Oh, Mr. Cross! Permit a sorry stranger to draw near, And shed a tear (I've shed my shilling) for thy recent loss! I've been a visitor, Of old, a sort of a Buffon inquisitor Of thy menagerie -- and knew the beast That is deceased! -- I was the Damon of the gentle giant, And oft have been, Like Mr Kean, Tenderly fondled by his trunk compliant; Whenever I approach'd, the kindly brute Flapp'd his prodigious ears, and bent his knees, -- It makes me freeze To think of it! -- No chums could better suit, Exchanging grateful looks for grateful fruit, -- For so our former dearness was begun. I bribed him with an apple, and beguiled The beast of his affection like a child; And well he loved me till his life was done (Except when he was wild): It makes me blush for human friends -- but none I have so truly kept or cheaply won! Here is his pen! -- The casket, -- but the jewel is away! -- The den is rifled of its denizen -- Ah, well a day! This fresh free air breathes nothing of his grossness, And sets me sighing, even for its closeness. This light one-storey Where, like a cloud, I used to feast my eyes on The grandeur of his Titan-like horizon, Tells a dark tale of its departed glory. The very beasts lament the change, like me; The shaggy Bison Leaneth his head dejected on his knee! Th' Hyaena's laugh is hush'd, and Monkey's pout, The Wild Cat frets in a complaining whine, The Panther paces restlessly about, To walk her sorrow out; The Lions in a deeper bass repine, -- The Kangaroo wrings its sorry short fore paws, Shrieks come from the Macaws; The old bald Vulture shakes his naked head, And pineth for the dead, The Boa writhes into a double knot, The Keeper groans Whilst sawing bones, And looks askance at the deserted spot -- Brutal and rational lament his loss, The flower of thy beastly family! Poor Mrs Cross Sheds frequent tears into her daily tea, And weakens her Bohea! O Mr Cross, how little it gives birth To grief, when human greatness goes to earth; How few lament for Czars! -- But oh the universal heart o'erflow'd At his high mass, Lighted by gas, When, like Mark Antony, the keeper show'd The Elephant scars! -- Reporters' eyes Were of an egg-like size, Men that had never wept for murder'd Marrs! Hard-hearted editors, with iron faces Their sluices all unclosed, -- And discomposed Compositors went fretting to their cases! -- That grief has left its traces: The poor old Beef-eater has gone much greyer With sheer regret, And the Gazette Seems the least trouble of the beast's Purveyor! Well! he is dead! And there's a gap in Nature of eleven Feet high by seven -- Five living tons! -- and I remain -- nine stone Of skin and bone! It is enough to make me shake my head And dream of the grave's brink -- 'Tis worse to think How like the Beast's the sorry life I've led! -- A sort of show Of my poor public self and my sagacity, To profit the rapacity Of certain folks in Paternoster Row, A slavish toil to win an upper story -- And a hard glory Of wooden beams about my weary brow! Oh, Mr C.! If ever you behold me twirl my pen To earn a public supper, that is, eat In the bare street, -- Or turn about their literary den -- Shoot me! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NIGHT MOTHS by EDWIN MARKHAM DAUGHTERS OF JEPHTHA by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE LOVER'S MESSAGE; SONG by JOHN DRYDEN EPIGRAM ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG by ALEXANDER POPE TO A SISTER OF CHARITY by EDWIN GEORGE ALEXANDER TO A CHILD OF THREE YEARS OLD by BERNARD BARTON |