Volume 1 - Electric Scotland

SONNET "TO MY TIN SHAVING-POT." 421
Having now given the relief of an Outlet to the " gathering
of the waters," to the feelings and convictions that' have so long
been astir within me, do me the justice to believe that it is from
far other impulses than those of authorial vanity and craving
for Praise that I give vent to my Eegret that no notice was
' taken of my Essay on the Constitution ; or, Church and State
according to the Idea,' a copy of both the first and the second
edition of which I expressly desired the Publisher to transmit
to you. If I know my own heart, it is the deep sense I have
of the truth, urgency, and importance of the Principles set out
in that work, which alone made me not ambitious of, but anxious
for, its being noticed in your Magazine ;
and allow me to observe
that Mons. Thiers' speech on the question of hereditary Peerage
was almost a translation from the first part of my Essay.
I will now try to pay virtually half the postage of this letter
by transcribing for you, if worth your acceptance, a pathetic
overflowing Sonnet of your truly obliged
S. T. COLEKIDGE.
An Elegiac plusquam sesqui Sonnet to my Tin Shaving-pot.
My tiny Tin, my omnium usuum Scout,
My Blackie, fair though black, the wanton fire
Hath long bit off thy pert, one-nostrill'd snout,
Unhinged thy lid, and wrought laxation dire.
When of thy arching arm the handless wrist
Pressed on thy sides mid treacherous coal and grate.
Twice hast thou trembled, and in rebel mist
With smoke and sooty films coUeagued in fate
Flown in my face : yet did I not upbraid
Thy crazy cranks, but held thee the more dear.
And morning after morning with thee played
At Rouge et Noir, a game of Hope and Fear.
And must we part ? My tears on the hot Hob
Say Iss ! Iss ! Iss ! Hard
by the top-bar reeks,
And to each tear makes answer with a sob.
The Cambrian's Broth is none the worse for leeks,
Rents are the landed Noble's pride and glee,
Holes, side and bottom, both to Man and Gun
Are seemly : Would that it were so with thee
But 'tis not so : and let Time's will be done.
Blackie, adieu ! My
Blackie, blame not me
I tum'd not you away. 'Twas you that run.
! ;
S. T. C.