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 INEVITABLE.
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
THE INEVITABLE.
INSCRIBED TO JOHN FORSTER.
Forster, whose voice can speak of awe so well,
And stern disclosures, new and terrible,
This were a tale, my friend, for thee to tell.
Seek for it then in some old book; but take
Meantime this version, for the writer's sake.
And stern disclosures, new and terrible,
This were a tale, my friend, for thee to tell.
Seek for it then in some old book; but take
Meantime this version, for the writer's sake.
127
The royal sage, lord of the Magic Ring,
Solomon, once upon a morn in spring,
By Cedron, in his garden's rosiest walk,
Was pacing with a pleasant guest in talk,
When they beheld, approaching, but with face
Yet undiscern'd, a stranger in the place.
Solomon, once upon a morn in spring,
By Cedron, in his garden's rosiest walk,
Was pacing with a pleasant guest in talk,
When they beheld, approaching, but with face
Yet undiscern'd, a stranger in the place.
How he came there, what wanted, who could be,
How dare, unusher'd, beard such privacy,
Whether 'twas some great Spirit of the Ring,
And if so, why he should thus daunt the king
(For the ring's master, after one sharp gaze,
Stood waiting, more in trouble than amaze),
All this the courtier would have ask'd; but fear
Palsied his utterance, as the man drew near.
How dare, unusher'd, beard such privacy,
Whether 'twas some great Spirit of the Ring,
And if so, why he should thus daunt the king
(For the ring's master, after one sharp gaze,
Stood waiting, more in trouble than amaze),
All this the courtier would have ask'd; but fear
Palsied his utterance, as the man drew near.
The stranger seem'd (to judge him by his dress)
One of mean sort, a dweller with distress,
Or some poor pilgrim; but the steps he took
Belied it with strange greatness; and his look
Open'd a page in a tremendous book.
One of mean sort, a dweller with distress,
Or some poor pilgrim; but the steps he took
Belied it with strange greatness; and his look
Open'd a page in a tremendous book.
He wore a cowl, from under which there shone,
Full on the guest, and on the guest alone,
A face, not of this earth, half veil'd in gloom
And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of doom,
Which, ever as they came, before them sent
Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment,
With sense of change, and worse of change to be,
Sore sighing, and extreme anxiety,
And feebleness, and faintness, and moist brow,
The past a scoff, the future crying “Now!”
All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the hair;
All that makes dying vehemence despair,
Knowing it must be dragg'd it knows not where.
Full on the guest, and on the guest alone,
A face, not of this earth, half veil'd in gloom
And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of doom,
Which, ever as they came, before them sent
Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment,
With sense of change, and worse of change to be,
Sore sighing, and extreme anxiety,
And feebleness, and faintness, and moist brow,
The past a scoff, the future crying “Now!”
All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the hair;
All that makes dying vehemence despair,
Knowing it must be dragg'd it knows not where.
Th' excess of fear and anguish, which had tied
The courtier's tongue, now loos'd it, and he cried,
“O royal master! Sage! Lord of the Ring,
I cannot bear the horror of this thing;
Help with thy mighty art. Wish me, I pray,
On the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
The courtier's tongue, now loos'd it, and he cried,
“O royal master! Sage! Lord of the Ring,
I cannot bear the horror of this thing;
128
On the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
Solomon wish'd, and the man vanish'd. Straight
Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate.
Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate.
“Solomon,” with a lofty voice said he,
“How came that man here, wasting time with thee?
I was to fetch him, ere the close of day,
From the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
“How came that man here, wasting time with thee?
I was to fetch him, ere the close of day,
From the remotest mountain of Cathay.”
Solomon said, bowing him to the ground,
“Angel of Death, there will the man be found.”
“Angel of Death, there will the man be found.”
| The poetical works of Leigh Hunt | |