Classic Poem

If as pleasure you can rank it,
To gaze at beauty through a blanket,
Go where each lovely lake enshrouds
Her charms behind a vale of clouds.

Some of our summer tourists seek the Alps,
Risking their own to climb the mountain scalps,
And if they do not slip, and so
Stick midway in some icy nook
O'erhanging an abyss of snow;
Or that no avalanche down-slides,
Engulphing them and all their guides,
They write a book,
To shew the world what fools they've been,
And tell the nothings they have seen.

Others there are who can't abide
To glide and slide on a glacier's side, —
When a trip or a slip may send them to dip,
With a hop and a skip,
In a bath of snow, where you taste the pleasure
Of dying by inches, and freezing at leisure.
So, for their consciences' sakes,
Eschewing such a clear self-slaughter,
They substitute for mountains, lakes,
And ramble all on fire for water,
Exploring every classic pond,
From P├┤ to Naples,
And doating on each muddy moat
That boasts sufficient depth to float
The ducks of some Italian Mrs. Bond
But if a brace of moping maples
Or pining pines o'erhang the bank,
Lord! how they laud the faetid tank;
While, ten to one, some rhyming fool
Writes stanzas to his " Peerless Pool! "

Travellers we have much more John Bullish,
Deeming each brother tourist foolish
Who his country forsakes,
To seek mountains and lakes,
When he may get them ready made at home,
And so to Westmoreland they roam,
Thinking, with all their mights and mains,
Of Southey's and of Wordsworth's strains,
Of landscapes, picturesque and grand,
And crags whose lines are never scann'd,
They pierce into the clouds so far, —
Of picnic parties, moonlight nights,
Boat dinners, and the dear delights
Of poetry and potted char!
Our lakes, it must be own'd, are pretty things,
When one can see them, which is very seldom,
For Pluvian Jupiter for ever wings
His clouds above them, and Apollo flings
His rays so rarely, one would think he held 'em
Only for sabbaths, but that not e'en one day
In a lake-week deserves the name of Sunday .
Maugre this soaking of the scenery,
Thither I went last Summer- time (not Summer),
A greenhorn gazing for the greenery,
And bent, like every undeceived new-comer,
To rise by daylight and explore
Lake, mountain, valley, tarn, and shore;
With which most laudable intent,
Having bespoken proper guides
For walks and boatings, drives and rides,
To bed I went.

Up with the sun! and so I might,
If I had lain in bed till night!
The morning came, at least the hour,
But 'stead of light, a darkling shower,
That seem'd as if it came to barter us
For English weather that of Tartarus.
Said I, a shower? Alas! the Lakes
Know not the word; for when it takes
A falling fit, the rain comes down
As if it were resolved to drown
All it encounters here and there,
Except the prison'd Tourist's care
'Tis not a storm that spits its spite,
Then hurries off, and leaves the scene
Enliven'd with a brighter green,
And sparkling in the rainbow light:
No — 'tis a straight unceasing fall
Of sullen, dogged, steady rain,
Set in to last while you remain,
Enshrouding lake, shore, mountain, all,
In one impenetrable pall. —
After some hours it would subside
Into a drizzle drearier yet;
For then th' impending clouds were spied,
Like monstrous udders — spongy, wet,
Flapping and flagging,
Lagging and dragging
Against the mountain sides, and spilling o'er
Whate'er they touch'd their unexhausted store
None could admire such mists, except some scion
Descended from old cloud-kissing Ixion.
It might be thought the scullions of the sky
Had had a washing-day on high,
And hung their dish-clout clouds to drain, not dry;
While Earth, in a muddle
Of pool and of puddle,
Assumed a most bedraggled, miry mien;
Such slipping and slopping,
And dripping and dropping,
Save at the Lakes, was surely never seen.
Even the ducks one saw the kennel sucking,
Appear'd to quake at getting such a ducking, —
And, floundering through the slough, each passing man
Look'd like a sop in Earth's great dripping-pan.
And yet in these diminish'd inundations,
(There never were complete cessations,)
My guides would quit
The taps where they had been carousing,
And try to tempt me to a sousing.
" It don't rain now, Sir, scarce a bit:
We've mopp'd the boat, Jem Thwaites and me;
And finer weather cannot be,
After those heavy showers and squalls,
For seeing both the Waterfalls. " —
" Thank you, my friends, " was my reply;
" But as I've had from morn till eve,
A cataract in either eye,
I must be couch'd , with your good leave. "
And this was done as soon as said,
For off I hurried to my bed.
" Doubtless, to-morrow 'twill give o'er, "
I whisper'd as I sank to rest;
But when the morning stood confest,
Zounds! it was wetter than before!
The sky had now been used to pour,
And seem'd to do it with a zest;
For the clouds spouted con amore ,
And the rain reign'd in all its glory.
Oh! how I watched the window pane,
Then gazed upon the blubb'ring gutter,
Then read the Guide-book through again,
And 'twixt my teeth began to mutter
Curses upon this most abhorrent
And personally spiteful torrent. —
My execrations had no force,
I could not dam it in its course:
Nay, it began to flow the faster,
As if to mock at my disaster.
E'en the church clock, that toll'd the hours,
Appear'd half-smother'd in the showers,
So sullenly its muffled knell
Boom'd through the heavy air around.
Sick of the wet and weary sound,
In mere despair I rang the bell: —
" Waiter! " said I, " d'ye think this weather
Will long continue? " — " No, Sir, no;
I shouldn't wonder in the least,
If in a week or two it ceased,
And gave us two fine days together!
Some shifts of wind they sets it going,
Others they sets it faster flowing,
But still you know, Sir, there's no knowing. "
" Pleasant and shrewd! But tell me pray,
Have you no public show or sight
To which a wretched tourist may
Fly from Aquarius's spite? "
" Oh yes, Sir, yes; the gentlefolks
Goes now and then to Mr. Noakes',
Who has a show uncommon fine,
Something in the Museum line. " —
" Got a Museum, say you? That's
A sight I'll see, though Jove's decanter
Pour cats and dogs, and dogs and cats.
Which is the house? I'm off instanter. "
Behold me then, umbrella'd, booted,
Great-coated, and envelop'd duly
In triple wraps, — in fact just suited
To face a Lake-ish day in July,
Dabbling and waddling,
Splashing and paddling,
To the Museum, where Ifound,
A covey of amphibious peasants,
Standing in Mr. Noakes' presence,
With their dab-chicks all dripping round,
And all their mouths and goggle eyes
Wide open with profound surprise.
" Ladies and gemmen, " said the showman,
Raising his magisterial wand,
" You'll all be pleased to understand
You mustn't chatter-mag, for no man
Can tell his story out of hand,
If, when he 's stating all his factses,
You bothers him and questions axes. "

" This here (it's number one) that's hung
Those Ethiopian birds among,
Is an Owhyhee tomahawk. "
" Whew! " cries a crone, " It look, good lauk!
More like a handsaw nor a hawk
Bees that a hawk? — What say ye, Tommy? "
" Naw that it baint, I'm certain, Mommy. "
" Silence! " commanded Mr. Noakes;
" Please to attend to me, good folks —
This is a whinkam whankam wam,
Or statue of the Goddess Isis,
Brought from the Islands called the Sandwich;
Because the natives are a band which
Cut their war-prisoners into slices,
As we do ham,
And eat them with their bread and butter,
A thing most horrible to utter!
This here's their bludgeon as they uses
In sea or land-fights as they chooses. " —
" Why then, " quoth I, " these savages
Have got, to give our pride a rub,
Their own United-Service Club. "
( " Pray, Sir, be silent if you please. " )

" This is the Indian calumet,
Or pipe of peace, the end on't's broken. " —
" Call it, " cried I, " by that same token,
(When a new catalogue you get)
A piece of pipe, not pipe of peace. " —
( " Pray, Sir, be silent if you please. " )
" That animal is call'd up there,
The great Ant-eater, from Bengal. " —
" Lauk! " screamed a child, " the horrid cretur!
If he be such a great-aunt-eater,
Do pray, Aunt Polly, have a care,
Or he may eat you crutch and all!
So prythee, prythee, this way hobble,
Lest he should gulp you at a gobble. " —
" La! Miss, " cried Noakes, and blandly smiled;
He do look just like life, it's true,
But don't be frightened, little child!
The beast's no more alive than you —

" These crooked horns were all imported
Straight from Cape Horn; but how they call
The beasts by whom they were supported,
I never couldn't larn at all;
And hope I needn't make apology
For knowing nought of Hornithology.
This is a Chinese shoe that pinches
A lady's foot within four inches; —
Here's a rhinoceros's egg; —
This drawing shows you a flea's leg;
But whether 'tis the leg behind
Or that before, I cannot find,
Not being larned in phlebotomy,
Nor over skilful in anatomy. —
This finger in the bottle's one
Of Edward the Black Prince's; — see!
It's black as ink itself; — so none
Can doubt its authenticity. —
This is a Polecat from the Pole,
Right underneath the great Equator;
And this a Roman painted Bowl:
How wondrous are the works of Natur! —
Here is a Lynx, whose fiery eyes
Have caused us to call flambeaux links;
And a Chameleon, changing dyes
At will, although it never drinks
Nor eats, except a sup of air; —
I can't say I should like such fare —

" Now please to open all your eyes;
This rarest rarity of all,
In the glass-case against the wall,
Is Cromwell's head, my greatest prize,
With vouchers giving true and full
Proof that it is his genuine skull. " —
" Softly, " cried I; " I've seen a head
At Oxford, which is also said
To have been Cromwell's, proved as such
By all the certified contents
Of most authentic documents,
And that was larger, — larger much. " —
" What odds, if mine be summat less? "
Ask'd Noakes; " this head that I'm a-showing,
Might have been his, as any fool may guess,
When he was small and hadn't done a-growing. "
Thus did he blunder through his task,
While I maliciously would ask
Questions of Noakes, intended to hoax,
And turn into jokes, all he said to the folks,
Who, pleased with what they heard and saw,
Would burst into a broad Haw! haw!
And say, " This chop's a queer one, aint'n? " —
" Aw! he's a rare rum codger, baint'n? "

The show, though not the rain, was o'er,
Which still continued, pour, pour, pour:
But wading on through thick and thin,
I swam and flounder'd to my inn,
Dined, went to bed, and closed my eyes
Amid the soothing lullabies
Of rain bespattering, windows clattering,
The spatter and sputter of every gutter,
And all the sounds of liquid clamour
That water on the ear can hammer
Next morn the same da capo strain
Of everlasting rain, rain, rain,
So leaving some more patient fool
To wait till doomsday for fine days,
I pack'd my luggage, call'd a chaise,
And started back for Liverpool;
While as they laid their heads together,
The waiter to the ostler said,
" Why what a flot this chap is, Ned,
To coom to th' Lakes and hope to get fine weather! "