The Laceman’s Lament
“One struggle more and I am free From pangs that rend my heart in twain.”
—Byron.
Oh! thou, who wert my all of hope—
Of love—of joy, in early years;
Ere aught I knew about the shop,
Or view’d life through a veil of tears.
Some poet sings, that, “never yet,
The course of true love smooth did run;”
So mine, I’ll take an even bet,
Must be the truest ’neath the sun!
’Tis long, long since I ceased to weep
O’er all thy broken vows of yore;
But, if you want some ribbon cheap,
I hope you’ll not go past my door!
’Twas thee my youthful fancy drew
The fairest pattern of your kind;—
Lace patterns, now, alone I view,
And fancy muslins rule my mind.
Dearest and fairest! oh, forgive
The thought that prompts this simple lay;
’Tis just to tell you where I live—
I see you passing, every day.
I may, perchance, have measured short
The lines that are not in my line;
For yards, not feet, are now my forte,
And rhymes are ill to match and join.
In visions of a future day,
I see thy long-lost form appear;
And, o’er the counter, whispering, say—
“Pray can you make it cheaper, dear?”
Then I’ll not call thee all unkind,
Nor every hope untimely drop;
Unless, in after days, I find
You take your custom past my shop.
J. P.
This pleasantry not unnaturally called to mind the departed author of a thousand similar essays; of a thousand songs, epigrams, odes, farces, and operas; of a thousand proofs of natural talent and untiring activity of mind. The allusion here made is to Thomas Dibdin, the son of the great sea-songster, the brother of the already by-gone Charles, and consequently, the last of the three! The remains of “Poor Tom” were interred on the 21st of September, in the burial-ground of St. James’s Chapel, Pentonville, close by the grave of his old friend, Grimaldi. May he sleep in peace nevertheless! The feeling of a friend seems to be expressed in the subjoined tribute:—
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE THOMAS DIBDIN.
Alas! poor Tom! thy days are past,
Yet shall thy wit and humour last;
For few, of all the bay-crown’d train,
Could boast a more productive brain.
But what avails, if fleeting praise
Alone the poet’s labour pays?
If, when the mind is worn away,
Pale misery waits on dim decay?
If talents rare no more can claim
Than idle transitory fame?
’Twas thine, poor Tom! in life’s decline,
In sad reverse and want to pine;
Till Pity came, with angel-pow’r,
To soothe thee at thy latest hour.10
(Pity! on earth a heavenly guest,
And sweetest in a queenly breast.)
But rest thee well! nor let us grieve
Thou hadst no hoarded bags to leave;
One legacy of thine shall yet
Be valued more—thy Cabinet.
J. A. Williams.
It is the fate of one author to be overlooked by the Great, and of another to be overlooked by the Little. But we very much question, whether any author, be he poet or pamphleteer, occupying what is technically called a two-pair front, was ever subjected, whether sitting down to dinner or getting into bed, to the inconvenience of being Overlooked by the Great, after the fashion portrayed in the margin hereof. Now this we really take to be