The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
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| POLITICS AND POETICS.
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
POLITICS AND POETICS.
OR, THE DESPERATE SITUATION OF A JOURNALIST UNHAPPILY SMITTEN WITH THE LOVE OF RHYME.
(WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1810.)
Again I stop;—again the toil refuse!
Away, for pity's sake, distracting Muse,
Nor thus come smiling with thy bridal tricks
Between my studious face and politics.
Is it for thee to mock the frowns of fate?
Look round, look round, and mark my desperate state.
Cannot thy gifted eyes a sight behold,
That might have quell'd the Lesbian bard of old,
And made the blood of Dante's self run cold?
Away, for pity's sake, distracting Muse,
Nor thus come smiling with thy bridal tricks
Between my studious face and politics.
Is it for thee to mock the frowns of fate?
Look round, look round, and mark my desperate state.
Cannot thy gifted eyes a sight behold,
That might have quell'd the Lesbian bard of old,
And made the blood of Dante's self run cold?
Lo, first the table spread with fearful books,
In which, whoe'er can help it, never looks;
Letters to Lords, Remarks, Reflections, Hints,
Lives snatch'd a moment from the public prints;
Pamphlets to prove, on pain of our undoing,
That rags are wealth, and reformation ruin,
Journals, and briefs, and bills, and laws of libel,
And, bloated and blood-red, the placeman's annual bible.
In which, whoe'er can help it, never looks;
Letters to Lords, Remarks, Reflections, Hints,
Lives snatch'd a moment from the public prints;
Pamphlets to prove, on pain of our undoing,
That rags are wealth, and reformation ruin,
Journals, and briefs, and bills, and laws of libel,
And, bloated and blood-red, the placeman's annual bible.
Scarce from the load, as from a heap of dead,
My poor old Homer shows his living head;
Milton, in sullen darkness, yields to fate,
And Tasso groans beneath the courtly weight;
Horace alone (the rogue!) his doom has miss'd,
And lies at ease upon the Pension List.
My poor old Homer shows his living head;
Milton, in sullen darkness, yields to fate,
And Tasso groans beneath the courtly weight;
Horace alone (the rogue!) his doom has miss'd,
And lies at ease upon the Pension List.
191
Round these, in tall imaginary chairs,
Imps ever grinning, sit my daily Cares;
Distaste, delays, dislikings to begin,
Gnawings of pen, and kneadings of the chin.
Here the Blue Dæmon keeps his constant stir,
Who makes a man his own barometer;
There Nightmare, horrid mass! unfeatured heap!
Prepares to seize me if I fall asleep;
And there, with hands that grasp one's very soul,
Frowns Headache, scalper of the studious poll;
Headache, who lurks at noon about the courts,
And whets his tomahawk on East's Reports.
Imps ever grinning, sit my daily Cares;
Distaste, delays, dislikings to begin,
Gnawings of pen, and kneadings of the chin.
Here the Blue Dæmon keeps his constant stir,
Who makes a man his own barometer;
There Nightmare, horrid mass! unfeatured heap!
Prepares to seize me if I fall asleep;
And there, with hands that grasp one's very soul,
Frowns Headache, scalper of the studious poll;
Headache, who lurks at noon about the courts,
And whets his tomahawk on East's Reports.
Chief of this social game, behind me stands,
Pale, peevish, periwigg'd, with itching hands,
A goblin, double-tail'd, and cloak'd in black,
Who, while I'm gravely thinking, bites my back.
Around his head flits many a harpy shape,
With jaws of parchment, and long hairs of tape,
Threatening to pounce, and turn whate'er I write,
With their own venom, into foul despite.
Let me but name the court, they swear and curse
And din me with hard names; and what is worse
'Tis now three times that I have miss'd my purse.
Pale, peevish, periwigg'd, with itching hands,
A goblin, double-tail'd, and cloak'd in black,
Who, while I'm gravely thinking, bites my back.
Around his head flits many a harpy shape,
With jaws of parchment, and long hairs of tape,
Threatening to pounce, and turn whate'er I write,
With their own venom, into foul despite.
Let me but name the court, they swear and curse
And din me with hard names; and what is worse
'Tis now three times that I have miss'd my purse.
No wonder poor Torquato went distracted,
On whose gall'd senses just such pranks were acted;
When the small tyrant, God knows on what ground,
With dungeons and with doctors hemm'd him round.
On whose gall'd senses just such pranks were acted;
When the small tyrant, God knows on what ground,
With dungeons and with doctors hemm'd him round.
Last, but not least, (methinks I see him now!)
With stare expectant, and a ragged brow,
Comes the foul fiend, who—let it rain or shine,
Let it be clear or cloudy, foul or fine,
Or freezing, thawing, drizzling, hailing, snowing,
Or mild, or warm, or hot, or bleak and blowing,
Or damp, or dry, or dull, or sharp, or sloppy,
Is sure to come,—the Devil, who comes for copy,
With stare expectant, and a ragged brow,
Comes the foul fiend, who—let it rain or shine,
Let it be clear or cloudy, foul or fine,
Or freezing, thawing, drizzling, hailing, snowing,
Or mild, or warm, or hot, or bleak and blowing,
Or damp, or dry, or dull, or sharp, or sloppy,
Is sure to come,—the Devil, who comes for copy,
192
Yet see! e'en now thy wondrous charm prevails;
The shapes are moved, the stricken circle fails;
With backward grins of malice they retire,
Scared at thy seraph looks and smiles of fire.
That instant, as the hindmost shuts the door,
The bursting sunshine smites the window'd floor;
Bursts too on every side the sparkling sound
Of birds abroad; th' elastic spirits bound;
And the fresh mirth of morning breathes around.
Away, ye clouds; dull politics, give place;
Off cares, and wants, and threats, and all the race
Of foes to freedom and to graceful leisure!—
To-day is for the Muse, and dancing pleasure.
The shapes are moved, the stricken circle fails;
With backward grins of malice they retire,
Scared at thy seraph looks and smiles of fire.
That instant, as the hindmost shuts the door,
The bursting sunshine smites the window'd floor;
Bursts too on every side the sparkling sound
Of birds abroad; th' elastic spirits bound;
And the fresh mirth of morning breathes around.
Away, ye clouds; dull politics, give place;
Off cares, and wants, and threats, and all the race
Of foes to freedom and to graceful leisure!—
To-day is for the Muse, and dancing pleasure.
Oh for a seat in some poetic nook,
Just hid with trees, and sparkling with a brook,
Where through the quivering boughs the sunbeams shoot
Their arrowy diamonds upon flower and fruit,
While stealing airs come whispering o'er the stream,
And lull the fancy to a waking dream!
There shouldst thou come, O first of my desires,
What time the noon had spent its fiercer fires,
And all the bow'r, with checker'd shadows strewn,
Glow'd with a mellow twilight of its own.
There shouldst thou come, and there sometimes with thee
Might deign repair the staid Philosophy,
To taste thy fresh'ning brook, and trim thy groves,
And tell us what good task true glory loves.
Just hid with trees, and sparkling with a brook,
Where through the quivering boughs the sunbeams shoot
Their arrowy diamonds upon flower and fruit,
While stealing airs come whispering o'er the stream,
And lull the fancy to a waking dream!
There shouldst thou come, O first of my desires,
What time the noon had spent its fiercer fires,
And all the bow'r, with checker'd shadows strewn,
Glow'd with a mellow twilight of its own.
There shouldst thou come, and there sometimes with thee
Might deign repair the staid Philosophy,
To taste thy fresh'ning brook, and trim thy groves,
And tell us what good task true glory loves.
I see it now!—I pierce the fairy glade,
And feel th' enclosing influence of the shade.
A thousand forms, that sport on summer eves,
Glance through the light, and whisper in the leaves,
While every bough seems nodding with a sprite,
And every air seems hushing the delight,
And the calm bliss, fix'd on itself awhile,
Dimples th' unconscious lips into a smile.
And feel th' enclosing influence of the shade.
A thousand forms, that sport on summer eves,
Glance through the light, and whisper in the leaves,
While every bough seems nodding with a sprite,
And every air seems hushing the delight,
And the calm bliss, fix'd on itself awhile,
Dimples th' unconscious lips into a smile.
In vain.—For now, with looks that doubly burn,
Shamed of their late defect my foes return;
They know their foil is short, and shorter still
The bliss that waits upon the Muse's will.
Back to their seats they rush, and reassume
Their ghastly rites, and sadden all the room.
O'er ears and brain the bursting wrath descends,
Cabals, misstatements, noise of private ends,
Doubts, hazards, crosses, cloud-compelling vapours,
With dire necessity to read the papers,
Judicial slaps that would have stung Saint Paul,
Costs, pityings, warnings, wits; and worse than all
(Oh for a dose of Thelwall or of poppy)
The fiend, the punctual fiend, that bawls for copy!
Full in the midst, like that Gorgonian spell,
Whose ravening features glar'd collected hell,
The well-wigg'd pest his curling horror shakes,
And a fourth snap of threatening vengeance takes!
At that dread sight the Muse herself turns pale;
Freedom and fiction's self no more avail;
And lo! my Bower of Bliss is turned into a jail!
Shamed of their late defect my foes return;
193
The bliss that waits upon the Muse's will.
Back to their seats they rush, and reassume
Their ghastly rites, and sadden all the room.
O'er ears and brain the bursting wrath descends,
Cabals, misstatements, noise of private ends,
Doubts, hazards, crosses, cloud-compelling vapours,
With dire necessity to read the papers,
Judicial slaps that would have stung Saint Paul,
Costs, pityings, warnings, wits; and worse than all
(Oh for a dose of Thelwall or of poppy)
The fiend, the punctual fiend, that bawls for copy!
Full in the midst, like that Gorgonian spell,
Whose ravening features glar'd collected hell,
The well-wigg'd pest his curling horror shakes,
And a fourth snap of threatening vengeance takes!
At that dread sight the Muse herself turns pale;
Freedom and fiction's self no more avail;
And lo! my Bower of Bliss is turned into a jail!
What then? What then my better genius cries:—
Scandals and jails! All these you may despise.
Th' enduring soul, that, to keep others free,
Dares to give up its darling liberty,
Lives wheresoe'er its countrymen applaud,
And in their great enlargement walks abroad.
But toils alone, and struggles hour by hour,
Against th' insatiate, gold-flush'd Lust of Power,
Can keep the fainting virtue of thy land
From the rank slaves that gather round his hand.
Be poor in purse, and Law will soon undo thee;
Be poor in soul, and self-contempt will rue thee.
Scandals and jails! All these you may despise.
Th' enduring soul, that, to keep others free,
Dares to give up its darling liberty,
Lives wheresoe'er its countrymen applaud,
And in their great enlargement walks abroad.
But toils alone, and struggles hour by hour,
Against th' insatiate, gold-flush'd Lust of Power,
Can keep the fainting virtue of thy land
From the rank slaves that gather round his hand.
Be poor in purse, and Law will soon undo thee;
Be poor in soul, and self-contempt will rue thee.
I yield, I yield.—Once more I turn to you,
Harsh politics! and once more bid adieu
To the soft dreaming of the Muse's bowers,
Their sun-streak'd fruits and fairy-painted flowers;
Farewell for gentler times, ye laurell'd shades;
Farewell, ye sparkling brooks and haunted glades,
Where the trim shapes that bathe in moonlight eves,
Glance through the light and whisper in the leaves,
While every bough seems nodding with a sprite,
And every air seems hushing the delight.
Harsh politics! and once more bid adieu
To the soft dreaming of the Muse's bowers,
Their sun-streak'd fruits and fairy-painted flowers;
Farewell for gentler times, ye laurell'd shades;
Farewell, ye sparkling brooks and haunted glades,
194
Glance through the light and whisper in the leaves,
While every bough seems nodding with a sprite,
And every air seems hushing the delight.
Farewell, farewell, dear Muse, and all thy pleasure.
He conquers ease, who would be crown'd with leisure!
He conquers ease, who would be crown'd with leisure!
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |