 | Pot-Pourri |  |
1
Parody will only strike at what is chimerical and false; it is not a piece of buffoonery so much as a critical exposition.
D'Israeli's Curiosities of Literature.3
THE RUINED PALACE
In a green depth, like a chalice,
By most sweet flowers tenanted,
Stood a fair and stately palace.
There a poet soul—now dead—
Lived in days in vain lamented,—
Had lived to-day,
But was wayward—or demented,
Weak or worse,—who dares to say?
By most sweet flowers tenanted,
Stood a fair and stately palace.
There a poet soul—now dead—
Lived in days in vain lamented,—
Had lived to-day,
But was wayward—or demented,
Weak or worse,—who dares to say?
For his thought was streak'd with fancies,
To all simple truth untrue:
Bizarre as the hues of pansies,—
The dark shades he knew.
To all simple truth untrue:
Bizarre as the hues of pansies,—
The dark shades he knew.
4
And he wander'd from this Aidenn:
Wander'd, and was lost, alas!
Though his own belovèd maiden
Track'd his footsteps through the grass.
Wander'd, and was lost, alas!
Though his own belovèd maiden
Track'd his footsteps through the grass.
He return'd not. Devastation
Housed in his disorder'd rooms;
On his couch lay Desolation;
Vampyres flitted through the glooms.
By the pure white Parian fountains
Lounged the Ghouls obscenely bare:
Never wind came from the mountains
To refresh the stagnant air.
Housed in his disorder'd rooms;
On his couch lay Desolation;
Vampyres flitted through the glooms.
By the pure white Parian fountains
Lounged the Ghouls obscenely bare:
Never wind came from the mountains
To refresh the stagnant air.
O'er the garden walks neglected
Crawl'd the toad, the worm, the snail;
Droop'd the young buds unrespected:
Loving care could not avail.
For the poet soul, the master,
Could alone that place
Make beautiful and from disaster
Free—as Aidenn—by God's grace.
Crawl'd the toad, the worm, the snail;
Droop'd the young buds unrespected:
Loving care could not avail.
For the poet soul, the master,
Could alone that place
Make beautiful and from disaster
Free—as Aidenn—by God's grace.
When he the palace left, and garden,—
The moment that he would depart—
The moment that he would depart—
Speech is vain. And tears but harden
On the world's ice heart.
On the world's ice heart.
5
DREAM-MERE
On a root, knobb'd, gnarl'd, and lonely,
Overstuck with toadstools only,
Sits an Eidolon named Night,—
On a toadstool half upright.
I have seen this sprite but newly,
And I look'd at him quite throughly,
In his ultimate dim Thulè,
As he sate there half upright,
In a wild weird clime, and singing sublime,
Out of tune—out of time.
Overstuck with toadstools only,
Sits an Eidolon named Night,—
On a toadstool half upright.
I have seen this sprite but newly,
And I look'd at him quite throughly,
In his ultimate dim Thulè,
As he sate there half upright,
In a wild weird clime, and singing sublime,
Out of tune—out of time.
Bottomless hollows and roaring floods,
And caves and chasms and haunted woods,
Forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Shoreless seas that still aspire,
Surging to hellish heavens of fire;
Boundless lakes all lone and dead,
Where sometimes Night lies outspread
In the waters still and chilly,
With his nose in a lolling lily.
And caves and chasms and haunted woods,
Forms that no man can discover
For the dews that drip all over;
Mountains toppling evermore
Into seas without a shore;
Shoreless seas that still aspire,
Surging to hellish heavens of fire;
Boundless lakes all lone and dead,
Where sometimes Night lies outspread
In the waters still and chilly,
With his nose in a lolling lily.
By these shoreless lakes outspread,
These lone waters, lone and dead,
These lone waters, still and chilly
(Night's nose in the lolling lily);
By these toppling crags,—no river
Murmurs near, no leaflets quiver,
All so dark and dead and chilly;
By these dank woods, by the swamp
Where the toad and bull-frog romp;—
By these dismal tarns, by the holes
Where dwell the Ghouls—
Poor damp souls!
By each corner most unjolly,
By each crevice melancholy,
By my own poetic folly—
Frenzy of poetic drift,
In an unexpected rift,
There, I swear, I met aghast
In a sheet the unmemoried Past,
In a shroud a Ghost whose eye
Looking into vacancy
Made me shudder, start, and sigh,—
One forgotten, from thought outdriven,
I know not whether on Earth or in Heaven.
These lone waters, lone and dead,
These lone waters, still and chilly
(Night's nose in the lolling lily);
By these toppling crags,—no river
Murmurs near, no leaflets quiver,
6
By these dank woods, by the swamp
Where the toad and bull-frog romp;—
By these dismal tarns, by the holes
Where dwell the Ghouls—
Poor damp souls!
By each corner most unjolly,
By each crevice melancholy,
By my own poetic folly—
Frenzy of poetic drift,
In an unexpected rift,
There, I swear, I met aghast
In a sheet the unmemoried Past,
In a shroud a Ghost whose eye
Looking into vacancy
Made me shudder, start, and sigh,—
One forgotten, from thought outdriven,
I know not whether on Earth or in Heaven.
For the heart whose woes are legion
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
This same desert drear of Night,
Where the Eidolon sits upright
On his toadstool, or outspread
Lies lolling on his lily-bed,—
For the spirit that likes a shadow
'Tis, O 'tis an Eldorado,—
Though the traveler, traveling through it,
Ever fails to interview it
(No one ever openly knew it),
For its mysteries all are closed
By the darkness superposed
Of the Eidolon, who, I ween,
Wills not the formless should be seen:
And thus the sad soul that here passes
Is like a blind ass without glasses.
'Tis a peaceful, soothing region—
This same desert drear of Night,
Where the Eidolon sits upright
On his toadstool, or outspread
Lies lolling on his lily-bed,—
For the spirit that likes a shadow
'Tis, O 'tis an Eldorado,—
Though the traveler, traveling through it,
Ever fails to interview it
(No one ever openly knew it),
For its mysteries all are closed
By the darkness superposed
7
Wills not the formless should be seen:
And thus the sad soul that here passes
Is like a blind ass without glasses.
On his root, knobb'd, gnarl'd, and lonely,
Overstuck with toadstools only,
Squats the Eidolon named Night,
Squats in sad poetic plight.
Is there more, and would you know it,
Fix the headgear of the Poet,
Wandering God knows where, but newly
From this ultimate dim Thulè.
Overstuck with toadstools only,
Squats the Eidolon named Night,
Squats in sad poetic plight.
Is there more, and would you know it,
Fix the headgear of the Poet,
Wandering God knows where, but newly
From this ultimate dim Thulè.
ISRAFIDDLESTRINGS
In heaven a Spirit doth dwell
Whose heartstrings are a fiddle
(The reason he sings so well—
This fiddler Israfel),
And the giddy stars (will any one tell
Why giddy?) to attend his spell
Cease their hymns in the middle.
Whose heartstrings are a fiddle
(The reason he sings so well—
This fiddler Israfel),
And the giddy stars (will any one tell
Why giddy?) to attend his spell
Cease their hymns in the middle.
On the height of her go
Totters the Moon and blushes
As the song of that fiddle rushes
Across her bow.
The red Lightning stands to listen;
And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten
As each of the seven puts its fist in
Its eyes, for the mist in.
Totters the Moon and blushes
As the song of that fiddle rushes
Across her bow.
The red Lightning stands to listen;
And the eyes of the Pleiads glisten
As each of the seven puts its fist in
Its eyes, for the mist in.
8
And they say—it's a riddle—
That all these listening things,
That stop in the middle
For the heart-strung fiddle
With which the Spirit sings,
Are held as on a griddle
By these unusual strings.
That all these listening things,
That stop in the middle
For the heart-strung fiddle
With which the Spirit sings,
Are held as on a griddle
By these unusual strings.
Wherefore thou art not wrong,
Israfel! in that thou boastest
Fiddlestrings uncommon strong:
To thee the fiddle-strings belong
With which thou toastest
Other hearts, as on a prong.
Israfel! in that thou boastest
Fiddlestrings uncommon strong:
To thee the fiddle-strings belong
With which thou toastest
Other hearts, as on a prong.
Yes! heaven is thine: but this
Is a world of sours and sweets,—
Where cold meats are cold meats,
And the eater's most perfect bliss
Is the shadow of him who treats.
Is a world of sours and sweets,—
Where cold meats are cold meats,
And the eater's most perfect bliss
Is the shadow of him who treats.
If I could griddle
As Israfiddle
Has griddled,—he fiddle as I,—
He might not fiddle so wild a riddle
As this mad melody,
While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle
Hearing my griddle-cry.
As Israfiddle
Has griddled,—he fiddle as I,—
He might not fiddle so wild a riddle
As this mad melody,
While the Pleiads all would leave off in the middle
Hearing my griddle-cry.
9
THE GHOULS IN THE BELFRY
Hear the story of the Ghouls!
Who will tell us of the Ghouls?
Who has been told?
Of the Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls,—
Who are neither man nor woman,
Who are neither beast nor human,
Who are neither fish nor cayman,—
Who will tell us, clerk or layman?
They are Ghouls:
Live in holes
Like moles
Under the boles, boles, boles
Of old trees where the forest rolls
Of the mouldy days of old;
Or in tarns, tarns, tarns
Dull and dismal as the yarns
Of morbific spools,—
Dank tarns and dismal pools.
There dwell the Ghouls,
With other tarn'd fowls,—
Not to say fools.
Who will tell us of the Ghouls?
Who has been told?
Of the Ghouls, Ghouls, Ghouls,—
Who are neither man nor woman,
Who are neither beast nor human,
Who are neither fish nor cayman,—
Who will tell us, clerk or layman?
They are Ghouls:
Live in holes
Like moles
Under the boles, boles, boles
Of old trees where the forest rolls
Of the mouldy days of old;
Or in tarns, tarns, tarns
Dull and dismal as the yarns
Of morbific spools,—
Dank tarns and dismal pools.
There dwell the Ghouls,
With other tarn'd fowls,—
Not to say fools.
But the high tarn nation place is
The dank tarn of Auber
In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
There they sit with their faces
Bow'd down to their knees,
At the feet of dead trees,
With the dew dropping down from their hair,
They sit there from the end of October
To the end of the winter next year.
These are woodlandish Ghouls,
Damp, desolate souls
Who have nothing to do
But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber
Through the mildewest part of the year,
That begins at the end of October
In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir.
The dank tarn of Auber
In the Ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
There they sit with their faces
Bow'd down to their knees,
At the feet of dead trees,
With the dew dropping down from their hair,
They sit there from the end of October
To the end of the winter next year.
10
Damp, desolate souls
Who have nothing to do
But be haunting the dank tarn of Auber
Through the mildewest part of the year,
That begins at the end of October
In the woodlandish Ghouldom of Weir.
Yes! these are the woodlandish Ghouls—
Ghouls—Ghouls—Ghouls
With no business kind of controls—
Mere shoals.
But busier,—ah! much busier polls
Have the Churchyard Ghouls,
Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls;
And who after supper
Take an upper
Climb to their goal in the steeple:
Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill
On the people undergone:
Sitting cheeks by jowls.
Now and then they roll a stone,
Having set the bells a-tolling
In a muffled monotone,
On the people undergone.
And their King it is who tolls,
As he lolls, lolls, lolls
On his throne all carved with scrolls
In his palace in the steeple,
Where he lolls among his people:
Ah! his people who roll stones,
In muffled monotones,
On the hearts o' the underfolk,
In the dead of night awoke
By the melancholy yells,
By the miserable howls,
To say nothing of the growls,
Of these Ghouls,
Of these tollers of the bells,
As they toll, toll, toll;
Toll;
Toll;
Toll
A pæan from the bells:
And the merry bosom swells
Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls,
As he dances and he yells
To the throbbing of the bells
As they toll,
Toll,
Toll.
Ghouls—Ghouls—Ghouls
With no business kind of controls—
Mere shoals.
But busier,—ah! much busier polls
Have the Churchyard Ghouls,
Prowling there for the bodies of poor dead souls;
And who after supper
Take an upper
Climb to their goal in the steeple:
Where they sit, where they brood, where they heap ill
On the people undergone:
Sitting cheeks by jowls.
Now and then they roll a stone,
Having set the bells a-tolling
In a muffled monotone,
On the people undergone.
And their King it is who tolls,
As he lolls, lolls, lolls
On his throne all carved with scrolls
In his palace in the steeple,
Where he lolls among his people:
Ah! his people who roll stones,
In muffled monotones,
On the hearts o' the underfolk,
11
By the melancholy yells,
By the miserable howls,
To say nothing of the growls,
Of these Ghouls,
Of these tollers of the bells,
As they toll, toll, toll;
Toll;
Toll;
Toll
A pæan from the bells:
And the merry bosom swells
Of the Ghoul-King as he tolls,
As he dances and he yells
To the throbbing of the bells
As they toll,
Toll,
Toll.
It is so the poet tells
Who has heard these ghoulish bells;
And whose rheumy running rhyme,
Bowl'd in time, time, time,
With the throbbing and the sobbing
And the bobbing and hobnobbing
And sense-robbing of the bells,
Could alone expound their yells,
For the clamor each expels,
From the loud full-hammer'd tone,
Sometime hoarsening to a groan,
Sometime worsening to a moan,
Till one bell tolls out alone
In a muffled monotone
Between murmuring and moan,—
Till the King loll'd there, as shown,
On his scroll-becarven throne,
Grown weary of the yells
And the bowling of the bells
(Well! well!—to be so bold)
As they moan and groan and yell
Pell-mell,
Would be fain to be unthroned,
For the pain too wholly own'd,
Untold but wholly known,
(Toll de roll!)
Of the moans, groans, yells,
As they shake the steeple stone
And awake the undergone
(Rest his soul!)
With the tolling of their knells,
Roll'd like blood-drops from heart-wells,
Misereres out of cells,
Or weird witch-moulded spells
Under fells:
The bells, bells, bells,
Whose tolling ever tells
Of Ghouls, of hells, of knells,
Told by bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The unholy yelling, knelling, wholly sense-dispelling,
Moaning, groaning, all-atoning,
Rolling tolling of the bells,
Bells,
Bells.
Who has heard these ghoulish bells;
And whose rheumy running rhyme,
Bowl'd in time, time, time,
With the throbbing and the sobbing
And the bobbing and hobnobbing
And sense-robbing of the bells,
Could alone expound their yells,
For the clamor each expels,
From the loud full-hammer'd tone,
Sometime hoarsening to a groan,
Sometime worsening to a moan,
Till one bell tolls out alone
In a muffled monotone
12
Till the King loll'd there, as shown,
On his scroll-becarven throne,
Grown weary of the yells
And the bowling of the bells
(Well! well!—to be so bold)
As they moan and groan and yell
Pell-mell,
Would be fain to be unthroned,
For the pain too wholly own'd,
Untold but wholly known,
(Toll de roll!)
Of the moans, groans, yells,
As they shake the steeple stone
And awake the undergone
(Rest his soul!)
With the tolling of their knells,
Roll'd like blood-drops from heart-wells,
Misereres out of cells,
Or weird witch-moulded spells
Under fells:
The bells, bells, bells,
Whose tolling ever tells
Of Ghouls, of hells, of knells,
Told by bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells,
The unholy yelling, knelling, wholly sense-dispelling,
Moaning, groaning, all-atoning,
Rolling tolling of the bells,
Bells,
Bells.
13
HULLALOO
The eves were as grey as grey embers,
The leaves dirty yellow and sere,—
They were yellow, but dusky and sere;
That eve was the worst of November's,—
And they are the worst of the year.
'Twas an eve that one surely remembers,
Being out in the dusk with my dear:
For the fire was gone out to weak embers;
So I went out too, with my dear.
The leaves dirty yellow and sere,—
They were yellow, but dusky and sere;
That eve was the worst of November's,—
And they are the worst of the year.
'Twas an eve that one surely remembers,
Being out in the dusk with my dear:
For the fire was gone out to weak embers;
So I went out too, with my dear.
Hear then!—Through an alley Satanic
Of hemlock, I roam'd with my love,—
Of hemlock with Sarah, my love.
O my passion was quite oceanic,
With waves like the wind in a grove,
When the wind maketh waves in a grove
And the leaves with a sort of a panic
Seem taken; I thought of the stove
And, shivering, as if with a panic
Was taken, at thought of the stove.
Of hemlock, I roam'd with my love,—
Of hemlock with Sarah, my love.
O my passion was quite oceanic,
With waves like the wind in a grove,
When the wind maketh waves in a grove
And the leaves with a sort of a panic
Seem taken; I thought of the stove
And, shivering, as if with a panic
Was taken, at thought of the stove.
Our talk at the first had been jolly,
But our words soon were slow as our walk,—
Our young memories scarcely could walk;
Then we thought it was right melancholy
To be out in the dark without talk—
For we knew that we came out to talk;
Still we felt in our hearts it was folly
The vast dream of silence to baulk,
Till, whispering at last, I said—Golly!
And Sarah back whisper'd me—Lawk!
But our words soon were slow as our walk,—
Our young memories scarcely could walk;
Then we thought it was right melancholy
To be out in the dark without talk—
For we knew that we came out to talk;
Still we felt in our hearts it was folly
The vast dream of silence to baulk,
Till, whispering at last, I said—Golly!
And Sarah back whisper'd me—Lawk!
14
And now as the night was senescent,
And some roosters were hinting of morn,—
Foolish roosters then hinting of morn!—
As the night grew more old and unpleasant,
We saw in the distance a horn
Out of which a miraculous crescent
To the sides of the road was outborne;
'Twas Sal's father's horn lanthorn there present,
The crescent distinct from the horn.
And some roosters were hinting of morn,—
Foolish roosters then hinting of morn!—
As the night grew more old and unpleasant,
We saw in the distance a horn
Out of which a miraculous crescent
To the sides of the road was outborne;
'Twas Sal's father's horn lanthorn there present,
The crescent distinct from the horn.
And I said—He is better than Dian;
But I wish that his light had more size,—
And the light wasn't much for its size;
He has guess'd—that's a thing to rely on—
Has father, the way our walk lies,
And he has come out like Orion,
The fellow up there in the skies,—
Yes, Sally! those stars in the skies,—
Come out like another Orion
To help me take care of my prize,
To take her safe home bye and bye on
The pathway that fatherward lies.
But I wish that his light had more size,—
And the light wasn't much for its size;
He has guess'd—that's a thing to rely on—
Has father, the way our walk lies,
And he has come out like Orion,
The fellow up there in the skies,—
Yes, Sally! those stars in the skies,—
Come out like another Orion
To help me take care of my prize,
To take her safe home bye and bye on
The pathway that fatherward lies.
But Sarah, uplifting her finger,
Said—Surely that light I mistrust,—
That lanthorn I strangely mistrust;
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Voice,—O he'll make such a dust!
In anguish she sobb'd, letting sink her
Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust,—
O but father'll kick up such a dust!
Said—Surely that light I mistrust,—
That lanthorn I strangely mistrust;
O hasten! O let us not linger!
O fly! let us fly! for we must.
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Voice,—O he'll make such a dust!
In anguish she sobb'd, letting sink her
Sweet voice, as if fearing a bust,—
O but father'll kick up such a dust!
15
I replied—this is nothing but dreaming;
We need but keep out of the light,—
But he kept dodging us with the light;
And Sarah would soon have been screaming,—
She shook like a leaf with affright,
Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright;
So I lifted her out of the gleaming
Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight:
And her father went on, never deeming
He left us behind in the night.
We need but keep out of the light,—
But he kept dodging us with the light;
And Sarah would soon have been screaming,—
She shook like a leaf with affright,
Like a leaf, or a bird in a fright;
So I lifted her out of the gleaming
Through a gap in the hedge, out of sight:
And her father went on, never deeming
He left us behind in the night.
Then to pacify Sarah I kiss'd her,
And soon took her out of the gloom,—
It was getting quite cold in the gloom,
And she cried; but I said—Dear! desist or
I never shall get you safe home.
Then we ran and in good time got home.
Father said—How on airth have I miss'd her?
She said—I was never from home.
No, Pa! I was never from home.
I have been all the night in my room.
And soon took her out of the gloom,—
It was getting quite cold in the gloom,
And she cried; but I said—Dear! desist or
I never shall get you safe home.
Then we ran and in good time got home.
Father said—How on airth have I miss'd her?
She said—I was never from home.
No, Pa! I was never from home.
I have been all the night in my room.
Now my head is as grey as an ember;
And my heart is all crisped and sere,—
Like a crisp leaf that's wither'd and sere;
And yet I am fain to remember
Above all the nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That night of all nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That cold dreamy night of November,
That night of all nights in the year,
That long ago night of November,—
The night we were out in, my dear!
And my heart is all crisped and sere,—
Like a crisp leaf that's wither'd and sere;
And yet I am fain to remember
Above all the nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That night of all nights in the year—
Ah, Sally! if you were but here—
That cold dreamy night of November,
That night of all nights in the year,
That long ago night of November,—
The night we were out in, my dear!
16
TO ANY
Thank heaven! the crisis
Of hunger is past;
And you can't guess how nice is
This little breakfast,
Now the thing call'd good living
Is come to at last.
Of hunger is past;
And you can't guess how nice is
This little breakfast,
Now the thing call'd good living
Is come to at last.
I eat what I love
And recover my strength;
And my jaws only move
As I lie at full length.
I might sit—but I feel
I am better at length.
And recover my strength;
And my jaws only move
As I lie at full length.
I might sit—but I feel
I am better at length.
And I lie so composedly,
Feeding and fed,
A careless beholder
Might fancy me dead:
Not seeing my jaws work
Might fancy me dead.
Feeding and fed,
A careless beholder
Might fancy me dead:
Not seeing my jaws work
Might fancy me dead.
The grunting and groaning,
The writhing and raving,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible craving
At stomach—that horrible
Stomachic craving.
The writhing and raving,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible craving
At stomach—that horrible
Stomachic craving.
The sickness, the faintness,
The emptiness-pain,
Have ceased; and my stomach's
A stomach again,
And feels like a stomach
Not living in vain.
The emptiness-pain,
Have ceased; and my stomach's
A stomach again,
17
Not living in vain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated,—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For a napthaline river
Or fusil lake burst:
I'd have drunk dirty water,
For quenching that thirst,
That torture the worst
Has abated,—the terrible
Torture of thirst
For a napthaline river
Or fusil lake burst:
I'd have drunk dirty water,
For quenching that thirst,
Of a puddle that flows
With a smell and no sound
From a hole but a very few
Feet underground,
Though I holded my nose
As I stoop'd to the ground.
With a smell and no sound
From a hole but a very few
Feet underground,
Though I holded my nose
As I stoop'd to the ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That this my mahogany
Is not well spread:
With such victual before me
I call it a spread;
And such drink—my cosmogony
Knows nought instead.
Be foolishly said
That this my mahogany
Is not well spread:
With such victual before me
I call it a spread;
And such drink—my cosmogony
Knows nought instead.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes:
The upsetting or ever
'Twas wetting one's nose is
All over. Sweet spirit!
Thy scent in my nose is.
Here blandly reposes:
The upsetting or ever
'Twas wetting one's nose is
All over. Sweet spirit!
Thy scent in my nose is.
18
And now while so pleasantly
Curl'd up it fancies
A fragranter odour
Than rue has, or pansies,
Or even than rosemary
Mingled with pansies,
The beautiful bourbon
The Puritan fancies.
Curl'd up it fancies
A fragranter odour
Than rue has, or pansies,
Or even than rosemary
Mingled with pansies,
The beautiful bourbon
The Puritan fancies.
And so I lie happily,
Drinking a many
And eating a few.
It will cost a big penny.
I don't mind the cost:
For I have not a penny.
Drinking a many
And eating a few.
It will cost a big penny.
I don't mind the cost:
For I have not a penny.
HANNIBAL LEIGH
It was many and many a year ago—
It seems so long to me—
That there lived in a city which you may know
A man named Hannibal Leigh;
And this man he seem'd to have nothing to do
But to drink and get drunk with me.
It seems so long to me—
That there lived in a city which you may know
A man named Hannibal Leigh;
And this man he seem'd to have nothing to do
But to drink and get drunk with me.
I was a fool and he was a fool,
In this city by the sea:
For we drank and got drunk till we made it a rule
That neither should drunker be;
And we drank till we might have lesson'd a school
Of fishes, such drinkers were we.
In this city by the sea:
For we drank and got drunk till we made it a rule
That neither should drunker be;
And we drank till we might have lesson'd a school
Of fishes, such drinkers were we.
19
And this was the reason that long ago
In this city by the sea
A fusilier spirit of ill distilling
Destroy'd my Hannibal Leigh.
'Twas a spirit of ill when my pal was willing
To drink for ever with me;
And some were saying—it was fulfilling
A kind o' warning to me.
In this city by the sea
A fusilier spirit of ill distilling
Destroy'd my Hannibal Leigh.
'Twas a spirit of ill when my pal was willing
To drink for ever with me;
And some were saying—it was fulfilling
A kind o' warning to me.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying him and me,—
Yes! that was the reason, whatever was given
In that city by the sea,
Why the fusilier spirit came out a-killing
My still-swilling Hannibal Leigh.
Went envying him and me,—
Yes! that was the reason, whatever was given
In that city by the sea,
Why the fusilier spirit came out a-killing
My still-swilling Hannibal Leigh.
But I drink all the longer and drink it more strong,
For the two, for I drink like three,—
For myself once and twice for Leigh;
And no fusil here nor in heaven along
Nor spirit down under the sea
Shall ever dissever our drinks to do wrong
To the spirit of Hannibal Leigh.
For the two, for I drink like three,—
For myself once and twice for Leigh;
And no fusil here nor in heaven along
Nor spirit down under the sea
Shall ever dissever our drinks to do wrong
To the spirit of Hannibal Leigh.
For whenever I drink I endeavor to think
I am drinking with Hannibal Leigh;
And my hand never raise but to drink to the praise
Of my drink-Kaiser Hannibal Leigh;
And in all the night tide I hold on to the side
Of the counter, the counter where Hannibal died;
And I think that I Hannibal see
And I'm Hannibal Hannibal's me.
I am drinking with Hannibal Leigh;
And my hand never raise but to drink to the praise
Of my drink-Kaiser Hannibal Leigh;
And in all the night tide I hold on to the side
Of the counter, the counter where Hannibal died;
And I think that I Hannibal see
And I'm Hannibal Hannibal's me.
20
RAVING
Once upon a midnight, weary,
As I maunder'd, gin-and-beery,
O'er an' oft repeated story
Till my friends thought me a bore,—
Sitting weeping, and half sleeping,
Something set my flesh a-creeping,
And I saw a Raven peeping
Through my room's unopen'd door.
See that Raven! said I to them,—
Trying to get through the door,—
A black Raven—nothing more.
As I maunder'd, gin-and-beery,
O'er an' oft repeated story
Till my friends thought me a bore,—
Sitting weeping, and half sleeping,
Something set my flesh a-creeping,
And I saw a Raven peeping
Through my room's unopen'd door.
See that Raven! said I to them,—
Trying to get through the door,—
A black Raven—nothing more.
Now I was not drunk, but weary,
For my head was out-of-geary
With close study of quaint volumes
Curious in forgotten lore:
(Though they said Delirium tremens)
I'd been reading bits of Hemans,
And some leaves of Jacob Behmen's,
Two or three—perhaps a score:
And I said—It is a Raven
Rampant just outside the door,—
Striding through—I said—and swore.
For my head was out-of-geary
With close study of quaint volumes
Curious in forgotten lore:
(Though they said Delirium tremens)
I'd been reading bits of Hemans,
And some leaves of Jacob Behmen's,
Two or three—perhaps a score:
And I said—It is a Raven
Rampant just outside the door,—
Striding through—I said—and swore.
I insisted, and I twisted
And resisted, and persisted
Though they held me and, close-fisted,
Saw no Raven at the door;
I forgot all I had read of,—
For that ill bird took my head off,
Like a coffin lid of lead off
The dead brain of one no more.
Would I trust their words instead of
What I saw right through the door?
Through the door—I said—and swore.
And resisted, and persisted
Though they held me and, close-fisted,
Saw no Raven at the door;
I forgot all I had read of,—
For that ill bird took my head off,
21
The dead brain of one no more.
Would I trust their words instead of
What I saw right through the door?
Through the door—I said—and swore.
Yes! it is a Raven surely,
Though he does look so demurely
Like a doctor come to assure me
I am drunk: not so—I swore,
Drunk? I drunk? I've not been drinking;
I'm but overcome with thinking:
There I saw that Raven winking
In the middle of the floor.
Doctor! there's the Raven rampant
In the middle of the floor:
He has hopp'd straight through the door.
Though he does look so demurely
Like a doctor come to assure me
I am drunk: not so—I swore,
Drunk? I drunk? I've not been drinking;
I'm but overcome with thinking:
There I saw that Raven winking
In the middle of the floor.
Doctor! there's the Raven rampant
In the middle of the floor:
He has hopp'd straight through the door.
Look! his curst wings brush the dust off
That fallen, broken, batter'd bust of
Psyche,—where it lies in the shadow,
Shatter'd, flung down on the floor.
See! he spurns the broken pieces.
Catch him, Doctor!—when he ceases
He will rend me. Past release is—
Nothing! Nothing on the floor?—
Yes! the Psyche lies in the shadow,
Lieth shatter'd on the floor:
To be lifted nevermore.
That fallen, broken, batter'd bust of
Psyche,—where it lies in the shadow,
Shatter'd, flung down on the floor.
See! he spurns the broken pieces.
Catch him, Doctor!—when he ceases
He will rend me. Past release is—
Nothing! Nothing on the floor?—
Yes! the Psyche lies in the shadow,
Lieth shatter'd on the floor:
To be lifted nevermore.
22
THE MONSTER MAGGOT
A Poet!—With never a single theme
Of glory or delight,
He folds his wings for a gloomy dream
Of Death despair-bedight;
And, willing not that Beauty use
His wilderness of soul,
He chooseth for his daintier muse
Raven or Ghoul.
Of glory or delight,
He folds his wings for a gloomy dream
Of Death despair-bedight;
And, willing not that Beauty use
His wilderness of soul,
He chooseth for his daintier muse
Raven or Ghoul.
And now a “Conqueror Worm” he sings,—
A blood-red crawling shape,
Invisible woe from its condor wings
Out-flapping, all agape;
While angels bewing'd, bedight in veils,
Watch mumbling mimes, with tears,
In a play where a maniac Horror wails
To the music of the spheres.
A blood-red crawling shape,
Invisible woe from its condor wings
Out-flapping, all agape;
While angels bewing'd, bedight in veils,
Watch mumbling mimes, with tears,
In a play where a maniac Horror wails
To the music of the spheres.
The play is the play of Human Woes,
Of Madness, Sin, and Death:
There is nothing else the Poet knows
God's azure sky beneath
But Madness, Horror, and Sin,
Death and Sorrow, and Wrong:
Even so doth the Singer begin,
So ends his Song.
Of Madness, Sin, and Death:
There is nothing else the Poet knows
God's azure sky beneath
But Madness, Horror, and Sin,
Death and Sorrow, and Wrong:
Even so doth the Singer begin,
So ends his Song.
“It writhes”—the Worm,—“with mortal pangs
“The mimes become its food;
“And the angels sob at vermin fangs
“In human gore imbued,”—
This monster terrible, formless, huge,
Means—put in plainest terms:
Our Poet needs a vermifuge.
The child's disease is worms.
“The mimes become its food;
“And the angels sob at vermin fangs
“In human gore imbued,”—
23
Means—put in plainest terms:
Our Poet needs a vermifuge.
The child's disease is worms.
POETIC FRAGMENTS
PART OF AN UNFINISHED GHOUL-POEM—
Said we then—the two, then—Ah! can itHave been that the woodlandish Ghouls—
The pitiful, the merciful Ghouls—
To bar up our way and to ban it
From the secret that lies in these wolds—
From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—
Have drawn up the spectre of a planet
From the limbo of lunary souls—
This sinfully scintillant planet
From the hell of the planetary souls?
POT-POURRI—
“A rosemary odour“Commingled with pansies—
“With rue”:—
Your poet has fancies:
But methinks such an odour
Were odious to more than a few.
24
UNDER-LINES
On a Poet's Tomb.
Tomb'd in dishonor! Not like thine own Ghoul
Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One!
For critical devouring; but some words
Writ heedlessly above thee call for words
Of answering rebuke. If Israfel
In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre—
The only organ of harmonious worth—
Shall not earth's poet? And if he be weak,
Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire,
Untunable, rejoicing not in good,
Can aught but discord issue? Speech absurd
Of “art for art's sake!” when art is not art
Out of the circles of the universe,
Out of the song of the eternities,
Or unfit to attend the ear of God.
Have I thus dug thee out, Unhappy One!
For critical devouring; but some words
Writ heedlessly above thee call for words
Of answering rebuke. If Israfel
In heaven needs his own heart-strings for his lyre—
The only organ of harmonious worth—
Shall not earth's poet? And if he be weak,
Rent by ill memories, harsh with sour desire,
Untunable, rejoicing not in good,
Can aught but discord issue? Speech absurd
Of “art for art's sake!” when art is not art
Out of the circles of the universe,
Out of the song of the eternities,
Or unfit to attend the ear of God.
My mocking words aim at, not thee, but those
Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth.
Who would strain praise for thee, disgracing Truth.
| Pot-Pourri | |