Perhaps thou wert even born To be unknown. Perhaps hung, some foggy morn, At Captain Coram's charitable wicket, Penn'd to a ticket That Fate had made illegible, foreseeing The future great unmentionable being. Perhaps thou hast ridden A scholar poor on St. Augustine's back, Like Chatterton, and found a dusty pack Of Rowley novels in an old chest hidden; A little hoard of clever simulation, That took the town--and Constable has bidden Some hundred pounds for a continuation-- To keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation. VI. I liked thy Waverley--first of thy breeding; I like its modest "sixty years ago," As if it was not meant for ages' reading. I don't like Ivanhoe, Tho' Dymoke does--it makes him think of clattering In iron overalls before the king, Secure from battering, to ladies flattering, Tuning his challenge to the gauntlets' ring-- Oh better far than all that anvil clang It was to hear thee touch the famous string Of Robin Hood's tough bow and make it twang, Rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan, Like Sagittarian Pan! VII. I like Guy Mannering--but not that sham son Of Brown. I like that literary Sampson, Nine-tenths a Dyer, with a smack of Porson. I like Dirk Hatteraick, that rough sea Orson That slew the Gauger; And Dandie Dinmont, like old Ursa Major; And Merrilies, young Bertram's old defender, That Scottish Witch of Endor, That doom'd thy fame. She was the Witch, I take it, To tell a great man's fortune--or to make it! VIII. I like thy Antiquary. With his fit on, He makes me think of Mr. Britton, Who has--or had--within his garden wall, A _miniature Stone Henge_, so very small The sparrows find it difficult to sit on; And Dousterswivel, like Poyais' M'Gregor; And Edie Ochiltree, that old _Blue Beggar_, Painted so cleverly, I think thou surely knowest Mrs. Beverly! I like thy Barber--him that fir'd the _Beacon_-- But that's a tender subject now to speak on! IX. I like long-arm'd Rob Roy. His very charms Fashion'd him for renown! In sad sincerity, The man that robs or writes must have long arms, If he's to hand his deeds down to posterity! Witness Miss Biffin's posthumous prosperity! Her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more) Bearing the name she bore, A thing Time's tooth is tempted to destroy! But Roys can never die--why else, in verity, Is Paris echoing with "Vive le _Roy!_" Ay, Rob shall live again, and deathless Di Vernon, of course, shall often live again-- Whilst there's a stone in Newgate, or a chain, Who can pass by Nor feel the Thief's in prison and at hand? There be Old Bailey Jarveys on the stand! X.