 | Flotsam and Jetsam |  |
25
LINES SENT TO ROBERT BROWNING, 1841,
ON A CERTAIN CRITIQUE ON ‘PIPPA PASSES.’
Ho! everyone that by the nose is led,
Automatons of which the world is full!—
You myriad bodies each without a head
That dangle dolt-like from a critic's skull!
Come hearken to a rare discovery made,
A mental marvel notably displayed!
Automatons of which the world is full!—
You myriad bodies each without a head
That dangle dolt-like from a critic's skull!
Come hearken to a rare discovery made,
A mental marvel notably displayed!
A black squat Beetle, potent for his size,
Pushing tail-first by every road that's wrong,
The dirt-ball of his musty rules along—
His tiny sphere of grovelling sympathies,—
Has knocked himself full-butt with blundering trouble
Against a Mountain he can neither double
Nor ever hope to scale. So, like a free,
Pert, self-complacent Scarabæus, he
Takes it into his horny head to swear—
There's no such thing as any mountain there!
Pushing tail-first by every road that's wrong,
The dirt-ball of his musty rules along—
His tiny sphere of grovelling sympathies,—
Has knocked himself full-butt with blundering trouble
Against a Mountain he can neither double
Nor ever hope to scale. So, like a free,
Pert, self-complacent Scarabæus, he
Takes it into his horny head to swear—
There's no such thing as any mountain there!
26
An Eagle breasting the bright empyrean,
Up in the fine air musical with stars
Singing full-toned their everlasting pæan;
The air which vibrates to no earthly jars,
Nor trembles at the penny-trumpets' din
Small critics blow—has somehow swooped within
A bustling Cockchafer's astonished ken,
Whose pin's-head peepers, tasked their utmost when
He steers his groping flight on April eves
Through old familiar lime and chestnut leaves,
And finds them perfect for his feat of feats,
To fly against the face—derange the features,
And half put out the eyes, of nobler creatures,—
These dots are straightway set to work to measure
The Eagle's daring rush into the retreats
Of bluest heaven; the skiey whirls he weaves
In the full swing of his imperial pleasure!
Up in the fine air musical with stars
Singing full-toned their everlasting pæan;
The air which vibrates to no earthly jars,
Nor trembles at the penny-trumpets' din
Small critics blow—has somehow swooped within
A bustling Cockchafer's astonished ken,
Whose pin's-head peepers, tasked their utmost when
He steers his groping flight on April eves
Through old familiar lime and chestnut leaves,
And finds them perfect for his feat of feats,
To fly against the face—derange the features,
And half put out the eyes, of nobler creatures,—
These dots are straightway set to work to measure
The Eagle's daring rush into the retreats
Of bluest heaven; the skiey whirls he weaves
In the full swing of his imperial pleasure!
But troubled soon and staggering with amaze,
His optics beaten in by the full blaze,
Steadied alone by self-conceit—the pin
Round which fate dooms his fussy brains to spin,
To this conclusion (Genius! oh be dumb!)
The insect wits of him have wisely come.
His optics beaten in by the full blaze,
Steadied alone by self-conceit—the pin
Round which fate dooms his fussy brains to spin,
To this conclusion (Genius! oh be dumb!)
The insect wits of him have wisely come.
He holds that Sun-aspiring bird is not
The zenith-king we took him for at all;
And since himself can only see a dot
Just like himself, the bird must be as small;
He swears that subtle element is raw,
A mass of clouds through which no eyes e'er saw;
And though some azure gleams he deigns to find,
And half confesses to a Sun behind,
Those gleams are rare, that Sun is weak and dim,
Because so—insupportable by him!
The zenith-king we took him for at all;
27
Just like himself, the bird must be as small;
He swears that subtle element is raw,
A mass of clouds through which no eyes e'er saw;
And though some azure gleams he deigns to find,
And half confesses to a Sun behind,
Those gleams are rare, that Sun is weak and dim,
Because so—insupportable by him!
Doubtless the Eagle must henceforward shun
His baths of orient light—his dallyings with the Sun!
His baths of orient light—his dallyings with the Sun!
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