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And I mean, as soon as my niece is gone,
To have some talk with him thereupon.
At present, I nought can do or say,
But that troublesome child is in the way:
Nor is there, I think, a doubt that he
Would also her absence much prefer,
As oft, while listening intent to me,
He's forc'd, from politeness, to look at her.
Heigho! what a blessing should Mr. Magan
Turn out, after all, a "renewed" young man ;
And to me should fall the task, on earth,
To assist at the dear youth's second birth.
Blest thought! and, ah, more blest the tie,
Were it heaven's high will, that he and I—
But I blush to write the nuptial word-
Should wed, as St. Paul says, " in the Lord;"
Not this world's wedlock
as when Amram married his aunt.
- but who would count
One's natural sinful life's amount,
Or look in the Register's vulgar page
For a regular twice-born Christian's age,
Who, blessed privilege! only then
Begins to live when he's born again.
And, counting in this way let me see·
I myself but five years old shall be,
And dear Magan, when th' event takes place,
An actual new-born child of grace
Should Heav'n in mercy so dispose·
A six-foot baby, in swaddling clothes.
Finding myself, by some good fate,
With Mr. Magan left tête-à-tête,
Had just begun having stirr'd the fire,
And drawn my chair near his to inquire
What his notions were of Original Sin,
When that naughty Fanny again bounc'd in ;
And all the sweet things I had got to say
Of the Flesh and the Devil were whisk'd away!
Much grieved to observe that Mr. Magan
Is actually pleased and amused with Fan!
What charms any sensible man can see
In a child so foolishly young as she
But just eighteen, come next May-day,
With eyes, like herself, full of nought but play -
Is, I own, an exceeding puzzle to me.
FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY
TO MY SHADOW; OR, WHY? WHAT? HOW?
DARK comrade of my path! while earth and sky Thus wed their charms, in bridal light array'd, Why in this bright hour, walk'st thou ever nigh, Blackening my footsteps with thy length of shadeDark comrade, WHY?
Thou mimic Shape that, mid these flowery scenes,
Glidest beside me o'er each sunny spot,
Sadd'ning them as thou goest - say, what means
So dark an adjunct to so bright a lot
Grim goblin, WHAT?
Still, as to pluck sweet flowers I bend my brow, Thou bendest, too then risest when I rise; Say, mute mysterious Thing! how is 't that thou Thus com'st between me and those blessed skies Dim shadow, How?
(ADDITIONAL STANZA, BY ANOTHER HAND.) Thus said I to that Shape, far less in grudge Than gloom of soul; while, as I eager cried,
Oh Why? What? How?-a Voice, that one might
To be some Irish echo's, faint replied,
Oh, fudge, fudge, fudge!
You have here, dearest Coz, my last lyric effusion;
And, with it, that odious "additional stanza,"
Which Aunt will insist I must keep, as conclusion,
And which, you'll at once see, is Mr. Magan's;
Most cruel and dark-design'd extravaganza,
And part of that plot in which he and my Aunt are
To stifle the flights of my genius by banter.
Just so 't was with Byron's young eagle-ey'd strain,
Just so did they taunt him; – but vain, critics, vain
All your efforts to saddle Wit's fire with a chain !
To blot out the splendour of Fancy's young stream,
Or crop, in its cradle, her newly-fledg'd beam!!!
Thou perceiv'st, dear, that, ev'n while these lines I
Thoughts burn, brilliant fancies break out, wrong or right,
And I'm all over poet, in Criticism's spite!
That my Aunt, who deals only in Psalms, and regards Messrs. Sternhold and Co. as the first of all bards That she should make light of my works I can't blame;
But that nice, handsome, odious Magan — what a shame!
Do you know, dear, that, high as on most points I
I'm really afraid — after all, I must hate him.
He is so provoking-nought's safe from his tongue:
He spares no one authoress, ancient or young.
Were you Sappho herself, and in Keepsake or Bijou
Once shone as contributor, Lord how he'd quiz you!
He laughs at all Monthlies - I've actually seen
A sneer on his brow at the Court Magazine!
While of Weeklies, poor things, there's but one he
And buys every book which that Weekly abuses.
But I care not how others such sarcasm may fear,
One spirit, at least, will not bend to his sneer;
And though tried by the fire, my young genius shall
Uninjured as crucified gold in the furnace!
(I suspect the word "crucified" must be made " crucible,"
Before this fine image of mine is producible.)
And now, dear to tell you a secret which, pray Only trust to such friends as with safety you mayYou know, and, indeed the whole county suspects (Though the Editor often my best things rejects), That the verses signed so,, which you now and then see
In our County Gazette (vide last) are
But 't is dreadful to thins what provoking mistakes The vile country Press in one's prosody makes.