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 |  |
201
POSTSCRIPT.
'Twas in eighteen eleven those bards came to dine:
I now add a word in eighteen fifty-nine.
For divers times more did those nine laurell'd brothers
Receive invitations to dine with new others.
As Thurlow, to wit, with his old poet-strain,
Whose crotchets that way hurt a really fine vein;
And Keats, the God's own young historian of Gods;
With Shelley, diviner still, planning abodes
For earth to enjoy with surpassers of Plato;
And Landor, whom two Latin poets sent bay to
(Catullus and Ovid); with Procter, whose songs
Have made such sweet air of life's raptures and wrongs,
Besides setting free the true tongue of the stage
For Landor to join in full many a page,
And Shelley at Rome with so lofty a rage.
Tom Hood too was feasted, strange glad and sad brain,
Whose mirth, you may notice, turns all upon pain.
His puns are such breeders of puns, in and in,
Our laughter becomes a like manifold din:
Yet a right poet also was Hood, and could vary
His jokes with deep fancies of Centaur and Fairy;
And aye on his fame will a tear be attending,
Who wrote the starv'd song, with its burden unending.
I now add a word in eighteen fifty-nine.
For divers times more did those nine laurell'd brothers
Receive invitations to dine with new others.
As Thurlow, to wit, with his old poet-strain,
Whose crotchets that way hurt a really fine vein;
And Keats, the God's own young historian of Gods;
With Shelley, diviner still, planning abodes
For earth to enjoy with surpassers of Plato;
And Landor, whom two Latin poets sent bay to
(Catullus and Ovid); with Procter, whose songs
Have made such sweet air of life's raptures and wrongs,
Besides setting free the true tongue of the stage
For Landor to join in full many a page,
And Shelley at Rome with so lofty a rage.
Tom Hood too was feasted, strange glad and sad brain,
Whose mirth, you may notice, turns all upon pain.
His puns are such breeders of puns, in and in,
Our laughter becomes a like manifold din:
Yet a right poet also was Hood, and could vary
His jokes with deep fancies of Centaur and Fairy;
And aye on his fame will a tear be attending,
Who wrote the starv'd song, with its burden unending.
Now finish, my song, with one visitor more;
The good old boy's face—how it bloom'd at the door!
Hazlitt, painting it during its childhood, turn'd grim,
Saying, “D---n your fat cheeks!” then out louder, “Frown, Jim.”
Those cheeks still adorn'd the most natural of souls,
Whose style yet was not so—James Sheridan Knowles.
His style had been taught him in those his green days;
His soul was his own, and brought crowds to his plays.
The good old boy's face—how it bloom'd at the door!
Hazlitt, painting it during its childhood, turn'd grim,
Saying, “D---n your fat cheeks!” then out louder, “Frown, Jim.”
Those cheeks still adorn'd the most natural of souls,
Whose style yet was not so—James Sheridan Knowles.
His style had been taught him in those his green days;
His soul was his own, and brought crowds to his plays.
Since then, many poets of new generations
Have doubtless receiv'd like divine invitations;
But where's the rash youth for their specifications?
Have doubtless receiv'd like divine invitations;
But where's the rash youth for their specifications?
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |