The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
214
CANTO III.
Of the supper that Apollo gave his visitors, and with what sort of spectacle and of after-course he amazed them.
You remember those supper-room walls, made of flowers,
Which beat whatsoever for dead paramours
The lords of the east in white temples have done,
Where in emeralds and rubies fond epitaphs run?
Well,—a gallery lurk'd sweetly behind them; and there
We spectators, scarce knowing what took us, or where,
Got somehow, as soon as the guests had down sat 'em,
And found ourselves gazing most snugly down at 'em.
Which beat whatsoever for dead paramours
The lords of the east in white temples have done,
Where in emeralds and rubies fond epitaphs run?
Well,—a gallery lurk'd sweetly behind them; and there
We spectators, scarce knowing what took us, or where,
Got somehow, as soon as the guests had down sat 'em,
And found ourselves gazing most snugly down at 'em.
And thus as they sat before supper, to rest 'em,
Fresh airs through the rooms came increasing, and blest 'em;
So sweet, all grew silent, exchanging rapt looks;
And the silence ran thick with a bubbling of brooks.—
Fresh airs through the rooms came increasing, and blest 'em;
So sweet, all grew silent, exchanging rapt looks;
And the silence ran thick with a bubbling of brooks.—
Not long:—for commingling, by finest degrees,
With the stir of the foliage, and swell of the breeze,
A concert arose,—so delicious, so new,
So earnest, so fond, so appealing to you,
The notes seem'd to bathe in the tears which they drew.
With the stir of the foliage, and swell of the breeze,
A concert arose,—so delicious, so new,
So earnest, so fond, so appealing to you,
The notes seem'd to bathe in the tears which they drew.
Then there issued (get Vincent Novello, some day,
To show you the strain, for he took it away,)
A world-heavy gust, like all organs in one,
Or as though had swept earthward the roar of the sun,
Or the face of some god with his thunder-loud tresses,
Who comes like a terror, stays gently, and blesses,
And leaves us secure in the strength of humility.
—Phœbus however, with host-like civility,
Tried them no farther with godhead so grave:
To his sprites, on the sudden, blithe orders he gave,
And quoting the line about “lips being fed,”
(Which applied not alone to one heaven, he said,
For ambrosia and nectar sustain'd the realms upper)
There rose, veil'd in mist, to soft music, a supper.
To show you the strain, for he took it away,)
A world-heavy gust, like all organs in one,
Or as though had swept earthward the roar of the sun,
Or the face of some god with his thunder-loud tresses,
Who comes like a terror, stays gently, and blesses,
And leaves us secure in the strength of humility.
—Phœbus however, with host-like civility,
Tried them no farther with godhead so grave:
To his sprites, on the sudden, blithe orders he gave,
And quoting the line about “lips being fed,”
(Which applied not alone to one heaven, he said,
For ambrosia and nectar sustain'd the realms upper)
There rose, veil'd in mist, to soft music, a supper.
Very beauteous the mist was,—thin, white, with a bloom;
An odour of violets fill'd the whole room;
Ever trembled the music; and as the mist clear'd,
First, bunches of violets gently appeared,—
Then silver,—then gold,—then the tops of decanters
Of diamond,—then peaches, those cheek-like enchanters,
And other fruit, some in white baskets, and some
Enleaf'd on the bough, with a dew on the plum;
Then dishes, half seen, fit to make a physician
Turn glutton, from dairies and pastures Elysian;
The peaches hung over them, ready to drip;
And now the guests sat, and the mirth was let slip,
And white went the fingers from foliage to lip.
Then the music came sweet over all, like the sound
Of their fame; and behind ev'ry lady stood, crown'd
With the flame on his forehead, her Genius, who went
To and fro with his pinions, on messages bent
'Twixt her friends and herself, some sweet fruit or sweet word;
And aye at the table sweet laughter was heard.
But the best of it was, the god's wit so embrac'd
The whole room with its kindness and exquisite taste,
Every guest seem'd to feel his arm round her own waist.
An odour of violets fill'd the whole room;
215
First, bunches of violets gently appeared,—
Then silver,—then gold,—then the tops of decanters
Of diamond,—then peaches, those cheek-like enchanters,
And other fruit, some in white baskets, and some
Enleaf'd on the bough, with a dew on the plum;
Then dishes, half seen, fit to make a physician
Turn glutton, from dairies and pastures Elysian;
The peaches hung over them, ready to drip;
And now the guests sat, and the mirth was let slip,
And white went the fingers from foliage to lip.
Then the music came sweet over all, like the sound
Of their fame; and behind ev'ry lady stood, crown'd
With the flame on his forehead, her Genius, who went
To and fro with his pinions, on messages bent
'Twixt her friends and herself, some sweet fruit or sweet word;
And aye at the table sweet laughter was heard.
But the best of it was, the god's wit so embrac'd
The whole room with its kindness and exquisite taste,
Every guest seem'd to feel his arm round her own waist.
And well might seem palpable all which he said!
For as Pallas leap'd arm'd out of Jupiter's head,
So gods, when they please, utter things, and not words!
'Tis a fact!—solid visions!—clouds, armies, trees, herds:—
You see them—nay, feel them. Thus, talks he of roses?
They come, thick and globy, caressing your noses.
Of music? 'tis heard: of a sword? you may grasp it:
Of love, and the bosom you long for? you clasp it.
For as Pallas leap'd arm'd out of Jupiter's head,
So gods, when they please, utter things, and not words!
'Tis a fact!—solid visions!—clouds, armies, trees, herds:—
You see them—nay, feel them. Thus, talks he of roses?
They come, thick and globy, caressing your noses.
Of music? 'tis heard: of a sword? you may grasp it:
Of love, and the bosom you long for? you clasp it.
Conceive then the joy, when in toasting the women
Whom wit hath made deathless, we saw them all swim in!
Each crossing the end of the room!—What a sight!
The guests thrust their chairs back at first, in a fright.
I declare I beheld them so plainly, it took
All the self-command in me (so sweet was her look)
Not to jump from the gallery, and kiss Mrs. Brooke.
Lady Winchelsea cost me still more to go through it;
But at Lady Ann Barnard, I said “I must do it”
Whom wit hath made deathless, we saw them all swim in!
Each crossing the end of the room!—What a sight!
The guests thrust their chairs back at first, in a fright.
I declare I beheld them so plainly, it took
All the self-command in me (so sweet was her look)
Not to jump from the gallery, and kiss Mrs. Brooke.
Lady Winchelsea cost me still more to go through it;
But at Lady Ann Barnard, I said “I must do it”
216
I cannot name all who thus issued from air,
As the god made us see them;—but Sappho was there,
As brown as a berry, and little of size;
But Lord! with such midnight and love in her eyes!
Aspasia's however we thought still more loving:
Heart sat in their pupils, and gentlest approving.
We saw (only fancy it!) Pericles hand her;
And both (I can testify) look'd up at Landor.
Of Romans (whose women more startle than lull us)
Came none but the dame that's bound up with Tibullus;
But France furnished many, and Italy fair;
The laurel look'd sweet in their wild flowing hair.
Colonna came noble, in widow's black gown;
And Stampa, who worshipp'd a living renown;
Navarre's fair Boccaccio; the Rope-maker too;
Deshoulieres, kind and pensive; De Launay the true;
Sévigné, good mother, a little too fussy;
But how, when she will, she beats Walpole and Bussy!
Old selfish Du Deffand, more knowing than wise;
And Genlis didactic, and D'Houdetot's eyes;
And De Staël, mighty mistress, par Napoleoni,
(For so he would make her,) and dear Riccoboni;
Then Newcastle's Duchess, fantastic but rare;
And Behn and Centlivre, that plain-spoken pair;
And Wortley, who, had she been bred in a haram,
Had turn'd it, infallibly, all harum-scarum;
And sweet Brooke aforesaid, all cover'd with May,
And Lady Ann, lovely for “Auld Robin Gray;”
And dearest dear Winchelsea, whom I prefer,
After all, she so jumps with me, even to her:
(For although Lady Ann lov'd maternity, she
Lov'd love and the trees so, she might have lov'd me:)
But I see high-born Devonshire, who with such pith
Wrote of Tell and his platform; and poor Charlotte Smith,
Whose muse might have bless'd so her nooks and old houses,
Had lawyers not plagued her, and debts of her spouse's:
And Tighe, her own Psyche: and Elliott, sweet Jane,
Who made the lone dairies mourn Flodden again;
And Radcliffe, fear-charm'd, ever breathlessly creeping
Through castles and corridors, frightful to sleep in:
Then Barbauld, fine teacher, correcting impatience,
Or mounting the stars in divine meditations;
Thrale, Brunton, Trefusis, her heart pit-a-patting,
And Hemans, behind her grand organ-loft chatting;
With others I can't well remember at present,
Except Hannah More, looking very unpleasant.
As the god made us see them;—but Sappho was there,
As brown as a berry, and little of size;
But Lord! with such midnight and love in her eyes!
Aspasia's however we thought still more loving:
Heart sat in their pupils, and gentlest approving.
We saw (only fancy it!) Pericles hand her;
And both (I can testify) look'd up at Landor.
Of Romans (whose women more startle than lull us)
Came none but the dame that's bound up with Tibullus;
But France furnished many, and Italy fair;
The laurel look'd sweet in their wild flowing hair.
Colonna came noble, in widow's black gown;
And Stampa, who worshipp'd a living renown;
Navarre's fair Boccaccio; the Rope-maker too;
Deshoulieres, kind and pensive; De Launay the true;
Sévigné, good mother, a little too fussy;
But how, when she will, she beats Walpole and Bussy!
Old selfish Du Deffand, more knowing than wise;
And Genlis didactic, and D'Houdetot's eyes;
And De Staël, mighty mistress, par Napoleoni,
(For so he would make her,) and dear Riccoboni;
Then Newcastle's Duchess, fantastic but rare;
And Behn and Centlivre, that plain-spoken pair;
And Wortley, who, had she been bred in a haram,
Had turn'd it, infallibly, all harum-scarum;
And sweet Brooke aforesaid, all cover'd with May,
And Lady Ann, lovely for “Auld Robin Gray;”
And dearest dear Winchelsea, whom I prefer,
After all, she so jumps with me, even to her:
(For although Lady Ann lov'd maternity, she
Lov'd love and the trees so, she might have lov'd me:)
But I see high-born Devonshire, who with such pith
Wrote of Tell and his platform; and poor Charlotte Smith,
Whose muse might have bless'd so her nooks and old houses,
Had lawyers not plagued her, and debts of her spouse's:
And Tighe, her own Psyche: and Elliott, sweet Jane,
Who made the lone dairies mourn Flodden again;
And Radcliffe, fear-charm'd, ever breathlessly creeping
Through castles and corridors, frightful to sleep in:
217
Or mounting the stars in divine meditations;
Thrale, Brunton, Trefusis, her heart pit-a-patting,
And Hemans, behind her grand organ-loft chatting;
With others I can't well remember at present,
Except Hannah More, looking very unpleasant.
You'll fancy there could not have possibly been
A sight now, which females would sooner have seen
Than all this; and in truth, when you mark, in a street,
How they turn and inspect ev'ry bonnet they meet,
And how light, in comparison, seem to hold men,
'Tis a point I shall leave to some weightier pen.
Only pray be assur'd, that whatever the case,
It tells not a jot to our sex's disgrace;
And for this simple reason,—that us they are sure of,
But each other's claims are not quite so secure of.
Thus much I can swear,—that what follow'd this show
Was a sight made their cheeks with new gratitude glow,
And that half the dear souls fell in love on the spot,
And with posthumous men too! gallants living not!
Alas! did I say so? Oh impious misgiving!
Than Shakspeare and Petrarch pray who are more living?
Whose words more delight us? whose touches more touch?
For these were the shapes that now pass'd us,—all such
As the sex should most long to see, out of all story,—
The men that have done them most honour and glory.
A sight now, which females would sooner have seen
Than all this; and in truth, when you mark, in a street,
How they turn and inspect ev'ry bonnet they meet,
And how light, in comparison, seem to hold men,
'Tis a point I shall leave to some weightier pen.
Only pray be assur'd, that whatever the case,
It tells not a jot to our sex's disgrace;
And for this simple reason,—that us they are sure of,
But each other's claims are not quite so secure of.
Thus much I can swear,—that what follow'd this show
Was a sight made their cheeks with new gratitude glow,
And that half the dear souls fell in love on the spot,
And with posthumous men too! gallants living not!
Alas! did I say so? Oh impious misgiving!
Than Shakspeare and Petrarch pray who are more living?
Whose words more delight us? whose touches more touch?
For these were the shapes that now pass'd us,—all such
As the sex should most long to see, out of all story,—
The men that have done them most honour and glory.
First, Homer Andromache brought, like his child;
And beside them was Helen, who blushingly smil'd;—
Old trav'ller was he, and he walk'd with a sword.
Then Antigone came with the Samian lord,
Close-clinging, yet gentle.—Then Petrarch appear'd,
Looking still on the face by down-looking endear'd;
First exalter of animal passion with mind.
Him follow'd, still modestly keeping behind,
With book under arm, and in scholarly gown,
(Oh! ill have the gross understood his renown!)
Boccaccio, with faces a martyr might bless,
Griselda's among them, the patient excess.
Her look was the sweetest that never knew laughter;
And backward she turn'd tow'rds the shape that came after,
Great Chaucer. As humbly as maiden went he.
Young queens held their diadems of him in fee;
Young mothers and beauties, clear angels of earth;
I know not which grac'd them most, sorrow or mirth.
And beside them was Helen, who blushingly smil'd;—
Old trav'ller was he, and he walk'd with a sword.
Then Antigone came with the Samian lord,
Close-clinging, yet gentle.—Then Petrarch appear'd,
Looking still on the face by down-looking endear'd;
First exalter of animal passion with mind.
Him follow'd, still modestly keeping behind,
With book under arm, and in scholarly gown,
(Oh! ill have the gross understood his renown!)
Boccaccio, with faces a martyr might bless,
Griselda's among them, the patient excess.
218
And backward she turn'd tow'rds the shape that came after,
Great Chaucer. As humbly as maiden went he.
Young queens held their diadems of him in fee;
Young mothers and beauties, clear angels of earth;
I know not which grac'd them most, sorrow or mirth.
Great Cervantes was next, fine romance-loving soul
(For his very jest lov'd it), with whom came a shoal
Of such blithe and sweet beauties, some courtly, some nurst
In Arcadia, I thought they were Shakspeare's at first;
But when he came, good Lord! what a heaven upon earth
Of young beauty was there! what sweet sorrow and mirth!
What most womanly women! what passion all beauteous
With patience! What love irrepressibly duteous!
What players at boyhood, as sweet as in gown!
What bosoms, where care might forever lie down!
Did heav'n keep a boarding-school, these were its blushers;—
But Shakspeares would never have done for the ushers.
(For his very jest lov'd it), with whom came a shoal
Of such blithe and sweet beauties, some courtly, some nurst
In Arcadia, I thought they were Shakspeare's at first;
But when he came, good Lord! what a heaven upon earth
Of young beauty was there! what sweet sorrow and mirth!
What most womanly women! what passion all beauteous
With patience! What love irrepressibly duteous!
What players at boyhood, as sweet as in gown!
What bosoms, where care might forever lie down!
Did heav'n keep a boarding-school, these were its blushers;—
But Shakspeares would never have done for the ushers.
The women at table, I thought, at this sight,
For pure, tongue-tied bliss, would have fainted outright;
But Apollo in pity dismiss'd it; and brought
Richard Steele on the carpet, the heart of light thought;
Who pass'd, with his wit and his wig, midst a bevy
Of hoops and bright eyes, as if bound for a levee;
Some cheeks were among them, more sweet for a sprinkle
Of tears; and the dupe of that horrid beast, Inkle.
Steele led by the hand his own wife in the crowd,
And as if reassuring her, kiss'd it, and bow'd.
For pure, tongue-tied bliss, would have fainted outright;
But Apollo in pity dismiss'd it; and brought
Richard Steele on the carpet, the heart of light thought;
Who pass'd, with his wit and his wig, midst a bevy
Of hoops and bright eyes, as if bound for a levee;
Some cheeks were among them, more sweet for a sprinkle
Of tears; and the dupe of that horrid beast, Inkle.
Steele led by the hand his own wife in the crowd,
And as if reassuring her, kiss'd it, and bow'd.
In discourse of this kind, and such rapturous expressions
As perfectly scorn'd all the old self-possessions,
(For really I can't say which rattled most gaily,
Dear frank Lady Morgan, or quiet Miss Bailey;
Though somebody said, that tow'rds three, Mrs. Hall
Was, beyond any question, the merriest of all:
And I'm told that Miss Edgeworth became so vivacious,
The damsels from boarding-school whispered, “My gracious!”)
In talk of this kind, and a world of sweet will,
Which turn'd all our heads ('tis in mine dancing still)
The delight ran its rounds, till 'twas time to break up;
When Apollo, instead of the old parting cup,
(Which with ladies might not have been quite so decorous)
Exclaim'd, “Set the new parting dishes before us.”
As perfectly scorn'd all the old self-possessions,
(For really I can't say which rattled most gaily,
Dear frank Lady Morgan, or quiet Miss Bailey;
Though somebody said, that tow'rds three, Mrs. Hall
Was, beyond any question, the merriest of all:
And I'm told that Miss Edgeworth became so vivacious,
The damsels from boarding-school whispered, “My gracious!”)
219
Which turn'd all our heads ('tis in mine dancing still)
The delight ran its rounds, till 'twas time to break up;
When Apollo, instead of the old parting cup,
(Which with ladies might not have been quite so decorous)
Exclaim'd, “Set the new parting dishes before us.”
No sooner exclaim'd than accomplish'd. Behold
Ev'ry guest had a cover of exquisite mould,
Rich yet simple, of porcelain. Angelica's self
Had had twice her attractions, with one on her shelf.
The sides were all painted, not only with Muses
And Loves, but with Lares, and sweet Household Uses:
Good Temper was laying a cloth for Good Heart,
And the Graces were actually making a tart!
Each cover for knob had a ruby, heart-shap'd;
And the whole stood on legs, with white elegance drap'd,—
Legs bewitching, most feminine, tipp'd with a shoe;
And the stockings (mark that!) were a violet blue.
Ev'ry guest had a cover of exquisite mould,
Rich yet simple, of porcelain. Angelica's self
Had had twice her attractions, with one on her shelf.
The sides were all painted, not only with Muses
And Loves, but with Lares, and sweet Household Uses:
Good Temper was laying a cloth for Good Heart,
And the Graces were actually making a tart!
Each cover for knob had a ruby, heart-shap'd;
And the whole stood on legs, with white elegance drap'd,—
Legs bewitching, most feminine, tipp'd with a shoe;
And the stockings (mark that!) were a violet blue.
All the room fell a whispering;—“What can they be?”
“Is it sweets?”—“concert-tickets?”—“It cannot be tea?”
“I'd give millions to know,” said Miss Porter. “And I,”
Said Miss Barrett, “my head.” Said Miss Landon, “I'd die.”
“You may see it ex pede,” said Mrs. Gore, chuckling:
“'Tis something dress'd à la Sir John—à la Suckling.”
“Is it sweets?”—“concert-tickets?”—“It cannot be tea?”
“I'd give millions to know,” said Miss Porter. “And I,”
Said Miss Barrett, “my head.” Said Miss Landon, “I'd die.”
“You may see it ex pede,” said Mrs. Gore, chuckling:
“'Tis something dress'd à la Sir John—à la Suckling.”
And 'twas so.—O Suckling, O gallant Sir John,
Thou gentleman poet, first plume of the ton;
Who the reign or two Charleses by anticipation
Didst mingle in one with thy cordial flirtation;
Fresh painter of “Weddings,” great author of rare
“Poet-Sessions,” and petit-soupés to the fair;
Unto whom thou didst make happy milliner-loves
With bijou for the sweetmeats, and dishes of gloves,
And sent'st home the darlings in flutters of fan,
At the wit of the thought of the exquisite man!
O facile princeps of “wit about town,”
What a bay clips thee now! What a crown above crown!
Homer's self had but men for his copiers; but thee
Homer's very god copies, thou great bel esprit!
Thou gentleman poet, first plume of the ton;
Who the reign or two Charleses by anticipation
Didst mingle in one with thy cordial flirtation;
Fresh painter of “Weddings,” great author of rare
“Poet-Sessions,” and petit-soupés to the fair;
Unto whom thou didst make happy milliner-loves
With bijou for the sweetmeats, and dishes of gloves,
And sent'st home the darlings in flutters of fan,
At the wit of the thought of the exquisite man!
O facile princeps of “wit about town,”
What a bay clips thee now! What a crown above crown!
220
Homer's very god copies, thou great bel esprit!
The genius that stood behind each lady's chair,
From her dish took the cover; when forth, in glad air,
Leap'd a couple of small merry Loves, who display'd
What d'ye think?—a new girdle? a busk? a new braid?
No;—the sweetest Blue Stockings that ever were made.
The blue was a violet, fresh as first love;
And the garters were blush-colour, mingled with dove.
From her dish took the cover; when forth, in glad air,
Leap'd a couple of small merry Loves, who display'd
What d'ye think?—a new girdle? a busk? a new braid?
No;—the sweetest Blue Stockings that ever were made.
The blue was a violet, fresh as first love;
And the garters were blush-colour, mingled with dove.
To describe the “sensation” produced by this sight,
The dismays, pretty doubtings, the laughs, the delight,
Were a task I should never have done, if I told ye,
And haste does not let me; for lo and behold ye!
As doves round a house-top, in summer-time blue,
Take a sudden stoop earthwards, and sweep from the view,
So the Loves, one and all, rising first with a clapping
Of pinions, pass'd by us, tempestuously flapping;
Then stoop'd, quick as lightning, and gliding right under
The table, all vanish'd!—A shriek of sweet wonder
Rose sudden and brief, as of fear come and gone;
And 'twas felt thro' the room, that the stockings were on!
The dismays, pretty doubtings, the laughs, the delight,
Were a task I should never have done, if I told ye,
And haste does not let me; for lo and behold ye!
As doves round a house-top, in summer-time blue,
Take a sudden stoop earthwards, and sweep from the view,
So the Loves, one and all, rising first with a clapping
Of pinions, pass'd by us, tempestuously flapping;
Then stoop'd, quick as lightning, and gliding right under
The table, all vanish'd!—A shriek of sweet wonder
Rose sudden and brief, as of fear come and gone;
And 'twas felt thro' the room, that the stockings were on!
Mute, curious, respectful (for all were inspir'd
With the feelings so nice an occasion requir'd)
We sat for some moments, as still as Apollo's
Own table; till sweet, as when breath fills the hollows
Of organs, mild waking,—he utter'd what follows:—
With the feelings so nice an occasion requir'd)
We sat for some moments, as still as Apollo's
Own table; till sweet, as when breath fills the hollows
Of organs, mild waking,—he utter'd what follows:—
“Dear souls with fine eyes (may they never be kiss'd
By a fool!) fear no more the mistakes that exist
With regard to these footings of yours, and their blue;
Fear no more the confusion of false and of true;
Strange confusion at any time, seeing its grounds!
For who, in his taste, sweet and bitter confounds?
And whence rose it? An authoress, once on a time,
Could discover, it seems, no such wonderful crime
In the legs of an honest old soul at her party,
Who came in his blue stockings, ancient and hearty,
(Ben Stillingfleet namely, fine-hearted old codger;
A loving old bachelor,—real Sir Roger;)
But coxcombs (themselves a pedantical crew)
Palm'd, in spite, upon her, the old gentleman's blue;
And thence, by as clever and handsome transition,
Assum'd it of all in like letter'd condition.
As nicknames, however, are things we've a dread of
In heaven itself, they're so hard to get rid of,
And as the best way to divert their abuse
(If we use them at all) is to give them right use,
I hereby ordain, that in future the word
Be confined to the masculine, vain, and absurd,
And that all real women, ev'n though they may speak
Not with Sappho's eyes only, but even her Greek,
All the flow'rs of the flock, the true breathers of sweets,
Take their name from the queen of the sylvan retreats;
From the hue which but now had your eyes fix'd upon it,—
The Violet,—charmer of all that light on it.
No Blue,” 'twill be said, “is the she who so bears her;
She's Violet:—happy the bosom that wears her.”
By a fool!) fear no more the mistakes that exist
With regard to these footings of yours, and their blue;
Fear no more the confusion of false and of true;
Strange confusion at any time, seeing its grounds!
For who, in his taste, sweet and bitter confounds?
And whence rose it? An authoress, once on a time,
Could discover, it seems, no such wonderful crime
In the legs of an honest old soul at her party,
Who came in his blue stockings, ancient and hearty,
(Ben Stillingfleet namely, fine-hearted old codger;
A loving old bachelor,—real Sir Roger;)
221
Palm'd, in spite, upon her, the old gentleman's blue;
And thence, by as clever and handsome transition,
Assum'd it of all in like letter'd condition.
As nicknames, however, are things we've a dread of
In heaven itself, they're so hard to get rid of,
And as the best way to divert their abuse
(If we use them at all) is to give them right use,
I hereby ordain, that in future the word
Be confined to the masculine, vain, and absurd,
And that all real women, ev'n though they may speak
Not with Sappho's eyes only, but even her Greek,
All the flow'rs of the flock, the true breathers of sweets,
Take their name from the queen of the sylvan retreats;
From the hue which but now had your eyes fix'd upon it,—
The Violet,—charmer of all that light on it.
No Blue,” 'twill be said, “is the she who so bears her;
She's Violet:—happy the bosom that wears her.”
Here somebody happening to cough where we sat,
Phœbus threw up a frown at us none could look at,—
An eye of so sudden a flame and tremendous,
I thought he was going to “flare up” and end us;
But seeing us all look submissive, he shone
With the former mild beams in his hair, and went on:—
Phœbus threw up a frown at us none could look at,—
An eye of so sudden a flame and tremendous,
I thought he was going to “flare up” and end us;
But seeing us all look submissive, he shone
With the former mild beams in his hair, and went on:—
“And in truth it depends on yourselves, darling creatures,
Which shade of the hue shall illustrate your natures;
For though ye set out with the right one, nay, though
I myself, as I now do, the blessing bestow,
Yet the stockings themselves, I must tell you, are fated,
And just as they're worn, will be lov'd or get hated;
Remaining true violet,—glimpses of heaven,—
As long as you're wise, and your tempers are even.
But if you grow formal, or fierce, or untrue,
Alas, gentle colour! sweet ankle, adieu!
Thou art chang'd; and Love's self at the changing looks blue.
Seize the golden occasion then.—You, who already
Are gentle, remain so; and you, who would steady
Your natures, and mend them, and make out your call
To be men's best companions, be such, once for all.
And remember, that nobody, woman or man,
Ever charm'd the next ages, since writing began,
Who thought by shrewd dealing sound fame to arrive at,
Had one face in print, and another in private.
Which shade of the hue shall illustrate your natures;
For though ye set out with the right one, nay, though
I myself, as I now do, the blessing bestow,
Yet the stockings themselves, I must tell you, are fated,
And just as they're worn, will be lov'd or get hated;
Remaining true violet,—glimpses of heaven,—
As long as you're wise, and your tempers are even.
But if you grow formal, or fierce, or untrue,
Alas, gentle colour! sweet ankle, adieu!
Thou art chang'd; and Love's self at the changing looks blue.
Seize the golden occasion then.—You, who already
Are gentle, remain so; and you, who would steady
222
To be men's best companions, be such, once for all.
And remember, that nobody, woman or man,
Ever charm'd the next ages, since writing began,
Who thought by shrewd dealing sound fame to arrive at,
Had one face in print, and another in private.
“Unaffectedness, Gentleness, Lovingness.—This
Be your motto. And now give your teacher a kiss.”
Be your motto. And now give your teacher a kiss.”
He said: and the whole house appearing to rise,
Rooms and all, in a rapture of love, tow'rds the skies,
He did really, by some divine privilege of his,
Give and take of the dames an ubiquitous kiss;
Which exalted us all so, and rapt us so far,
We undoubtedly touch'd at some exquisite star;
Very likely the morning star, Venus's own,
For the odour proclaim'd it some violet zone:
And to prove 'twas no dream, any more than the bedding
Which Prince Camaralzaman had or Bedredden,
I woke, just as they did, at home, about seven,
The moment Miss Landon was saying “Good Heaven!”
Rooms and all, in a rapture of love, tow'rds the skies,
He did really, by some divine privilege of his,
Give and take of the dames an ubiquitous kiss;
Which exalted us all so, and rapt us so far,
We undoubtedly touch'd at some exquisite star;
Very likely the morning star, Venus's own,
For the odour proclaim'd it some violet zone:
And to prove 'twas no dream, any more than the bedding
Which Prince Camaralzaman had or Bedredden,
I woke, just as they did, at home, about seven,
The moment Miss Landon was saying “Good Heaven!”
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |