EPISTLE TO ROBERT HOGBIN, ESQ.,
Chairman of the Committee of Working-Men, etc., at
the Westchester Hotel, Bowery, Nov., 1830.
r. Hogbin,—I work as a weaver—of rhyme—
And therefore presume with a working-man’s grace,
To address you as one I have liked for some time,
Though I know not (no doubt it’s a fine one) your face.
There is much in a name, and I’ll lay you a wager
(Two ale-jugs from Reynolds’66), that Nature designed,
When she formed you, that you should become the drum-major
In that choice piece of music, the Grand March of Mind.
A Hogbin! a Hogbin! how cheering the shout
Of all that keep step to that beautiful air,
Which leads, like the treadmill, about and about,
And leaves us exactly, at last, where we were!
Yes, there’s much in a name, and a Hogbin’s so fit is
For that great moral purpose whose impulse divine
