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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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
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,
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |