 | The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt |  |
lxxviii
TO THOMAS MOORE.
Ωδε καλον βομβευντι ποτι σμανεσσι μελοσσαι
------ ται δ' επι δενδρω
Ορνιθες λαλαγευντι: ------
------ βαλλει δε και α πιτυς υψοθε κωνους.
Here, here sweetly murmur the bees,
Here talk the quick birds in the trees,
And the pines drop their nuts at their ease.
Theocritus.
------ ται δ' επι δενδρω
Ορνιθες λαλαγευντι: ------
------ βαλλει δε και α πιτυς υψοθε κωνους.
Here, here sweetly murmur the bees,
Here talk the quick birds in the trees,
And the pines drop their nuts at their ease.
Theocritus.
Dear Tom, who enjoying your brooks and your bowers,
Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers,—
A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing,
Yet armed with an exquisite point too for stinging,—
I owe you a letter, and having this time
A whole series to write to you, send them in rhyme;
For rhyme, with its air, and its step-springing tune,
Helps me on, as a march does a soldier in June;
And when chattering to you, I've a something about me,
That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me.
Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers,—
A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing,
Yet armed with an exquisite point too for stinging,—
lxxix
A whole series to write to you, send them in rhyme;
For rhyme, with its air, and its step-springing tune,
Helps me on, as a march does a soldier in June;
And when chattering to you, I've a something about me,
That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me.
I told you, you know, you should have a detail
Of Hampstead's whole merits,—heath, wood, hill, and vale,
And threatened in consequence (only admire
The metal one's turned to by dint of desire)
To draw you all near me,—vain dog that I was,—
As the bees are made swarm by the clinking of brass.
Of Hampstead's whole merits,—heath, wood, hill, and vale,
And threatened in consequence (only admire
The metal one's turned to by dint of desire)
To draw you all near me,—vain dog that I was,—
As the bees are made swarm by the clinking of brass.
(By the bye, this comparison, well understood,—
Is, modestly speaking, still better than good;
For a man who once kept them in London, they say,
Found out that they came here to dine every day.)
Is, modestly speaking, still better than good;
lxxx
Found out that they came here to dine every day.)
But at present, for reasons I'll give when we meet,
I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat;
And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while,
On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile?
On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded glades,
Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades,
With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees
The hills up above him with roofs in the trees?
Now too, while the season,—half summer, half spring,—
Brown elms and green oaks,—makes one loiter and sing;
And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon,
And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,
And little white clouds lie about in the sun,
And the wind's in the west, and hay-making begun?
I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat;
And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while,
On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile?
On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded glades,
Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades,
With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees
The hills up above him with roofs in the trees?
Now too, while the season,—half summer, half spring,—
Brown elms and green oaks,—makes one loiter and sing;
And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon,
And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,
lxxxi
And the wind's in the west, and hay-making begun?
Even now while I write, I'm half stretched on the ground
With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me round,
Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and wild flowers,
While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers.
People talk of “poor insects,” (although, by the way,
Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they);
But lord, what a set of delicious retreats
The epicures live in,—shades, colours, and sweets!
The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em,
Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding through 'em;
And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em,
What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.
Here perks from his arbour of crimson or green
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen:—
Here, over my paper another shall go,
Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,—
Till he reaches the writing,—and then, when he's eyed it,
What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it!
No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine,
Can be graver when he too first crosses the line:—
Now he stops at a question, as who should say “Hey?”
Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A;
Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink,
And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.
With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me round,
Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and wild flowers,
While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers.
People talk of “poor insects,” (although, by the way,
Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they);
But lord, what a set of delicious retreats
The epicures live in,—shades, colours, and sweets!
The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em,
Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding through 'em;
And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em,
What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.
lxxxii
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen:—
Here, over my paper another shall go,
Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,—
Till he reaches the writing,—and then, when he's eyed it,
What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it!
No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine,
Can be graver when he too first crosses the line:—
Now he stops at a question, as who should say “Hey?”
Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A;
Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink,
And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.
Oh the wretched transition to insects like these
From those of the country! To town from the trees!
Ah, Tom,—you who've run the gay circle of life,
And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,—
Who in Bond-street by day, when the press has been thickest,
Have had all the “digito monstror” and “hic est,”
Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded streets,
Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats,
And had the best pleasure a guest could befall,
In being, yourself, the best part of it all,—
Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm there)
Can the town, after all, with the country compare?
From those of the country! To town from the trees!
Ah, Tom,—you who've run the gay circle of life,
And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,—
lxxxiii
Have had all the “digito monstror” and “hic est,”
Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded streets,
Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats,
And had the best pleasure a guest could befall,
In being, yourself, the best part of it all,—
Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm there)
Can the town, after all, with the country compare?
But this is a subject I keep for my last,
Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a repast.—
Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town;
Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.
Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a repast.—
Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town;
Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.
Harry Brown.
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