LETTER VII. FROM MISS FANNY FUDGE, TO HER COUSIN, MISS KITTY IRREGULAR ODE. BRING me the slumbering souls of flowers, Bring me the first-born ocean waves, From out those deep primeval caves, Where from the dawn of Time they've lain,— THE EMBRYOS OF A FUTURE MAIN! Untaught as yet, young things, to speak They'll thunder loud and long as HE! Bring me, from Hecla's iced abode, I had got, dear, thus far in my ODE, Intending to fill the whole page to the bottom, wings, Didn't know what to do with 'em, when I had got 'em. If you guess what this word means, 't is more than I can :— F. F. The truth is, my thoughts are too full, at this minute, This very night's coach brings my destiny in it,— You'll think, love, I rave, so 'tis best to let out The whole secret, at once-I have publish'd a Book!!! Yes, an actual Book:—if the marvel you doubt, You have only in last Monday's Courier to look, And you'll find "This day published by Simkins and Co. A Romaunt, in twelve Cantos, entitled 'Woe, Woe!' By Miss Fanny F- known more commonly This I put that my friends mayn't be left in the dark, But may guess at my writing by knowing my mark. F How I managed, at last, this great deed to achieve, Is itself a "Romaunt" which you'd scarce, dear, be lieve; Nor can I just now, being all in a whirl, Looking out for the Magnet,* explain it, dear girl. Suffice it to say, that one half the expense Of this leasehold hence, of fame for long centuries (Though "God knows," as aunt says, my humble ambition Aspires not beyond a small Second Edition,)- And who, my dear Kitty, would not do the same? What's eau de Cologne to the sweet breath of fame? A day coach of that name. Yards of ribbon soon end, but the measures of rhyme, Dipp'd in hues of the rainbow, stretch out through all time. Gloves languish and fade away, pair after pair, While couplets shine out, but the brighter for wear, And the dancing-shoe's gloss in an evening is gone, While light-footed lyrics through ages trip on. The remaining expense, trouble, risk, and alas! (The only Mecænas I've ever had yet), He who set up in type my first juvenile lays, Is now set up by them for the rest of his days; sweeter To live, lucky dev'l, on a young lady's metre ! |