Rhymes to the Eye, by a Deaf Gentleman
[Page 186]
“Be it so,” replied Hermes; “but take care, you rogues;
Don’t you keep her from me, or I’ll turn you to clogs.”
“We cannot, we cannot,” cried they, “dearest master;
And to prove it at once, she shall come to you faster.”
So saying, they rose, and skimm’d out of the door,
Like a pair of white doves, when beginning to soar:
They met her half-way, and they flew to her feet,
Which they clasp’d in a flutter, the touch was so sweet;
And they bore her in silence, and kiss’d all the while
The feet of the queen of the beautiful smile;
And lo! in an instant, redoubled in charms,
The soft coming creature was pitch’d in his arms.
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RHYMES TO THE EYE,
BY A DEAF GENTLEMAN.(1)
I LONG'D for Dublin, thinking there to laugh
With jolly tipplers o’er their usquebaugh;(2)
For I’ve a merry heart, and love that juice,
Which London hath not good at any price.
Thither I went; but once (’twas at the Plough)
Some time uncounted after I’d enough,
I sallied forth, and in the street, alas!
I plunged into a horrible fracas,—
So horrible, that all my bones did ach,
And I was forced to ride home in a couch,
Entreating Dora to achieve a pot
Of salve from the Chirurgical Depot.*
* I am aware this rhyme may be carped at. However, Pope rhymed “way”
and “away” together, and that is good authority. For my part, I think
“pot” and “pot” rhyme very well together.—Note by the Deaf Gentleman.
[Page 187]
[Page 187]
Truly I cannot boast of such eclat(3)
As could my friend, whose sword, this way and that,
Brandish’d through Islington and Highgate thorps,—
For he belongs unto the Light Horse Corps!
Next morn I had a great mind to indict
The bludgeoneers, but could not well convict;
And fain was I to take their promises
Of good behaviour touching many bruises.
But if again they catch me in that region,
(Well-named Ire-land) since I am not a lion,
The world may call me fool, and I’ll say—“yes,”
For I don’t like bones batter’d and black eyes.
No! rather would I to Constantinople,
Although the Turk’s-men are a strange people,
And I’ve no predilection for the plague,
Than drink in a continued fearful ague.
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LINES TO A CRITIC.*
HONEY from silkworms who can gather,
Or silk from the yellow bee?
The grass may grow in winter weather,
As soon as hate in me.
* We have given the stupid malignity of the Investigator a better answer
than it is worth already. The writers must lay it to the account of our infir-
mity, and to a lurking something of orthodoxy in us. But in these “Lines
to a Critic,” the Reverend Calumniator, or Calumniators, will see what sort
of an answer Mr. Shelley would have given them; for the beautiful effusion
is his. Let the reader, when he has finished them, say which is the better
Christian,—the “religious” reviver of bitter and repeated calumnies upon
one who differs with him in opinion, or the “profane” philanthropist who can
answer in such a spirit?
EDITORIAL NOTES
Ultimo aggiornamento
22.09.2025