 | The Autobiography of John Galt |  |
II. VOL. II.
“I WILL A ROUND UNVARNISHED TALE DELIVER.”
188
TIT FOR TAT.
I
What the devil!—no, no, it cannot be true,—Tommy Little, a Dublin dominie!—poh!—
He can sing about flowers, ripe lips, and green bowers,—
Is it sing that I said?—he 's the boy that can low.
II
To stand on a stool, like a duck on a stone,By the sweet-smelling Liffy, and threaten in alt,—
No—no, sir, 'tis “fudge” ; he may groan, growl, and grudge;—
With his birch on a barrel he couldn't reach Galt .
III
'Tis true, he is not, in all other respects,Unfit for the office:—I grant it at once.—
There's Anacreon—yes! My God! what is this?
You blush! but he never did steal from a dunce.
IV
I own that such clusters of lilies and rosesThe cheerful old Greek would have sneezed at as snuff;
But the work now supplies trunks, tartlets, and pies,
With the ditties of gay Mr. Moore, to enough.
V
He murdered that Greek—can his conscience deny,He's a criminal direful, audacious, and dread?
He attempts the dear lives of the friends he survives,—
A buzzing blue-bottle that feeds on the dead.
189
VI
If justice were done, the “gelatinous” bard(Like “ichor” that flows from a feculent sore)
Might run his loose rhymes, refined for the Times,—
The flies that make rampant can never do more.
VII
As reptiles in bottles, his books on the shelf,—He may to a lengthened existence aspire,
But in “amber” salvation “immortalization”
He can but exist a small thing-a pismire.
VIII
But, sir, I had almost forgotten to sayThat the sorter of shreds with his patches between,
Is all in the wrong, like a frog with a song,—
His guessings at Fraser are gropings of spleen.
IX
A word of advice if I can ere I close(While pen-guns in vollies around me are cracking):
Of this be you sure,—whether Byron or Moore,—
All quartos are not sold by rhyme-puffs, like blacking .
Gelatinous.—For literal meaning, see Dictionary; for figurative, applied to a thing without sense, as here used, look at many of Mr. Moore's Melodies.
An allusion to things sometimes seen in amber. Mr. Moore, though he may have read Pope's poems, may never have seen such things.
214
TO THE AUTHOR OF MARMION.
I
Oh! sure when stretched on grassy knoll,'Mid Ettrick's haunted scenery,
Watching the vassal runnells roll,
To where the restless summer beam,
On well sung Tweed's baronial stream,
Held gay and flickering revelry;
II
Some gentle faëry resting nigh,Beneath her gowan canopy,
Heard the entranced truant sigh
For deeds of bold and earnest toil,
The borderer's joy of speed and spoil,
And pomp of knightly panoply.
III
Well pleased a child so rare to find—So meet for noble chivalry;
A spell of elfin art combin'd
That gave thee all thy soul desired,
Whatever chief or champion fired
In bless'd and blessing poësy.
215
THE APOTHEOSIS OF SIR WALTER SCOTT.
I
Ho! thou upon the upland, thouOn Eildon's haunted wild on high,
What glory lights thy upward brow—
What vision draws thy wondering eye?
The sun shines cloudless in the sky,
Thy forehead shews as bright a sheen.—
What pageant see'st thou passing by—
Rapt shepherd, speak! what hast thou seen?
II
“As radiant from the north ascendsThe dayless morning's mystic light,
When stars grow dim and moonlight ends,
Rise phantom forms that charm my sight,
Like fires that gleam athwart the night,
While all, as if his race were run,
Dim, shrunk, and faded, sickly white,
Sits on his throne, the dazzled sun.
III
“There following comes, in wavering flame,Dejected grief, and guilt sublime;
The blush that bears no tint of shame,
Th' untainting tale that tells of crime;
216
The crested pride of chivalry,
The faërys' prank—the witches' rhyme,
The hints and gleams of prophecy.
IV
“They mount: the progeny of thought,The minstrel grave, the goblin gay;
The ghost, of mist and moonlight wrought;
The bearded monk, the hermit gray;
And here the host, and there the fray,
As in Sir Godfrey's vision shown,
And bannered chiefs, in proud array
Refulgent, from the battle won.
V
“Lo! mingling sprites of every hue,The maiden's dream, the widow's fright;
Green vestured elves, with eyes of dew,
And things of joy, with locks of light;
Whate'er is fair, and good, and bright,
To universal nature true,
As heralds of immortal right,
Arise to claim the poet's due.”—
VI
Thus to my loud, impassioned call,The raptured swain ecstatic spoke,
While dim and dark a funeral pall
Unrolling, as the silent smoke,
His high-entranced vision broke,
And glooming o'er the Tweed below,
As lowering clouds that storms invoke,
Was seen the solemn pomp of woe.
VII
On hill and dale, and storied moor,Lamentings sadden all the air,
And palace dome, and cottage door,
Alike the general sorrow share;
217
The spell that bade the phantoms rise
Is broken: their creator there—
The master wizard—lowly lies!
| The Autobiography of John Galt | |