epistle from esopus to maria
from those drear solitudes and frowsy cells,
where infamy with sad repentance dwells;
where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast,
and deal from iron hands the spare repast;
where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin,
blush at the curious stranger peeping in;
where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar,
resolve to drink, nay, half, to whore, no more;
where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing,
beat hemp for others, riper for the string:
from these dire ses my wretched lines i date,
to tell maria her esopus' fate.
“as! i feel i am no actor here!”
'tis real hangmen real sces bear!
prepare maria, for a horrid tale
will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale;
will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd,
by barber woven, and by barber sold,
though twisted smooth with harry's care,
like hoary bristles to ered stare.
the hero of the mimic se, no more
i start in hamlet, in othello roar;
or, haughty chieftain, 'mid the din of arms
in highnd bo, woo malvina's charms;
while sans-culottes stoop up the mountain high,
and steal from me maria's prying eye.
blest highnd bo! once my proudest dress,
now prouder still, maria's temples press;
i see her wave thy t plumes afar,
and call eab to the wordy war:
i see her face the first of irend's sons,
and even out-irish his hibernian bronze;
the crafty el leaves the tartan'd lines,
for other wars, where he a hero shines:
the hopeful youth, in scottish senate bred,
who owns a bushby's heart without the head,
es 'mid a string of bs, to dispy
that veni, vidi, vici, is his way:
the shrinking bard adown the alley skulks,
and dreads a meeting worse than woolwich hulks:
though there, his heresies in churd state
might well award him muir and palmer's fate:
still she undaunted reels and rattles on,
and dares the public like a noontide sun.
what sdal called maria's jaunty stagger
the ricket reeling of a crooked swagger?
whose spleen (e'en worse than burns' venom, when
he dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen,
and pours his vengean the burning line,)—
who christen'd thus maria's lyre-divine
the idiot strum of vanity bemus'd,
and even the abuse of poesy abus'd?—
who called her verse a parish workhouse, made
for motley foundling fancies, stolen or strayed?
a workhouse! ah, that sound awakes my woes,
and pillows ohorn my rack'd repose!
in durance vile here must i wake and weep,
and all my frowsy cou sorrow steep;
that straw where many a rogue has in of yore,
and vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore.
why, lonsdale, thus thy wrath on vagrants pour?
must earth no rascal save thyself endure?
must thou alone in guilt immortal swell,
and make a vast monopoly of hell?
thou know'st the virtues ot hate thee worse;
the vices also, must they club their curse?
or must no tiny sin to others fall,
because thy guilt's supreme enough for all?
maria, seoo thy griefs and cares;
in all of thee sure thy esopus shares.
as thou at all mankind the fg unfurls,
who on my fair oire's vengeance hurls—
who calls thee, pert, affected, vain coquette,
a wit in folly, and a fool in wit!
who says that fool alone is not thy due,
and "es thy treacheries to prove it true!
our forited on thy foes we'll turn,
and dare the war with all of woman born:
for who write and speak as thou and i?
my periods that deciphering defy,
and thy still matchless tohat quers all reply!