For bull-dog breeders, badger baiters—all
Who live in gin and jail, or not at all.

XLIII

Childe Bessy had a father, not forgot:—
I fear this line is Byron's, and not mine;
But he can spare it me, for he is not
So over honest as to need repine
At other's thievery;—from Crabb and Scott
Many a golden thought and metal line
Has he purloin'd. One scarce can keep one's own
In this abominable swindling town.

XLIV

Childe Bessy had a father, as I said,
A man of science in his own strange way;
He train'd the half, and broke the thorough-bred—
And fought a match in exquisite array;
He kept a bear and badger, and he led
The former through the streets to dance by day;
At night, by candle-light, in cellar dim,
He chain'd the furry brute and baited him.

XLV

These night-amusements were without cessation,
And Bruin's fame was bandied far and wide:
He squeez'd his pesterers to admiration,
And many a beast in his embrace has died.
Brutes there brought brutes of each denomination,
To dip their muzzles in his dusky hide,
To bay at him from 'twixt the legs, and cling
By couples at him from the loosen'd string.

XLVI

But this would end; and after its delight,
Our Bessy's father (surnamed Abberfield,)
Allowed two dogs of equal weight and height,
With heads like billiard-balls, to take the field;
And truly very fiercely would they fight,
Scorning, as so it would appear, to yield,
Wagging most dext'rously their jaws and tail,
And clinging and caressing, tooth and nail.

XLVII

I never could perceive, and my endeavour
Has been most earnest, how it is that dogs
Are made so eager, desperate, and clever,
Chewing each other into senseless logs;
They live with butchers and with brutes for ever,
And so in manners they become such hogs;
Or else they're starv'd, which is enough to bother
The best bred dogs, and make them gnaw each other.

XLVIII

(Heaven bless thee, Kate!—to think of thee—of thine,
Is sweeter far than poesy or fame;—
And though thine anger'd eyes all alter'd shine,
To thee my loving heart is still the same,—
The same,—though left deservedly to pine;—
In a parenthesis I bless thy name!
I bless it early, hopelessly, and late:
Oh! what a life is lost for ever, Kate!—

XLIX

Yet what avails repining—have I not
Soil'd the sweet plumage of my youthful life;
Abandon'd my loose spirit to each spot
Which promis'd low delights or merry strife?
Have I not rush'd perversely to the lot
Which with regret and loneliness is rife?—
The gather'd apple in my hand I see,
Then what avails to wish it on the tree?)

L

The badger there was baited; which is done
By letting beasts of courage in, who draw
The poor domestic creature one by one,
From his box'd house, by tail, or skin, or claw;
To many this is mighty pleasant fun,
But I confess I ne'er with pleasure saw
Such sport—not caring which should lose or win it,
And shrinking at the cruelty that's in it.

LI

Such were the revelries that chas'd the night;
Abberfield's house was always well attended;
The badger and the bear gave full delight,
Their flagrance and their fragrance were so blended.
Each evening left, if I'm instructed right,
Legs to be set, and jaw-bones to be mended;
And money was there wager'd, as they say,
Wheedled from simple pockets in the day.

LII

The mind of Abberfield—But I must beg
Permission to take breath, I've not been idle,
Or wandering or diffuse,—and now my keg
Of spirits is near out, and with a sidle
My weary Pegasus doth lift his leg,
Seeming to ask me just to pull the bridle.
I really will:—he must not be distrest,
Master and horse alike are wanting rest.

LIII

So now I'll stop at Fancy's livery-stable,
Where Pegasus is taken in to bait,
(Not in the manner just described): At table,
Over my Cape Madeira, I'll in state
Think over all the incidents I'm able
For my new Canto. It is rather late:
To-morrow after breakfast—about ten,
As Macheath says, I'll take the road again.

The Corsair was but the Slender Billy of the Cyclades. It is on record that he was guilty of robbery and arson.

POEMS.

STANZAS TO KATE,

ON APPEARING BEFORE HER AFTER A CASUAL TURN UP.

“------ A black eye in a recent scuffle,
“For sometimes we must box without the muffle.”
Don Juan.

All punish'd and penitent, down on the knee,
I bend to thee, Kate, to avert an adieu:
Oh, let not thine eyes, love, look black upon me,—
Because mine are forc'd to look black upon you.

Am I worse in your eyes, for being worse in my own?—
Are the women to punish, as well as the men?—
I thought you'd have brought, when you found me alone,
Opodeldoc and smiles, to restore me again.

You know I love sparring and poesy, Kate,
And scarcely care whether I'm hit at, or kiss'd;—
You know that Spring equally makes me elate,
With the blow of a flower, and the blow of a fist.

You know as you walk'd one damp evening of late,
With your beau at your side,—that a bow in the sky
Arch'd its colours ethereal—and surely, my Kate,
This must be the rainbow I had in my eye.

Forgive me,—and never, oh, never again,
I'll cultivate light blue, or brown inebriety;
I'll give up all chance of a fracture or sprain,
And part, worse than all, with Pierce Egan's society.

Forgive me,—and mufflers I'll carefully pull
O'er my knuckles hereafter, to make them well bred;
To mollify digs in the kidney with wool,
And temper with leather a punch of the head.

And, Kate!—if you'll fib from your forehead that frown,
And spar with a lighter and prettier tone;—
I'll look,—if the swelling should ever go down,
And these eyes look again,—upon you, love, alone!

I am not clear whether Mr. Corcoran alluded here to the season, or the pugilist of this name.

The author of Boxiana;—a gentleman of considerable talent and unassuming manners. His writings are replete with gaiety, information, and spirit; and there are few authors who have made history the vehicle of so much life and whim as Mr. Egan. He is an intelligent man in conversation, a clever pedestrian, and a pleasant singer. That man is no contemptible caterer of joy in life's feast, who can walk about and collect knowledge, write poetry on what he has seen,—and sing it with a cheerful and good voice to his friends. Mr. Egan deserves this note, and it is devoted to him.

PETER BELLv. PETER BELL.

“A bidding, Ma'am, in two places.”
George Robins.

Two Peters!—two Ballads!—two Bells!—
Ah, which is the serious Poem?
The tales which Simplicity tells,
Are the tales for my heart,—when I know 'em!

But the Lyrics in these match so well,
And so like is the innocent metre,
That I'm bother'd to death with each Bell,
And lost between Peter and Peter.

Will no one in tenderness lend
A clue to the positive story?—
Or some wretch, in the shape of a Friend,
May waddle away with the glory.

Since my mind must some notion be gleaning,
I'll venture the verses to class:—
The Burlesque,—by its having a meaning;—
The Real,—by its having an Ass.

I pity Simplicity's Poet,—
I pity its tradesmen in town;—
'Tis a dead drug, and few so well know it,
As L---, H---, R---, O--- and B---.

LINES TO PHILIP SAMSON,

THE BRUMMAGEM YOUTH.

Go back to Brummagem! go back to Brummagem!
Youth of that ancient and halfpenny town!
Maul manufacturers; rattle, and rummage 'em;—
Country swell'd heads may afford you renown:
Here in Town-rings, we find Fame very fast go,
The exquisite light weights are heavy to bruise;
For the graceful and punishing hand of Belasco
Foils,—and will foil all attempts on the Jews.

Go back to Brummagem, while you've a head on!
For bread from the Fancy is light weight enough;
Moulsey, whose turf is the sweetest to tread on,
Candidly owns you're a good bit of stuff:
But hot heads and slow hands are utterly useless,
When Israelite science and caution awake;
So pr'ythee go home, Youth! and pester the Jews less;
And work for a cutlet, and not for a stake.

Turn up the raws at a fair or a holiday,
Make your fist free with each Brummagem rib;
But never again, Lad, commit such a folly, pray!
As sigh to be one of the messmates of Crib.
Leave the P. C. purse, for others to handle,—
Throw up no hat in a Moulsey Hurst sun;—
Bid adieu, by the two-penny post, to Jack Randall ,
And take the outside of the coach,—one pound one!

Samson! forget there are such men as Scroggins,
And Shelton and Carter, and Bob Burns and Spring:
Forget toss for sides, and forget all the floggings,—
While shirts are pull'd off,—to make perfect the ring.
Your heart is a real one, but skill, Phil, is wanted;
Without it, all uselessly bravery begs:—
Be content that you've beat Dolly Smith, and been chaunted,—
And train'd,—stripp'd,—and pitted,—and hit off your legs!

Of all the great men of this age, in poetry, philosophy, or pugilism, there is no one of such transcendent talent as Randall;—no one who combines the finest natural powers with the most elegant and finished acquired ones. The late Professor Stewart (who has left the learned ring) is acknowledged to be clever in philosophy, but he is a left-handed metaphysical fighter at best, and cannot be relied upon at closing with his subject. Lord Byron is a powerful poet, with a mind weighing fourteen stone; but he is too sombre a hitter, and is apt to lose his temper.—Randall has no defect, or at least he has not yet betrayed the appearance of one. His figure is remarkable, when peeled, for its statue-like beauty, and nothing can equal the alacrity with which he uses either hand, or the coolness with which he receives. His goodness on his legs, Boxiana (a Lord Eldon in the skill and caution of his judgments) assures us, is unequalled. He doubles up an opponent, as a friend lately declared, as easily as though he were picking a flower, or pinching a girl's cheek. He is about to fight Jos. Hudson, who challenged him lately at the Royal Tennis Court. Randall declared, that “though he had declined fighting, he would accommodate Joshua;” a kind and benevolent reply, which does equal honour to his head and heart. The editor of this little volume, like Goldfinch in the Road to Ruin, “would not stay away for a thousand pounds.” He has already looked about for a tall horse and a taxed cart, and he has some hopes of compassing a drab coat and a white hat, for he has no wish to appear singular at such scenes.

SONNET ON THE NONPAREIL.

“None but himself can be his parallel!”

With marble-coloured shoulders,—and keen eyes,
Protected by a forehead broad and white,—
And hair cut close lest it impede the sight,
And clenched hands, firm, and of punishing size,—
Steadily held, or motion'd wary-wise,
To hit or stop,—and kerchief too drawn tight
O'er the unyielding loins, to keep from flight
The inconstant wind, that all too often flies,—
The Nonpareil stands!—Fame, whose bright eyes run o'er
With joy to see a Chicken of her own,
Dips her rich pen in claret, and writes down
Under the letter R, first on the score,
“Randall,—John,—Irish Parents,—age not known,—
“Good with both hands, and only ten stone four!”

SONNET .

[Where lilies lie uneasily at rest]

Where lilies lie uneasily at rest
On the sweet silver pillows of the waves,
And every pebble like a pearled guest
At bottom in the streaming water laves;
When willows hang their sea-green drapery
Loose in the wooing airs,—and swans are white
About the coiling brooks, sweet imagery
Of lover's hearts, inseparable and bright;
Where grass is greenest in the loneliest dell,
Fed by the patient sheddings of a spring;
And where the flowers are all unmatchable
In hue and odour—thither would I wing
My happy spirit,—but the Insolvent Court
Keeps me a prisoner still,—and mars one's sport!

This was a favourite poem with Mr. Corcoran. It only wants a meaning to be a perfect sonnet.

SONNET,

ON HEARING ST. MARTIN'S BELLS IN MY WAY HOME FROM A SPARRING MATCH AT THE FIVES-COURT.

Beautiful bells! that on this airy eve
Swoon with such deep and mellow cadences,—
Filling,—then leaving empty the rapt breeze;—
Pealing full voic'd,—and seeming now to grieve
In distant, dreaming sweetness!—ye bereave
My mind of worldly care by dim degrees;—
Dropping the balm of falling melodies
Over a heart that yearneth to receive.
Oh, doubly soft ye seem!—since even but now
I've left the Fives-Court rush,—the flash,—the rally,—
The noise of “Go it Jack,”—the stop—the blow,—
The shout—the chattering hit—the check—the sally;—
Oh, doubly sweet ye seem to come and go;—
Like peasant's pipes , at peace time, in a valley!

I fear Mr. Corcoran meant pipes for smoking here.

STANZAS.

['Tis vain to grieve for what is past]

“------ And muttered, lost! lost! lost!”
Sir W. Scott, Bart.

'Tis vain to grieve for what is past,
The golden hours are gone;
My own mad hand the die hath cast,
And I am left alone:
'Tis vain to grieve—I now can leave
No other bliss—yet still I grieve!

The dreadful silence of this night
Seems breathing in my ear;
I scarce can bear the lonely light
That burns oppress'd and near;
I stare at it while half reclin'd,
And feel its thick light on my mind.

The sweetest fate have I laid waste
With a remorseless heart;
All that was beautiful and chaste,
For me seem'd set apart:
But I was fashion'd to defy
Such treasure, so set richly by.

How could I give up her, whose eyes
Were fill'd with quiet tears,
For many a day,—when thoughts would rise,
Thoughts darken'd with just fears,
Of all my vices!—Memory sees
Her eyes' divine remonstrances.

A wild and wretched choice was mine,
A life of low delight;
The midnight rounds of noise and wine,
That vex the wasted night;
The bitter jest, the wearied glee,
The strife of dark society.

To those who plung'd me in the throng
Of such disastrous joys,
Who led me by low craft along,
And stunn'd my mind with noise,—
I only wish they now could look
Upon my Life's despoiled book.

When Midnight finds me torn apart
From vulgar revelry,
The cold, still Madness of the heart
Comes forth, and talks with me;
Talks with me, till the sky is grey
With the chill light of breaking day.

My love is lost—my studies marr'd,
My friends disgrac'd and chang'd;
My thoughts all scatter'd and impair'd,
My relatives estrang'd:
Yet can I not by day recall
My ruined Spirit from its thrall .

These lines to me, who knew Peter's faults and feelings well, are peculiarly touching. They show that, if he had properly directed his mind, he would have been an ornament to society in a higher branch of literature. Pugilism engrossed nearly all his thoughts, and coloured all his writings—but by this little poem it will be seen, that he was in solitude aware of, and grieved at, his own dissipated habits

STANZAS ,

WRITTEN DURING A VOYAGE IN SEARCH OF A NORTH-WEST PASSAGE, AND ADDRESSED TO A NORTHERN PRINCESS.

Oh! pretty Polar lady!
Doth thy bearded bosom beat,—
That breast so sweetly shady—
With an unaccustomed heat?—
Dark, oily, Polar woman!
Lay aside thy freezing airs,—
And take to something human,
In the room of boors and bears.

I'm an Officer! my jacket
Will tell thee what I am;—
No master of a packet,
My pretty Polar dame!
But a sailor with old Jervis—
A man of royal blue;—
Kings send me on their service,—
And their service send to you.

Thy Husband, from his swooning
At thy flight, will soon arise;
And go about harpooning
The sorrow from his eyes:
And he'll be no more a rubber
Of wet sockets,—but he'll seek,
With a wiser kind of blubber,
To pacify his cheek.

Thine eyes are dark and roving,
My pretty Polar sun!
Oh, they're very full of loving—
And extremely full of fun.—

The Mate attracts thine ogling—
But, oh, my fair! thy fate
Don't now be after boggling,—
But take me for thy mate.

The ruby tide is rushing
To that shadowy cheek,—and, oh,
So heavenly is that blushing,
It shames the ruby snow.
All things thine eye doth snatch at,
With a kind of amorous fear;—
Ah, do not steal the hatchet,—
My pretty Polar dear!

Give up ice-fields, where no hedges
Are full of bloom or birds,—
Give up bear-skins, give up sledges,
Give up all thy barking herds:
Come to England, let me marry thee,
And trees shall be thy own;
And a neat post-chaise shall carry thee
From Chatham up to town.

Peter was always amused with Captain Ross's account of the “re-discovery” of Baffin's Bay; and it was after the perusal of a part of the book, that he wrote these lines.

100

STANZAS,

ON REVISITING SHREWSBURY.

I remember well the time,—the sweet school-boy time,—
When all was careless thought with me, and summer was my sleep;
I wish I could recal that school-boy day of prime,
For manhood is a sorry thing—and mine is plunged deep
In faults that bid me weep.

I remember well the Severn's fair peerless flight,—
How can I e'er forget her silent glory and her speed!
The wild-deer of all rivers was she then unto my sight,
But now in common lustre doth she hurry through the mead,—
Her flow I do not heed.

101

A copse there was of hazels,—a cloud of radiant green,—
A lustrous veil of fruitful leaves to hide the world from me;
It seem'd when I was nutting there to be a fairy scene,
Ah! never more thereafter a fairy scene to be—
Save in sad memory

For my school-boy limbs, the river ran riot through the night,
The fields were full of star-like flowers, and overgrown with joy;
The trees around my play ground were a very stately sight,
But some spirit hath gone over them, to wither and destroy—
“Who would not be a boy!”

102

The Towers of that Old House, in which I did abide
When early days were friends with me,—seem alter'd to my eyes;
They do not stand so solemnly at night in moonlight pride,
As when upon the silver hours by stealth I did arise,
For garden revelries.

And in the river's place, and the nut-trees, and the night,
And the poetry that is upon the moonlit earth,—
I have lone rooms, and sad musings, and a fast unceasing flight
Of friends,—of self esteem:—Oh, my heart aches with the dearth
Of honour and of worth.

103

'Tis vain to visit olden scenes,—they change like other friends,
Their faces are not now the same, the youth of things is gone.
To others they may yet be bright,—and that must make amends:
The Towers to them may yet arise and frown in awful stone—
The Stream, in light, flow on.

WHAT IS LIFE?

LINES TO ------

And do you ask me “what is life?”—
And do you ask me “what is pleasure?”—
My muse and I are not at strife,
So listen, lady, to my measure:—
Listen amid thy graceful leisure,
To what is life,—and what is pleasure.

104

'Tis life to see the first dawn stain
With sallow light the window pane:—
To dress—to wear a rough drab coat,
With large pearl buttons all afloat
Upon the waves of plush:—To tie
A kerchief of the king-cup dye,
(White spotted with a small bird's eye)
Around the neck,—and from the nape
Let fall an easy fanlike cape:—
To quit the house at morning's prime,
At six or so—about the time
When watchmen, conscious of the day,
Puff out their lanthorn's rushlight ray;—
Just when the silent streets are strewn
With level shadows, and the moon
Takes the day's wink, and walks aside
To nurse a nap till eventide.
'Tis life, to reach the livery stable,
Secure the ribbons and the day-bill,
And mount a gig that had a spring
Some summers back;—and then take wing

105

Behind (in Mr. Hamlet's tongue)
A jade, whose “withers are unwrung;”
Who stands erect, and yet forlorn,
And, from a half pay life of corn,
Shewing as many points each way,
As Martial's Epigrammata,
Yet who, when set a going, goes
Like one undestined to repose.
'Tis life to revel down the road,
And queer each o'er-fraught chaise's load;
To rave and rattle at the gate,
And shower upon the gatherer's pate
Damns by the dozens, and such speeches
As well betoken one's slang riches:—
To take of Deady's bright stark naked
A glass or so,—'tis life to take it!
To see the Hurst with tents encampt on;
Lurk around Lawrence's at Hampton;
Join the flash crowd, (the horse being led
Into the yard, and clean'd, and fed);

106

Talk to Dav' Hudson, and Cy' Davis,
(The last a fighting rara avis,)
And, half in secret, scheme a plan
For trying the hardy Gas-light Man.

'Tis life to cross the laden ferry,
With boon companions, wild and merry,
And see the ring upon the Hurst
With carts encircled—hear the burst
At distance, of the eager crowd.—

Oh, it is life! to see a proud
And dauntless man step, full of hopes,
Up to the P. C. stakes and ropes,
Throw in his hat, and with a spring
Get gallantly within the ring;
Eye the wide crowd, and walk awhile,
Taking all cheerings with a smile:
To see him strip,—his well train'd form,
White, glowing, muscular, and warm,

107

All beautiful in conscious power,
Relaxed and quiet, till the hour;
His glossy and transparent frame,
In radiant plight to strive for fame!
To look upon the clean shap'd limb
In silk and flannel clothed trim;—
While round the waist the kerchief tied
Makes the flesh glow in richer pride.
'Tis more than life,—to watch him hold
His hand forth, tremulous yet bold,
Over his second's, and to clasp
His rival's in a quiet grasp;
To watch the noble attitude
He takes,—the crowd in breathless mood;—
And then to see, with adamant start,
The muscles set,—and the great heart
Hurl a courageous splendid light
Into the eye,—and then,—the fight!

Not the celebrated Jeweller.

These letters stand for the Pugilistic Club, and not for Peter Corcoran, as some might conjecture.