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richard mitchley - ode to the great unknown - thomas hood كلمات أغنية

thou great unknown
i do not mean eternity nor death
that vast incog!
for i suppose thou hast a living breath
howbeit we know not from whose lungs ’tis blown
thou man of fog!
parent of many children __ child of none!
n0body’s son!
n0body’s daughter __ but a parent still!
still but an ostrich parent of a batch
of orphan eggs, __ left to the world to hatch
superlative nil!
a vox and nothing more, __ yet not vauxhall;
a head in papers, yet without a curl!
not the invisible girl!
no hand __ but a hand_writing on a wall __
a popular nonentity
still call’d the same, __ without identity!
a lark, heard out of sight, __
a nothing shined upon, __ invisibly bright
“dark with excess of light!”
constable’s literary john_a_nokes __
the real scottish wizard __ and not which
n0body __ in a niche;
every one’s hoax!
maybe sir walter scott __
perhaps not!
why dost thou so conceal, and puzzle curious folks?
thou, __ whom the second_sighted never saw
the master fiction of fictitious history!
chief nong_tong_paw!
no mister in the world __ and yet all mystery!
the “tricksy spirit” of a scotch c_ck lane __
a novel junius puzzling the world’s brain __
a man of magic __ yet no talisman!
a man of clair obscure __ not he o’ the moon!
a star __ at noon
a non_descriptus in a caravan
a private __ of no corps __ a northern light
in a dark lantern, __ bogie in a cr_pe __
a figure __ but no shape;
a vizor __ and no knight;
the real abstract hero of the age;
the staple stranger of the stage;
a some one made in every man’s presumption
frankenstein’s monster __ but instinct with gumption
another strange state captive in the north
constable_guarded in an iron mask __
still let me ask
hast thou no silver platter
no door_plate, or no card __ or some such matter
to scrawl a name upon, and then cast forth?
thou scottish barmecide, feeding the hunger
of curiosity with airy gammon!
thou mystery __ monger
dealing it out like middle cut of salmon
that people buy, and can’t make head or tail of it;
(howbeit that puzzle never hurts the sale of it;)
thou chief of authors mystic and abstractical
that lay their proper bodies on the shelf __
keeping thyself so truly to thyself
thou zimmerman made practical!
thou secret fountain of a scottish style
that, like the nile
hideth its source wherever it is bred
but still keeps disemboguing
(not disembroguing)
thro’ such broad sandy mouths without a head
thou disembodied author __ not yet dead, __
the whole world’s literary absentee!
ah! wherefore hast thou fled
thou learned nemo __ wise to a degree
anonymous l. l. d.!

thou nameless captain of the nameless gang
that do __ and inquests cannot say who did it!
wert thou at mrs. donatty’s death_pang?
hast thou made gravy of weare’s watch __ or hid it?
hast thou a blue_beard chamber? heaven forbid it!
i should be very loth to see thee hang!
i hope thou hast an alibi well plann’d
an innocent, altho’ an ink_black hand
tho’ thou hast newly turn’d thy private bolt on
the curiosity of all invaders __
i hope thou art merely closeted with colton
who knows a little of the holy land
writing thy next new novel __ the crusaders!
perhaps thou wert even born
to be unknown. __ perhaps hung, some foggy morn
at captain coram’s charitable wicket
pinn’d to a ticket
that fate had made illegible, foreseeing
the future great unmentionable being. __
perhaps thou hast ridden
a scholar poor on st. augustine’s back
like chatterton, and found a dusty pack
of rowley novels in an old chest hidden;
a little h__rd of clever simulation
that took the town __ and constable has bidden
some hundred pounds for a continuation __
to keep and clothe thee in genteel starvation

i liked thy waverly __ first of thy breeding;
i like its modest “sixty years ago,”
as if it was not meant for ages’ reading
i don’t like ivanhoe
tho’ dymoke does __ it makes him think of clattering
in iron overalls before the king
secure from battering, to ladies flattering
tuning his challenge to the gauntlets’ ring __
oh better far than all that anvil clang
it was to hear thee touch the famous string
of robin hood’s tough bow and make it tw_ng
rousing him up, all verdant, with his clan
like sagittarian pan!
i like guy mannering __ but not that sham son
of brown. __ i like that literary sampson
nine_tenths a dyer, with a smack of porson
i like d_ck hatteraick, that rough sea orson
that slew the gauger;
and dandie dinmont, like old ursa major;
and merrilies, young bertram’s old defender
that scottish witch of endor
that doom’d thy fame. she was the witch, i take it
to tell a great man’s fortune __ or to make it!

i like thy antiquary. with his fit on
he makes me think of mr. britton
who has __ or had __ within his garden wall
a miniature stone henge, so very small
the sparrows find it difficult to sit on;
and dousterswivel, like poyais’ m’gregor;
and edie ochiltree, that old blue beggar
painted so cleverly
i think thou surely knowest mrs. beverly!
i like thy barber __ him that fired the beacon __
but that’s a tender subject now to speak on!

i like long_arm’d rob roy. __ his very charms
fashion’d him for renown! __ in sad sincerity
the man that robs or writes must have long arms
if he’s to hand his deeds down to posterity!
witness miss biffin’s posthumous prosperity
her poor brown crumpled mummy (nothing more)
bearing the name she bore
a thing time’s tooth is tempted to destroy!
but roys can never die __ why else, in verity
is paris echoing with “vive le roy!”
aye, rob shall live again, and deathless di __
(vernon, of course) shall often live again __
whilst there’s a stone in newgate, or a chain
who can pass by
nor feel the thief’s in prison and at hand?
there be old bailey jarvies on the stand!

i like thy landlord’s tales! __ i like that idol
of love and lammermoor __ the blue_eyed maid
that led to church the mounted cavalcade
and then pull’d up with such a bl__dy bridal!
throwing equestrian hymen on his haunches __
i like the family __ (not silver) branches
that hold the tapers
to light the serious legend of montrose. __
i like m’aulay’s second_sighted vapours
as if he could not walk or talk alone
without the devil __ or the great unknown, __
dalgetty is the nearest of ducrows!

i like st. leonard’s lily __ drench’d with dew!
i like thy vision of the covenanters
that bl__dy_minded graham shot and slew
i like the battle lost and won
the hurly burly’s bravely done
the warlike gallops and the warlike canters!
i like that girded chieftain of the ranters
ready to preach down heathens, or to grapple
with one eye on his sword
and one upon the word, __
how he would cram the caledonian chapel!
i like stern claverhouse, though he doth dapple
his raven steed with blood of many a corse __
i like dear mrs. headrigg, that unravels
her texts of scripture on a trotting horse __
she is so like rae wilson when he travels!

i like thy kenilworth __ but i’m not going
to take a retrospective re_review
of all thy dainty novels __ merely showing
the old familiar faces of a few
the question to renew
how thou canst leave such deeds without a name
forego the unclaim’d dividends of fame
forego the smiles of literary houris __
mid lothian’s trump, and fife’s shrill note of praise
and all the c_rs_ of gowrie’s
when thou might’st have thy statue in cromarty __
or see thy image on italian trays
betwixt queen caroline and buonaparté
be painted by the titian of r.a.’s
or vie in sign_boards with the royal guelph
perhaps have thy bust set cheek by jowl with homer’s
perhaps send out plaster proxies of thyself
to other englands with australian roamers __
mayhap, in literary owhyhee
displace the native wooden gods, or be
the china_lar of a canadian shelf!

it is not modesty that bids thee hide __
she never wastes her blushes out of sight:
it is not to invite
the world’s decision, for thy fame is tried, __
and thy fair deeds are scatter’d far and wide
even royal heads are with thy readers reckon’d, __
from men in trencher caps to trencher scholars
in crimson collars
and learned serjeants in the forty_second!
whither by land or sea art thou not beckon’d?
mayhap exported from the frith of forth
defying distance and its dim control;
perhaps read about stromness, and reckon’d worth
a brace of miltons for capacious soul __
perhaps studied in the whalers, further north
and set above ten shakspeares near the pole!

oh, when thou writest by aladdin’s lamp
with such a giant g_nius at command
for ever at thy stamp
to fill thy treasury from fairy land
when haply thou might’st ask the pearly hand
of some great british vizier’s eldest daughter
tho’ princes sought her
and lead her in procession hymeneal
oh, why dost thou remain a beau ideal!
why stay, a ghost, on the lethean wharf
envelop’d in scotch mist and gloomy fogs?
why, but because thou art some puny dwarf
some hopeless imp, like riquet with the tuft
fearing, for all thy wit, to be rebuff’d
or bullied by our great reviewing gogs?

what in this masquing age
maketh unknowns so many and so shy?
what but the critic’s page?
one hath a cast, he hides from the world’s eye;
another hath a wen, __ he won’t show where;
a third has sandy hair
a hunch upon his back, or legs awry
things for a vile reviewer to espy!
another hath a mangel_wurzel nose, __
finally, this is dimpled
like a pale crumpet face, or that is pimpled
things for a monthly critic to expose __
nay, what is thy own case __ that being small
thou choosest to be n0body at all!

well, thou art prudent, with such puny bones __
e’en like elshender, the mysterious elf
that shadowy revelation of thyself __
to build thee a small hut of haunted stones __
for certainly the first pernicious man
that ever saw thee, would quickly draw thee
in some vile literary caravan __
shown for a shilling
would be thy k!lling
think of crachami’s miserable span!
no tinier frame the tiny spark could dwell in
than there it fell in __
but when she felt herself a show __ she tried
to shrink from the world’s eye, poor dwarf! and died!

o since it was thy fortune to be born
a dwarf on some scotch inch, and then to flinch
from all the gog_like jostle of great men
still with thy small crow pen
amuse and charm thy lonely hours forlorn __
still scottish story daintily adorn
be still a shade __ and when this age is fled
when we poor sons and daughters of reality
are in our graves forgotten and quite dead
and time destroys our mottoes of morality __
the lithographic hand of old mortality
shall still restore thy emblem on the stone
a featureless death’s head
and rob oblivion ev’n of the unknown!

- richard mitchley

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