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 |  |
244
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PAGANINI.
A FRAGMENT.
So play'd of late to every passing thought
With finest change (might I but half as well
So write!) the pale magician of the bow,
Who brought from Italy the tales, made true,
Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery hand,
Loading the air with dumb expectancy,
Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath.
With finest change (might I but half as well
So write!) the pale magician of the bow,
Who brought from Italy the tales, made true,
Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery hand,
Loading the air with dumb expectancy,
Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath.
He smote,—and clinging to the serious chords
With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath,
So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love,
Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers,
That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soul
To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath,
So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love,
Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers,
That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soul
To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
The exceeding mystery of the loveliness
Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look,
Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face
'Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seem'd,
To feeble or to melancholy eyes,
One that had parted with his soul for pride,
And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn.
Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look,
Dreary and gaunt, hanging his pallid face
'Twixt his dark flowing locks, he almost seem'd,
To feeble or to melancholy eyes,
One that had parted with his soul for pride,
And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn.
But true and earnest, all too happily
That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy;
For noble now he smote the exulting strings,
And bade them march before his stately will;
And now he lov'd them like a cheek, and laid
Endearment on them, and took pity sweet;
And now he was all mirth, or all for sense
And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose
After his poetry; or else he laid
His own soul prostrate at the feet of love,
And with a full and trembling fervour deep,
In kneeling and close-creeping urgency,
Implor'd some mistress with hot tears; which past,
And after patience had brought right of peace,
He drew, as if from thoughts finer than hope,
Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains
And elegant composure; or he turn'd
To heaven instead of earth, and rais'd a pray'r
So earnest vehement, yet so lowly sad,
Mighty with want and all poor human tears,
That never saint, wrestling with earthly love,
And in mid-age unable to get free,
Tore down from heav'n such pity. Or behold,
In his despair, (for such, from what he spoke
Of grief before it, or of love, 'twould seem,)
Jump would he into some strange wail uncouth
Of witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thin
And palsied nods—mirth wicked, sad, and weak,
And then with show of skill mechanical,
Marvellous as witchcraft, he would overthrow
That vision with a show'r of notes like hail,
Or sudden mixtures of all difficult things
Never yet heard; flashing the sharp tones now,
In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine
Into some utmost tip of minute sound,
From whence he stepp'd into a higher and higher
On viewless points, till laugh took leave of him:
Or he would fly as if from all the world
To be alone and happy, and you should hear
His instrument become a tree far off,
A nest of birds and sunbeams, sparkling both,
A cottage-bow'r: or he would condescend,
In playful wisdom which knows no contempt,
To bring to laughing memory, plain as sight,
A farm-yard with its inmates, ox and lamb,
The whistle and the whip, with feeding hens
In household fidget muttering evermore,
And, rising as in scorn, crown'd Chanticleer,
Ordaining silence with his sovereign crow.
Then from one chord of his amazing shell
Would he fetch out the voice of choirs, and weight
Of the built organ; or some twofold strain
Moving before him in sweet-going yoke,
Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state
Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar;
And ever and anon o'er these he'd throw
Jets of small notes like pearl, or like the pelt
Of lovers' sweetmeats on Italian lutes
From windows on a feast-day, or the leaps
Of pebbled water, sprinkled in the sun,
One chord affecting all:—and when the ear
Felt there was nothing present but himself
And silence, and the wonder drew deep sighs,
Then would his bow lie down again in tears,
And speak to some one in a pray'r of love,
Endless, and never from his heart to go:
Or he would talk as of some secret bliss,
And at the close of all the wonderment
(Which himself shar'd) near and more near would come
Into the inmost ear, and whisper there
Breathings so soft, so low, so full of life,
Touch'd beyond sense, and only to be borne
By pauses which made each less bearable,
That out of pure necessity for relief
From that heap'd joy, and bliss that laugh'd for pain,
The thunder of th' uprolling house came down,
And bow'd the breathing sorcerer into smiles.
That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy;
For noble now he smote the exulting strings,
And bade them march before his stately will;
245
Endearment on them, and took pity sweet;
And now he was all mirth, or all for sense
And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose
After his poetry; or else he laid
His own soul prostrate at the feet of love,
And with a full and trembling fervour deep,
In kneeling and close-creeping urgency,
Implor'd some mistress with hot tears; which past,
And after patience had brought right of peace,
He drew, as if from thoughts finer than hope,
Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains
And elegant composure; or he turn'd
To heaven instead of earth, and rais'd a pray'r
So earnest vehement, yet so lowly sad,
Mighty with want and all poor human tears,
That never saint, wrestling with earthly love,
And in mid-age unable to get free,
Tore down from heav'n such pity. Or behold,
In his despair, (for such, from what he spoke
Of grief before it, or of love, 'twould seem,)
Jump would he into some strange wail uncouth
Of witches' dance, ghastly with whinings thin
And palsied nods—mirth wicked, sad, and weak,
And then with show of skill mechanical,
Marvellous as witchcraft, he would overthrow
That vision with a show'r of notes like hail,
Or sudden mixtures of all difficult things
Never yet heard; flashing the sharp tones now,
In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine
Into some utmost tip of minute sound,
From whence he stepp'd into a higher and higher
On viewless points, till laugh took leave of him:
Or he would fly as if from all the world
To be alone and happy, and you should hear
His instrument become a tree far off,
A nest of birds and sunbeams, sparkling both,
A cottage-bow'r: or he would condescend,
In playful wisdom which knows no contempt,
To bring to laughing memory, plain as sight,
246
The whistle and the whip, with feeding hens
In household fidget muttering evermore,
And, rising as in scorn, crown'd Chanticleer,
Ordaining silence with his sovereign crow.
Then from one chord of his amazing shell
Would he fetch out the voice of choirs, and weight
Of the built organ; or some twofold strain
Moving before him in sweet-going yoke,
Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state
Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar;
And ever and anon o'er these he'd throw
Jets of small notes like pearl, or like the pelt
Of lovers' sweetmeats on Italian lutes
From windows on a feast-day, or the leaps
Of pebbled water, sprinkled in the sun,
One chord affecting all:—and when the ear
Felt there was nothing present but himself
And silence, and the wonder drew deep sighs,
Then would his bow lie down again in tears,
And speak to some one in a pray'r of love,
Endless, and never from his heart to go:
Or he would talk as of some secret bliss,
And at the close of all the wonderment
(Which himself shar'd) near and more near would come
Into the inmost ear, and whisper there
Breathings so soft, so low, so full of life,
Touch'd beyond sense, and only to be borne
By pauses which made each less bearable,
That out of pure necessity for relief
From that heap'd joy, and bliss that laugh'd for pain,
The thunder of th' uprolling house came down,
And bow'd the breathing sorcerer into smiles.
OUR COTTAGE.
Some few of us, children and grown, possessA cottage, far remov'd. 'Tis in a glade,
Where the sun harbours; and one side of it
247
Lovers, that have just parted for the night,
Dream of such spots, when they have said their pray'rs,—
Or some tir'd parent, holding by the hand
A child, and walking tow'rds the setting sun.
No news comes here; no scandal; no routine
Of morning visit; not a postman's knock,—
That double thrust of the long staff of care.
We are as distant from the world, in spirit
If not in place, as though in Crusoe's isle,
And please ourselves with being ignorant
Ev'n of the country some five miles beyond.
Our wood's our world, with some few hills and dales,
And many an alley green, with poppies edg'd
And flowery brakes, where sails the long blue fly,
Whom we pronounce a fairy; and 'twould go
Hard with us to be certain he's not one,
Such willing children are we of the possible.
Hence all our walks have names; some of the Fairies,
And some of Nymphs, (where the brook makes a bath
In a green chamber, and the turf's half violets,)
And some of Grim Old Men that live alone,
And may not be seen safely. Pan has one
Down in a beech-dell; and Apollo another,
Where sunset in the trees makes strawy fires.
You might suppose the place pick'd out of books.
The nightingales, in the cold blooms, are there
Fullest of heart, hushing our open'd windows;
The cuckoo ripest in the warmed thicks.
Autumn, the princely season, purple-rob'd
And liberal-handed, brings no gloom to us,
But, rich in its own self, gives us rich hope
Of winter-time; and when the winter comes,
We burn old wood, and read old books that wall
Our biggest room, and take our heartiest walks
On the good, hard, glad ground; or when it rains
And the rich dells are mire, make much and long
Of a small bin we have of good old wine;
248
Whom, old or young, we gift with the same grace
Of ancient epithet; for love is time
With us; youth old as love, and age as young;
And stars, affections, hopes, roll all alike
Immortal rounds, in heaven when not on earth.
Therefore the very youngest of us all
Do we call old,—“old Vincent,” or “old Jule,”
Or “old Jacintha;” and they count us young,
And at a very playfellow time of life,
As in good truth we are: witness the nuts
We seek, to pelt with, in thy trampled leaves,
November; and the merry Christmas ring,
Hot-fac'd and loud with too much fire and food,—
The rare excess, loving the generous gods.
“Old Mary,” and “old Percy,” and “old Henry,”
Also there are, with more beyond their teens;
But these are reverend youngsters, married now,
And ride no longer to our cottage nest
On that unbridled horse, their father's knee.
Custom itself is an old friend with us;
Though change we make a friend, too, if it come
To better custom: nay, to bury him,
Provided soul be gone, and it be done
Rev'rently and kindly; and we then install
His son, or set a new one in his place;
For all good honest customs, from all lands,
Find welcome here,—seats built up in old elms
From France; and evening dances on the green;
And servants (home's inhabiting strangers) turn'd
To zealous friends; and gipsy meals, whose smoke
Warms houseless glades; and the good bout Chinese
At pen and ink, in rhyming summer bow'rs,
Temper'd with pleasant penalties of wine.
The villagers love us; and on Sabbath-days,
(Such luck is ours, and round harmonious life)
In an old, ivied church (which God preserve,
And make a mark forever of the love
That by mild acquiescence bears all change
249
Utters such Christian lore, so final sweet,
So fit for audience in those flowery dells.
Not a young heart feels strange, nor old misgives:
You scarcely can help thinking, that the sound
Must pierce with sweetness to the very graves.
But mark—not the whole week do we pass thus,—
No, nor whole day. Heaven, for ease' sake forbid!
Half of the day (and half of that might serve,
Were all the world active and just as we)
Is mix'd with the great throng, playing its part
Of toil and pain; we could not relish else
Our absolute comfort; nay, should almost fear
Heav'n counted us not worthy to partake
The common load with its great hopes for all,
But held us flimsy triflers—gnats i' the sun—
Made but for play, and so to die, unheav'n'd.
Oh, hard we work, and carefully we think,
And much we suffer! but the line being drawn
'Twixt work and our earth's heav'n, well do we draw it,
Sudden, and sharp, and sweet; and in an instant
Are borne away, like knights to fairy isles,
And close our gates behind us on the world.
“And where (cries some one) is this blessed spot?
May I behold it? May I gain admittance?”
Yes, with a thought;—as we do.
“Woe is me!
Then no such place exists!”
Then no such place exists!”
None such to us,
Except in thought; but that—
Except in thought; but that—
“Is true as fiction?”
Ay, true as tears or smiles that fiction makes,
Waking the ready heaven in men's eyes;—
True as effect to cause;—true as the hours
You spend in joy while sitting at a play.
250
Happier before you went there? Oh, if rich
In what you deem life's only solid goods,
Think what unjoyous blanks ev'n those would be,
Were fancy's light smitten from out your world,
With all its colourings of your prides, your gains,
Your very toys and tea-cups, nothing left
But what you touch, and not what touches you.
The wise are often rich in little else,
The rich, if wise, count it their gold of gold.
Say, is it not so, thou who art both rich
In the world's eye, and wise in solitude's,—
Stoneleigh's poetic lord, whose gentle name
No echo granted at the font to mine,
I trust, shall have made ruder. What would'st care,
O Leigh, for all the wooden matter-o'-fact
Of all thine oaks, depriv'd of what thy muse
Can do to wake their old oracular breath,
Or whisper, with their patriarch locks, of heaven?
Lo! Southwood Smith, physician of mankind,
Bringer of light and air to the rich poor
Of the next age:—he, when in real woods
He rests the mildest energy alive,
Scorns not these fancied ones, but hails and loves
A vision of the dawn of his own world.
Horace Smith, lo! rare compound, skill'd alike
In worldly gain and its unworldliest use:
He prospers in the throng, makes fact his slave,
Then leads a life with fiction and good deeds.
Lo! Bulwer, genius in the thick of fame,
With smiles of thrones, and echoes from the Rhine,
He too extends his grounds to Fairy-land,
And while his neighbours think they see him looking
Hard at themselves, is in Armorica,
Feasting with lovers in enchanted bowers.
Lo! Jeffrey the fine wit, the judge revered,
The man belov'd, what spirit invokes he
To make his hasty moments of repose
Richest and farthest off?—The Muse of Keats,
One of the inmost dwellers in the core
251
Where still they live, to eyes, like theirs, divine.
Fancy's the wealth of wealth, the toiler's hope,
The poor man's piecer-out; the art of Nature,
Painting her landscapes twice; the spirit of fact,
As matter is the body; the pure gift
Of heav'n to poet and to child; which he
Who retains most in manhood, being a man
In all things fitted else, is most a man;
Because he wants no human faculty,
Nor loses one sweet taste of the sweet world.
A HEAVEN UPON EARTH.
FRAGMENT OF AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY. A HUSBAND IS CONVERSING WITH HIS WIFE.
For there are two heavens, sweet,Both made of love,—one, inconceivable
Ev'n by the other, so divine it is;
The other, far on this side of the stars,
By men call'd home, when some blest pair are met
As we are now: sometimes in happy talk,
Sometimes in silence (also a sort of talk,
Where friends are match'd) each at its gentle task
Of book, or household need, or meditation,
By summer-moon, or curtain'd fire in frost;
And by degrees there come,—not always come,
Yet mostly,—other, smaller inmates there,
Cherubic-fac'd, yet growing like those two,
Their pride and playmates, not without meek fear,
Since God sometimes to his own cherubim
Takes those sweet cheeks of earth. And so 'twixt joy,
And love, and tears, and whatsoever pain
Man fitly shares with man, these two grow old;
And if indeed blest thoroughly, they die
In the same spot, and nigh the same good hour,
And setting suns look heavenly on their grave.—
252
REFLECTIONS OF A DEAD BODY.
Scene.—A female sitting by a bed-side, anxiously looking at the face of her husband, just dead. The soul within the dead body soliloquizes.
What change is this! What joy! What depth of rest!
What suddenness of withdrawal from all pain
Into all bliss? into a balm so perfect
I do not even smile! I tried but now,
With that breath's end, to speak to the dear face
That watches me—and lo! all in an instant,
Instead of toil, and a weak, weltering tear,
I am all peace, all happiness, all power,
Laid on some throne in space.—Great God! I am dead.
(A pause.)
What suddenness of withdrawal from all pain
Into all bliss? into a balm so perfect
I do not even smile! I tried but now,
With that breath's end, to speak to the dear face
That watches me—and lo! all in an instant,
Instead of toil, and a weak, weltering tear,
I am all peace, all happiness, all power,
Laid on some throne in space.—Great God! I am dead.
Dear God! thy love is perfect; thy truth known.
(Another.)
And he,—and they!—How simple and strange! How beautiful!
But I may whisper it not,—even to thought;
Lest strong imagination, hearing it,
Speak, and the world be shatter'd.
(Soul again pauses.)
O balm! O bliss! O saturating smile
Unsmiling! O doubt ended! certainty
Begun! O will, faultless, yet all indulged,
Encourag'd to be wilful;—to delay
Even its wings for heav'n; and thus to rest
Here, here, ev'n here,—'twixt heav'n and earth awhile,
A bed in the morn of endless happiness.
I feel warm drops falling upon my face:
They reach me through the rapture of this cold.—
My wife! my love!—'tis for the best thou canst not
Know how I know thee weeping, and how fond
A kiss meets thine in these unowning lips.
Ah, truly was my love what thou didst hope it,
And more; and so was thine—I read it all—
And our small feuds were but impatiences
At seeing the dear truth ill understood.
Poor sweet! thou blamest now thyself, and heapest
Memory on memory of imagin'd wrong,
As I should have done too,—as all who love;
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I know the end, and how thou'lt smile hereafter.
She speaks my name at last, as though she fear'd
The terrible, familiar sound; and sinks
In sobs upon my bosom. Hold me fast,
Hold me fast, sweet, and from the extreme grow calm,—
Me, cruelly unmov'd, and yet how loving!
How wrong I was to quarrel with poor James!
And how dear Francis mistook me! That pride,
How without ground it was! Those arguments,
Which I suppos'd so final, oh how foolish!
Yet gentlest death will not permit rebuke,
Ev'n of one's self. They'll know all, as I know,
When they lie thus.
And how dear Francis mistook me! That pride,
How without ground it was! Those arguments,
Which I suppos'd so final, oh how foolish!
Yet gentlest death will not permit rebuke,
Ev'n of one's self. They'll know all, as I know,
When they lie thus.
Colder I grow, and happier.
Warmness and sense are drawing to a point,
Ere they depart;—myself quitting myself.
The soul gathers its wings upon the edge
Of the new world, yet how assuredly!
Oh! how in balm I change! actively will'd,
Yet passive, quite; and feeling opposites mingle
In exquisitest peace!—Those fleshly clothes,
Which late I thought myself, lie more and more
Apart from this warm, sweet, retreating me,
Who am as a hand withdrawing from a glove.
So lay my mother: so my father: so
Warmness and sense are drawing to a point,
Ere they depart;—myself quitting myself.
The soul gathers its wings upon the edge
Of the new world, yet how assuredly!
Oh! how in balm I change! actively will'd,
Yet passive, quite; and feeling opposites mingle
In exquisitest peace!—Those fleshly clothes,
Which late I thought myself, lie more and more
Apart from this warm, sweet, retreating me,
Who am as a hand withdrawing from a glove.
My children: yet I pitied them. I wept,
And fancied them in graves, and call'd them “poor!”
O graves! O tears! O knowledge, will, and time,
And fear, and hope! what petty terms of earth
Were ye! yet how I love ye as of earth,
The planet's household words; and how postpone,
Till out of these dear arms, th' immeasurable
Tongue of the all-possessing smile eternal!
Ah, not excluding these, nor aught that's past,
Nor aught that's present, nor that's yet to come,
Well waited for. I would not stir a finger
254
Such warrant hath it; such divine conjuncture;
Such a charm binds it with the needs of bliss.
That was my eldest boy's—that kiss. And that
The baby with its little unweening mouth;
And those—and those—Dear hearts! they have all come,
And think me dead—me, who so know I'm living,
The vitalest creature in this fleshly room.
I part; and with my spirit's eyes, full open'd,
Will look upon them.
[Spirit parts from the body, and breathes upon their eyes.
The baby with its little unweening mouth;
And those—and those—Dear hearts! they have all come,
And think me dead—me, who so know I'm living,
The vitalest creature in this fleshly room.
I part; and with my spirit's eyes, full open'd,
Will look upon them.
Patient be those tears,
Fresh heart-dews, standing on these dear clay-moulds
Of souls made of myself,—made of us both
In the half-heavenly time. I quit ye but
To meet again, and will revisit soon
In many a dream, and many a gentle sigh. [Spirit looks at the body.
And was that me?—that hollow-cheek'd pale thing,
Shatter'd with passions, worn with cares; now placid
With my divine departure? And must love
Think of thee painfully? of stifling boards
'Gainst the free face, and of the irreverent worm?
To dust with thee, poor corpse! to dust and grass,
And the glad innocent worm, that does its duty
As thou dost thine in changing. I thy life,
Life of thy life, bird of the bird, ah ha!
Turn my face forth to heav'n—ah ha! ah ah!
Oh the infinitude and the eternity!
The dimpled air! the measureless conscious heaven!
The endless possession! the sweet, mad, fawning planets [It speaks with a hurried vehemence of rapture.
Sleeking, like necks, round the beatitudes of the ubiquitous sun-god
With bee-music of innumerable organ thunders.
And the travelling crowds this way, like a life-tempest,
With rapid angelical faces, two in one,
Ah ah! ah ha! and the stillness beyond the stars—
My Friend! my Mother!—I mingle through the roar.
[Spirit vanishes.
Fresh heart-dews, standing on these dear clay-moulds
Of souls made of myself,—made of us both
In the half-heavenly time. I quit ye but
To meet again, and will revisit soon
In many a dream, and many a gentle sigh. [Spirit looks at the body.
And was that me?—that hollow-cheek'd pale thing,
Shatter'd with passions, worn with cares; now placid
With my divine departure? And must love
Think of thee painfully? of stifling boards
'Gainst the free face, and of the irreverent worm?
To dust with thee, poor corpse! to dust and grass,
And the glad innocent worm, that does its duty
As thou dost thine in changing. I thy life,
Life of thy life, bird of the bird, ah ha!
Turn my face forth to heav'n—ah ha! ah ah!
Oh the infinitude and the eternity!
The dimpled air! the measureless conscious heaven!
The endless possession! the sweet, mad, fawning planets [It speaks with a hurried vehemence of rapture.
Sleeking, like necks, round the beatitudes of the ubiquitous sun-god
With bee-music of innumerable organ thunders.
And the travelling crowds this way, like a life-tempest,
With rapid angelical faces, two in one,
Ah ah! ah ha! and the stillness beyond the stars—
My Friend! my Mother!—I mingle through the roar.
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |