A strategy to improve the processing of softwood to sustainable biomaterials and biofuels. In a paper recently published in Biotechnology for Biofuels we are looking at a possible way to improve the processing of timber derived from conifers to feedstock used for sustainable manufacturing of novel biomaterials and biofuels. Softwood, as any other timber, is predominantly composed of plant secondary cell walls - an intricate matrix of polysaccharides and phenolic compounds which surround wood cells. Due to abundance of trees, plant secondary cell walls are the largest, renewable, resource of bioenergy on the planet.
Green method developed for making technical fibres. We may use cookies to record some preference settings and to analyse how you use our web site. We may also use external analysis systems which may set additional cookies to perform their analysis. These cookies and any others in use are detailed in our site privacy and cookie policies and are integral to our web site.
You can delete or disable these cookies in your web browser if you wish but then our site may not work correctly. International students Continuing education Executive and professional education Courses in education. Research Interests Tom looks for opportunities to use a deeper understanding of natural materials to create better buildings using those materials. A strategy to improve the processing of softwood to sustainable biomaterials and biofuels Sep 21, In a paper recently published in Biotechnology for Biofuels we are looking at a possible way to improve the processing of timber derived from conifers to feedstock used for sustainable manufacturing of novel biomaterials and biofuels.
His voice is heard, but body there is none To fix the vague excursions of the eye. Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud Their voices reach us through the lapse of space: No gallant knight, adventurous, in his bark, Will seek the fruitful perils of the place, To rouse with dipping oar the waters dark That bear that serpent image on their face.
And Love, brave Love! No little speck — no sail — no helper nigh, No sign — no whispering — no plash of boat: And bright and silvery the willows sleep Over the shady verge — no mad winds tease Their hoary heads; but quietly they weep Their sprinkling leaves — half fountains and half trees: Their lilies be — and fairer than all these, A solitary Swan her breast of snow Launches against the wave that seems to freeze Into a chaste reflection, still below Twin shadow of herself wherever she may go.
And now she clasps her wings around her heart, And near that lonely isle begins to glide, Pale as her fears, and oft-times with a start Turns her impatient head from side to side In universal terrors — all too wide To watch; and often to that marble keep Upturns her pearly eyes, as if she spied Some foe, and crouches in the shadows steep That in the gloomy wave go diving fathoms deep.
And well she may, to spy that fearful thing All down the dusky walls in circlets wound; Alas! And while he listens, the mysterious song, Woven with timid particles of speech. Twines into passionate words that grieve along The melancholy notes, and softly teach The secrets of true love — that trembling reach His earnest ear, and through the shadows dun He missions like replies, and each to each Their silver voices mingle into one, Like blended streams that make one music as they run. But nine times nine the serpent folds embrace The marble walls about — which he must tread Before his anxious foot may touch the base: Long in the dreary path, and must be sped!
But Love, that holds the mastery of dread, Braces his spirit, and with constant toil He wins his way, and now, with arms outspread, Impatient plunges from the last long coil; So may all gentle Love ungentle Malice foil! His jaws, wide yawning like the gates of Death, Hiss horrible pursuit — his red eyes glare The waters into blood — his eager breath Grows hot upon their plumes: She drops her ring into the waves, and there It widens all around, a fairy ring Wrought of the silver light — the fearful pair Swim in the very midst, and pant and cling The closer for their fears, and tremble wing to wing.
Then came the Morn, and with her pearly showers Wept on them, like a mother, in whose eyes Tears are no grief; and from his rosy bowers The Oriental sun began to rise, Chasing the darksome shadows from the skies; Wherewith that sable Serpent far away Fled, like a part of night — delicious sighs From waking blossoms purified the day, And little birds were singing sweetly from each spray. Ode on a Distant Prospect of Clapham Academy. That classic house, those classic grounds My pensive thought recalls! What tender urchins now confine, What little captives now repine, Within yon irksome walls?
I know Its ugly windows, ten a-row! Its chimneys in the rear! The weary tasks I used to con! How many ushers now employs, How many maids to see the boys Have nothing in their heads! Who struts the Randall of the walk? Who models tiny heads in chalk? Who scoops the light canoe? What early genius buds apace? While thou canst be a horse at school, To wish to be a man! And sleep on regal down! And dost thou think that years acquire New added joys? Dost think thy sire More happy than his son? Thy taws are brave! Our hearts are dough, our heels are lead, Our topmost joys fall dull and dead Like balls with no rebound!
And often with a faded eye We look behind, and send a sigh Towards that merry ground! Alas, the moon should ever beam To show what man should never see! I staid awhile, to see her throw Her tresses black, that all beset The fair horizon of her brow With clouds of jet.
I staid a little while to view Her cheek, that wore in place of red The bloom of water, tender blue, Daintily spread. I staid to watch, a little space, Her parted lips if she would sing; The waters closed above her face With many a ring. And still I staid a little more, Alas! I throw my flowers from the shore, And watch in vain. I Remember, I Remember. I remember, I remember, The house where I was born, The little window where the sun Came peeping in at morn; He never came a wink too soon, Nor brought too long a day, But now, I often wish the night Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember, The roses, red and white, The violets, and the lily-cups, Those flowers made of light! I remember, I remember, Where I was used to swing, And thought the air must rush as fresh To swallows on the wing; My spirit flew in feathers then, That is so heavy now, And summer pools could hardly cool The fever on my brow! I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops Were close against the sky: When do his fruits delay, when doth his corn Linger for harvesting?
Before the leaf Is commonly abroad, in his piled sheaf The flagging poppies lose their ancient flame. No sweet there is, no pleasure I can name, But he will sip it first — before the lees. Ode to the Moon. How many antique fancies have I read Of that mild presence! Wondrous and bright, Upon the silver light, Chasing fair figures with the artist, Thought! What art thou like? That fairies since have broke their gifted wands? Why should I grieve for this? So let it be: Still shine, the soul of rivers as they run, Still lend thy lonely lamp to lovers fond, And blend their plighted shadows into one: Written in a Volume of Shakspeare.
How bravely Autumn paints upon the sky The gorgeous fame of Summer which is fled! Oh, when I was a tiny boy, My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind! A hoop was an eternal round Of pleasure. My kite — how fast and far it flew!
Whilst I, a sort of Franklin, drew My pleasure from the sky! The very chum that shared my cake Holds out so cold a hand to shake, It makes me shrink and sigh: No skies so blue or so serene As then; — no leaves look half so green As clothed the playground tree! All things I loved are altered so, Nor does it ease my heart to know That change resides in me!
Oh for the riband round the neck! The careless dogs-ears apt to deck My book and collar both! How can this formal man be styled Merely an Alexandrine child, A boy of larger growth? Oh for that small, small beer anew! Oh for the lessons learned by heart! The Arabian Nights rehearsed in bed! The omne bene — Christmas come! But now I write for days and days, For fame — a deal of empty praise, Without the silver pen!
When that I was a tiny boy My days and nights were full of joy, My mates were blithe and kind! No wonder that I sometimes sigh, And dash the tear-drop from my eye, To cast a look behind! What else could peer thy glowing cheek, That tears began to stud? And oped it to the dainty core, Still glowing to the last. Time, Hope, and Memory. I heard a gentle maiden, in the spring, Set her sweet sighs to music, and thus sing: Aye, call her on the barren moor, And call her on the hill: The Plea of the Midsummer Fairies.
And for my sylvan company, in lieu Of Pampinea with her lively peers, Sate Queen Titania with her pretty crew, All in their liveries quaint, with elfin gears, For she was gracious to my childish years, And made me free of her enchanted round; Wherefore this dreamy scene she still endears, And plants her court upon a verdant mound, Fenced with umbrageous woods and groves profound. Go some one forth, and with a trump convene My lieges all! Lastly came Ariel, shooting from a star, Who bears all fairy embassies afar.
I trow his look was dreadful, for it made The trembling birds betake them to the sky, For every leaf was lifted by his sigh. Thence knew I this was either dreary Death Or Time, who leads all creatures to his stroke. Then what a fear seized all the little rout! Whom now the Queen, with a forestalling tear And previous sigh, beginneth to entreat, Bidding him spare, for love, her lieges dear: Think but what vaunting monuments there be Builded in spite and mockery of thee.
Make tombs inscriptionless — raze each high name, And waste old armors of renown with rust: Do all of this, and thy revenge is just: We rouse at morn The shrill sweet lark; and when the day is done, Hush silent pauses for the bird forlorn, That singeth with her breast against a thorn. Then Saturn fiercely thus: Then Saturn, with a frown: Howbeit his pleading and his gentle looks Moved not the spiteful Shade: No wardens now by sedgy fountains dwell, Nor pearly Naiads. All their days are done That strove with Time, untimely, to excel; Wherefore I razed their progenies, and none But my great shadow intercepts the sun!
Witness how we befriend, with elfin wit, All hopeless maids and lovers — nor omit Magical succors unto hearts forlorn: Herewith the Fairy ceased. But I had clothed My delicate limbs with plumes, and still pursued, Where only foxes and wild cats intrude, Till we were come beside an ancient tree Late blasted by a storm. Partakers of the green and pleasant earth: But any graver purpose to fulfil, We have not wit enough, and scarce the will.
But dost thou relish it? Unclasp thy crooked fingers from my nape, And I will show thee many a pleasant scrape. Here he lets go the struggling imp, to clutch. He drops his fatal scythe without a blow! His be perpetual glory, for the shame Of hoary Saturn in that grand defeat! I pray thee blind him with his own vile sand, Which only times all ruins by its drift, Or prune his eagle wings that are so swift. I am, my dear friend, yours most truly, T. For that some precious favor thou hast shown To my endeavor in a bygone time, And by this token I would have it known Thou art my friend, and friendly to my rhyme!
It is my dear ambition now to climb Still higher in thy thought — if my bold pen May thrust on contemplations more sublime. Oh Bards of old! Was it that spectacles of sadder plights Should make our blisses relish the more high? But parting renders time both sad and brief. For what rich merchant but will pause in fear, To trust his wealth to the unsafe abyss?
So Hero dotes upon her treasure here, And sums the loss with many an anxious kiss, Whilst her fond eyes grow dizzy in her head, Fear aggravating fear with shows of dread. O for a type of parting! Now wouldst thou know the wideness of the wound? And for the agony and bosom-throe, Let it be measured by the wide vast air, For that is infinite, and so is woe, Since parted lovers breathe it everywhere.
Then sadly he confronts his twofold toil Against rude waves and an unwilling mind, Wishing, alas! Love prays devoutly when it prays for love! And soon is gone — or nothing but a faint And failing image in the eye of thought, That mocks his model with an after-paint, And stains an atom like the shape she sought; Then with her earnest vows she hopes to fee The old and hoary majesty of sea.
O rather smooth thy deeps, that he may fly Like Love himself, upon a seeming sky! The very rumor strikes his seeing dead: Great beauty like great fear first stuns the sense: He knows not if her lips be blue or red, Nor of her eyes can give true evidence: Anon resuming, it declares her eyes Are tint with azure, like two crystal wells That drink the blue complexion of the skies, Or pearls outpeeping from their silvery shells: And where he swam, the constant sun lies sleeping, Over the verdant plain that makes his bed; And all the noisy waves go freshly leaping.
Like gamesome boys over the churchyard dead; The light in vain keeps looking for his face: Yet weep and watch for him, though all in vain! Ye moaning billows, seek him as ye wander! Ye gazing sunbeams, look for him again! Ye winds, grow hoarse with asking for Leander! Ye did but spare him for more cruel rape, Sea-storm and ruin in a female shape! She read his mortal stillness for content, Feeling no fear where only love was meant. But O sad marvel! O most bitter strange! What dismal magic makes his cheek so pale?
Too stern inscription for a page so young, The dark translation of his look was death! But death was written in an alien tongue, And learning was not by to give it breath; So one deep woe sleeps buried in its seal, Which Time, untimely, hasteth to reveal. I had such treasures once — now they are thine. I have lain hours, and fancied in its tone I heard the languages of ages gone! Surely he sleeps — so her false wits infer! With that she stoops above his brow, and bids Her busy hands forsake his tangled hair, And tenderly lift up those coffer-lids, That she may gaze upon the jewels there, Like babes that pluck an early bud apart, To know the dainty color of its heart.
Backward she falls, like a pale prophetess, Under the swoon of holy divination: And now she knows how that old Murther preys, Whose quarry on her lap lies newly slain: O too dear knowledge! Why hast thou left thy havoc incomplete, Leaving me here, and slaying the more sweet? Would I had lent my doting sense to thee! But now I turn to thee, a willing mark, Thine arrows miss me in the aimless dark!
Now love is death — death will be love to me! Or else, thou maid! There, like a pearly waif, just past the reach Of foamy billows he lies cast. Just then, Some listless fishers, straying down the beach, Spy out this wonder. Thence the curious men, Low crouching, creep into a thicket brake, And watch her doings till their rude hearts ache. And here a head, and there a brow half seen, Dodges behind a rock. Here on his hands A mariner his crumpled cheeks doth lean Over a rugged crest.
Some watch, some call, some see her head emerge, Wherever a brown weed falls through the foam; Some point to white eruptions of the surge: The screaming fowl resigns her finny prey, And labors shoreward with a bending wing, Rowing against the wind her toilsome way; Meanwhile, the curling billows chafe, and fling Their dewy frost still further on the stones, That answer to the wind with hollow groans.
For that the horrid deep has no sure path To guide Love safe into his homely haven. And so day ended. Then from the giddy steep she madly springs, Grasping her maiden robes, that vainly kept Panting abroad, like unavailing wings, To save her from her death. June it was jolly, Oh for its folly! What can an old man do but die? In secret boughs no sweet birds sing, In secret boughs no bird can shroud; These are but leaves that take to wing, And wintry winds that pipe so loud.
A king might lay his sceptre down, But I am poor and nought, The brow should wear a golden crown That wears her in its thought. My speech is rude — but speech is weak Such love as mine to tell, Yet had I words, I dare not speak, So, Lady, fare thee well; I will not wish thy better state Was one of low degree, But I must weep that partial fate Made such a churl of me. The ship that it hastens Thy ports will contain, But me!
We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies! Welcome, dear Heart, and a most kind good-morrow; The day is gloomy, but our looks shall shine: Dost love sweet Hyacinth? And here are Sun-flowers, amorous of light! These grew so lowly, I was forced to kneel, Therefore I pluck no Daisies but for thee!
Come let us sit and watch the sky, And fancy clouds, where no clouds be; Grief is enough to blot the eye, And make heaven black with misery. Why should birds sing such merry notes, Unless they were more blest than we? No sorrow ever chokes their throats, Except sweet nightingale; for she Was born to pain our hearts the more With her sad melody. Why shines the Sun, except that he Makes gloomy nooks for Grief to hide, And pensive shades for Melancholy, When all the earth is bright beside? Let clay wear smiles, and green grass wave, Mirth shall not win us back again, Whilst man is made of his own grave, And fairest clouds but gilded rain!
Why do buds ope except to die? Minutes, hours, days, and weeks, Months, years, and ages, shrink to nought; An age past is but a thought! How cold the dead have made these stones, With natural drops kept ever wet! Blue eyes, red cheeks, are frailer yet; And sometimes at their swift decay Beforehand we must fret. The roses bud and bloom, again; But Love may haunt the grave of Love, And watch the mould in vain. O clasp me, sweet, whilst thou art mine, And do not take my tears amiss; For tears must flow to wash away A thought that shows so stern as this: On Receiving a Gift.
Look how the golden ocean shines above Its pebbly stones, and magnifies their girth; So does the bright and blessed light of Love Its own things glorify, and raise their worth. Thus, sweet, thy gracious gifts are gifts of price, And more than gold to doting Avarice. The Dream of Eugene Aram. There were some that ran and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool. Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.
Much study had made him very lean, And pale, and leaden-eyed. Of is it some historic page, Or kings and crowns unstable? And, long since then, of bloody men, Whose deeds tradition saves; Of lonely folk cut off unseen, And hid in sudden graves; Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn, And murders done in caves;. For blood has left upon their souls Its everlasting stain! Methought, last night, I wrought A murder, in a dream! Now here, said I, this man shall die, And I will have his gold! There was nothing lying at my foot But lifeless flesh and bone!
There was a manhood in his look, That murder could not kill! I took the dead man by his hand, And called upon his name! For every clot, a burning spot Was scorching in my brain! I could not share in childish prayer, Nor join in Evening Hymn: But Guilt was my grim Chamberlain That lighted me to bed; And drew my midnight curtains round, With fingers bloody red! For I was stooping once again Under the horrid thing.
And a mighty wind had swept the leaves, And still the corse was bare! Or land or sea, though he should be Ten thousand fathoms deep. With gyves upon his wrist.
For the 14TH Of February. No popular respect will I omit To do thee honor on this happy day, When every loyal lover tasks his wit His simple truth in studious rhymes to pay, And to his mistress dear his hopes convey. Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro. For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed — she had Another morn than ours. The touch of tears Gushed down my cheeks: All these were dear To heart and eye — but an invisible fear Shook in the trees and chilled upon the air, And if one spot was laughing brightest — there My soul most sank and darkened in despair!
To a Child Embracing His Mother. Love thy mother, little one! Gaze upon her living eyes! Press her lips the while they glow! Oh, revere her raven hair! Although it be not silver-gray; Too early Death, led on by Care, May snatch save one dear lock away. Pray for her at eve and morn! Still glides the gentle streamlet on, With shifting current new and strange; The water that was here is gone, But those green shadows do not change.
Serene, or ruffled by the storm, On present waves as on the past, The mirrored grave retains its form, The self-same trees their semblance cast. The hue each fleeting globule wears, That drop bequeaths it to the next, One picture still the surface bears, To illustrate the murmured text. So, love, however time may flow, Fresh hours pursuing those that flee One constant image still shall show My tide of life is true to thee! Nay, dost thou not against my own dear shore Full break, last link between my land and me?
To —— Composed at Rotterdam. Those sailors, how outlandish The face and form of each! And has the earth lost its so spacious round, The sky its blue circumference above, That in this little chamber there is found Both earth and heaven — my universe of love! All that my God can give me, or remove, Here sleeping, save myself, in mimic death. Sweet that in this small compass I behove To live their living and to breathe their breath!
Almost I wish that, with one common sigh, We might resign all mundane care and strife, And seek together that transcendent sky, Where Father, Mother, Children, Husband, Wife, Together pant in everlasting life! Is there a bitter pang for love removed, O God! That love might die with sorrow: In being wrung from a great happiness.
The Quest of Tom Reynolds Curtis A. Parker. Chapter 92 Tom Reynolds received a letter from his mother, pleading with him to return home. “The fighting has. Email: t [ DOT ] reynolds [ AT ] ed [ DOT ] ac [ DOT ] uk Tom investigates stiffness and damping in connections in timber structures, and the results give an .
Would I had never filled thine eyes with love, For love is only tears: Would I were laid Under the shade Of the cold tomb, and the long grass forever! Ode to Rae Wilson, Esq. I guess the features: I do not hash the Gospel in my books, And thus upon the public mind intrude it, As if I thought, like Otaheitan cooks, No food was fit to eat till I had chewed it.
Mere verbiage — it is not worth a carrot! Spontaneously to God should tend the soul, Like the magnetic needle to the Pole; But what were that intrinsic virtue worth, Suppose some fellow, with more zeal than knowledge, Fresh from St. I do confess that I abhor and shrink From schemes, with a religious willy-nilly, That frown upon St. Now loud as welcomes! In proof how over-righteousness re-acts, Accept an anecdote well based on facts. But being so particular religious, Why, that , you see, put master on his guard!
Such, may it please you, is my humble faith; I know, full well, you do not like my works! Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, Resemble copper wire, or brass, Which gets the narrower by going farther! Worthless are all such Pilgrimages — very! A sorry sight it is to rest the eye on, To see a Christian creature graze at Sion, Then homeward, of the saintly pasture full, Rush bellowing, and breathing fire and smoke, At crippled Papistry to butt and poke, Exactly as a skittish Scottish bull Hunts an old woman in a scarlet cloak!
With such a bristling spirit wherefore quit The Land of Cakes for any land of wafers, About the graceless images to flit, And buzz and chafe importunate as chafers, Longing to carve the carvers to Scotch collops? Gifted with noble tendency to climb, Yet weak at the same time, Faith is a kind of parasitic plant, That grasps the nearest stem with tendril-rings; And as the climate and the soil may grant, So is the sort of tree to which it clings.
Consider then, before, like Hurlothrumbo You aim your club at any creed on earth, That, by the simple accident of birth, You might have been High Priest to Mumbo Jumbo. Mild light, and by degrees, should be the plan To cure the dark and erring mind; But who would rush at a benighted man, And give him two black eyes for being blind?
Shun pride, O Rae! To picture that cold pride so harsh and hard, Fancy a peacock in a poultry yard. I am that Saintly Fowl, thou paltry chick! Look at my crown of glory! Thou dingy, dirty, drabbled, draggled jill! That little simile exactly paints How sinners are despised by saints. How strange it is while on all vital questions, That occupy the House and public mind, We always meet with some humane suggestions Of gentle measures of a healing kind, Instead of harsh severity and vigor, The Saint alone his preference retains For bills of penalties and pains, And marks his narrow code with legal rigor!
But possibly the men who make such fuss With Sunday pippins and old Trots infirm, Attach some other meaning to the term, As thus: So mayst thou live, dear!
When first thy infant littleness I folded in my fond caress, The greatest proof of happiness Was this — I wept. Miss Kilmansegg and Her Precious Leg. To trace the Kilmansegg pedigree To the very root of the family tree Were a task as rash as ridiculous: He gave, without any extra thrift, A flock of sheep for a birthday gift To each son of his loins, or daughter: And his debts — if debts he had — at will He liquidated by giving each bill A dip in Pactolian water. The high-bred horses within his stud, Like human creatures of birth and blood, Had their Golden Cups and flagons: He had gold to lay by, and gold to spend, Gold to give, and gold to lend, And reversions of gold in futuro.
While beef, and mutton, and other meat, Were almost as dear as money to eat, And farmers reaped Golden Harvests of wheat At the Lord knows what per quarter! What different dooms our birthdays bring! For instance, one little manikin thing Survives to wear many a wrinkle; While Death forbids another to wake, And a son that it took nine moons to make Expires without even a twinkle! What different lots our stars accord! Not so with the infant Kilmansegg!
Oh, happy Hope of the Kilmanseggs! Thrice happy in head, and body, and legs, That her parents had such full pockets! And how was the precious baby drest? As a Hogg, a Grubb, or a Chubb rejoice? Or any such nauseous blazon? Not to mention many a vulgar name, That would make a door-plate blush for shame, If door-plates were not so brazen! Now to christen the infant Kilmansegg, For days and days it was quite a plague, To hunt the list in the Lexicon: And scores were tried, like coin, by the ring, Ere names were found just the proper thing For a minor rich as a Mexican.
Then cards were sent, the presence to beg Of all the kin of Kilmansegg, White, yellow, and brown relations: And his cheeks instead of a healthy hue, As yellow as any guinea grew, Making the common phrase seem true, About a rich complexion. The same auriferous shine behold Wherever the eye could settle! Meanwhile, the Vicar read through the form, And gave her another, not overwarm, That made her little eyes twinkle. Oh, then the kisses she got and hugs!
The golden mugs and the golden jugs That lent fresh rays to the midges! There was nothing but guineas glistening! The Clerk had ten, And that was the end of the Christening. When the rich are wealthy beyond their wealth, And the poor are rich in spirits and health, And all with their lots contented! Bon-bons she ate from the gilt cornet ; And gilded queens on St. Dame Education begins the pile, Mayhap in the graceful Corinthian style, But alas for the elevation! They praised — poor children with nothing at all!
What sad little bad little figures you make To the rich Miss K. They praised her falls, as well as her walk, Flatterers make cream cheese of chalk, They praised — how they praised — her very small talk, As if it fell from the Solon; Or the girl who at each pretty phrase let drop A ruby comma, or pearl full-stop, Or an emerald semi-colon. Novels she read to amuse her mind, But always the affluent match-making kind That ends with Promessi Sposi, And a father-in-law so wealthy and grand, He could give cheque-mate to Coutts in the Strand; So, along with a ring and posy, He endows the Bride with Golconda off hand, And gives the Groom Potosi.
He snorted with pride and pleasure! A load of treasure? But the Groom has lost his glittering hat! But still flies the Heiress through stones and dust, Oh, for a fall, if she must, On the gentle lap of Flora! But still, thank Heaven! She has circled the Ring! The fields seem running away with the folks! The Elms are having a race for the Oaks At a pace that all Jockeys disparages! All, all is racing! A cruel chase, she is chasing Death, As female shriekings forewarn her: The iron rails seem all mingling in one, To shut out the Green Park scenery!
Throw and scatter her! Roll on her over and over! Dover Street, Bond Street, all are past! But — yes — no — yes! The Furies and Fates have found them! But what avails gold to Miss Kilmansegg, When the femoral bone of her dexter log Has met with a compound fracture? Even thus with Miss K. While the buds of character came into blow With a certain tinge that served to show The nursery culture long ago, As the graft is known by fruition!
Nor a leg of cork, if she never stood, And she swore an oath, or something as good, The proxy limb should be golden! She could — she would have a Golden Leg, If it cost ten thousand guineas! Wood indeed, in Forest or Park, With its sylvan honors and feudal bark, Is an aristocratic article: Wood cut down Is vulgar — fibre and particle!
A Leg of Gold — solid gold throughout, Nothing else, whether slim or stout, Should ever support her, God willing! All other promised gifts were in vain. Oh, let it be gold! Till her parents resolved to grant her wish, If they melted down plate, and goblet, and dish, The case was getting so serious. And to make it more costly, just over the knee, Where another ligature used to be, Was a circle of jewels, worth shillings to see, A new-fangled Badge of the Garter!
Had it been a Pillar of Church and State, Or a prop to support the whole Dead Weight, It could not have furnished more debate To the heads and tails of the nation! It Burked the very essays of Burke, And, alas! Never had Leg so great a run! The mode — the new thing under the sun, The rage — the fancy — the passion! Bonnets were named, and hats were worn, A la Golden Leg instead of Leghorn, And stockings and shoes, Of golden hues, Took the lead in the walks of fashion!
Talk of Art, of Science, or Books, And down go the everlasting looks, To his rural beauties so wedded! Try him, wherever you will, you find His mind in his legs, and his legs in his mind, All prongs and folly — in short a kind Of fork — that is Fiddle-headed. On with the cap and out with the light, Weariness bids the world good night, At least for the usual season; But hark! Up jumps Fear in a terrible fright!
In they go — in jackets and cloaks, Plumes and bonnets, turbans and toques, As if to a Congress of Nations: Her golden stomacher — how she would melt! Her golden quiver, and golden belt, Where a golden bugle dangles! Oh Sin, oh Shame! Let Pride and Vanity bear the blame, That bring such blots on female fame! But what have sin or shame to do With a Golden Leg — and a stout one too? That the precious metal, by thick and thin, Will cover square acres of land or sin, Is a fact made plain Again and again, In Morals as well as Mechanics.
What golden wishes and hopes inspired! What a leg for a Leg to take on the turf! What a leg for a marching regiment! She told how the filial leg was lost; And then how much the gold one cost; With its weight to a Trojan fraction: Nor yet did the Heiress herself omit The arts that help to make a hit, And preserve a prominent station.
She even stood up with a Count of France To dance — alas! But hark; — as slow as the strokes of a pump, Lump, thump! But the supper, alas! Miss Kilmansegg took off her leg, And laid it down like a cribbage-peg, For the Rout was done and the riot: To stir the air no eddy came; And the taper burnt with as still a flame, As to flicker had been a burning shame, In a calm so universal.
No sordid pallet, or truckle mean, Of straw, and rug, and tatters unclean; But a splendid, gilded, carved machine, That was fit for a Royal Chamber. On the top was a gorgeous golden wreath; And the damask curtains hung beneath, Like clouds of crimson and amber;. To the happy, a first-class carriage of ease, To the Land of Nod, or where you please; But alas! Pity, pity the wretches that weep, For they must be wretched, who cannot sleep When God himself draws the curtain! That heaven upon earth to the weary head, Whether lofty or low its condition! The independent Miss Kilmansegg Took off her independent Leg And laid it beneath her pillow, And then on the bed her frame she cast, The time for repose had come at last, But long, long, after the storm is past Rolls the turbid, turbulent billow.
Their bread and butter are getting up, And the coals, confound them, are rising. No fear she had her sleep to postpone, Like the crippled Widow who weeps alone, And cannot make a doze her own, For the dread that mayhap on the morrow, The true and Christian reading to baulk, A broker will take up her bed and walk, By way of curing her sorrow. No cause like these she had to bewail: A common case, indeed, with such As have too little, or think too much, Of the precious and glittering metal. Gold, still gold — and true to the mould!
She was gold, all gold, from her little gold toe To her organ of Veneration! Who hath not felt that breath in the air, A perfume and freshness strange and rare, A warmth in the light, and a bliss everywhere, When young hearts yearn together? All sweets below, and all sunny above, Oh! Thus, even thus, with the Heiress and Hope, Fulfilling the adage of too much rope, With so ample a competition, She chose the least worthy of all the group, Just as the vulture makes a stoop, And singles out from the herd or troop The beast of the worst condition.
A Foreign Count — who came incog. Moreover, as Counts are apt to do, On the left-hand side of his dark surtout, At one of those holes that buttons go through, To be a precise recorder, A ribbon he wore, or rather a scrap, About an inch of ribbon mayhap. And quoted poems in High and Low Dutch, With now and then an Italian touch, Till she yielded, without resisting much, To homage so continental. Pretty Cis, so smiling and bright, Who loves — as she labors — with all her might, And without any sordid leaven! And thousands of children, women, and men, Counted the clock from eight till ten, From St.
And a treat it was for the mob to behold The Bridal Carriage that blazed with gold! And then to see the Groom! And then — Great Jove! From the Golden Ankle up to the Knee There it was for the mob to see! A shocking act had it chanced to be A crooked leg or a skinny: But although a magnificent veil she wore. Another step, and lo! Anon came Lady K. But the Count he felt the nervous work No more than any polygamous Turk, Or bold piratical skipper, Who, during his buccaneering search, Would as soon engage a hand in church As a hand on board his clipper!
And how did the Bride perform her part? Like any bride who is cold at heart. Bright but chilly, alive without stir, So splendidly comfortless — just like a Fir When the frost is severe and bitter. Such were the future man and wife! But town-made joys how dearly they cost; And after all are tumbled and tost, Like a peal from a London steeple, and lost In town-made riot and racket.
But hence with Discord — perchance, too soon To cloud the face of the honeymoon With a dismal occultation! For wealthy palates there be, that scout What is in season, for what is out , And prefer all precocious savor: For instance, early green peas, of the sort That costs some four or five guineas a quart; Where the Mint is the principal flavor. Men, by popular rumor at least, Not the last to enjoy a feast! And truly they were not idle! Luckier far than the chestnut tits, Which, down at the door, stood champing their bits, At a different sort of bridle.
Away — through old Brentford rang the din Of wheels and heels, on their way to win That hill, named after one of her kin, The Hill of the Golden Farmer! Gold, still gold — it flew like dust! Hanging with jewels a cabbage-stump, And investing a common post, or a pump, A currant-bush, or a gooseberry clump, With a halo of dreamlike splendor.
For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear, And the meanest thing most precious and dear When the magic of love is present: Love that sweetens sugarless tea, And makes contentment and joy agree With the coarsest boarding and bedding: Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state, When such a bright Planet governs the fate Of a pair of united lovers!
And double letters bring cash for the box: And what were joys of the pastoral kind To a Bride — town-made — with a heart and a mind With simplicity ever at battle? He left her in spite of her tender regards, And those loving murmurs described by bards, For the rattling of dice and the shuffling of cards, And the poking of balls into pockets!
Home-made pop that will not foam, And home-made dishes that drive one from home, Not to name each mess, For the face or dress, Home-made by the homely daughters? How oft, instead of otto rose, With vulgar smells he offended her nose, From gin, tobacco, and onion! And then how wildly he used to stare! For dice will run the contrary way, As well is known to all who play, And cards will conspire as in treason: Gold, gold — alas!
Whereas a member of cork, or wood, Would be lighter and cheaper and quite as good, Without the unbearable thumping. But spite of hint, and threat, and scoff, The Leg kept its situation: For legs are not to be taken off By a verbal amputation. And loud and bitter the quarrel arose, Fierce and merciless — one of those, With spoken daggers, and looks like blows, In all but the bloodshed a duel!
But the Count, instead of curses wild, Only nodded his head and smiled, As if at the spleen of an angry child; But the calm was deceitful and sinister! And yet in this slippery world of strife, In the stir of human bustle so rife, There are daily sounds to tell us that Life Is dying, and Death is living!
Ay, Beauty the Girl, and Love the Boy, Bright as they are with hope and joy, How their souls would sadden instanter, To remember that one of those wedding bells, Which ring so merrily through the dells, Is the same that knells Our last farewells, Only broken into a canter! As she went with her taper up the stair, How little her swollen eye was aware That the Shadow which followed was double! Or when she closed her chamber door, It was shutting out, and forevermore, The world — and its worldly trouble. Wherefore else does the Spirit fly And bid its daily cares good-bye, Along with its daily clothing?
The golden doll that she used to hug! Her coral of gold, and the golden mug! The golden service she had at her meals, The golden watch, and chain, and seals, Her golden scissors, and thread, and reels, And her golden fishes and pheasants! Gold — still gold! Good or bad a thousand-fold! A Dream in the Woods. No breeze there was to stir the leaves; No bolts that tempests launch, To rend the trunk or rugged bark; No gale to bend the branch; No quake of earth to heave the roots, That stood so stiff and staunch.
No bird was preening up aloft, To rustle with its wing; No squirrel, in its sport or fear. From bough to bough to spring.
No scooping hollow cell to lodge A furtive beast or fowl, The martin, bat, Or forest cat That nightly loves to prowl, Nor ivy nooks so apt to shroud The moping, snoring owl. Oh hath the Dryad still a tongue In this ungenial clime? But no — it grins like rigid Death, And silent as a stone! The Scene is changed! The Foe that down in yonder dell Pursues his daily toil; As witness many a prostrate trunk, Bereft of leafy spoil, Hard by its wooden stump, whereon The adder loves to coil.
No eye his labor overlooks, Or when he takes his rest, Except the timid thrush that peeps Above her secret nest, Forbid by love to leave the young Beneath her speckled breast. With sturdy arm and steady aim He smites the gaping wood; From distant rocks His lusty knocks Re-echo many a rood. No rustic song is on his tongue, No whistle on his lips; But with a quiet thoughtfulness His trusty tool he grips, And, stroke on stroke, keeps hacking out The bright and flying chips. Stroke after stroke, with frequent dint He spreads the fatal gash; Till, lo! Ay, now the Forest Trees may grieve And make a common moan Around that patriarchal trunk So newly overthrown; And with a murmur recognize A doom to be their own!
No leafy noise, nor inward voice, No sad and solemn sound, That sometimes murmurs overhead, And sometimes underground; As in that shady Avenue, Where lofty Elms abound! The deed is done: The Cony from the sandy bank Has run a rapid race, Through thistle, bent, and tangled fern, To seek the open space; And on its haunches sits erect To clean its furry face.
With sudden fear The dappled Deer Effect a swift escape; But well might bolder creatures start, And fly, or stand agape, With rising hair, and curdled blood, To see so grim a Shape! But after sound of ringing axe Must sound the ringing knell; When Elm or Oak Have felt the stroke, My turn it is to fell! A secret, vague, prophetic gloom, As though by certain mark I knew the fore-appointed Tree, Within whose rugged bark This warm and living frame shall find Its narrow house and dark.
But when, dear lady, I am near thy heart, Thy smile is time, and then so swift it flies, It seems we only meet to tear apart, With aching hands and lingering of eyes. The Song of the Shirt. While the cock is crowing aloof! And work — work — work, Till the stars shine through the roof! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! Stitch — stitch — stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once, with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt.
A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread! But are raisins high or low, Flour and suet cheap or dear? Ought not I to bless my stars, Warden, clerk, and overseer? Or see another feast appear? But the happy tide to hail, With a sigh or with or a tear, Heigho!
Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams, Unnatural, and full of contradictions; Yet others of our most romantic schemes Are something more than fictions. A residence for woman, child, and man, A dwelling place — and yet no habitation; A House — but under some prodigious ban Of excommunication. The coot was swimming in the reedy pond, Beside the water-hen, so soon affrighted; And in the weedy moat the heron, fond Of solitude, alighted.
The moping heron, motionless and stiff, That on a stone, as silently and stilly, Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if To guard the water-lily. For over all there hung a cloud of fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is Haunted! The marigold amidst the nettles blew, The gourd embraced the rose bush in its ramble, The thistle and the stock together grew, The holly-hock and bramble.
The bear-bine with the lilac interlaced, The sturdy bur-dock choked its slender neighbor, The spicy pink. All tokens were effaced Of human care and labor. The Statue, fallen from its marble base, Amidst the refuse leaves, and herbage rotten, Lay like the Idol of some bygone race, Its name and rites forgotten. No hand or foot within the precinct came To rectify or ravage. O, very gloomy is the House of Woe, Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling, With all the dark solemnities which show That Death is in the dwelling! O very, very dreary is the room Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles, But, smitten by the common stroke of doom, The Corpse lies on the trestles!
The centipede along the threshold crept, The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle, And in its winding-sheet the maggot slept, At every nook and angle. But Time was dumb within that Mansion old, Or left his tale to the heraldic banners, That hung from the corroded walls, and told Of former men and manners: A shriek that echoed from the joisted roof, And up the stair, and further still and further, Till in some ringing chamber far aloof It ceased its tale of murther!
If but a rat had lingered in the house, To lure the thought into a social channel! There was so foul a rumor in the air, The shadow of a Presence so atrocious; No human creature could have feasted there, Even the most ferocious. Those gloomy stairs, so dark, and damp, and cold, With odors as from bones and relics carnal, Deprived of rite, and consecrated mould, The chapel vault, or charnel. That mystic moth, which, with a sense profound Of all unholy presence, augurs truly; And with a grim significance flits round The taper burning bluely.
No other sound or stir of life was there, Except my steps in solitary clamber, From flight to flight, from humid stair to stair, From chamber into chamber. Across the door no gossamer festoon Swung pendulous — no web — no dusty fringes, No silky chrysalis or white cocoon About its nooks and hinges. What human creature in the dead of night Had coursed like hunted hare that cruel distance? Had sought the door, the window in his flight, Striving for dear existence?
What shrieking Spirit in that bloody room Its mortal frame had violently quitted? The sea is bright with morning — but the dark Seems still to linger on his broad black sail, For it is early hoisted, like a mark For the low sun to shoot at with his pale And level beams: Then look abaft — for thou canst understand That phrase — and there he sitteth at the stern, Grasping the tiller in his broad brown hand, The hardy Fisherman.
So, some ten days ago, on such a morn, The Mary, like a seamew, sought her spoil Amongst the finny race: His mast was up, his anchor heaved aboard, His mainsail stretching in the first gray gleams Of morning, for the wind. Were these hopes too airy? Such as they were, they rested on thee, Mary. These made him dote Upon the homely beauties of his boat,. Where is she now? Woe, woe for me if the past should be Thus present when I die! The human sorrow and smart! And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part: But evil is wrought by want of Thought, As well as want of Heart!
His brows are knit, his eyes of jet In vivid blackness roll, And gleam with fatal flashes Like the fire-damp of the coal; His jaws are set, and through his teeth He draws a savage breath, As if about to raise the shout Of Victory or Death! And proud Mohammed Ali sit Within his fathers halls! A massive Key of curious shape, And dark with dirt and rust, And well three weary centuries The metal might encrust!
The time is come to scour the rust, And lubricate the wards. For should the Moor with sword and lance At Algesiras land, Where is the bold Bernardo now Their progress to withstand? Hath Xeres any Pounder now, When other weapons fail, With club to thrash invaders rash, Like barley with a flail? Hath Seville any Perez still, To lay his clusters low, And ride with seven turbans green Around his saddle-bow? Who does not hear the tramp Of thousands speeding along Of either sex and various stamp, Sickly, cripple, or strong, Walking, limping, creeping From court and alley, and lane, But all in one direction sweeping Like rivers that seek the main?
The Weaver, her sallow neighbor, The grim and sooty Artisan; Every soul — child, woman, or man, Who lives — or dies — by labor.