II.

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 Cock 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 crape—­
      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?

III.

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 LL.D.!

IV.

  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’ that 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!

V.

      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