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 |  |
T'other day, as Apollo sat pitching his darts
Through the clouds of November by fits and by starts,
He began to consider how long it had been
Since the bards of Old England a session had seen.
“I think,” said the God recollecting (and then
He fell twiddling a sunbeam, as I may my pen)
“I think—let me see—yes, it was, I declare,
As far back as the time of that Buckingham there:
And yet I can't see why I've been so remiss,
Unless it may be,—and it certainly is,—
That since Dryden's fine verses, and Milton's sublime,
I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme.
There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say,
But the dog had no industry, neither had Gray.
And Thomson, though dear to my heart, was too florid
To make the world see that their own taste was horrid.
So ever since Pope, my pet bard of the town,
Set a tune with his verses half up and half down,
There has been such a doling and sameness,—by Jove,
I'd as soon have gone down to see Kemble in love.
However, of late as they've rous'd them anew,
I'll e'en go and give them a lesson or two;
And as nothing in England is done without eating,
See what kind of set I can muster, worth treating.
Through the clouds of November by fits and by starts,
He began to consider how long it had been
Since the bards of Old England a session had seen.
“I think,” said the God recollecting (and then
He fell twiddling a sunbeam, as I may my pen)
“I think—let me see—yes, it was, I declare,
As far back as the time of that Buckingham there:
And yet I can't see why I've been so remiss,
Unless it may be,—and it certainly is,—
That since Dryden's fine verses, and Milton's sublime,
I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme.
There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say,
But the dog had no industry, neither had Gray.
And Thomson, though dear to my heart, was too florid
To make the world see that their own taste was horrid.
So ever since Pope, my pet bard of the town,
Set a tune with his verses half up and half down,
There has been such a doling and sameness,—by Jove,
I'd as soon have gone down to see Kemble in love.
However, of late as they've rous'd them anew,
I'll e'en go and give them a lesson or two;
And as nothing in England is done without eating,
See what kind of set I can muster, worth treating.
So saying, the God bade his horses walk for'ard,
And leaving them, took a long drive to the nor'ard:
Then made for Mivart's; and as Gods who drop in do,
Came still as his beams through a drawing-room window.
And leaving them, took a long drive to the nor'ard:
195
Came still as his beams through a drawing-room window.
And here I could tell, were I given to spin it,
How all the town shook, as the godhead came in it;
How bright look'd the poets, and brisk blew the airs,
And the laurels shot up in the gardens and squares:
But fancies like these, though I've stores to supply me,
I'd better keep back for a poem I've by me,
And merely observe that the girls look'd divine,
And the old folks in-doors exclaim'd, “Bless us, how fine!”
How all the town shook, as the godhead came in it;
How bright look'd the poets, and brisk blew the airs,
And the laurels shot up in the gardens and squares:
But fancies like these, though I've stores to supply me,
I'd better keep back for a poem I've by me,
And merely observe that the girls look'd divine,
And the old folks in-doors exclaim'd, “Bless us, how fine!”
If you'd fancy, however, what Phœbus might be,
Imagine a shape above mortal degree,
Compounded of ardency, dignity, grace,
All fire, yet all self-possession; with face
That show'd him at once the true offspring of Jove,
The brow full of wisdom, and lips full of love;
For though he was beardless, and blooming of cheek,
And had deign'd in his dress to be classic and Greek,
Yet his look with a reach far remoter was wise,
And the soul of eternity thought through his eyes.
Imagine a shape above mortal degree,
Compounded of ardency, dignity, grace,
All fire, yet all self-possession; with face
That show'd him at once the true offspring of Jove,
The brow full of wisdom, and lips full of love;
For though he was beardless, and blooming of cheek,
And had deign'd in his dress to be classic and Greek,
Yet his look with a reach far remoter was wise,
And the soul of eternity thought through his eyes.
I wouldn't say more, lest my climax should lose;
Yet now I have mention'd these lamps of the muse,
I can't but observe what a splendour they shed,
When a warmth more than common enforc'd what he said:
Then the light which before flash'd in glimpse and in glance,
Seem'd to gather more substance, and burn in advance;
And if, as he shook back his hair in its cluster,
A curl fell athwart them and darken'd their lustre,
A sprinkle of gold through the duskiness came,
Like the sun through a tree, when he's setting in flame
Yet now I have mention'd these lamps of the muse,
I can't but observe what a splendour they shed,
When a warmth more than common enforc'd what he said:
Then the light which before flash'd in glimpse and in glance,
Seem'd to gather more substance, and burn in advance;
And if, as he shook back his hair in its cluster,
A curl fell athwart them and darken'd their lustre,
A sprinkle of gold through the duskiness came,
Like the sun through a tree, when he's setting in flame
The God then no sooner had taken a chair,
And rung for the landlord to order the fare,
Than he heard a strange noise, and a knock from without,
And scraping and bowing came in such a rout!
There were all the worst playwrights from Dibdin to Terry,
All grinning, as who should say, “Shan't we be merry?”
With men of light comedy lumb'ring like bears up,
And men of deep tragedy patting their hairs up.
And rung for the landlord to order the fare,
Than he heard a strange noise, and a knock from without,
And scraping and bowing came in such a rout!
There were all the worst playwrights from Dibdin to Terry,
All grinning, as who should say, “Shan't we be merry?”
196
And men of deep tragedy patting their hairs up.
The God for an instant sat fix'd as a stone,
Till recovering, he said in a good-natur'd tone,
“Oh, the waiters, I see:—ah, it's all very well;
Only one of you'll do, just to answer the bell.”
But Lord! to see all the great dramatists' faces!
They look'd at each other, and made such grimaces!
Then turning about, left the room in vexation:—
Their faces said plainly, “Well, this is damnation!”
Till recovering, he said in a good-natur'd tone,
“Oh, the waiters, I see:—ah, it's all very well;
Only one of you'll do, just to answer the bell.”
But Lord! to see all the great dramatists' faces!
They look'd at each other, and made such grimaces!
Then turning about, left the room in vexation:—
Their faces said plainly, “Well, this is damnation!”
The God fell a-laughing to see his mistake,
But stopp'd with a sigh for the poor drama's sake;
Then gave mine host orders, who bow'd to the floor,
And had scarcely back'd out, and shut gently the door,
When a hemming was heard, consequential and snapping,
And a sour little gentleman walk'd with a rap in.
He bow'd, look'd about him, seem'd cold, and sat down,
And said, “I'm surpris'd that you'll visit this town:
To be sure, there are one or two of us who know you,
But as to the rest, they are all much below you.
So stupid in gen'ral the natives are grown,
They really prefer Scotch reviews to their own,
So what with their taste, their reformers, and stuff,
They have sicken'd myself and my friends long enough.”
But stopp'd with a sigh for the poor drama's sake;
Then gave mine host orders, who bow'd to the floor,
And had scarcely back'd out, and shut gently the door,
When a hemming was heard, consequential and snapping,
And a sour little gentleman walk'd with a rap in.
He bow'd, look'd about him, seem'd cold, and sat down,
And said, “I'm surpris'd that you'll visit this town:
To be sure, there are one or two of us who know you,
But as to the rest, they are all much below you.
So stupid in gen'ral the natives are grown,
They really prefer Scotch reviews to their own,
So what with their taste, their reformers, and stuff,
They have sicken'd myself and my friends long enough.”
“Yourself and your friends!” cried the God in high glee;
“And pray, my frank visitor, who may you be?”
“Who be!” said the other;—“why really—this tone—
William Gifford's a name, I think, pretty well known.”
“And pray, my frank visitor, who may you be?”
“Who be!” said the other;—“why really—this tone—
William Gifford's a name, I think, pretty well known.”
“Oh, now I remember,” said Phœbus:—“oh, true:
The Anti-La-Cruscan that writes the review:—
The rod, though 'twas no such vast matter, that fell
On that plague of the butterflies, did very well;
And there's something which even distaste must respect
In the self-taught example that conquer'd neglect:
But not to insist on the recommendations
Of modesty, wit, and a small stock of patience,
My visit just now is to poets alone,
And not to small critics, however well known.”
The Anti-La-Cruscan that writes the review:—
The rod, though 'twas no such vast matter, that fell
On that plague of the butterflies, did very well;
And there's something which even distaste must respect
In the self-taught example that conquer'd neglect:
But not to insist on the recommendations
Of modesty, wit, and a small stock of patience,
197
And not to small critics, however well known.”
So saying, he rang, to leave nothing in doubt,
And the sour little gentleman bless'd himself out.
But now came the men of right visiting claims;
I forget in what order, but here are the names.
There was Campbell, for Hope and fine war-songs renown'd,
With a wail underneath them of tenderer sound;
And Rogers, who follow'd, as Memory should;
And Scott, full of Scotland's old minstrelling mood
(The God overwhelm'd him with thanks for his novels)
Then Crabbe, asking questions concerning Greek hovels;
And Byron, with eager indifference; and Moore,
With admiring glad eyes that came leaping before;
And Southey, with dust from the books on his shelf;
And Wordsworth, whose porcelain was taken for delf,
And Coleridge, whose poetry's poetry's self.
“And now,” said the God,—but he scarcely had spoken,
But bang went the door—you'd have thought it was broken:
And in rush'd a mob with a scuffle and squeeze,
Exclaiming, “What! Coleridge, and fellows like these!
Nay then, we may all take our seats as we please.”
I can't, if I would, tell you who they all were,
But a whole shoal of fops and of pedants were there,
All the heart and impart men, and such as suppose
They write like the Virgils, and Popes, and Boileaus.
The God smiled at first, with a turn tow'rd the fire,
And whisper'd, “There, tell 'em they'd better retire:”
But Lord! this was only to set all their quills up;
The rogues did but bustle, and pulling their frills up,
Stood fixing their faces, and stirr'd not an inch;
Nay, some took their snuff out, and join'd in a pinch.
And the sour little gentleman bless'd himself out.
But now came the men of right visiting claims;
I forget in what order, but here are the names.
There was Campbell, for Hope and fine war-songs renown'd,
With a wail underneath them of tenderer sound;
And Rogers, who follow'd, as Memory should;
And Scott, full of Scotland's old minstrelling mood
(The God overwhelm'd him with thanks for his novels)
Then Crabbe, asking questions concerning Greek hovels;
And Byron, with eager indifference; and Moore,
With admiring glad eyes that came leaping before;
And Southey, with dust from the books on his shelf;
And Wordsworth, whose porcelain was taken for delf,
And Coleridge, whose poetry's poetry's self.
“And now,” said the God,—but he scarcely had spoken,
But bang went the door—you'd have thought it was broken:
And in rush'd a mob with a scuffle and squeeze,
Exclaiming, “What! Coleridge, and fellows like these!
Nay then, we may all take our seats as we please.”
I can't, if I would, tell you who they all were,
But a whole shoal of fops and of pedants were there,
All the heart and impart men, and such as suppose
They write like the Virgils, and Popes, and Boileaus.
The God smiled at first, with a turn tow'rd the fire,
And whisper'd, “There, tell 'em they'd better retire:”
But Lord! this was only to set all their quills up;
The rogues did but bustle, and pulling their frills up,
Stood fixing their faces, and stirr'd not an inch;
Nay, some took their snuff out, and join'd in a pinch.
Then wrath seiz'd Apollo; and turning again,
“Ye rabble,” he cried, “common-minded and vain,
Whate'er be the faults which true bards may commit
(And most of them lie in your own want of wit),
Ye shall try, wretched creatures, how well ye can bear,
What such only witness, unsmote with despair.”
“Ye rabble,” he cried, “common-minded and vain,
Whate'er be the faults which true bards may commit
(And most of them lie in your own want of wit),
198
What such only witness, unsmote with despair.”
He said; and the place all seem'd swelling with light,
While his locks and his visage grew awfully bright;
And clouds, burning inward, roll'd round on each side,
To encircle his state, as he stood in his pride;
Till at last the full Deity put on his rays,
And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze:
Then a glory beam'd round as of fiery rods,
Mid wraths of loud organs and chorister gods;
And faces of terrors celestial, that brought
Overwhelming compulsions and burdens of thought.
Yea, pleasures of heav'n turn'd horriblest pains,
And all which demands from potentiallest brains
Long reverent approach to the outermost bounds
Of a Presence Divine, whom its glory surrounds.
While his locks and his visage grew awfully bright;
And clouds, burning inward, roll'd round on each side,
To encircle his state, as he stood in his pride;
Till at last the full Deity put on his rays,
And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze:
Then a glory beam'd round as of fiery rods,
Mid wraths of loud organs and chorister gods;
And faces of terrors celestial, that brought
Overwhelming compulsions and burdens of thought.
Yea, pleasures of heav'n turn'd horriblest pains,
And all which demands from potentiallest brains
Long reverent approach to the outermost bounds
Of a Presence Divine, whom its glory surrounds.
That sight and those terrors might not be sustain'd
But by such as in wonder's great school had been train'd;
And even the bards who had graciousness found,
After gazing a while, bow'd them down to the ground.
What then could remain for that feeble-soul'd crew?
Through the door in an instant they rush'd and they flew;
They rush'd, and they dash'd, and they scrambled and stumbled,
And down the hall-staircase distractedly tumbled,
And never once thought which was head or was feet,
And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the street.
So great was the panic they struck with their flight,
That of all who had come to be feasted that night,
Not one ventured back, or would stay near the place:
Even Ireland declined, notwithstanding his face.
But by such as in wonder's great school had been train'd;
And even the bards who had graciousness found,
After gazing a while, bow'd them down to the ground.
What then could remain for that feeble-soul'd crew?
Through the door in an instant they rush'd and they flew;
They rush'd, and they dash'd, and they scrambled and stumbled,
And down the hall-staircase distractedly tumbled,
And never once thought which was head or was feet,
And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the street.
So great was the panic they struck with their flight,
That of all who had come to be feasted that night,
Not one ventured back, or would stay near the place:
Even Ireland declined, notwithstanding his face.
But Phœbus no sooner had gain'd his good ends,
Than he put off his terrors, and rais'd up his friends,
Who stood for a moment entranced to behold
The glories subside, and the dim-rolling gold,
And listen'd to sounds, that with ecstasy burning
Seem'd dying far upward, like heaven returning.
Then “Come,” cried the God, who resumed and restored
All the ease that could bless mortal guests at his board,
“Let us wake with the lips that we dip in our bowls
Earth's best bit of heaven—congenial souls.”
Than he put off his terrors, and rais'd up his friends,
Who stood for a moment entranced to behold
The glories subside, and the dim-rolling gold,
And listen'd to sounds, that with ecstasy burning
Seem'd dying far upward, like heaven returning.
199
All the ease that could bless mortal guests at his board,
“Let us wake with the lips that we dip in our bowls
Earth's best bit of heaven—congenial souls.”
So saying, he led through the door without state,
Each bard, as he follow'd him, blessing his fate;
And by some charm or other, as each took his chair,
There burst a most beautiful wreath in his hair.
I can't tell 'em all, but the groundwork was bay;
And Campbell, in his, had some oak-leaves and may;
And Southey a palm-branch, and Moore had a vine,
And pepper-leaf Byron, surmounted with pine;
And mountain-ash Wordsworth, with groundsel and yew;
And Coleridge the rare petals four, that endue
Their finder with magic; and, lovely to tell,
They sparkled with drops from Apollo's own well.
Each bard, as he follow'd him, blessing his fate;
And by some charm or other, as each took his chair,
There burst a most beautiful wreath in his hair.
I can't tell 'em all, but the groundwork was bay;
And Campbell, in his, had some oak-leaves and may;
And Southey a palm-branch, and Moore had a vine,
And pepper-leaf Byron, surmounted with pine;
And mountain-ash Wordsworth, with groundsel and yew;
And Coleridge the rare petals four, that endue
Their finder with magic; and, lovely to tell,
They sparkled with drops from Apollo's own well.
Then Apollo put his on, that sparkled with beams,
And rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams;
Not epicure civic, or grossly inclined,
But such as a poet might dream ere he dined:
For the God had no sooner determin'd the fare,
Than it turn'd to whatever was racy and rare:
The fish and the flesh, for example, were done,
On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun;
The wines were all nectar of different smack,
To which Muscat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac,
No, nor even Johannisberg, soul of the Rhine,
Nor Montepulciano, though king of all wine.
Then, as for the fruits, you might garden for ages,
Before you could raise me such apples and gages;
And all on the table no sooner were spread,
Than their cheeks next the God blushed a beautiful red.
'Twas magic in short, and deliciousness all;
The very men-servants grew handsome and tall;
To velvet-hung ivory the furniture turn'd,
The service with opal and adamant burn'd;
Each candlestick changed to a pillar of gold,
While a bundle of beams took the place of the mould.
The decanters and glasses pure diamond became,
And the corkscrew ran solidly round into flame;—
In a word, so completely forestall'd were the wishes,
E'en harmony struck from the noise of the dishes.
And rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams;
Not epicure civic, or grossly inclined,
But such as a poet might dream ere he dined:
For the God had no sooner determin'd the fare,
Than it turn'd to whatever was racy and rare:
The fish and the flesh, for example, were done,
On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun;
The wines were all nectar of different smack,
To which Muscat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac,
No, nor even Johannisberg, soul of the Rhine,
Nor Montepulciano, though king of all wine.
Then, as for the fruits, you might garden for ages,
Before you could raise me such apples and gages;
And all on the table no sooner were spread,
Than their cheeks next the God blushed a beautiful red.
'Twas magic in short, and deliciousness all;
The very men-servants grew handsome and tall;
To velvet-hung ivory the furniture turn'd,
The service with opal and adamant burn'd;
Each candlestick changed to a pillar of gold,
While a bundle of beams took the place of the mould.
200
And the corkscrew ran solidly round into flame;—
In a word, so completely forestall'd were the wishes,
E'en harmony struck from the noise of the dishes.
It can't be suppos'd I should think of repeating
The fancies that flow'd at this laureat meeting:
I haven't the brains; and besides, wasn't there,
But the wit may be easily guess'd by the chair.
The fancies that flow'd at this laureat meeting:
I haven't the brains; and besides, wasn't there,
But the wit may be easily guess'd by the chair.
I must mention, however, that during the wine,
Our four greatest poets were toasted with nine:
Then others with six or with three as it fitted;
Nor were those who translate with a gusto, omitted.
On this, Southey begging the Deity's ear,—
“I know,” interrupted Apollo, “'tis Frere:”
And Walter look'd up too, and begged to propose—
“No, no,” answer'd Phœbus, “I cannot add Rose;
Yet I love the man too;—here's a health to his prose.”
Then talking of lyrics, he call'd upon Moore,
Who sang such a song that they shouted “Encore!”
And the God was so pleas'd with his taste and his tone,
He obey'd the next call, and gave one of his own,—
At which you'd have thought—'twas so witching a warble,
The guests had all turn'd into listening marble;
The wreaths on their temples grew brightest of bloom,
As the breath of the Deity circled the room,
But the wine in the glasses went rippling in rounds,
As if follow'd and fann'd by the soft-winged sounds.
Our four greatest poets were toasted with nine:
Then others with six or with three as it fitted;
Nor were those who translate with a gusto, omitted.
On this, Southey begging the Deity's ear,—
“I know,” interrupted Apollo, “'tis Frere:”
And Walter look'd up too, and begged to propose—
“No, no,” answer'd Phœbus, “I cannot add Rose;
Yet I love the man too;—here's a health to his prose.”
Then talking of lyrics, he call'd upon Moore,
Who sang such a song that they shouted “Encore!”
And the God was so pleas'd with his taste and his tone,
He obey'd the next call, and gave one of his own,—
At which you'd have thought—'twas so witching a warble,
The guests had all turn'd into listening marble;
The wreaths on their temples grew brightest of bloom,
As the breath of the Deity circled the room,
But the wine in the glasses went rippling in rounds,
As if follow'd and fann'd by the soft-winged sounds.
Thus chatting and singing they sat till eleven,
When Phœbus shook hands, and departed for heaven;
“For poets,” he said, “who would cherish their powers
And hope to be deathless, must keep to good hours.”
So off he betook him, their eyes looking forth
As like a long meteor he shot up the north;
For the Bear was his inn; and the Comet, they say,
Was his tandem in waiting to fetch him away.
When Phœbus shook hands, and departed for heaven;
“For poets,” he said, “who would cherish their powers
And hope to be deathless, must keep to good hours.”
So off he betook him, their eyes looking forth
As like a long meteor he shot up the north;
For the Bear was his inn; and the Comet, they say,
Was his tandem in waiting to fetch him away.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |