The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

O thou, whom old Homer would call, were he living,
Home-lover, thought-feeder, abundant-joke-giving;
Whose charity springs from deep knowledge, nor swerves
Into mere self-reflections, or scornful reserves;
In short, who were made for two centuries ago,
When Shakespeare drew men, and to write was to know;—

You'll guess why I can't see the snow-covered streets,
Without thinking of you and your visiting feats,
When you call to remembrance how you and one more,
When I wanted it most, used to knock at my door.
For when the sad winds told us rain would come down,
Or snow upon snow fairly clogged up the town,
And dun yellow fogs brooded over its white,
So that scarcely a being was seen towards night,
Then, then said the lady yclept near and dear,
“Now mind what I tell you, the Lambs will be here.”
So I poked up the flame, and she got out the tea,
And down we both sat, as prepared as could be;
And there, sure as fate, came the knock of you two.
Then the lantern, the laugh, and the “Well, how d'ye do?”
Then your palm tow'rds the fire, and your face turn'd to me,
And shawls and great-coats being—where they should be,—
And due “never saw's” being paid to the weather,
We cherished our knees, and sat sipping together,
And leaving the world to the fogs and the fighters,
Discussed the pretensions of all sorts of writers;
Of Shakespeare's coëvals, all spirits divine;
Of Chapman, whose Homer's a fine rough old wine;

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Of Marvell, wit, patriot, and poet, who knew
How to give, both at once, Charles and Cromwell their due.
Of Spenser, who wraps you, wherever you are,
In a bow'r of seclusion beneath a sweet star;
Of Richardson, too, who afflicts us so long,
We begin to suspect him of nerves over strong;
In short, of all those who give full-measur'd page,
Not forgetting Sir Thomas, my ancestor sage,
Who delighted (so happy were all his digestions)
In puzzling his head with impossible questions.

But now, Charles—you never (so blissful you deem me)
Come lounging, with twirl of umbrella to see me.
In vain have we hoped to be set at our ease
By the rains which you know used to bring Lamb and pease;
In vain we look out like the children in Thomson,
And say, in our innocence, “Surely he'll come soon.”
'Tis true, I do live in a vale, at my will,
With sward to my gateway, and trees on the hill:
My health too gets on: and now autumn is nigh,
The sun has come back, and there's really blue sky;
But then, the late weather, I think, had its merits,
And might have induc'd you to look at one's spirits;
We hadn't much thunder and lightning, I own:
But the rains might have led you to walk out of town;
And what made us think your desertion still stranger,
The roads were so bad, there was really some danger.