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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Political and Critical Poems.
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 | The poetical works of Leigh Hunt |  |
190
Political and Critical Poems.
POLITICS AND POETICS.
OR, THE DESPERATE SITUATION OF A JOURNALIST UNHAPPILY SMITTEN WITH THE LOVE OF RHYME.
(WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1810.)
Again I stop;—again the toil refuse!
Away, for pity's sake, distracting Muse,
Nor thus come smiling with thy bridal tricks
Between my studious face and politics.
Is it for thee to mock the frowns of fate?
Look round, look round, and mark my desperate state.
Cannot thy gifted eyes a sight behold,
That might have quell'd the Lesbian bard of old,
And made the blood of Dante's self run cold?
Away, for pity's sake, distracting Muse,
Nor thus come smiling with thy bridal tricks
Between my studious face and politics.
Is it for thee to mock the frowns of fate?
Look round, look round, and mark my desperate state.
Cannot thy gifted eyes a sight behold,
That might have quell'd the Lesbian bard of old,
And made the blood of Dante's self run cold?
Lo, first the table spread with fearful books,
In which, whoe'er can help it, never looks;
Letters to Lords, Remarks, Reflections, Hints,
Lives snatch'd a moment from the public prints;
Pamphlets to prove, on pain of our undoing,
That rags are wealth, and reformation ruin,
Journals, and briefs, and bills, and laws of libel,
And, bloated and blood-red, the placeman's annual bible.
In which, whoe'er can help it, never looks;
Letters to Lords, Remarks, Reflections, Hints,
Lives snatch'd a moment from the public prints;
Pamphlets to prove, on pain of our undoing,
That rags are wealth, and reformation ruin,
Journals, and briefs, and bills, and laws of libel,
And, bloated and blood-red, the placeman's annual bible.
Scarce from the load, as from a heap of dead,
My poor old Homer shows his living head;
Milton, in sullen darkness, yields to fate,
And Tasso groans beneath the courtly weight;
Horace alone (the rogue!) his doom has miss'd,
And lies at ease upon the Pension List.
My poor old Homer shows his living head;
Milton, in sullen darkness, yields to fate,
And Tasso groans beneath the courtly weight;
Horace alone (the rogue!) his doom has miss'd,
And lies at ease upon the Pension List.
191
Round these, in tall imaginary chairs,
Imps ever grinning, sit my daily Cares;
Distaste, delays, dislikings to begin,
Gnawings of pen, and kneadings of the chin.
Here the Blue Dæmon keeps his constant stir,
Who makes a man his own barometer;
There Nightmare, horrid mass! unfeatured heap!
Prepares to seize me if I fall asleep;
And there, with hands that grasp one's very soul,
Frowns Headache, scalper of the studious poll;
Headache, who lurks at noon about the courts,
And whets his tomahawk on East's Reports.
Imps ever grinning, sit my daily Cares;
Distaste, delays, dislikings to begin,
Gnawings of pen, and kneadings of the chin.
Here the Blue Dæmon keeps his constant stir,
Who makes a man his own barometer;
There Nightmare, horrid mass! unfeatured heap!
Prepares to seize me if I fall asleep;
And there, with hands that grasp one's very soul,
Frowns Headache, scalper of the studious poll;
Headache, who lurks at noon about the courts,
And whets his tomahawk on East's Reports.
Chief of this social game, behind me stands,
Pale, peevish, periwigg'd, with itching hands,
A goblin, double-tail'd, and cloak'd in black,
Who, while I'm gravely thinking, bites my back.
Around his head flits many a harpy shape,
With jaws of parchment, and long hairs of tape,
Threatening to pounce, and turn whate'er I write,
With their own venom, into foul despite.
Let me but name the court, they swear and curse
And din me with hard names; and what is worse
'Tis now three times that I have miss'd my purse.
Pale, peevish, periwigg'd, with itching hands,
A goblin, double-tail'd, and cloak'd in black,
Who, while I'm gravely thinking, bites my back.
Around his head flits many a harpy shape,
With jaws of parchment, and long hairs of tape,
Threatening to pounce, and turn whate'er I write,
With their own venom, into foul despite.
Let me but name the court, they swear and curse
And din me with hard names; and what is worse
'Tis now three times that I have miss'd my purse.
No wonder poor Torquato went distracted,
On whose gall'd senses just such pranks were acted;
When the small tyrant, God knows on what ground,
With dungeons and with doctors hemm'd him round.
On whose gall'd senses just such pranks were acted;
When the small tyrant, God knows on what ground,
With dungeons and with doctors hemm'd him round.
Last, but not least, (methinks I see him now!)
With stare expectant, and a ragged brow,
Comes the foul fiend, who—let it rain or shine,
Let it be clear or cloudy, foul or fine,
Or freezing, thawing, drizzling, hailing, snowing,
Or mild, or warm, or hot, or bleak and blowing,
Or damp, or dry, or dull, or sharp, or sloppy,
Is sure to come,—the Devil, who comes for copy,
With stare expectant, and a ragged brow,
Comes the foul fiend, who—let it rain or shine,
Let it be clear or cloudy, foul or fine,
Or freezing, thawing, drizzling, hailing, snowing,
Or mild, or warm, or hot, or bleak and blowing,
Or damp, or dry, or dull, or sharp, or sloppy,
Is sure to come,—the Devil, who comes for copy,
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Yet see! e'en now thy wondrous charm prevails;
The shapes are moved, the stricken circle fails;
With backward grins of malice they retire,
Scared at thy seraph looks and smiles of fire.
That instant, as the hindmost shuts the door,
The bursting sunshine smites the window'd floor;
Bursts too on every side the sparkling sound
Of birds abroad; th' elastic spirits bound;
And the fresh mirth of morning breathes around.
Away, ye clouds; dull politics, give place;
Off cares, and wants, and threats, and all the race
Of foes to freedom and to graceful leisure!—
To-day is for the Muse, and dancing pleasure.
The shapes are moved, the stricken circle fails;
With backward grins of malice they retire,
Scared at thy seraph looks and smiles of fire.
That instant, as the hindmost shuts the door,
The bursting sunshine smites the window'd floor;
Bursts too on every side the sparkling sound
Of birds abroad; th' elastic spirits bound;
And the fresh mirth of morning breathes around.
Away, ye clouds; dull politics, give place;
Off cares, and wants, and threats, and all the race
Of foes to freedom and to graceful leisure!—
To-day is for the Muse, and dancing pleasure.
Oh for a seat in some poetic nook,
Just hid with trees, and sparkling with a brook,
Where through the quivering boughs the sunbeams shoot
Their arrowy diamonds upon flower and fruit,
While stealing airs come whispering o'er the stream,
And lull the fancy to a waking dream!
There shouldst thou come, O first of my desires,
What time the noon had spent its fiercer fires,
And all the bow'r, with checker'd shadows strewn,
Glow'd with a mellow twilight of its own.
There shouldst thou come, and there sometimes with thee
Might deign repair the staid Philosophy,
To taste thy fresh'ning brook, and trim thy groves,
And tell us what good task true glory loves.
Just hid with trees, and sparkling with a brook,
Where through the quivering boughs the sunbeams shoot
Their arrowy diamonds upon flower and fruit,
While stealing airs come whispering o'er the stream,
And lull the fancy to a waking dream!
There shouldst thou come, O first of my desires,
What time the noon had spent its fiercer fires,
And all the bow'r, with checker'd shadows strewn,
Glow'd with a mellow twilight of its own.
There shouldst thou come, and there sometimes with thee
Might deign repair the staid Philosophy,
To taste thy fresh'ning brook, and trim thy groves,
And tell us what good task true glory loves.
I see it now!—I pierce the fairy glade,
And feel th' enclosing influence of the shade.
A thousand forms, that sport on summer 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,
And the calm bliss, fix'd on itself awhile,
Dimples th' unconscious lips into a smile.
And feel th' enclosing influence of the shade.
A thousand forms, that sport on summer 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,
And the calm bliss, fix'd on itself awhile,
Dimples th' unconscious lips into a smile.
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;
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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 FEAST OF THE POETS.
1811.
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),
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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.
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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.
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?
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BLUE-STOCKING REVELS;
OR, THE FEAST OF THE VIOLETS.
(1837.)
CANTO I.
Showing what sort of rebuke Apollo gave his nymphs, and how gods furnish houses.
Lo! I, who in verse flowing smooth as the wine
(“Modest youth!”) once recorded a dinner divine,
And show'd the great god of the sun entertaining
With wit and crack'd walnuts the poets then reigning;
Now sing, in a dance fitter still for the crupper
Whose wings bore me thither a more divine supper;
For that was of man, though of Phœbus; but this is
Of Phœbus, and woman, and blue-stocking blisses.
(“Modest youth!”) once recorded a dinner divine,
And show'd the great god of the sun entertaining
With wit and crack'd walnuts the poets then reigning;
Now sing, in a dance fitter still for the crupper
Whose wings bore me thither a more divine supper;
For that was of man, though of Phœbus; but this is
Of Phœbus, and woman, and blue-stocking blisses.
The god, you must know then, like other bright souls,
Attends not to ev'ry dull curfew that tolls,
But often pays visits at night-time, and sits
Conversing till morning with beauties and wits
In guise of some talker renown'd,—my Carlyle,
Jeffrey, Coleridge, or Wilson;—joy listens the while;—
And in case he's too late for Aurora, they say,
Some proxy, I know not who, brings up the day;
Which is likely;—for after a night such as that,
The day, you may notice, is terribly flat.
Attends not to ev'ry dull curfew that tolls,
But often pays visits at night-time, and sits
Conversing till morning with beauties and wits
In guise of some talker renown'd,—my Carlyle,
Jeffrey, Coleridge, or Wilson;—joy listens the while;—
And in case he's too late for Aurora, they say,
Some proxy, I know not who, brings up the day;
Which is likely;—for after a night such as that,
The day, you may notice, is terribly flat.
Well; the eve of last May-day, his work being done,
Apollo sat playing his lute in the sun,
As backward his car in the deep began sinking;
And round it the Water-Nymphs, with their eyes winking,
Plash'd, patting the horses, and loos'ning the reins,
While the lute through the lustre sent flooding its strains,
When lo! he saw coming towards him, in pairs,
Such doves of Petitions, and loves of sweet Pray'rs,
All landing, as each touch'd his chariot, in sighs,
And begging his aid in behalf of bright eyes,
That it made him look sharper, to see whence they came:—
The windows on earth, at the flash of that aim,
Burst suddenly all into diamonds and flame.
Apollo sat playing his lute in the sun,
As backward his car in the deep began sinking;
And round it the Water-Nymphs, with their eyes winking,
Plash'd, patting the horses, and loos'ning the reins,
While the lute through the lustre sent flooding its strains,
When lo! he saw coming towards him, in pairs,
Such doves of Petitions, and loves of sweet Pray'rs,
All landing, as each touch'd his chariot, in sighs,
And begging his aid in behalf of bright eyes,
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The windows on earth, at the flash of that aim,
Burst suddenly all into diamonds and flame.
“By Jove!” said Apollo, “well thought on.—I've dined
With the Poets:—'tis now highly proper, I find,
To descend (and with finger-tips here he fell trimming
His love-locks celestial) and sup with the Women.”
With the Poets:—'tis now highly proper, I find,
To descend (and with finger-tips here he fell trimming
His love-locks celestial) and sup with the Women.”
He said; and some messages giving those daughters
Of Ocean,—arch-eyed,—buxom dancers in waters,—
They gave him some answer (I never heard what)
Which they paid for, i'faith, with a dance on the spot;
For shaking his locks, and a pleasant frown casting,
He thrust his car back with his foot everlasting,
And sprang up in air with a bound so divine,
As sous'd their sweet souls in the roar of the brine.
Then laughing the laugh of the gods, he rose higher,
And higher, and higher, on the whirl of his fire,
Lark mighty; till choosing his road, like the dove
Which bears at its warm bosom letters of love,
He shot, all at once, in a long trail of light,
Like the star that comes liquidly through the soft night,
And stood in a “House to Let,” facing Hyde Park,
“Unfurnish'd;”—but not so, ye gods, before dark!
Of Ocean,—arch-eyed,—buxom dancers in waters,—
They gave him some answer (I never heard what)
Which they paid for, i'faith, with a dance on the spot;
For shaking his locks, and a pleasant frown casting,
He thrust his car back with his foot everlasting,
And sprang up in air with a bound so divine,
As sous'd their sweet souls in the roar of the brine.
Then laughing the laugh of the gods, he rose higher,
And higher, and higher, on the whirl of his fire,
Lark mighty; till choosing his road, like the dove
Which bears at its warm bosom letters of love,
He shot, all at once, in a long trail of light,
Like the star that comes liquidly through the soft night,
And stood in a “House to Let,” facing Hyde Park,
“Unfurnish'd;”—but not so, ye gods, before dark!
O Seddon! O Gillow! O Mr. Morell!
O Taprell and Holland! O Minter! O Snell!
O ev'ry one else, dear to new-married spouses,
Don't speak any more of your fitting up houses;
Don't mention your Sèvres, your buhls, or-molus,
And for ever henceforth have no customers, Hughes:
Quench the light of your lustres, great Perry and Co.:
Ye Bantings, be counted extremely so-so:
Nay, hold your tongue, Robins; amaze us no longer
In paragraphs, “coming it” stronger and stronger:
Cease roaring in great A, and wheedling in small;
And thou, even thou, greatest gusto of all,
Tasteful shade of magnificent, house-warming Guelph,
Turn about in thy tomb, and say, “Laid on the Shelf!”
O Taprell and Holland! O Minter! O Snell!
O ev'ry one else, dear to new-married spouses,
Don't speak any more of your fitting up houses;
Don't mention your Sèvres, your buhls, or-molus,
And for ever henceforth have no customers, Hughes:
Quench the light of your lustres, great Perry and Co.:
Ye Bantings, be counted extremely so-so:
Nay, hold your tongue, Robins; amaze us no longer
In paragraphs, “coming it” stronger and stronger:
Cease roaring in great A, and wheedling in small;
And thou, even thou, greatest gusto of all,
Tasteful shade of magnificent, house-warming Guelph,
Turn about in thy tomb, and say, “Laid on the Shelf!”
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The house not an instant had felt the god's presence,
When something—I know not what—but a quintessence
Of fragrance and purity hallow'd the place,
Some spirit of lilies, and crystal, and grace.
His height he had stoop'd, as he entered the door,
Tow'rds the human; but still his own costume he wore,
Or at least a Greek vest; and be sure he wore bay;
In short, was a kind of Apollo d'Orsay.
Then gliding from room to room, like a slow bee,
Half a foot from the floor, his lute went playing he,
And the sound was a magical charm to invest
Whatsoever he looked on with all he lik'd best;
Nor indeed was it strange that his lute should do this,
When Amphion, you know, built a city with his.
When something—I know not what—but a quintessence
Of fragrance and purity hallow'd the place,
Some spirit of lilies, and crystal, and grace.
His height he had stoop'd, as he entered the door,
Tow'rds the human; but still his own costume he wore,
Or at least a Greek vest; and be sure he wore bay;
In short, was a kind of Apollo d'Orsay.
Then gliding from room to room, like a slow bee,
Half a foot from the floor, his lute went playing he,
And the sound was a magical charm to invest
Whatsoever he looked on with all he lik'd best;
Nor indeed was it strange that his lute should do this,
When Amphion, you know, built a city with his.
Thus the ball-room, whose wainscot was stucco before,
Rose in arches of flowers, midway from the floor,
All dabbled with dew-drops, and stirr'd with a breath;
While the rest (for no cold could give shoulders “their death,”
Where Phœbus was present) was all a fair sight
Of iv'ry, and cushions of silk, bridal white:—
(More colours for these would flow in with the ball:)
And betwixt the fair couches were services small
Of ices, and creams, and clear jellies, smooth-soul'd,
The very tip-ends of refreshment and cold.
Rose in arches of flowers, midway from the floor,
All dabbled with dew-drops, and stirr'd with a breath;
While the rest (for no cold could give shoulders “their death,”
Where Phœbus was present) was all a fair sight
Of iv'ry, and cushions of silk, bridal white:—
(More colours for these would flow in with the ball:)
And betwixt the fair couches were services small
Of ices, and creams, and clear jellies, smooth-soul'd,
The very tip-ends of refreshment and cold.
Then the drawing-room—What, think ye, hung the walls there?
Cloth of gold? No, of sunbeams. 'Twas made of his hair.
The immense window-curtains, Calypso's own woollen,
Like clouds to the sunset, hung gorgeously sullen.
Cloth of gold? No, of sunbeams. 'Twas made of his hair.
The immense window-curtains, Calypso's own woollen,
Like clouds to the sunset, hung gorgeously sullen.
But as to the supper-room! O thou Aladdin,
Thy genii had found it a thing to go mad in;
Such wealth (which yet somehow fell soft on the eyes)
Branch'd it over with jewels of wonderful size,
All carv'd into fruit, thick and leafy, and all
Encrusting white marble, as vines do a wall.
The fruit, colour's minions, like ecstasy shone;
While the marble, most fair, and yet mellow of tone,
Came cooling the warmth, the rich masses between;
But the ceiling was one mighty sapphire serene,
From the centre of which, and their stamens of gold,
Lilies shed such a light, as 'twas peace to behold.
Thy genii had found it a thing to go mad in;
Such wealth (which yet somehow fell soft on the eyes)
Branch'd it over with jewels of wonderful size,
All carv'd into fruit, thick and leafy, and all
Encrusting white marble, as vines do a wall.
The fruit, colour's minions, like ecstasy shone;
While the marble, most fair, and yet mellow of tone,
205
But the ceiling was one mighty sapphire serene,
From the centre of which, and their stamens of gold,
Lilies shed such a light, as 'twas peace to behold.
And forth, from all sides, issued tap'stry and table,
And sofa, with pictures of loveliest fable,
And portraits, with eyes that seem'd happy to come,
Of wits and sweet women; and every room
Had music, unseen in it, waiting to play;
A note now and then, would come chuckling away,
As though with its rapture it vainly was striving;—
And hark! the burst comes! the fair guests are arriving.
And sofa, with pictures of loveliest fable,
And portraits, with eyes that seem'd happy to come,
Of wits and sweet women; and every room
Had music, unseen in it, waiting to play;
A note now and then, would come chuckling away,
As though with its rapture it vainly was striving;—
And hark! the burst comes! the fair guests are arriving.
But first, I must tell you who form'd the spectators;—
Imprimis, the Poets, the happy Translators,
The Wits, the Physicians (they say that the godhead
To Knighton, Smith, Elliotson, specially nodded;)
All Artists, all Archers (a bright blushing stare
Put a bud in the cheeks of their green-gownèd fair;)
The Musicians, the Singers (of course the chief only;)
And lastly (for fear any heart should feel lonely,
Although with a god,—and to crown it besides
With the sweetest of glories, home-glory,) all prides
Were consulted, of husbands, and friends, and relations,
And lovers, and children.—Of all adorations
Commend me to that, which enwrapt ev'ry feature
In love tow'rds the god, for this household good-nature.
Imprimis, the Poets, the happy Translators,
The Wits, the Physicians (they say that the godhead
To Knighton, Smith, Elliotson, specially nodded;)
All Artists, all Archers (a bright blushing stare
Put a bud in the cheeks of their green-gownèd fair;)
The Musicians, the Singers (of course the chief only;)
And lastly (for fear any heart should feel lonely,
Although with a god,—and to crown it besides
With the sweetest of glories, home-glory,) all prides
Were consulted, of husbands, and friends, and relations,
And lovers, and children.—Of all adorations
Commend me to that, which enwrapt ev'ry feature
In love tow'rds the god, for this household good-nature.
“Well said!” cries the reader; “but stop, Mr. Poet;—
The god's invitation—pray how could they know it?
We hear of no message; no list had enroll'd 'em.”
'Tis true; 'twas not wanted; their Geniuses told 'em;—
The Spirit that's born with us, but becomes visible
Solely with those to such suppers admissible.
Beauteous it was, to see each how he led
His charge by the hand, with the flame on his head,
She walking, he gliding. It gave her such grace,
As made the crowd happy to look in her face
(For never did crowd gather yet at a door so);
The plain became handsome, the handsomest more so,
If plain any face can be call'd that has eyes
Such as almost all brain with its deep look supplies:
The music ceas'd playing, as each was presented;
And Silence, with sighs, 'twas so ultra-contented,
Felt tears in the eyes of its rapture, to see
How they kiss'd the god's hand, and their eyelids kiss'd he;
And then, on each entrance, there pour'd forth again
Some characteristic and exquisite strain,
And thus came each charmer of verse, or of story,
In a sort of sweet tempest of pleasure and glory.
The god's invitation—pray how could they know it?
We hear of no message; no list had enroll'd 'em.”
'Tis true; 'twas not wanted; their Geniuses told 'em;—
The Spirit that's born with us, but becomes visible
Solely with those to such suppers admissible.
Beauteous it was, to see each how he led
His charge by the hand, with the flame on his head,
She walking, he gliding. It gave her such grace,
As made the crowd happy to look in her face
206
The plain became handsome, the handsomest more so,
If plain any face can be call'd that has eyes
Such as almost all brain with its deep look supplies:
The music ceas'd playing, as each was presented;
And Silence, with sighs, 'twas so ultra-contented,
Felt tears in the eyes of its rapture, to see
How they kiss'd the god's hand, and their eyelids kiss'd he;
And then, on each entrance, there pour'd forth again
Some characteristic and exquisite strain,
And thus came each charmer of verse, or of story,
In a sort of sweet tempest of pleasure and glory.
I tell not the dresses. Suffice it that Titian
Had own'd himself conquer'd at this exhibition;
So rich were the colours! such autumn! such May!
For spirits and years made them more or less gay;
And the elder in orange and russet came, queenly;
The younger in lily and rose, sprinkled greenly:
The buxom, uniting both tastes, fill'd the doors
With their shoulders and frills, à la Louis Quatorze;
Or with robes à l'antique, and with crowns from their graperies:
Blest were the eyes that beheld their broad draperies!
Had own'd himself conquer'd at this exhibition;
So rich were the colours! such autumn! such May!
For spirits and years made them more or less gay;
And the elder in orange and russet came, queenly;
The younger in lily and rose, sprinkled greenly:
The buxom, uniting both tastes, fill'd the doors
With their shoulders and frills, à la Louis Quatorze;
Or with robes à l'antique, and with crowns from their graperies:
Blest were the eyes that beheld their broad draperies!
CANTO II.
How the visitors were presented to Apollo, and what sort of a ball he gave them.
Now as to the names (how much less then the natures,
And writings, and beauties!) of all the dear creatures,
I boast not to mention the whole of them;—nay,
I live so sequester'd, so out of the way,
That perhaps I don't know them,—perhaps shall omit
Some bud of such promise, such sweet virgin wit,
Or for want of due reading, shall fail in due notice
Of some such delight of all earth's epiglottis,
That when I am told what I've done, I shall tear
From my head, in pure anguish, whole masses of hair:
You will think it a barber's shop all round my chair,
And yet, when I vow that I'll seize all occasion
Of loading “the love” with my best reparation,
My “startling,” “intense,” “truly new,” “soul-subduing,”
And other fond truths of impartial reviewing,
I fancy I hear her, in tones of caresses,
Exclaim, “God preserve his dear elderly tresses!”
And writings, and beauties!) of all the dear creatures,
I boast not to mention the whole of them;—nay,
I live so sequester'd, so out of the way,
That perhaps I don't know them,—perhaps shall omit
Some bud of such promise, such sweet virgin wit,
Or for want of due reading, shall fail in due notice
Of some such delight of all earth's epiglottis,
That when I am told what I've done, I shall tear
From my head, in pure anguish, whole masses of hair:
You will think it a barber's shop all round my chair,
207
Of loading “the love” with my best reparation,
My “startling,” “intense,” “truly new,” “soul-subduing,”
And other fond truths of impartial reviewing,
I fancy I hear her, in tones of caresses,
Exclaim, “God preserve his dear elderly tresses!”
Lo! first then (for not in stern order of fame,
But in blest alphabetical order they came,
Though she that first enter'd, well headed the dears)
Mrs. Adams, rare mistress of thought and of tears;
Then Aikin judicious;—discreet Mrs. Austin,
Whose English her German you'll never find lost in;—
And Madame d'Arblay, mighty grave all the while,
Yet at heart smitten still betwixt fun and a style,
And longing to tell us more ladies' distresses
'Twixt lords, and vulgarians, and debts for their dresses.
So deep was her curtsey, the hoop that she wore
Seem'd fairly conveying her right through the floor.
But in blest alphabetical order they came,
Though she that first enter'd, well headed the dears)
Mrs. Adams, rare mistress of thought and of tears;
Then Aikin judicious;—discreet Mrs. Austin,
Whose English her German you'll never find lost in;—
And Madame d'Arblay, mighty grave all the while,
Yet at heart smitten still betwixt fun and a style,
And longing to tell us more ladies' distresses
'Twixt lords, and vulgarians, and debts for their dresses.
So deep was her curtsey, the hoop that she wore
Seem'd fairly conveying her right through the floor.
But up she swam round, and Miss Baillie succeeded:
No queen could have come with such pages as she did;
For who, do you think, held her train up?—The Passions:
They did indeed; all too in elegant fashions.
The god in his arms with gay reverence lock'd her,
For two sakes,—her own, and her brother's, the doctor.
No queen could have come with such pages as she did;
For who, do you think, held her train up?—The Passions:
They did indeed; all too in elegant fashions.
The god in his arms with gay reverence lock'd her,
For two sakes,—her own, and her brother's, the doctor.
A young lady then, whom to miss were a caret
In any verse-history, named, I think, Barrett,
(I took her at first for a sister of Tennyson)
Knelt, and receiv'd the god's kindliest benison.
—“Truly,” said he, “dost thou share the blest power
Poetic, the fragrance as well as the flower;
The gift of conveying impressions unseen,
And making the vaguest thoughts know what they mean.”
In any verse-history, named, I think, Barrett,
(I took her at first for a sister of Tennyson)
Knelt, and receiv'd the god's kindliest benison.
—“Truly,” said he, “dost thou share the blest power
Poetic, the fragrance as well as the flower;
The gift of conveying impressions unseen,
And making the vaguest thoughts know what they mean.”
“Lady Blessington!” cried the glad usher aloud,
As she swam through the doorway, like moon from a cloud:
I know not which most her face beam'd with,—fine creature!
Enjoyment, or judgment, or wit, or good-nature.
Perhaps you have known what it is to feel longings
To pat silken shoulders at routs, and such throngings;—
Well, think what it was at a vision like that!
A Grace after dinner! A Venus grown fat!
Some “Elderly Gentleman” risked an objection;
But this only made us all swear her “perfection.”
His arms the host threw round the liberal bodice,
And kiss'd her, exactly as god might do goddess.
As she swam through the doorway, like moon from a cloud:
I know not which most her face beam'd with,—fine creature!
Enjoyment, or judgment, or wit, or good-nature.
208
To pat silken shoulders at routs, and such throngings;—
Well, think what it was at a vision like that!
A Grace after dinner! A Venus grown fat!
Some “Elderly Gentleman” risked an objection;
But this only made us all swear her “perfection.”
His arms the host threw round the liberal bodice,
And kiss'd her, exactly as god might do goddess.
Betham, Blackwood, Bowles, Bray, and Miss Browne, too, were there;
What a sweet load of B's! But then what a despair!
For I know not their writings. (I'm tearing my hair!)
What a sweet load of B's! But then what a despair!
For I know not their writings. (I'm tearing my hair!)
Cary Burney came next, so precise yet so trusting,
Her heroines are perfect, and yet not disgusting.
“However,” said Phœbus, “I can't quite approve them:
Conceit follows close on the mere right to love them.”
Her heroines are perfect, and yet not disgusting.
“However,” said Phœbus, “I can't quite approve them:
Conceit follows close on the mere right to love them.”
Then came Fanny Butler, perplex'd at her heart
Betwixt passion and elegance, nature and art;
The daughter of sense and of grace, yet made wroth
With her own finer wit by o'er-straining at both.
Phœbus smil'd on her parents, who stood there in sight,
And quoted some lines from her play about “Night.”
Betwixt passion and elegance, nature and art;
The daughter of sense and of grace, yet made wroth
With her own finer wit by o'er-straining at both.
Phœbus smil'd on her parents, who stood there in sight,
And quoted some lines from her play about “Night.”
Marg'ret Cullen succeeded, whose novels one lives in,
Like one of her hamlets, where talk never gives in;
Dear, kind-hearted, arch-humour'd, home-loving dame;
And to sum up all eulogy,—worthy her name.
“You make me sleep sometimes,” quoth Phœbus, “'tis true;
But I do even that, let me tell you, with few.”
Like one of her hamlets, where talk never gives in;
Dear, kind-hearted, arch-humour'd, home-loving dame;
And to sum up all eulogy,—worthy her name.
“You make me sleep sometimes,” quoth Phœbus, “'tis true;
But I do even that, let me tell you, with few.”
“Lady Dacre.”—'Twas pleasant to see the god raise,
In honour of her and of Petrarch, his bays.
“And how go your own winged horses?” quoth he:
Then he asked after Margaret Gillies and Mee,
Seyffarth, Carpenter, Robertson, Barrett, and Sharp,
The Corbaux, the Chalons:—in short, more than his harp
Has strings to outnumber, or haste can disclose;
And look'd at the gall'ries, and smil'd as they rose:
For they all sat together, in colours so rare
They appear'd like a garden, enchanting the air;
But what pleas'd me hugely, he call'd to my wife,
And said, “You have done Shelley's mood to the life.”
Some lady musicians completed the bower,
At head of whom earnestly gaz'd Betsy Flower.
In honour of her and of Petrarch, his bays.
“And how go your own winged horses?” quoth he:
Then he asked after Margaret Gillies and Mee,
Seyffarth, Carpenter, Robertson, Barrett, and Sharp,
The Corbaux, the Chalons:—in short, more than his harp
209
And look'd at the gall'ries, and smil'd as they rose:
For they all sat together, in colours so rare
They appear'd like a garden, enchanting the air;
But what pleas'd me hugely, he call'd to my wife,
And said, “You have done Shelley's mood to the life.”
Some lady musicians completed the bower,
At head of whom earnestly gaz'd Betsy Flower.
At the sight of Miss Edgeworth, he said, “Here comes one,
As sincere and as kind as lives under the sun;
Not poetical, eh?—nor much giv'n to insist
On utilities not in utility's list
(Things, nevertheless, without which the large heart
Of my world would but play a poor husk of a part),
But most truly, within her own sphere, sympathetic,
And that's no mean help tow'rds the practic-poetic.”
Then, smiling, he said a most singular thing,—
He thank'd her for making him “saving of string”!!
But for fear she should fancy he didn't approve her in
Matters more weighty, prais'd much her “Manœuvring;”
A book, which if aught could pierce craniums so dense,
Might supply cunning folks with a little good sense.
And her Irish (he added) poor souls! so impressed him,
He knew not if most they amus'd or distress'd him.
As sincere and as kind as lives under the sun;
Not poetical, eh?—nor much giv'n to insist
On utilities not in utility's list
(Things, nevertheless, without which the large heart
Of my world would but play a poor husk of a part),
But most truly, within her own sphere, sympathetic,
And that's no mean help tow'rds the practic-poetic.”
Then, smiling, he said a most singular thing,—
He thank'd her for making him “saving of string”!!
But for fear she should fancy he didn't approve her in
Matters more weighty, prais'd much her “Manœuvring;”
A book, which if aught could pierce craniums so dense,
Might supply cunning folks with a little good sense.
And her Irish (he added) poor souls! so impressed him,
He knew not if most they amus'd or distress'd him.
No fault had Miss Ferrier to find with her lot;
She was hail'd by the god as the “lauded of Scott.”
She was hail'd by the god as the “lauded of Scott.”
“Mrs. Gore.” Phœbus open'd his arms, with a face,
In the gladness of which was the coming embrace.
“For her satire,” he said, “wasn't evil, a bit;
But as full of good heart, as of spirits and wit;
Only somewhat he found, now and then, which dilated
A little too much on the fashions it rated,
And heaps of ‘Polite Conversation’ so true,
That he, once, really wish'd the three volumes were two;
But not when she dwelt upon daughters or mothers;
Oh, then the three made him quite long for three others;
And poor ‘Mrs. Armytage,’ warning exaction,
Sits arm-chair'd forever, a dread petrifaction.
Then how much good reading! what fit flowing words!
What enjoyment, whether midst houses or herds!
'Twas the thinking of men with the lightness of birds!”
In the gladness of which was the coming embrace.
“For her satire,” he said, “wasn't evil, a bit;
But as full of good heart, as of spirits and wit;
Only somewhat he found, now and then, which dilated
A little too much on the fashions it rated,
And heaps of ‘Polite Conversation’ so true,
That he, once, really wish'd the three volumes were two;
But not when she dwelt upon daughters or mothers;
Oh, then the three made him quite long for three others;
210
Sits arm-chair'd forever, a dread petrifaction.
Then how much good reading! what fit flowing words!
What enjoyment, whether midst houses or herds!
'Twas the thinking of men with the lightness of birds!”
Never prais'd be prose-love in a style so poetic.—
Then he kiss'd Mrs. Gillies by right sympathetic,
And somebody smiling, and looking askance,
He said, “Honi soit, my friend, qui mal y pense;
What in gods is a right and confirms a good fame,
Were in you a presumption. The same's not the same.”
And with this profound speech, and a bow to the dame
(Whom he thank'd for “Cleone,” and “Gentile and Jew,”
And for other things far more didactic and blue,
But advis'd for the future, to preach reformation
With all of her sweets, and no exacerbation)
He rais'd Mrs. Hall from her rev'rence profound,
Saying, “Nonsense, my dear; clasp me honestly round:—
For the gods love the pleasure you take, 'tis so hearty,
In all sorts of characters, careless of party.”
Then he kiss'd Mrs. Gillies by right sympathetic,
And somebody smiling, and looking askance,
He said, “Honi soit, my friend, qui mal y pense;
What in gods is a right and confirms a good fame,
Were in you a presumption. The same's not the same.”
And with this profound speech, and a bow to the dame
(Whom he thank'd for “Cleone,” and “Gentile and Jew,”
And for other things far more didactic and blue,
But advis'd for the future, to preach reformation
With all of her sweets, and no exacerbation)
He rais'd Mrs. Hall from her rev'rence profound,
Saying, “Nonsense, my dear; clasp me honestly round:—
For the gods love the pleasure you take, 'tis so hearty,
In all sorts of characters, careless of party.”
And now came Miss Hamilton. Phœbus presented
A look to her curtsey so little contented,
It seem'd less for poetess fit than for beldam!
In fact, she provok'd him by writing so seldom.
A look to her curtsey so little contented,
It seem'd less for poetess fit than for beldam!
In fact, she provok'd him by writing so seldom.
Mrs. Hoffland he tenderly welcom'd and styled
“Good motherly soul;” and benignantly smiled
On the close cap of Howitt. These Muse Quakeresses
Are Noes (he said) turn'd to the sweetest of Yesses.
“Good motherly soul;” and benignantly smiled
On the close cap of Howitt. These Muse Quakeresses
Are Noes (he said) turn'd to the sweetest of Yesses.
Lo! Jameson accomplish'd; and Lamb, the fine brain,
(News of Charles in Elysium brought balm to its pain;)
And Landon, whose grief is so dulcet a treasure,
We'd weep to oblige her, but can't for the pleasure.
(News of Charles in Elysium brought balm to its pain;)
And Landon, whose grief is so dulcet a treasure,
We'd weep to oblige her, but can't for the pleasure.
“Ah! welcome home, Martineau, turning statistics
To stories, and puzzling your philogamystics!
I own I can't see, any more than dame Nature,
Why love should await dear good Harriet's dictature!
But great is earth's want of some love-legislature.
To stories, and puzzling your philogamystics!
211
Why love should await dear good Harriet's dictature!
But great is earth's want of some love-legislature.
“And Mitford, all hail! with a head that for green
From your glad village crowners can hardly be seen.”
And with that he shone on it, and set us all blinking:
And yet at her kind heart sat tragedy, thinking.
From your glad village crowners can hardly be seen.”
And with that he shone on it, and set us all blinking:
And yet at her kind heart sat tragedy, thinking.
Then Montagu,—Eleanora Louisa!
Was ever name finer, 'twixt Naples and Pisa?
But not in name only, the lady hath merit;
Her thoughts have an eye, and the right inward spirit.
Was ever name finer, 'twixt Naples and Pisa?
But not in name only, the lady hath merit;
Her thoughts have an eye, and the right inward spirit.
And dear Lady Morgan! Look, look how she comes,
With her pulses all beating for freedom, like drums,—
So Irish, so modish, so mixtish, so wild,
So committing herself, as she talks, like a child,
So trim yet so easy, polite yet big-hearted,
That truth and she, try all she can, won't be parted.
She'll put on your fashions, your latest new air,
And then talk so frankly, she'll make you all stare:—
Mrs. Hall may say “Oh,” and Miss Edgeworth say “Fie,”
But my lady will know all the what and the why.
Her books, a like mixture, are so very clever,
The god himself swore he could read them forever;
Plot, character, freakishness, all are so good;
And the heroine's herself playing tricks in a hood.
So he kiss'd her, and call'd her “eternal good wench;”
But asked, why the devil she spoke so much French?
With her pulses all beating for freedom, like drums,—
So Irish, so modish, so mixtish, so wild,
So committing herself, as she talks, like a child,
So trim yet so easy, polite yet big-hearted,
That truth and she, try all she can, won't be parted.
She'll put on your fashions, your latest new air,
And then talk so frankly, she'll make you all stare:—
Mrs. Hall may say “Oh,” and Miss Edgeworth say “Fie,”
But my lady will know all the what and the why.
Her books, a like mixture, are so very clever,
The god himself swore he could read them forever;
Plot, character, freakishness, all are so good;
And the heroine's herself playing tricks in a hood.
So he kiss'd her, and call'd her “eternal good wench;”
But asked, why the devil she spoke so much French?
“Mrs. Norton.” The god, stepping forward a pace,
Kiss'd her hand in return, with respect in his face,
But said, “Why indulge us with nothing but sighs?
You best prove your merits when cheerful and wise:
Be still so; be just to the depth of your eyes.”
Then he turn'd to us all, and repeated in tones
Of approval so earnest as thrill'd to one's bones,
Some remarks of hers (bidding us learn them all too)
On the art of distinguishing false love from true.
After which, as he seated her near him, he cried,
“'Twas a large heart, and loving, that gave us this guide.”
Kiss'd her hand in return, with respect in his face,
But said, “Why indulge us with nothing but sighs?
You best prove your merits when cheerful and wise:
Be still so; be just to the depth of your eyes.”
Then he turn'd to us all, and repeated in tones
Of approval so earnest as thrill'd to one's bones,
Some remarks of hers (bidding us learn them all too)
On the art of distinguishing false love from true.
212
“'Twas a large heart, and loving, that gave us this guide.”
Well advanc'd, at this juncture, with true loving eyes,
Mrs. Opie, delightful for hating “White Lies.”
“Good Temper,” too, prince of the Lares (God bless him,) owes
Thousands of thanks to her nice duodecimos.
—“What! and you too must turn Quakeress, must you?”
Cried Phœbus;—“well, spite of your costume I'll trust you:
Though truth, you dear goose, as all born Quakeresses
Will tell you has nothing in common with dresses:
Besides, 'tis blaspheming my colours and skies:—
However, it shows you still young, and that's wise;
And since you must needs have no fault let us see
If you can't mend it somehow, betwixt you and me.”
He said; and threw round her a light of such love,
As turn'd her slate hues to the neck of the dove.
Mrs. Opie, delightful for hating “White Lies.”
“Good Temper,” too, prince of the Lares (God bless him,) owes
Thousands of thanks to her nice duodecimos.
—“What! and you too must turn Quakeress, must you?”
Cried Phœbus;—“well, spite of your costume I'll trust you:
Though truth, you dear goose, as all born Quakeresses
Will tell you has nothing in common with dresses:
Besides, 'tis blaspheming my colours and skies:—
However, it shows you still young, and that's wise;
And since you must needs have no fault let us see
If you can't mend it somehow, betwixt you and me.”
He said; and threw round her a light of such love,
As turn'd her slate hues to the neck of the dove.
Enter Pardoe all spirits, and Porter all state,
But sweet ones, like ladies whom knights made elate,
(The latter wore some foreign order, whose name
I forget; but it well graced the chivalrous dame.)
Then hearty good Roberts; and Roche (dear old deathless
Regina, whose lovers my boyhood made breathless,)
And Shelley, four-fam'd,—for her parents, her lord,
And the poor lone impossible monster abhorr'd.
(So sleek and so smiling she came, people stared,
To think such fair clay should so darkly have dared;
But Apollo the very name lov'd so, he turn'd
To a glory all round her, which shook as it burn'd,
And a whirlwind of music came sweet from the spheres);—
Then his shape he resum'd, with a bay round his ears,
And on Sheridan smil'd, name with wit ever found,
And on Somerville, head most surprisingly crown'd;
For instead of the little Loves, laughing at colleges,
Round it, in doctors' caps, flew little Knowledges!
Then came young Twamley, nice sensitive thing,
Whose pen and whose pencil give promise like spring;
Then Whitfield,—then Wortley,—and acridly bright
In her eyes, but sweet-lipp'd, the slaves' friend, Fanny Wright.
And now came the dance; for, lo! catching up two,
Since the guests had all come, Phœbus made, as he flew,
A grace and a beauty of waiving decorum
(For wit and warm heart carry all things before 'em)
And leading the way, swept them off to the ball,
Into which he plung'd instantly, music and all;
For the band felt his coming, and gave such a rare
Storm of welcome, as seem'd to blow back his bright hair;
And so he came whirling it, gods! how divinely!
The hearts of the whole room, I warrant, beat finely:
In fact, hadn't he himself kept their wits sound,
The room, the whole evening, had seem'd going round:
But, what was amazing, he so danc'd with all,
He suffic'd for the total male part of the ball!
Not as dancer theatrical, making a show
(Bah!—shocking to think of—Excessively no!)
But gentlemen-god-like, and all comme-il-faut.
Now with one, now with t'other he danc'd, now with ten!
For your god in his dancing is several men.
Fanny Butler he waltz'd with; he jigg'd it with Morgan;
With Hall he developed the rigadoon organ;
To Pardoe he show'd Spain's impassioned velocity;
Norton, the minuet's high reciprocity.
—Then he took Landon, ere she was aware,
Like a dove in a whirlwind, and whisk'd her in air;
Or as Zephyr might catch up some rose-haunting fay,
Or as Mercury once netted Flora, they say.
And then again, stately, like any Sultaùn
With his Queen, he and Blessington trod a pavàun,—
Which meaneth a “peacock dance.” Truly 'twas grand to see
How they came spreading it, pavoneggiàndosi!
—Up, at the sight, rose the oldest at last,
And join'd in a gen'ral dance, “furious and fast,”
With which the god mingled, like fire in a wheel,
Pervading it, golden; till reel after reel,
Bearing sheer off its legs with them giddy three-score,
They spun to the supper-room, clean through the door.
Then quoth Madame d'Arblay, panting much from her journey,
“Well—this beats my father himself, Doctor Burney!!”
But sweet ones, like ladies whom knights made elate,
(The latter wore some foreign order, whose name
I forget; but it well graced the chivalrous dame.)
Then hearty good Roberts; and Roche (dear old deathless
Regina, whose lovers my boyhood made breathless,)
And Shelley, four-fam'd,—for her parents, her lord,
And the poor lone impossible monster abhorr'd.
(So sleek and so smiling she came, people stared,
To think such fair clay should so darkly have dared;
But Apollo the very name lov'd so, he turn'd
To a glory all round her, which shook as it burn'd,
And a whirlwind of music came sweet from the spheres);—
Then his shape he resum'd, with a bay round his ears,
And on Sheridan smil'd, name with wit ever found,
And on Somerville, head most surprisingly crown'd;
For instead of the little Loves, laughing at colleges,
Round it, in doctors' caps, flew little Knowledges!
Then came young Twamley, nice sensitive thing,
Whose pen and whose pencil give promise like spring;
Then Whitfield,—then Wortley,—and acridly bright
In her eyes, but sweet-lipp'd, the slaves' friend, Fanny Wright.
213
Since the guests had all come, Phœbus made, as he flew,
A grace and a beauty of waiving decorum
(For wit and warm heart carry all things before 'em)
And leading the way, swept them off to the ball,
Into which he plung'd instantly, music and all;
For the band felt his coming, and gave such a rare
Storm of welcome, as seem'd to blow back his bright hair;
And so he came whirling it, gods! how divinely!
The hearts of the whole room, I warrant, beat finely:
In fact, hadn't he himself kept their wits sound,
The room, the whole evening, had seem'd going round:
But, what was amazing, he so danc'd with all,
He suffic'd for the total male part of the ball!
Not as dancer theatrical, making a show
(Bah!—shocking to think of—Excessively no!)
But gentlemen-god-like, and all comme-il-faut.
Now with one, now with t'other he danc'd, now with ten!
For your god in his dancing is several men.
Fanny Butler he waltz'd with; he jigg'd it with Morgan;
With Hall he developed the rigadoon organ;
To Pardoe he show'd Spain's impassioned velocity;
Norton, the minuet's high reciprocity.
—Then he took Landon, ere she was aware,
Like a dove in a whirlwind, and whisk'd her in air;
Or as Zephyr might catch up some rose-haunting fay,
Or as Mercury once netted Flora, they say.
And then again, stately, like any Sultaùn
With his Queen, he and Blessington trod a pavàun,—
Which meaneth a “peacock dance.” Truly 'twas grand to see
How they came spreading it, pavoneggiàndosi!
—Up, at the sight, rose the oldest at last,
And join'd in a gen'ral dance, “furious and fast,”
With which the god mingled, like fire in a wheel,
Pervading it, golden; till reel after reel,
Bearing sheer off its legs with them giddy three-score,
They spun to the supper-room, clean through the door.
Then quoth Madame d'Arblay, panting much from her journey,
“Well—this beats my father himself, Doctor Burney!!”
214
CANTO III.
Of the supper that Apollo gave his visitors, and with what sort of spectacle and of after-course he amazed them.
You remember those supper-room walls, made of flowers,
Which beat whatsoever for dead paramours
The lords of the east in white temples have done,
Where in emeralds and rubies fond epitaphs run?
Well,—a gallery lurk'd sweetly behind them; and there
We spectators, scarce knowing what took us, or where,
Got somehow, as soon as the guests had down sat 'em,
And found ourselves gazing most snugly down at 'em.
Which beat whatsoever for dead paramours
The lords of the east in white temples have done,
Where in emeralds and rubies fond epitaphs run?
Well,—a gallery lurk'd sweetly behind them; and there
We spectators, scarce knowing what took us, or where,
Got somehow, as soon as the guests had down sat 'em,
And found ourselves gazing most snugly down at 'em.
And thus as they sat before supper, to rest 'em,
Fresh airs through the rooms came increasing, and blest 'em;
So sweet, all grew silent, exchanging rapt looks;
And the silence ran thick with a bubbling of brooks.—
Fresh airs through the rooms came increasing, and blest 'em;
So sweet, all grew silent, exchanging rapt looks;
And the silence ran thick with a bubbling of brooks.—
Not long:—for commingling, by finest degrees,
With the stir of the foliage, and swell of the breeze,
A concert arose,—so delicious, so new,
So earnest, so fond, so appealing to you,
The notes seem'd to bathe in the tears which they drew.
With the stir of the foliage, and swell of the breeze,
A concert arose,—so delicious, so new,
So earnest, so fond, so appealing to you,
The notes seem'd to bathe in the tears which they drew.
Then there issued (get Vincent Novello, some day,
To show you the strain, for he took it away,)
A world-heavy gust, like all organs in one,
Or as though had swept earthward the roar of the sun,
Or the face of some god with his thunder-loud tresses,
Who comes like a terror, stays gently, and blesses,
And leaves us secure in the strength of humility.
—Phœbus however, with host-like civility,
Tried them no farther with godhead so grave:
To his sprites, on the sudden, blithe orders he gave,
And quoting the line about “lips being fed,”
(Which applied not alone to one heaven, he said,
For ambrosia and nectar sustain'd the realms upper)
There rose, veil'd in mist, to soft music, a supper.
To show you the strain, for he took it away,)
A world-heavy gust, like all organs in one,
Or as though had swept earthward the roar of the sun,
Or the face of some god with his thunder-loud tresses,
Who comes like a terror, stays gently, and blesses,
And leaves us secure in the strength of humility.
—Phœbus however, with host-like civility,
Tried them no farther with godhead so grave:
To his sprites, on the sudden, blithe orders he gave,
And quoting the line about “lips being fed,”
(Which applied not alone to one heaven, he said,
For ambrosia and nectar sustain'd the realms upper)
There rose, veil'd in mist, to soft music, a supper.
Very beauteous the mist was,—thin, white, with a bloom;
An odour of violets fill'd the whole room;
Ever trembled the music; and as the mist clear'd,
First, bunches of violets gently appeared,—
Then silver,—then gold,—then the tops of decanters
Of diamond,—then peaches, those cheek-like enchanters,
And other fruit, some in white baskets, and some
Enleaf'd on the bough, with a dew on the plum;
Then dishes, half seen, fit to make a physician
Turn glutton, from dairies and pastures Elysian;
The peaches hung over them, ready to drip;
And now the guests sat, and the mirth was let slip,
And white went the fingers from foliage to lip.
Then the music came sweet over all, like the sound
Of their fame; and behind ev'ry lady stood, crown'd
With the flame on his forehead, her Genius, who went
To and fro with his pinions, on messages bent
'Twixt her friends and herself, some sweet fruit or sweet word;
And aye at the table sweet laughter was heard.
But the best of it was, the god's wit so embrac'd
The whole room with its kindness and exquisite taste,
Every guest seem'd to feel his arm round her own waist.
An odour of violets fill'd the whole room;
215
First, bunches of violets gently appeared,—
Then silver,—then gold,—then the tops of decanters
Of diamond,—then peaches, those cheek-like enchanters,
And other fruit, some in white baskets, and some
Enleaf'd on the bough, with a dew on the plum;
Then dishes, half seen, fit to make a physician
Turn glutton, from dairies and pastures Elysian;
The peaches hung over them, ready to drip;
And now the guests sat, and the mirth was let slip,
And white went the fingers from foliage to lip.
Then the music came sweet over all, like the sound
Of their fame; and behind ev'ry lady stood, crown'd
With the flame on his forehead, her Genius, who went
To and fro with his pinions, on messages bent
'Twixt her friends and herself, some sweet fruit or sweet word;
And aye at the table sweet laughter was heard.
But the best of it was, the god's wit so embrac'd
The whole room with its kindness and exquisite taste,
Every guest seem'd to feel his arm round her own waist.
And well might seem palpable all which he said!
For as Pallas leap'd arm'd out of Jupiter's head,
So gods, when they please, utter things, and not words!
'Tis a fact!—solid visions!—clouds, armies, trees, herds:—
You see them—nay, feel them. Thus, talks he of roses?
They come, thick and globy, caressing your noses.
Of music? 'tis heard: of a sword? you may grasp it:
Of love, and the bosom you long for? you clasp it.
For as Pallas leap'd arm'd out of Jupiter's head,
So gods, when they please, utter things, and not words!
'Tis a fact!—solid visions!—clouds, armies, trees, herds:—
You see them—nay, feel them. Thus, talks he of roses?
They come, thick and globy, caressing your noses.
Of music? 'tis heard: of a sword? you may grasp it:
Of love, and the bosom you long for? you clasp it.
Conceive then the joy, when in toasting the women
Whom wit hath made deathless, we saw them all swim in!
Each crossing the end of the room!—What a sight!
The guests thrust their chairs back at first, in a fright.
I declare I beheld them so plainly, it took
All the self-command in me (so sweet was her look)
Not to jump from the gallery, and kiss Mrs. Brooke.
Lady Winchelsea cost me still more to go through it;
But at Lady Ann Barnard, I said “I must do it”
Whom wit hath made deathless, we saw them all swim in!
Each crossing the end of the room!—What a sight!
The guests thrust their chairs back at first, in a fright.
I declare I beheld them so plainly, it took
All the self-command in me (so sweet was her look)
Not to jump from the gallery, and kiss Mrs. Brooke.
Lady Winchelsea cost me still more to go through it;
But at Lady Ann Barnard, I said “I must do it”
216
I cannot name all who thus issued from air,
As the god made us see them;—but Sappho was there,
As brown as a berry, and little of size;
But Lord! with such midnight and love in her eyes!
Aspasia's however we thought still more loving:
Heart sat in their pupils, and gentlest approving.
We saw (only fancy it!) Pericles hand her;
And both (I can testify) look'd up at Landor.
Of Romans (whose women more startle than lull us)
Came none but the dame that's bound up with Tibullus;
But France furnished many, and Italy fair;
The laurel look'd sweet in their wild flowing hair.
Colonna came noble, in widow's black gown;
And Stampa, who worshipp'd a living renown;
Navarre's fair Boccaccio; the Rope-maker too;
Deshoulieres, kind and pensive; De Launay the true;
Sévigné, good mother, a little too fussy;
But how, when she will, she beats Walpole and Bussy!
Old selfish Du Deffand, more knowing than wise;
And Genlis didactic, and D'Houdetot's eyes;
And De Staël, mighty mistress, par Napoleoni,
(For so he would make her,) and dear Riccoboni;
Then Newcastle's Duchess, fantastic but rare;
And Behn and Centlivre, that plain-spoken pair;
And Wortley, who, had she been bred in a haram,
Had turn'd it, infallibly, all harum-scarum;
And sweet Brooke aforesaid, all cover'd with May,
And Lady Ann, lovely for “Auld Robin Gray;”
And dearest dear Winchelsea, whom I prefer,
After all, she so jumps with me, even to her:
(For although Lady Ann lov'd maternity, she
Lov'd love and the trees so, she might have lov'd me:)
But I see high-born Devonshire, who with such pith
Wrote of Tell and his platform; and poor Charlotte Smith,
Whose muse might have bless'd so her nooks and old houses,
Had lawyers not plagued her, and debts of her spouse's:
And Tighe, her own Psyche: and Elliott, sweet Jane,
Who made the lone dairies mourn Flodden again;
And Radcliffe, fear-charm'd, ever breathlessly creeping
Through castles and corridors, frightful to sleep in:
Then Barbauld, fine teacher, correcting impatience,
Or mounting the stars in divine meditations;
Thrale, Brunton, Trefusis, her heart pit-a-patting,
And Hemans, behind her grand organ-loft chatting;
With others I can't well remember at present,
Except Hannah More, looking very unpleasant.
As the god made us see them;—but Sappho was there,
As brown as a berry, and little of size;
But Lord! with such midnight and love in her eyes!
Aspasia's however we thought still more loving:
Heart sat in their pupils, and gentlest approving.
We saw (only fancy it!) Pericles hand her;
And both (I can testify) look'd up at Landor.
Of Romans (whose women more startle than lull us)
Came none but the dame that's bound up with Tibullus;
But France furnished many, and Italy fair;
The laurel look'd sweet in their wild flowing hair.
Colonna came noble, in widow's black gown;
And Stampa, who worshipp'd a living renown;
Navarre's fair Boccaccio; the Rope-maker too;
Deshoulieres, kind and pensive; De Launay the true;
Sévigné, good mother, a little too fussy;
But how, when she will, she beats Walpole and Bussy!
Old selfish Du Deffand, more knowing than wise;
And Genlis didactic, and D'Houdetot's eyes;
And De Staël, mighty mistress, par Napoleoni,
(For so he would make her,) and dear Riccoboni;
Then Newcastle's Duchess, fantastic but rare;
And Behn and Centlivre, that plain-spoken pair;
And Wortley, who, had she been bred in a haram,
Had turn'd it, infallibly, all harum-scarum;
And sweet Brooke aforesaid, all cover'd with May,
And Lady Ann, lovely for “Auld Robin Gray;”
And dearest dear Winchelsea, whom I prefer,
After all, she so jumps with me, even to her:
(For although Lady Ann lov'd maternity, she
Lov'd love and the trees so, she might have lov'd me:)
But I see high-born Devonshire, who with such pith
Wrote of Tell and his platform; and poor Charlotte Smith,
Whose muse might have bless'd so her nooks and old houses,
Had lawyers not plagued her, and debts of her spouse's:
And Tighe, her own Psyche: and Elliott, sweet Jane,
Who made the lone dairies mourn Flodden again;
And Radcliffe, fear-charm'd, ever breathlessly creeping
Through castles and corridors, frightful to sleep in:
217
Or mounting the stars in divine meditations;
Thrale, Brunton, Trefusis, her heart pit-a-patting,
And Hemans, behind her grand organ-loft chatting;
With others I can't well remember at present,
Except Hannah More, looking very unpleasant.
You'll fancy there could not have possibly been
A sight now, which females would sooner have seen
Than all this; and in truth, when you mark, in a street,
How they turn and inspect ev'ry bonnet they meet,
And how light, in comparison, seem to hold men,
'Tis a point I shall leave to some weightier pen.
Only pray be assur'd, that whatever the case,
It tells not a jot to our sex's disgrace;
And for this simple reason,—that us they are sure of,
But each other's claims are not quite so secure of.
Thus much I can swear,—that what follow'd this show
Was a sight made their cheeks with new gratitude glow,
And that half the dear souls fell in love on the spot,
And with posthumous men too! gallants living not!
Alas! did I say so? Oh impious misgiving!
Than Shakspeare and Petrarch pray who are more living?
Whose words more delight us? whose touches more touch?
For these were the shapes that now pass'd us,—all such
As the sex should most long to see, out of all story,—
The men that have done them most honour and glory.
A sight now, which females would sooner have seen
Than all this; and in truth, when you mark, in a street,
How they turn and inspect ev'ry bonnet they meet,
And how light, in comparison, seem to hold men,
'Tis a point I shall leave to some weightier pen.
Only pray be assur'd, that whatever the case,
It tells not a jot to our sex's disgrace;
And for this simple reason,—that us they are sure of,
But each other's claims are not quite so secure of.
Thus much I can swear,—that what follow'd this show
Was a sight made their cheeks with new gratitude glow,
And that half the dear souls fell in love on the spot,
And with posthumous men too! gallants living not!
Alas! did I say so? Oh impious misgiving!
Than Shakspeare and Petrarch pray who are more living?
Whose words more delight us? whose touches more touch?
For these were the shapes that now pass'd us,—all such
As the sex should most long to see, out of all story,—
The men that have done them most honour and glory.
First, Homer Andromache brought, like his child;
And beside them was Helen, who blushingly smil'd;—
Old trav'ller was he, and he walk'd with a sword.
Then Antigone came with the Samian lord,
Close-clinging, yet gentle.—Then Petrarch appear'd,
Looking still on the face by down-looking endear'd;
First exalter of animal passion with mind.
Him follow'd, still modestly keeping behind,
With book under arm, and in scholarly gown,
(Oh! ill have the gross understood his renown!)
Boccaccio, with faces a martyr might bless,
Griselda's among them, the patient excess.
Her look was the sweetest that never knew laughter;
And backward she turn'd tow'rds the shape that came after,
Great Chaucer. As humbly as maiden went he.
Young queens held their diadems of him in fee;
Young mothers and beauties, clear angels of earth;
I know not which grac'd them most, sorrow or mirth.
And beside them was Helen, who blushingly smil'd;—
Old trav'ller was he, and he walk'd with a sword.
Then Antigone came with the Samian lord,
Close-clinging, yet gentle.—Then Petrarch appear'd,
Looking still on the face by down-looking endear'd;
First exalter of animal passion with mind.
Him follow'd, still modestly keeping behind,
With book under arm, and in scholarly gown,
(Oh! ill have the gross understood his renown!)
Boccaccio, with faces a martyr might bless,
Griselda's among them, the patient excess.
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And backward she turn'd tow'rds the shape that came after,
Great Chaucer. As humbly as maiden went he.
Young queens held their diadems of him in fee;
Young mothers and beauties, clear angels of earth;
I know not which grac'd them most, sorrow or mirth.
Great Cervantes was next, fine romance-loving soul
(For his very jest lov'd it), with whom came a shoal
Of such blithe and sweet beauties, some courtly, some nurst
In Arcadia, I thought they were Shakspeare's at first;
But when he came, good Lord! what a heaven upon earth
Of young beauty was there! what sweet sorrow and mirth!
What most womanly women! what passion all beauteous
With patience! What love irrepressibly duteous!
What players at boyhood, as sweet as in gown!
What bosoms, where care might forever lie down!
Did heav'n keep a boarding-school, these were its blushers;—
But Shakspeares would never have done for the ushers.
(For his very jest lov'd it), with whom came a shoal
Of such blithe and sweet beauties, some courtly, some nurst
In Arcadia, I thought they were Shakspeare's at first;
But when he came, good Lord! what a heaven upon earth
Of young beauty was there! what sweet sorrow and mirth!
What most womanly women! what passion all beauteous
With patience! What love irrepressibly duteous!
What players at boyhood, as sweet as in gown!
What bosoms, where care might forever lie down!
Did heav'n keep a boarding-school, these were its blushers;—
But Shakspeares would never have done for the ushers.
The women at table, I thought, at this sight,
For pure, tongue-tied bliss, would have fainted outright;
But Apollo in pity dismiss'd it; and brought
Richard Steele on the carpet, the heart of light thought;
Who pass'd, with his wit and his wig, midst a bevy
Of hoops and bright eyes, as if bound for a levee;
Some cheeks were among them, more sweet for a sprinkle
Of tears; and the dupe of that horrid beast, Inkle.
Steele led by the hand his own wife in the crowd,
And as if reassuring her, kiss'd it, and bow'd.
For pure, tongue-tied bliss, would have fainted outright;
But Apollo in pity dismiss'd it; and brought
Richard Steele on the carpet, the heart of light thought;
Who pass'd, with his wit and his wig, midst a bevy
Of hoops and bright eyes, as if bound for a levee;
Some cheeks were among them, more sweet for a sprinkle
Of tears; and the dupe of that horrid beast, Inkle.
Steele led by the hand his own wife in the crowd,
And as if reassuring her, kiss'd it, and bow'd.
In discourse of this kind, and such rapturous expressions
As perfectly scorn'd all the old self-possessions,
(For really I can't say which rattled most gaily,
Dear frank Lady Morgan, or quiet Miss Bailey;
Though somebody said, that tow'rds three, Mrs. Hall
Was, beyond any question, the merriest of all:
And I'm told that Miss Edgeworth became so vivacious,
The damsels from boarding-school whispered, “My gracious!”)
In talk of this kind, and a world of sweet will,
Which turn'd all our heads ('tis in mine dancing still)
The delight ran its rounds, till 'twas time to break up;
When Apollo, instead of the old parting cup,
(Which with ladies might not have been quite so decorous)
Exclaim'd, “Set the new parting dishes before us.”
As perfectly scorn'd all the old self-possessions,
(For really I can't say which rattled most gaily,
Dear frank Lady Morgan, or quiet Miss Bailey;
Though somebody said, that tow'rds three, Mrs. Hall
Was, beyond any question, the merriest of all:
And I'm told that Miss Edgeworth became so vivacious,
The damsels from boarding-school whispered, “My gracious!”)
219
Which turn'd all our heads ('tis in mine dancing still)
The delight ran its rounds, till 'twas time to break up;
When Apollo, instead of the old parting cup,
(Which with ladies might not have been quite so decorous)
Exclaim'd, “Set the new parting dishes before us.”
No sooner exclaim'd than accomplish'd. Behold
Ev'ry guest had a cover of exquisite mould,
Rich yet simple, of porcelain. Angelica's self
Had had twice her attractions, with one on her shelf.
The sides were all painted, not only with Muses
And Loves, but with Lares, and sweet Household Uses:
Good Temper was laying a cloth for Good Heart,
And the Graces were actually making a tart!
Each cover for knob had a ruby, heart-shap'd;
And the whole stood on legs, with white elegance drap'd,—
Legs bewitching, most feminine, tipp'd with a shoe;
And the stockings (mark that!) were a violet blue.
Ev'ry guest had a cover of exquisite mould,
Rich yet simple, of porcelain. Angelica's self
Had had twice her attractions, with one on her shelf.
The sides were all painted, not only with Muses
And Loves, but with Lares, and sweet Household Uses:
Good Temper was laying a cloth for Good Heart,
And the Graces were actually making a tart!
Each cover for knob had a ruby, heart-shap'd;
And the whole stood on legs, with white elegance drap'd,—
Legs bewitching, most feminine, tipp'd with a shoe;
And the stockings (mark that!) were a violet blue.
All the room fell a whispering;—“What can they be?”
“Is it sweets?”—“concert-tickets?”—“It cannot be tea?”
“I'd give millions to know,” said Miss Porter. “And I,”
Said Miss Barrett, “my head.” Said Miss Landon, “I'd die.”
“You may see it ex pede,” said Mrs. Gore, chuckling:
“'Tis something dress'd à la Sir John—à la Suckling.”
“Is it sweets?”—“concert-tickets?”—“It cannot be tea?”
“I'd give millions to know,” said Miss Porter. “And I,”
Said Miss Barrett, “my head.” Said Miss Landon, “I'd die.”
“You may see it ex pede,” said Mrs. Gore, chuckling:
“'Tis something dress'd à la Sir John—à la Suckling.”
And 'twas so.—O Suckling, O gallant Sir John,
Thou gentleman poet, first plume of the ton;
Who the reign or two Charleses by anticipation
Didst mingle in one with thy cordial flirtation;
Fresh painter of “Weddings,” great author of rare
“Poet-Sessions,” and petit-soupés to the fair;
Unto whom thou didst make happy milliner-loves
With bijou for the sweetmeats, and dishes of gloves,
And sent'st home the darlings in flutters of fan,
At the wit of the thought of the exquisite man!
O facile princeps of “wit about town,”
What a bay clips thee now! What a crown above crown!
Homer's self had but men for his copiers; but thee
Homer's very god copies, thou great bel esprit!
Thou gentleman poet, first plume of the ton;
Who the reign or two Charleses by anticipation
Didst mingle in one with thy cordial flirtation;
Fresh painter of “Weddings,” great author of rare
“Poet-Sessions,” and petit-soupés to the fair;
Unto whom thou didst make happy milliner-loves
With bijou for the sweetmeats, and dishes of gloves,
And sent'st home the darlings in flutters of fan,
At the wit of the thought of the exquisite man!
O facile princeps of “wit about town,”
What a bay clips thee now! What a crown above crown!
220
Homer's very god copies, thou great bel esprit!
The genius that stood behind each lady's chair,
From her dish took the cover; when forth, in glad air,
Leap'd a couple of small merry Loves, who display'd
What d'ye think?—a new girdle? a busk? a new braid?
No;—the sweetest Blue Stockings that ever were made.
The blue was a violet, fresh as first love;
And the garters were blush-colour, mingled with dove.
From her dish took the cover; when forth, in glad air,
Leap'd a couple of small merry Loves, who display'd
What d'ye think?—a new girdle? a busk? a new braid?
No;—the sweetest Blue Stockings that ever were made.
The blue was a violet, fresh as first love;
And the garters were blush-colour, mingled with dove.
To describe the “sensation” produced by this sight,
The dismays, pretty doubtings, the laughs, the delight,
Were a task I should never have done, if I told ye,
And haste does not let me; for lo and behold ye!
As doves round a house-top, in summer-time blue,
Take a sudden stoop earthwards, and sweep from the view,
So the Loves, one and all, rising first with a clapping
Of pinions, pass'd by us, tempestuously flapping;
Then stoop'd, quick as lightning, and gliding right under
The table, all vanish'd!—A shriek of sweet wonder
Rose sudden and brief, as of fear come and gone;
And 'twas felt thro' the room, that the stockings were on!
The dismays, pretty doubtings, the laughs, the delight,
Were a task I should never have done, if I told ye,
And haste does not let me; for lo and behold ye!
As doves round a house-top, in summer-time blue,
Take a sudden stoop earthwards, and sweep from the view,
So the Loves, one and all, rising first with a clapping
Of pinions, pass'd by us, tempestuously flapping;
Then stoop'd, quick as lightning, and gliding right under
The table, all vanish'd!—A shriek of sweet wonder
Rose sudden and brief, as of fear come and gone;
And 'twas felt thro' the room, that the stockings were on!
Mute, curious, respectful (for all were inspir'd
With the feelings so nice an occasion requir'd)
We sat for some moments, as still as Apollo's
Own table; till sweet, as when breath fills the hollows
Of organs, mild waking,—he utter'd what follows:—
With the feelings so nice an occasion requir'd)
We sat for some moments, as still as Apollo's
Own table; till sweet, as when breath fills the hollows
Of organs, mild waking,—he utter'd what follows:—
“Dear souls with fine eyes (may they never be kiss'd
By a fool!) fear no more the mistakes that exist
With regard to these footings of yours, and their blue;
Fear no more the confusion of false and of true;
Strange confusion at any time, seeing its grounds!
For who, in his taste, sweet and bitter confounds?
And whence rose it? An authoress, once on a time,
Could discover, it seems, no such wonderful crime
In the legs of an honest old soul at her party,
Who came in his blue stockings, ancient and hearty,
(Ben Stillingfleet namely, fine-hearted old codger;
A loving old bachelor,—real Sir Roger;)
But coxcombs (themselves a pedantical crew)
Palm'd, in spite, upon her, the old gentleman's blue;
And thence, by as clever and handsome transition,
Assum'd it of all in like letter'd condition.
As nicknames, however, are things we've a dread of
In heaven itself, they're so hard to get rid of,
And as the best way to divert their abuse
(If we use them at all) is to give them right use,
I hereby ordain, that in future the word
Be confined to the masculine, vain, and absurd,
And that all real women, ev'n though they may speak
Not with Sappho's eyes only, but even her Greek,
All the flow'rs of the flock, the true breathers of sweets,
Take their name from the queen of the sylvan retreats;
From the hue which but now had your eyes fix'd upon it,—
The Violet,—charmer of all that light on it.
No Blue,” 'twill be said, “is the she who so bears her;
She's Violet:—happy the bosom that wears her.”
By a fool!) fear no more the mistakes that exist
With regard to these footings of yours, and their blue;
Fear no more the confusion of false and of true;
Strange confusion at any time, seeing its grounds!
For who, in his taste, sweet and bitter confounds?
And whence rose it? An authoress, once on a time,
Could discover, it seems, no such wonderful crime
In the legs of an honest old soul at her party,
Who came in his blue stockings, ancient and hearty,
(Ben Stillingfleet namely, fine-hearted old codger;
A loving old bachelor,—real Sir Roger;)
221
Palm'd, in spite, upon her, the old gentleman's blue;
And thence, by as clever and handsome transition,
Assum'd it of all in like letter'd condition.
As nicknames, however, are things we've a dread of
In heaven itself, they're so hard to get rid of,
And as the best way to divert their abuse
(If we use them at all) is to give them right use,
I hereby ordain, that in future the word
Be confined to the masculine, vain, and absurd,
And that all real women, ev'n though they may speak
Not with Sappho's eyes only, but even her Greek,
All the flow'rs of the flock, the true breathers of sweets,
Take their name from the queen of the sylvan retreats;
From the hue which but now had your eyes fix'd upon it,—
The Violet,—charmer of all that light on it.
No Blue,” 'twill be said, “is the she who so bears her;
She's Violet:—happy the bosom that wears her.”
Here somebody happening to cough where we sat,
Phœbus threw up a frown at us none could look at,—
An eye of so sudden a flame and tremendous,
I thought he was going to “flare up” and end us;
But seeing us all look submissive, he shone
With the former mild beams in his hair, and went on:—
Phœbus threw up a frown at us none could look at,—
An eye of so sudden a flame and tremendous,
I thought he was going to “flare up” and end us;
But seeing us all look submissive, he shone
With the former mild beams in his hair, and went on:—
“And in truth it depends on yourselves, darling creatures,
Which shade of the hue shall illustrate your natures;
For though ye set out with the right one, nay, though
I myself, as I now do, the blessing bestow,
Yet the stockings themselves, I must tell you, are fated,
And just as they're worn, will be lov'd or get hated;
Remaining true violet,—glimpses of heaven,—
As long as you're wise, and your tempers are even.
But if you grow formal, or fierce, or untrue,
Alas, gentle colour! sweet ankle, adieu!
Thou art chang'd; and Love's self at the changing looks blue.
Seize the golden occasion then.—You, who already
Are gentle, remain so; and you, who would steady
Your natures, and mend them, and make out your call
To be men's best companions, be such, once for all.
And remember, that nobody, woman or man,
Ever charm'd the next ages, since writing began,
Who thought by shrewd dealing sound fame to arrive at,
Had one face in print, and another in private.
Which shade of the hue shall illustrate your natures;
For though ye set out with the right one, nay, though
I myself, as I now do, the blessing bestow,
Yet the stockings themselves, I must tell you, are fated,
And just as they're worn, will be lov'd or get hated;
Remaining true violet,—glimpses of heaven,—
As long as you're wise, and your tempers are even.
But if you grow formal, or fierce, or untrue,
Alas, gentle colour! sweet ankle, adieu!
Thou art chang'd; and Love's self at the changing looks blue.
Seize the golden occasion then.—You, who already
Are gentle, remain so; and you, who would steady
222
To be men's best companions, be such, once for all.
And remember, that nobody, woman or man,
Ever charm'd the next ages, since writing began,
Who thought by shrewd dealing sound fame to arrive at,
Had one face in print, and another in private.
“Unaffectedness, Gentleness, Lovingness.—This
Be your motto. And now give your teacher a kiss.”
Be your motto. And now give your teacher a kiss.”
He said: and the whole house appearing to rise,
Rooms and all, in a rapture of love, tow'rds the skies,
He did really, by some divine privilege of his,
Give and take of the dames an ubiquitous kiss;
Which exalted us all so, and rapt us so far,
We undoubtedly touch'd at some exquisite star;
Very likely the morning star, Venus's own,
For the odour proclaim'd it some violet zone:
And to prove 'twas no dream, any more than the bedding
Which Prince Camaralzaman had or Bedredden,
I woke, just as they did, at home, about seven,
The moment Miss Landon was saying “Good Heaven!”
Rooms and all, in a rapture of love, tow'rds the skies,
He did really, by some divine privilege of his,
Give and take of the dames an ubiquitous kiss;
Which exalted us all so, and rapt us so far,
We undoubtedly touch'd at some exquisite star;
Very likely the morning star, Venus's own,
For the odour proclaim'd it some violet zone:
And to prove 'twas no dream, any more than the bedding
Which Prince Camaralzaman had or Bedredden,
I woke, just as they did, at home, about seven,
The moment Miss Landon was saying “Good Heaven!”
THE ST. JAMES'S PHENOMENON.
BEING A SURPRISING NEW BALLAD, ON A MOST WONDERFUL CREATURE NOW EXHIBITING IN WESTMINSTER.
Good people all, attend now,
And I'll tell ye of such a monster,
As shall make your eyes
Be double their size,
And the hats that ye have on stir.
And I'll tell ye of such a monster,
As shall make your eyes
Be double their size,
And the hats that ye have on stir.
I'm aware there've been before this
As pretty frights as may be,
Two sisters in one,
And babes like a tun,
And much worse things than they be.
As pretty frights as may be,
Two sisters in one,
And babes like a tun,
And much worse things than they be.
223
For I've heard of an unlegg'd body
That went about on castors,
And a head that would come
Bolt into a room,
And cry, “How now, my masters!”
That went about on castors,
And a head that would come
Bolt into a room,
And cry, “How now, my masters!”
But Lord! all these were handsome
To the one I'm going to mention;
To whom a shark
Is a perfect spark,
And an ogre deserves a pension.
To the one I'm going to mention;
To whom a shark
Is a perfect spark,
And an ogre deserves a pension.
Hard by St. James's Palace
You may see this prince of shockings,
But not before three,
For at one, d'ye see,
He begins to put on his stockings.
You may see this prince of shockings,
But not before three,
For at one, d'ye see,
He begins to put on his stockings.
His head, or else what should be
In the place that's on his shoulders,
Is nothing but hair
Frizz'd here and there,
To the terror of all beholders.
In the place that's on his shoulders,
Is nothing but hair
Frizz'd here and there,
To the terror of all beholders.
That it has a mouth, is clear from
His drinkings and his vap'rings;
But all agree
That he cannot see,
For he'll take a pig for a prince.
His drinkings and his vap'rings;
But all agree
That he cannot see,
For he'll take a pig for a prince.
To tell you what his throat is,
Is a matter a little puzzling;
But I should guess,
That more or less,
It was forty yards of muslin.
Is a matter a little puzzling;
But I should guess,
That more or less,
It was forty yards of muslin.
His shoulders are very curious,
And really none of the wildest;
For both are made
Of cane inlaid;
And here, they say, he's mildest.
And really none of the wildest;
For both are made
Of cane inlaid;
And here, they say, he's mildest.
224
Of his fingers a tailor tells me
(For one here and there the truth picks)
That the right, when they span,
Are a lady's fan,
And the left a start of tooth-picks.
(For one here and there the truth picks)
That the right, when they span,
Are a lady's fan,
And the left a start of tooth-picks.
His legs are just like barrels
With butts of leather on 'em;
Yet some declare
That without great care
He can't stand long upon 'em.
With butts of leather on 'em;
Yet some declare
That without great care
He can't stand long upon 'em.
But his body, his body's the wonder,
For a lady who touch'd the surface,
Look'd pale and said,
'Twas a positive bed:—
I wish you had seen her face.
For a lady who touch'd the surface,
Look'd pale and said,
'Twas a positive bed:—
I wish you had seen her face.
His organs of digestion
Make a noise like the wheels of mangles;
His tongue's a skin,
And hollow within;
And his teeth are dice at angles.
Make a noise like the wheels of mangles;
His tongue's a skin,
And hollow within;
And his teeth are dice at angles.
For the rest there's no deciding;
But it's fully believed on all hands,
That his brains are veal,
And his heart of steel,
And his blood rum-punch and hollands.
But it's fully believed on all hands,
That his brains are veal,
And his heart of steel,
And his blood rum-punch and hollands.
N. B. Behave respectful;
For if he thinks you flout him,
He's got a big
Old Judge's wig,
Wherewith he lays about him.
For if he thinks you flout him,
He's got a big
Old Judge's wig,
Wherewith he lays about him.
225
CORONATION SOLILOQUY OF HIS MAJESTY KING GEORGE THE FOURTH.
1821.
[_]
To the tune of
Amo, amas,
I love a lass
As cedar tall and slender;
Sweet cowslip's grace,
Is her nominative case,
And she's of the feminine gender.
Horum quorum,
Sunt divorum,
Harum, scarum, divo;
Tag rag, merry derry, periwig and hatband,
Hic, hoc, harum, genitivo.
O'Keefe.
I
Rego, regis,Good God, what's this?
What, only half my Peeries!
Regas, regat,
Good God, what's that?
The voice is like my deary's!
Oh, no more there;
Shut the door there;
Harum, scarum, strife O!
Bags, Bags, Sherry Derry, periwigs, and fat lads,
Save us from our wife O!
II
I decline aC. Regina,
Rex alone's more handsome:
Oh what luck, Sir,
Exit uxor!
Rursus ego a man sum.
Glory, glory!
How will story
Tell how I was gazed at!
Perfect from my pumps, to the plumes above my hat-band,
All are me amazed at!
226
III
Yes, my hat, Sirs,Think of that, Sirs,
Vast, and plumed, and Spain-like:
See my big,
Grand robes; my wig
Young, yet lion-mane like.
Glory! glory!
I'm not hoary;
Age it can't come o'er me:
Mad caps, grave caps, gazing on the grand man,
All alike adore me.
IV
I know whereA fat, a fair,
Sweet other self is doting:
I'd reply
With wink of eye,
But fear the newsman noting.
Hah! the Toying,
Never cloying,
Cometh to console me:
Crowns and sceptres, jewellery, state swords,—
Who now shall control me?
V
Must I walk now!What a baulk now!
Non est regis talis.
O, for youth now!
For in truth now,
Non sum eram qualis.
Well, well, roar us,
On before us,
Harum, flarum, stout O,
Stately, greatly, periwig and trumpets,—
Oh, could I leave but my gout O!
227
VI
What a dies!How it fri-es!
Handkerchiefs for sixty.
Approbatio!
Sibilatio!
How I feel betwixt ye!
Curlies, burlies,
Dukes and earlies,
Bangs and clangs of band O!
Shouty, flouty, heavy rig, and gouty,
When shall I come to a stand O!
VII
Bliss at last!The street is pass'd;
The aisle—I've dragg'd me through it:
Oh the rare
Old crowning chair!
I fear I flopp'd into it.
Balmy, balmy,
Comes the psalmy;
Bland the organ blows me;
Crown down coming on a periwig that fits me,
All right royal shows me!
VIII
Oh how bonaMy corona!
Sitting so how dulcis!
My oculus grim,
And my sceptrum slim,
And proud, as I hold it, my pulse is!
Shout us, chorus;
Organs, roar us;
Realms, let a secret start ye:—
Dragon-killing George on the coin is myself,
And the dragon is Bonaparte.
IX
And yet alas!Must e'en I pass
228
Oh pang profound!
And I now walk crown'd,
And with sceptre in hand to boot, Sirs!
I go, I go,
With a fire in my toe,
I'm bowing, blasting, baking!
Hall, O Hall, ope your doors, and let your guest in;
Every inch I'm à—king.
X
But now we dine!Oh word divine,
Beyond what e'en has crown'd it!
Envy may call
Great monarchs small,
But feast, and you dumb-found it.
Brandy, brandy,
To steady me handy
For playing my knife and fork, O!
Green fat, and devilry, shall warrant me ere bed-time,
In drawing my twentieth cork O.
XI.
Hah, my Champy!Plumy, trampy!
Astley's best can't beat him!
See his frown!
His glove thrown down!
Should a foe appear, he'd eat him!
Glory, glory,
Glut and glory,—
I mean poury,
Glut and poury,—
Poury, mory,
Splash and floory,
Crown us, drown us, vivo!
Cram dram, never end, plethora be d---n'd, man;
Vivat Rex dead-alive O!
229
HIGH AND LOW; OR, HOW TO WRITE HISTORY.
SUGGESTED BY AN ARTICLE IN A REVIEW FROM THE PEN OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, IN WHICH ACCOUNTS ARE GIVEN OF MASSANIELLO AND THE DUKE OF GUISE.
“I noticed a deserted corpse that lay in a corner, with a label attached
to the breast. It was evidently one of the humblest citizens, and the
address was ‘Rue St. Antoine.’ Honour to whom it was due! The
Hampdens who saved Paris, and probably all France, from the paternal
ordonnances of his Most Christian Majesty, were the canaille of St.
Antoine, St. Denis, and St. Martin—men whom the chivalrous Sir
Walter Scott would term the ‘brutal populace of a great town.’ His
‘high-born and high-bred’ warriors never achieved a victory more
beneficial to mankind. The freedom not only of France, but of all
the Continent, was weighed in the balance against despotism, and
prevailed by the efforts of soiled and swarthy artisans.”
—Letter from Paris, in the Spectator.
That fisherman they talk of,—Massaniello,—
Was clearly, by his birth, a sorry fellow,
One of the raffs we shrink from in the street,
Wore an old hat, and went with naked feet;
Which made him fancy, the vain dog! he knew
More truths of poverty than I or you;
Felt more for people's wrongs; and loath'd to see 'em,
For pure starvation, forc'd to sing Te Deum.
[For all reform is vanity or will;
A modest man damns freedom, and sits still.]
Was clearly, by his birth, a sorry fellow,
One of the raffs we shrink from in the street,
Wore an old hat, and went with naked feet;
Which made him fancy, the vain dog! he knew
More truths of poverty than I or you;
Felt more for people's wrongs; and loath'd to see 'em,
For pure starvation, forc'd to sing Te Deum.
[For all reform is vanity or will;
A modest man damns freedom, and sits still.]
So up this foppish Fisherman arose,
Got the poor fed, and help'd himself to cloès,
And brought such wondering gallants to the block,
That writers for a court still feel the shock.
I cannot mention him myself, I own,
Nor paint the dread plebeian on his throne,
But fear must pelt his memory with a stone.
Got the poor fed, and help'd himself to cloès,
And brought such wondering gallants to the block,
That writers for a court still feel the shock.
I cannot mention him myself, I own,
Nor paint the dread plebeian on his throne,
But fear must pelt his memory with a stone.
But mark, ye vain reformers, and beware;
Sore ills beset this new Dictator's chair:
Sore ills, and sore disputes; conspiring lords,
Fear to do wrong, daggers, and bowls, and cords;
Till vex'd, and finding what a task he had,
And losing his nights' rest, the man went mad!
The people's head went mad! So dire a thing
It is, in men, to imitate a King!
Well,—being mad, of course he laid about him,
Till friends, like foes, were glad to do without him;
They kill'd him; kick'd his body, which was funny;
And lords, from out of windows, threw them money.
So much for shoeless, hatless Massaniello,
Meaning “Tom Lamb!” “Tom Lamb!!” Think of the fellow!!!
Sore ills beset this new Dictator's chair:
Sore ills, and sore disputes; conspiring lords,
Fear to do wrong, daggers, and bowls, and cords;
Till vex'd, and finding what a task he had,
And losing his nights' rest, the man went mad!
230
It is, in men, to imitate a King!
Well,—being mad, of course he laid about him,
Till friends, like foes, were glad to do without him;
They kill'd him; kick'd his body, which was funny;
And lords, from out of windows, threw them money.
So much for shoeless, hatless Massaniello,
Meaning “Tom Lamb!” “Tom Lamb!!” Think of the fellow!!!
On t'other hand, commend me to the ease
And noble bearing of the Duke of Guise!
High-born and hot, respectable of course,
And one that sat most gracefully his horse.
So great a soul was Guise, that “When,” said he,
“God makes a person of my quality,
He stamps a something on him, 'twixt the eyes,
At which the heart within a tradesman dies.”
[Reader, if this be hard to understand,
Vide some Duke,—for instance, Cumberland.]
This Duke, so proper to direct the poor,
Not getting to be master, curst and swore,
Kick'd the French flag, blasphem'd till he was hoarse,
And utter'd things (I'm loth to say it) coarse.
Something of this might possibly be true;
'Tis awful to reflect what rage can do;
But I suspect, that much of it was merely
A mode of venting his high mind sincerely;
Pure, sprightly oaths, and gentlemanly fire;
At least, th' accuser is a “vulgar friar.”
I grant the Duke of Guise thought no great things
Of a few stabs, and petty poisonings:
'Tis curious, now-a-days, when people scout 'em,
To see how quietly he talks about 'em:
But these were peccadilloes in those times,
Freaks of high birth, expediencies, no crimes:
Not like the vices of a low-born rabble,
Outcry, and want, and Famine's idiot babble.
Besides, “his situation forc'd” our hero
To be a bit of Bloody-bones and Nero,
A thing in mobs which never can take place;
And then 'twas in the blood of all his race;
And if their son, poor fellow, was no wiser,
The reason was, “he wanted an adviser.”
And noble bearing of the Duke of Guise!
High-born and hot, respectable of course,
And one that sat most gracefully his horse.
So great a soul was Guise, that “When,” said he,
“God makes a person of my quality,
He stamps a something on him, 'twixt the eyes,
At which the heart within a tradesman dies.”
[Reader, if this be hard to understand,
Vide some Duke,—for instance, Cumberland.]
This Duke, so proper to direct the poor,
Not getting to be master, curst and swore,
Kick'd the French flag, blasphem'd till he was hoarse,
And utter'd things (I'm loth to say it) coarse.
Something of this might possibly be true;
'Tis awful to reflect what rage can do;
But I suspect, that much of it was merely
A mode of venting his high mind sincerely;
Pure, sprightly oaths, and gentlemanly fire;
At least, th' accuser is a “vulgar friar.”
I grant the Duke of Guise thought no great things
Of a few stabs, and petty poisonings:
'Tis curious, now-a-days, when people scout 'em,
To see how quietly he talks about 'em:
But these were peccadilloes in those times,
Freaks of high birth, expediencies, no crimes:
Not like the vices of a low-born rabble,
Outcry, and want, and Famine's idiot babble.
Besides, “his situation forc'd” our hero
To be a bit of Bloody-bones and Nero,
231
And then 'twas in the blood of all his race;
And if their son, poor fellow, was no wiser,
The reason was, “he wanted an adviser.”
In short, give me, for a display of force,
A high-born, hacking blade upon a horse;
Who pummels the base many, that pretend
God made their skulls to any other end;
Not a low humanist, without a sou,
Who reads disgusting lessons to the few.
A high-born, hacking blade upon a horse;
Who pummels the base many, that pretend
God made their skulls to any other end;
Not a low humanist, without a sou,
Who reads disgusting lessons to the few.
DOCTOR BAN;
OR, QUESTION FOR QUESTION.
Terror's and wrath's brave champion, Doctor Ban,
Scorning us holders to the loving plan,
Asks if we “take God for a gentleman?”
Scorning us holders to the loving plan,
Asks if we “take God for a gentleman?”
The scandal of the question match who can!
God's not, we own, to be defined by man;
But why must he resemble Doctor Ban?
God's not, we own, to be defined by man;
But why must he resemble Doctor Ban?
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