LINES TO A LADY ON HER DEPARTURE FOR INDIA. O where the waves run rather Holborn-hilly, And tempests make a soda-water sea, And think of me! Go where the mild Madeira ripens her juce,— Go where the Tiger in the darkness prowleth, And think of me! Go where the serpent dangerously coileth, Go where the Suttee in her own soot broileth, And think of me ! Go where with human notes the Parrot dealeth And think of me! Go to the land of muslin and nankeening, Go to the land of Jungles and of vast hills, And think of me! Go where a cook must always be a currier, And think of me! Go where the maiden on a marriage plan goes, And think of me! Go where the sun is very hot and fervent, Go to the land of pagod and rupee, Where every black will be your slave and servant, And think of me! SIR JOHN BOWRING. O Bowring, man of many tongues, (All over tongues like rumour) This tributary verse belongs To paint his learned humour ; All kinds of gabs he talks, I wis, But far more Polly-glottish! No grammar too abstruse he meets However dark and verby, He gossips Greek about the streets, Strange tongues whate'er you do them call, To tell you what's o'clock in all The dialects of Babel. Take him on 'Change; try Portuguese, The Moorish and the Spanish, Polish, Hungarian, Tyrolese, Although you should begin in Dutch And end (like me) in Finnish. TO MR. M'ADAM. "Let us take to the road!"-Beggar's Opera. M ADAM, hail ! Hail, Roadian! hail, Collossus! who dost stand To thee, a good, yet stony-hearted man, The kindest one, and yet the flintiest going,- Gliding o'er ways, hitherto deem'd invincible, Thou northern light, amid those heavy men! Dispenser of coagulated good! Distributor of granite and of food! Best benefactor! though thou giv'st a stone Thy first great trial in this mighty town That gentle hill which goeth Down from "the County" to the Palace gate, Past the Old Horticultural Society, The chemist Cobb's, the house of Howell and James, And past the Athenæum, made of late, Severs a sweet variety Of milliners and booksellers who grace Making division, the Muse fears and guesses, 'Twixt Mr. Rivington's and Mr Hessey's. Thou stood'st thy trial, Mac! and shaved the road Next, from the palace to the prison, thou Didst go, the highway's watchman, to thy beat,— Upon the stones-ah! truly watchman-like, To further thy own purpose, Adam, daily ;— Of Newgate, to encourage the approach, By caravan or coach, Hast strewed the way with flints as soft as flowers. Who shall dispute thy name! Insculpt in stone in every street, Thy trodden down, yet all unconquered fame ! Where'er we take, even at this time, our way, Nought see we, but mankind in open air, Hammering thy same, as Chantrey would not dare ;And with a patient care Chipping thy immortality all day! Demosthenes, of old,—that rare old man,— (History says so,) Put pebbles in his mouth when he would speak It is "impossible, and cannot be," But that thy genius hath, Besides the turnpike, many another path Trod, to arrive at popularity. O'er Pegasus, perchance, thou hast thrown a thigh, Nor ridden a roadster only ;-mighty Mac! And 'faith I'd swear, when on that wingèd hack, Thou hast observed the highways in the sky! And "hard to climb," as Dr. B. would say? The noiseless tenor of their way? (see Gray.) What line of road should poets take to bring Themselves unto those waters, loved the first!— Those waters which can wet a man to sing! Which, like thy fame, "from granite basins burst, Leap into life, and, sparkling, woo the thirst?" That thou'rt a proser, even thy birthplace might Vouchsafe;- and Mr. Cadell may, God wot, Have paid thee many a pound for many a blot,— Cadell's a wayward wight! Although no Walter, still thou art a Scot, And I can throw, I think, a little light Upon some works thou hast written for the town,— And published, like a Lilliput Unknown! "Highways and Byeways" is thy book, no doubt, (One whole edition's out,) And next, for it is fair That Fame, Seeing her children, should confess she had 'em ;"Some Passages from the life of Adam Blair,"(Blair is a Scottish name,) What are they, but thy own good roads, M‘Adam? O! indefatigable labourer In the paths of men! when thou shalt die, 'twill be A mark of thy surpassing industry, That of the monument, which men shall rear Over thy most inestimable bone, Thou didst thy very self lay the first stone !— Rolling his gravel walks in Paradise! But he, our great Mac Parent, erred, and ne'er Yet Time, who, like the merchant, lives on 'Change, |