Oh, blessed ease! no more of heaven I ask: The overseer is gone--that vandal elf-- And hemp, unpick’d, may go and hang itself, While I, untask’d, except with Cowper’s Task, In blessed literary leisure bask, And lose the workhouse, saving in the works Of Goldsmiths, Johnsons, Sheridans, and Burkes; Eat prose and drink of the Castalian flask; The themes of Locke, the anecdotes of Spence, The humorous of Gay, the Grave of Blair-- Unlearned toil, unletter’d labours hence! But, hark! I hear the master on the stair And Thomson’s Castle, that of Indolence, Must be to me a castle in the air. SONNET.--A SOMNAMBULIST. “A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.”--BYRON. Methought--for Fancy is the strangest gadder When sleep all homely Mundane ties hath riven-- Methought that I ascended Jacob’s ladder, With heartfelt hope of getting up to Heaven: Some bell, I knew not whence, was sounding seven When I set foot upon that long one-pair; And still I climbed when it had chimed eleven, Nor yet of landing-place became aware; Step after step in endless flight seem’d there; But on, with steadfast hope, I struggled still, To gain that blessed haven from all care, Where tears are wiped, and hearts forget their ill, When, lo! I wakened on a sadder stair-- Tramp--tramp--tramp--tramp--upon the Brixton Mill! FUGITIVE LINES ON PAWNING MY WATCH. “Aurum _potabile_:”--Gold biles the pot.--FREE TRANSLATION. Farewell then, my golden repeater, We’re come to my Uncle’s old shop; And hunger won’t be a dumb-waiter, The Cerberus growls for a sop! To quit thee, my comrade diurnal, My feelings will certainly scotch; But oh! there’s a riot internal, And Famine calls out for the Watch! Oh! hunger’s a terrible trial, I really must have a relief,-- So here goes the plate of your dial To fetch me some Williams’s beef! As famish’d as any lost seaman, I’ve fasted for many a dawn, And now must play chess with the Demon, And give it a _check_ with a _pawn_. I’ve fasted, since dining at Buncle’s, Two days with true Perceval zeal-- And now must make up at my Uncle’s. By getting a _duplicate_ meal. [Illustration: “OH MY PROPHETIC SOUL--MY UNCLE!”] No Peachum it is, or young Lockit, That rifles my fob with a snatch; Alas! I must pick my own pocket, And make gravy-soup of my watch! So long I have wander’d a starver, I’m getting as keen as a hawk; Time’s long hand must take up a carver, His short hand lay hold of a fork. Right heavy and sad the event is, But oh! it is Poverty’s crime; I’ve been such a Brownrigg’s Apprentice, I thus must be “out of my Time.”