 | Young Arthur |  |
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VARIATION X.
Breathing Time.—The Impertinence of Interruption.— A new Insect.—Black Letter Beetles.— Love and Latin.—Love's Gift.—The Ruby and the Pearl.
Ma'am, or Sir, were you ever while reading a story,
Of wit, or of woe, or of love, or of glory,
So full, that the smallest delay would diminish
Your pleasure, and you, when impatient to finish,
Should, by unlucky chance, be disturb'd at a part
Transfixing your mind and affecting your heart,
With the door op'ning quick, and admitting at will
One of those kind of creatures who call time to kill:
One you know will remain, spite of reason or rhyme,
Who will only talk nonsense, and talk all the time?
And have you not shut up your book in despair,
And wish'd em—excuse me—I musn't say where?
Now if, puff'd up by vanity, I could suppose
This hist'ry could charm you, so near to its close,
And at such a moment as that I've selected
To end the last chapter, no purpose effected,
I should fancy you'd feel much the same indignation
As th' intruder excited for this Variation:
But tho' I can't hope it has made such impression,
If thus far you've read, 'tis at least some confession
I've not been a bore; and you'll haply go on,
And be happy to know in next chapter you've done!
And this, with th' intruder, not view'd con amore,
You can pass to next chapter and finish the story.
Yet, if you should wish to take breath a short time,
Or for drying your eyes, if by chance there's a tear.
Or to have your laugh out at the expence of my rhyme,
(And I fancy the fact I anticipate here,)
That time from this trite variation will spring,
Which read or rejected may prove the same thing
For profit or pleasure—but if you incline
To read, to amuse you my pow'rs I'll combine,
And woo, likely, nonsense instead of the nine.
The nine? the term's common, and quoted by all,
And meaning the Muses means nothing at all:
'Tis a phrase, or a figure, an idiom, a gleaning
Of Pagan remains, and with them had its meaning:
With us Christian bards, uninspir'd by the sun,
What meaning it's claim, in our verse tho' it run?
Like most of our poetry, certainly none.
In the mark'd pronoun plural myself I include,
Or, reader, you'd think me conceited, or rude;
For I've small doubt you'll say, if opinion you show it,
“Sir, I hope you're a much better Christian than poet.”
Of wit, or of woe, or of love, or of glory,
So full, that the smallest delay would diminish
Your pleasure, and you, when impatient to finish,
Should, by unlucky chance, be disturb'd at a part
Transfixing your mind and affecting your heart,
With the door op'ning quick, and admitting at will
One of those kind of creatures who call time to kill:
One you know will remain, spite of reason or rhyme,
Who will only talk nonsense, and talk all the time?
And have you not shut up your book in despair,
And wish'd em—excuse me—I musn't say where?
Now if, puff'd up by vanity, I could suppose
This hist'ry could charm you, so near to its close,
And at such a moment as that I've selected
To end the last chapter, no purpose effected,
298
As th' intruder excited for this Variation:
But tho' I can't hope it has made such impression,
If thus far you've read, 'tis at least some confession
I've not been a bore; and you'll haply go on,
And be happy to know in next chapter you've done!
And this, with th' intruder, not view'd con amore,
You can pass to next chapter and finish the story.
Yet, if you should wish to take breath a short time,
Or for drying your eyes, if by chance there's a tear.
Or to have your laugh out at the expence of my rhyme,
(And I fancy the fact I anticipate here,)
That time from this trite variation will spring,
Which read or rejected may prove the same thing
For profit or pleasure—but if you incline
To read, to amuse you my pow'rs I'll combine,
And woo, likely, nonsense instead of the nine.
The nine? the term's common, and quoted by all,
And meaning the Muses means nothing at all:
'Tis a phrase, or a figure, an idiom, a gleaning
Of Pagan remains, and with them had its meaning:
With us Christian bards, uninspir'd by the sun,
What meaning it's claim, in our verse tho' it run?
Like most of our poetry, certainly none.
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Or, reader, you'd think me conceited, or rude;
For I've small doubt you'll say, if opinion you show it,
“Sir, I hope you're a much better Christian than poet.”
There are a sort of people found,
Mere outlines, like a circle's round,
Which terminates where you begin it,
Circumference with nothing in it;
Who, when they cross you, seem to say,
“Pray can you tell me what's to day?”
Who sail and saunter, light of mien,
Like globes which oft in air you've seen,
Lighter than down from beaver hats,
Balloons which lightest breathing bandies—
Once children call'd'em “Pussy Cats,”
But now, I'm told, they call 'em Dandies—
“But what have dandies, Sir, to do
“With Arthur's narrative?” say you;
I only meant this intersection
Is of a dandyish complexion;
And if it should, like down of thistle,
Fly here and there; or should I whistle,
Instead of sing, as poets should,
Remember 'tis an interlude,
Where whim's allow'd, if wit is scarce—
None seek consistency in farce.
“Granted you cry,” and on that ground
“Perchance your poem readers found.”
I make my bow low as may be,
And answer “thank'ye, Sir, for me.”
Mere outlines, like a circle's round,
Which terminates where you begin it,
Circumference with nothing in it;
Who, when they cross you, seem to say,
“Pray can you tell me what's to day?”
Who sail and saunter, light of mien,
Like globes which oft in air you've seen,
Lighter than down from beaver hats,
Balloons which lightest breathing bandies—
Once children call'd'em “Pussy Cats,”
But now, I'm told, they call 'em Dandies—
“But what have dandies, Sir, to do
“With Arthur's narrative?” say you;
I only meant this intersection
Is of a dandyish complexion;
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Fly here and there; or should I whistle,
Instead of sing, as poets should,
Remember 'tis an interlude,
Where whim's allow'd, if wit is scarce—
None seek consistency in farce.
“Granted you cry,” and on that ground
“Perchance your poem readers found.”
I make my bow low as may be,
And answer “thank'ye, Sir, for me.”
“Dandy! what is a dandy?” why,
A new found genus, ranking high
In fashion's Entomology;
Said to be solely male, but nat—
Uralists profess their doubts of that;
Yet no account of female tender,
But class the insect neuter gender.
A new found genus, ranking high
In fashion's Entomology;
Said to be solely male, but nat—
Uralists profess their doubts of that;
Yet no account of female tender,
But class the insect neuter gender.
O Britain, when our sires of old
Forc'd Magna Charta from King John,
Did they wear stays? “the barons bold;”
Or perfum'd gloves and paint put on?
Their stays were iron, and their gloves were steel,
Their paint the glow the generous fires reveal;
From them our freedom and our fame arose,
Themselves ne'er lacing who still lac'd our foes.
Forc'd Magna Charta from King John,
Did they wear stays? “the barons bold;”
Or perfum'd gloves and paint put on?
Their stays were iron, and their gloves were steel,
Their paint the glow the generous fires reveal;
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Themselves ne'er lacing who still lac'd our foes.
“Lacing and lac'd! what wretched punning's that?”
Exclaims Sir Classical “I hate a pun—
“Who makes a pun would pick a pocket.” —what?
At any rate 'twould pleasantly be done.
Puns are like peppermint, wit's drams in short,
So grant those peppermint who can't get port.
A race there is, right ponderous and prim,
Too pure for wisdom and too proud for whim;
Yclep'd “the classical;” who ne'er unbend;
Whose wit and wisdom in black letter end—
“Abuse the classical?”—no, reader, no—
I doat on classical—“indeed? so—so”—
But be it classical: of wisdom's college,
Learning digested, dignified by knowledge;
Tutor'd by taste, by candour taught to smile;
Not the o'erwhelming Niger, but the Nile;
O'erflowing from humanity, not hate,
Nor e'er to ravage, but regenerate.
Exclaims Sir Classical “I hate a pun—
“Who makes a pun would pick a pocket.” —what?
At any rate 'twould pleasantly be done.
Puns are like peppermint, wit's drams in short,
So grant those peppermint who can't get port.
A race there is, right ponderous and prim,
Too pure for wisdom and too proud for whim;
Yclep'd “the classical;” who ne'er unbend;
Whose wit and wisdom in black letter end—
“Abuse the classical?”—no, reader, no—
I doat on classical—“indeed? so—so”—
But be it classical: of wisdom's college,
Learning digested, dignified by knowledge;
Tutor'd by taste, by candour taught to smile;
Not the o'erwhelming Niger, but the Nile;
O'erflowing from humanity, not hate,
Nor e'er to ravage, but regenerate.
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The race I sing are beetle brow'd and stern;
Who ransack learning, but who never learn;
Who to the letter of all context stick,
But for the spirit are too splenetic.
Black letter beetles, floundering in their flight,
Droning their dirges to the dusky night,
Bumping against you, with a wheel commanding,
In the thick twilight of their understanding.
They talk of classical because cram-full
Of etymologies, devoutly dull;
Fix'd to the root, for ever grovel there,
Nor climb the branch to catch the wholesome air;
No, by the root, or round the trunk, they cling,
Pelting at him who sits above to sing;
The nerve-lin'd leaf which plays upon the bough
They ne'er contemplate; hence they wonder how
Mind can so weak be as, like bird, to play
Where the wing'd zephyr wantons round the spray;
And gravely comment, and decree each shoot
Should be as cramp and rigid as the root.
Ye burrowing moles, why was the root ordain'd
But for the branch and all by that sustain'd?
These critics are of words and leaden rules,
And by their folly judge all others fools;
Too cold for sanguine, brooding for benign,
For ever center'd in the saturnine.
They know not genius, yet attempt to scan
Products of which they never knew the plan;
Shall the blind mole his doubtful optics ply
To scan the lightning of the lynx's eye?
Shall the dark lantern catechise the sun,
Or the sloth teach the rapid elk to run?
Who ransack learning, but who never learn;
Who to the letter of all context stick,
But for the spirit are too splenetic.
Black letter beetles, floundering in their flight,
Droning their dirges to the dusky night,
Bumping against you, with a wheel commanding,
In the thick twilight of their understanding.
They talk of classical because cram-full
Of etymologies, devoutly dull;
Fix'd to the root, for ever grovel there,
Nor climb the branch to catch the wholesome air;
No, by the root, or round the trunk, they cling,
Pelting at him who sits above to sing;
The nerve-lin'd leaf which plays upon the bough
They ne'er contemplate; hence they wonder how
Mind can so weak be as, like bird, to play
Where the wing'd zephyr wantons round the spray;
And gravely comment, and decree each shoot
Should be as cramp and rigid as the root.
Ye burrowing moles, why was the root ordain'd
But for the branch and all by that sustain'd?
These critics are of words and leaden rules,
And by their folly judge all others fools;
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For ever center'd in the saturnine.
They know not genius, yet attempt to scan
Products of which they never knew the plan;
Shall the blind mole his doubtful optics ply
To scan the lightning of the lynx's eye?
Shall the dark lantern catechise the sun,
Or the sloth teach the rapid elk to run?
Go to, ye paragons of phlegm, go to!
Bred with old dulness and her cobweb crew;
In dusky halls through whose cramp'd casements peep
Such twilight gleams as only lull to sleep;
And while your dozing eyes are fix'd upon
The Gothic grandeur of the unweildy stone,
Which in sharp arch or ponderous pillar's hewn,
Huge dreams come o'er you, where crack'd organs tune
Oppressive fugues; the columns all advance,
And stalk tremendous in a Stone-henge dance;
While ye gloat on, beat-time with taste litigious,
And growl in rusty rapture, “oh, prodigious!”
Bred with old dulness and her cobweb crew;
In dusky halls through whose cramp'd casements peep
Such twilight gleams as only lull to sleep;
And while your dozing eyes are fix'd upon
The Gothic grandeur of the unweildy stone,
Which in sharp arch or ponderous pillar's hewn,
Huge dreams come o'er you, where crack'd organs tune
Oppressive fugues; the columns all advance,
And stalk tremendous in a Stone-henge dance;
While ye gloat on, beat-time with taste litigious,
And growl in rusty rapture, “oh, prodigious!”
Deem not, ye truly learn'd, that you I mean,
Who bear your honors with a brow serene;
Who squinting prejudice with scorn defy;
The fostering beam, not light'ning, in your eye;
Lynx-eye'd to merit; winking, but not blind;
Prouder small beauties than large faults to find,
And learning love through love of human kind.
Who dip your pens in ink unmix'd with gall,
And write for reason, or not write at all;
Whose faithful index equitable care
Impels; exulting when it points to “fair.”
From you whatever sentence this procures,
Mine be submission, and my thanks be yours.
Who bear your honors with a brow serene;
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The fostering beam, not light'ning, in your eye;
Lynx-eye'd to merit; winking, but not blind;
Prouder small beauties than large faults to find,
And learning love through love of human kind.
Who dip your pens in ink unmix'd with gall,
And write for reason, or not write at all;
Whose faithful index equitable care
Impels; exulting when it points to “fair.”
From you whatever sentence this procures,
Mine be submission, and my thanks be yours.
But love is more our theme than Latin:
Would I could dress the boy in satin;
Or, plainly, would my verse could flow
As smoothly as the satin's face is,
With all its substance and its show,
With all its garnish and its graces;
But Waller and your humble slave
Are not akin you've found no doubt;
I hammer at an awkward stave,
He drew the soul of sweetness out:
But let me, as I can, prevail;
And listen to a sylphic tale.
Would I could dress the boy in satin;
Or, plainly, would my verse could flow
As smoothly as the satin's face is,
With all its substance and its show,
With all its garnish and its graces;
But Waller and your humble slave
Are not akin you've found no doubt;
I hammer at an awkward stave,
He drew the soul of sweetness out:
But let me, as I can, prevail;
And listen to a sylphic tale.
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LOVE'S GIFT.
The Ruby and the Pearl.
Ruby, a gem of the Sylphic race,
Glowing with ardour, and beaming with grace;
From whose eyes shot a radiance, chaste, brilliant, and warm,
The mellow of splendor, the softness of charm;
Enamour'd became of a graceful girl,
Of earthly mould, and he nam'd her Pearl.
Glowing with ardour, and beaming with grace;
From whose eyes shot a radiance, chaste, brilliant, and warm,
The mellow of splendor, the softness of charm;
Enamour'd became of a graceful girl,
Of earthly mould, and he nam'd her Pearl.
And, O, that maiden was lily fair,
Perfect her from as true circles are:
And, O, how modest that maid serene;
And, O, how polish'd that maiden's mien;
Pure as polish'd that graceful girl;
And Ruby he glow'd for the lovely Pearl.
Perfect her from as true circles are:
And, O, how modest that maid serene;
And, O, how polish'd that maiden's mien;
Pure as polish'd that graceful girl;
And Ruby he glow'd for the lovely Pearl.
Still as he hover'd the maiden nigh,
And caught the mild ray of her chasten'd eye;
His ardour while gazing on one so meek
Reflected a blush on her maiden cheek;
Ah! 'twas not the blush of a graceless girl
That tinted the cheek of the lovely Pearl.
And caught the mild ray of her chasten'd eye;
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Reflected a blush on her maiden cheek;
Ah! 'twas not the blush of a graceless girl
That tinted the cheek of the lovely Pearl.
He seem'd a sun, as the sun seems oft,
Ruby red, with mild beams of gold;
And she like the moon beam'd rays as soft
As brighten the revels that fairies hold;
And Ruby he sigh'd for that graceful girl,
While artlessly listen'd the lovely Pearl.
Ruby red, with mild beams of gold;
And she like the moon beam'd rays as soft
As brighten the revels that fairies hold;
And Ruby he sigh'd for that graceful girl,
While artlessly listen'd the lovely Pearl.
He sung “O I am a spirit of air,
A mortal thou, as refin'd as fair;
And sylphs may celestial converse hold
With the pure and the lovely of mortal mould:
And worthy art thou, O graceful girl,
The love of the Ruby, O beauteous Pearl!
A mortal thou, as refin'd as fair;
And sylphs may celestial converse hold
With the pure and the lovely of mortal mould:
And worthy art thou, O graceful girl,
The love of the Ruby, O beauteous Pearl!
“I'll build for thy beauty a jessamine bower,
Type of thyself that virgin flow'r;
And the leaves of that flow'r shall be emblems seen
Of constancy, grac'd by the emerald's green;
O bless that bower, thou graceful girl,
Where Ruby shall listen to lovely Pearl.
Type of thyself that virgin flow'r;
And the leaves of that flow'r shall be emblems seen
Of constancy, grac'd by the emerald's green;
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Where Ruby shall listen to lovely Pearl.
“I'll weave thee a wreath of the golden ray,
And thy tresses shall diamond stars display;
The nymphs of the ocean thy birth shall tell,
And, O, thou shalt ride in their cars of shell;
In the grots of coral, O graceful girl,
Shall Ruby beam light for the lovely Pearl.”
And thy tresses shall diamond stars display;
The nymphs of the ocean thy birth shall tell,
And, O, thou shalt ride in their cars of shell;
In the grots of coral, O graceful girl,
Shall Ruby beam light for the lovely Pearl.”
The virgin she listen'd to Love's soft lay,
To love as pure as the moon beam's ray;
But, O, she had sisters; alike the whole
In face and in form, and in softness and soul;
And, meeting alone each graceful girl,
Ruby fancied that each was his lovely Pearl.
To love as pure as the moon beam's ray;
But, O, she had sisters; alike the whole
In face and in form, and in softness and soul;
And, meeting alone each graceful girl,
Ruby fancied that each was his lovely Pearl.
And every virgin the sylph had seen,
And every virgin the sylph had won;
Every sister his song had been,
And ear to his praises refus'd him none:
But, meeting together each graceful girl,
Ruby glow'd for all round as his lovely Pearl.
And every virgin the sylph had won;
Every sister his song had been,
And ear to his praises refus'd him none:
But, meeting together each graceful girl,
Ruby glow'd for all round as his lovely Pearl.
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The power of witchery saw the scene,
The spirit of spite was fill'd with spleen;
By magic art in a golden spell
She bound 'em, for ever and aye to dwell.
With the ruby she fix'd ev'ry graceful girl,
And surrounded he stood by each lovely pearl.
The spirit of spite was fill'd with spleen;
By magic art in a golden spell
She bound 'em, for ever and aye to dwell.
With the ruby she fix'd ev'ry graceful girl,
And surrounded he stood by each lovely pearl.
And Love he wept; and the sylphs complain'd;
But the 'witching spirit her spell maintain'd;
Love call'd it a ring, and resolv'd it should prove
A type of the pure and the ardent love;
And love's gift, in a ring, to a graceful girl,
Is ruby, encircled by lovely pearl.
But the 'witching spirit her spell maintain'd;
Love call'd it a ring, and resolv'd it should prove
A type of the pure and the ardent love;
And love's gift, in a ring, to a graceful girl,
Is ruby, encircled by lovely pearl.
Every one of my readers must have observed the balls of vegetable down floating in the air, like balloons, in summer, produced from, the Leontodon, or Dandelion, which children called pussy eats, clocks, &c.
| Young Arthur | |