Page:Ainsworth's Magazine - Volume 1.djvu/85
Viz., (for the benefit of newspaper critics) "Perch a man on a pinnacle, and people pelt him with peas."
Doppenheim, I conclude, is the professor in petto, Tickler's friend, who, I know, sent him your works, and considers him almost as good an instructor in philology as Dr. Becker of Offenbach, who is so worshipped by his English pupils. His Sapphics seem to contra-dict the standing libel—
Nos Germăni quantītătem omuĭnŏ non curămus!
for I cannot find a single word of false prosody in them. Imprimantur cum aliis. If he be the same, and means, as you conjecture, more than a metaphor in his fourth stanza, send him to my lion's den; there is stretching-room nd prey for him; and I will send for my godson to lionize him about town, when duly refreshed; but I rather think his hands are too full at Leipzig. I feel obliged to him for a hint in the last stanza, on which I shall forthwith work up my promised and deferred "L'Envoy," to your spirited little concern forthcoming. But, mark,
Ne'er expect a fat justice, like Buller,
On high lyric pinions to soar:
I leave it to you, like old Fuller,
To chronicle worthies of yore.
Like Horace's "Apis Matinæ,"
An amateur bee among bees,
I take flights rather casual and tiny,
And hum about just as I please.
I think I shall couch it in this metre. It is, you know, Dr. Maginn's fighting tune, "The Groves of the Pool," adopted in "Jerry Mahony," the shillela song.
Friday.—Struck a lucifer at five this morning, to throw a light on the subject, and herethey are, "valsant quantum valent"—"tal qual," in Nuñez' more concise style; or, as my gardener says of his small potatoes, "least-ways, here 'um be, sich as 'urn be."
As polyglot's the fashion nowadays,
I can't help putting in my claim for praise,
And hope to wear the macaronic bays.
Tuissimus,
T. R. BULLER.
L'Envoy.
Come, my hearts, launch the vessel and man her,
Where Fortune conducts us, make sail;
The tide's with us now, and our banner
Floats light in the favouring gale.
Up, Cruikshank! your aid we rely on;
Dash a flask of champagne on the prow;
While my fiddle I tune, like Arion,
Serenading old Thames as we go.
Our skipper, as jovial and free as
A bridegroom, all squalls doth defy,
Exclaiming, like "Pater Æneas,"
"My merry men, never say die,
But trust in the pledge of bright Phbus
All jolly true Trojans to aid,
And fire away broadsides of rebus,
Ode, legend, and light pasquinade!"
To our Pergama's glory and power
First fill we one cup of regret;
One sigh for the noble old Tower,
While its ruins are visible yet.
Old England, the bold and true-hearted,
In grief o'er its ashes shall bend;
But its strength and its trophies departed
Survive in the page of our friend.
And now, all our rigging set trimly,
Through Thames's broad reaches we fly;
Saint Paul's, in the offing, yet dimly
Looms large through the vapour on high.
"Friend Ainsworth, good luck and success t' ye!"
Sounds deep from its iron-toned tongue;
"For, thanks to your pen, Heaven rest ye!
My ancestor fell not unsung."
And hark! as that bell's lordly echo
Dies faint in the distance abaft,
The breeze freshens;—all hands upon deck, ho!
It fills every sail of our craft.
Evöe! 'tis the breath of proud Clio,
The muse and awarder of fame,
Which wafted the blind bard of Scio
O'er ocean, to win him a name.
Fire a gun! salute Maga's bold skipper,
We've both of us sail'd in his crew;
Then steer our own course in the clipper,
And care not what other folks do.
There's sea-room for us and for others,
And trade on the river for all,
So we'll not shew our teeth, my stanch brothers,
Without an imperative call.
Meantime, our rich argosy, freighted
For Windsor, the Castle doth near;
All agog for the prize they awaited,
Hark! gentles and Eton lads cheer!
And now, in despite of the season,
'Mid princely oaks waving around,
They crowd to the banquet of reason
On royal and classical ground.
While we, my boys, hither and thither,
Will roam the wide seas in our yacht,
And as to the how and the whither,
I know not and care not a jot.
Anywhere from the Pole to the Indus,
Where Fate may direct in her whim,
With fresh blowing breezes behind us,
And hearts full of fun to the brim.
T. R. B.