The poetical works of Leigh Hunt Now finally collected, revised by himself, and edited by his son, Thornton Hunt. With illustrations by Corbould |
 |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
|
|
|
 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
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 | |