 | Heliconundrums |  |
Was chorus.
Who shall count the drinks were had
While mad mirth grew more and more as
Momus steep'd the moments' noses
In the mixture that disposes
Even Sorrow to be glad:
Softer Sorrow!
On the morrow
Sick as Pharoah's Court of Moses.
Fairer fate my Muse discloses,
Lifting of our night the blanket:
No wet Banquo at this banquet;
King's friends' scullery at the least
Brought no death's head to our Feast;
Death was not in pot or pottle.
Shade of Southey (name is Cottle)
Reinspire me, that the end may be
Applied to this high theme with fit full dignity!
Help, Apollo! for the Hours
Are bowling off and, by the Powers,
Night's watchman from his misty towers
Is hurrying down.
Kirke White's the last two lines: I would claim but my own.
Thou too, Goddess, fancy free,
In heaven clep'd Mnemosynè!
Memory, with the slender waist
And back-turn'd visage, hither haste!
Whether without weight of wage
Thou porèst o'er some antique page,
Some palimpset whose record
Might suffice for thy reward;
Whether thy late thoughts explore
The prehistoric Cushite shore,
Haply looking for some lost
Berosian bricabrac; or, tost
Back from the sharp Sierras' flanks
To muddy Mississipian banks,
Thou seekest amid ancient mounds
For the earlier river bounds;
Or circlest the unwirèd world
For forty minutes; or with curl'd
And radiant head bow'd to thy knees
Dream'st of the far Symplegades:
Goddess excellently bright!
Thou that makèst day of night!
Goddess memorably wise!
Help the tale of our Surprise!
Benevolent Goddess! plume thy swiftest wing;
Attend this fond complaint, and prompt more words to sing.
Sandy! you do not drink, said Denis. Dry
And sandy's the same thing — was his reply.
I'll tak' a mere sup just to moist my mou',
Syne croon my verse again. I'm no that fu'
But I'll sing brawly, and the sabject's guid,
And present Comp'ny! ye'll no ca' me rude
For singing out o' turns.
I'm like the burns,
Aye tuneful. So he hugs
Conceit with both arms tightly to his breast,
(His glass got leave of rest)
And flings ane ither Scotch sang i' their lugs.
Who shall count the drinks were had
While mad mirth grew more and more as
Momus steep'd the moments' noses
In the mixture that disposes
Even Sorrow to be glad:
Softer Sorrow!
On the morrow
Sick as Pharoah's Court of Moses.
Fairer fate my Muse discloses,
Lifting of our night the blanket:
No wet Banquo at this banquet;
87
Brought no death's head to our Feast;
Death was not in pot or pottle.
Shade of Southey (name is Cottle)
Reinspire me, that the end may be
Applied to this high theme with fit full dignity!
Help, Apollo! for the Hours
Are bowling off and, by the Powers,
Night's watchman from his misty towers
Is hurrying down.
Kirke White's the last two lines: I would claim but my own.
Thou too, Goddess, fancy free,
In heaven clep'd Mnemosynè!
Memory, with the slender waist
And back-turn'd visage, hither haste!
Whether without weight of wage
Thou porèst o'er some antique page,
Some palimpset whose record
Might suffice for thy reward;
Whether thy late thoughts explore
The prehistoric Cushite shore,
Haply looking for some lost
Berosian bricabrac; or, tost
Back from the sharp Sierras' flanks
To muddy Mississipian banks,
Thou seekest amid ancient mounds
For the earlier river bounds;
Or circlest the unwirèd world
For forty minutes; or with curl'd
88
Dream'st of the far Symplegades:
Goddess excellently bright!
Thou that makèst day of night!
Goddess memorably wise!
Help the tale of our Surprise!
Benevolent Goddess! plume thy swiftest wing;
Attend this fond complaint, and prompt more words to sing.
Sandy! you do not drink, said Denis. Dry
And sandy's the same thing — was his reply.
I'll tak' a mere sup just to moist my mou',
Syne croon my verse again. I'm no that fu'
But I'll sing brawly, and the sabject's guid,
And present Comp'ny! ye'll no ca' me rude
For singing out o' turns.
I'm like the burns,
Aye tuneful. So he hugs
Conceit with both arms tightly to his breast,
(His glass got leave of rest)
And flings ane ither Scotch sang i' their lugs.
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