The Poetical Works of Horace Smith Now First Collected. In Two Volumes |
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MONSIEUR LE BRUN. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Horace Smith |  |
175
MONSIEUR LE BRUN.
Monsieur le Brun (who must not be confused
With the great painter) jointly cultivated
Apollo's laurel and the grape of Bacchus,
And into médiocre verse translated,
Or rather, as the French would say, traduced
The odes of Flaccus.
The work, I must confess, was badly done,
For poor Le Brun,
Still scribbling, and unable still to win
A living for himself and wife,
Was like a rope-maker, condemned to spin
Long lines, yet still go backward all his life.
Le Brun asserted that an author loses
By quaffing with the water-drinking Muses,
Wherefore he held in small account
Castalia's fount,
And not a solitary sip he
Ever quaffed from Aganippe,
Maintaining that champagne and other wine,
With, now and then, a draught of liquor,
Produced an inspiration quicker,
As well as more delightful and divine.—
If to his cups his couplets he had suited,
They must have sparkl'd—and 'tis strange to me,
That want of life should ever be imputed
To poetry inspired by eau-de-vie.
With the great painter) jointly cultivated
Apollo's laurel and the grape of Bacchus,
And into médiocre verse translated,
Or rather, as the French would say, traduced
The odes of Flaccus.
The work, I must confess, was badly done,
For poor Le Brun,
Still scribbling, and unable still to win
A living for himself and wife,
Was like a rope-maker, condemned to spin
Long lines, yet still go backward all his life.
176
By quaffing with the water-drinking Muses,
Wherefore he held in small account
Castalia's fount,
And not a solitary sip he
Ever quaffed from Aganippe,
Maintaining that champagne and other wine,
With, now and then, a draught of liquor,
Produced an inspiration quicker,
As well as more delightful and divine.—
If to his cups his couplets he had suited,
They must have sparkl'd—and 'tis strange to me,
That want of life should ever be imputed
To poetry inspired by eau-de-vie.
But so it was—his poems, every one,
Were like a flintless gun,
Which won't go off for want of fire;
And poor Le Brun who took to deeper drinking
Instead of thinking,
Sunk daily deeper in oblivion's mire.
While swallowing compound spirits, still the faster
He lost his own, till he became a prey
To hypochondria; and one disaster
Another following, his health gave way.
His stomach, it was said, had lost its coat,
Or thrown it off, perhaps, from being hot,
For his old trick he never had forgot,
Of pouring ardent spirits down his throat;
Which daily system of potation
Most deleterious,
Brought fever first, then inflammation,
When his poor wife, so much his aspect shock'd her,
Call'd in the doctor,
And now the case grew serious.
Were like a flintless gun,
Which won't go off for want of fire;
And poor Le Brun who took to deeper drinking
Instead of thinking,
177
While swallowing compound spirits, still the faster
He lost his own, till he became a prey
To hypochondria; and one disaster
Another following, his health gave way.
His stomach, it was said, had lost its coat,
Or thrown it off, perhaps, from being hot,
For his old trick he never had forgot,
Of pouring ardent spirits down his throat;
Which daily system of potation
Most deleterious,
Brought fever first, then inflammation,
When his poor wife, so much his aspect shock'd her,
Call'd in the doctor,
And now the case grew serious.
Bolus, a man of fees, not feeling,
Finding his purse was low, though high his fever,
Bolted, but sent a priest, who, kneeling,
Thus comforted the bibulous believer,—
“My son, 'tis clear you have not long to live,
So you must quickly use this unction,
Confess your sins with due compunction,
And freely all your enemies forgive—
Bestowing on them, if they're nigh,
The kiss of peace before you die!”
Finding his purse was low, though high his fever,
Bolted, but sent a priest, who, kneeling,
Thus comforted the bibulous believer,—
178
So you must quickly use this unction,
Confess your sins with due compunction,
And freely all your enemies forgive—
Bestowing on them, if they're nigh,
The kiss of peace before you die!”
“Kiss what I hated most—my deadliest foes!
Surely, good father, you impose
A penance too revolting to be just,
'Tis ten times worse than fasts, hair shirts, and whips;
However, if I must, I must;
So put a glass of water to my lips!”
Surely, good father, you impose
A penance too revolting to be just,
'Tis ten times worse than fasts, hair shirts, and whips;
However, if I must, I must;
So put a glass of water to my lips!”
| The Poetical Works of Horace Smith | |