The poetical works of Leigh Hunt :: :: University of Virginia Library

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.

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.

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,

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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.

“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.”

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!

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!”

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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.

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.

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.

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,

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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.

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.

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.

“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

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(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.

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!