 | The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt |  |
lxix
EPISTLES.
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LORD BYRON,
ON HIS DEPARTURE FOR ITALY AND GREECE.
Dio ti dia, baron, ventura.
—Pulci.
—Pulci.
Since you resolve, dear Byron, once again
To taste the far-eyed freedom of the main,
And as the coolness lessens in the breeze,
Strike for warm shores that bathe in classic seas,—
May all that hastens, pleases, and secures,
Fair winds and skies, and a swift ship, be yours,
Whose sidelong deck affords, as it cuts on,
An airy slope to lounge and read upon;
And may the sun, cooled only by white clouds,
Make constant shadows of the sails and shrouds;
And may there be sweet, watching moons at night,
Or shows, upon the sea, of curious light;
And morning wake with happy-blushing mouth,
As though her husband still had “eyes of youth;”
While fancy, just as you discern from far
The coasts of Virgil and of Sannazzar,
May see the Nymphs emerging, here and there,
To tie up at the light their rolling hair.
To taste the far-eyed freedom of the main,
And as the coolness lessens in the breeze,
Strike for warm shores that bathe in classic seas,—
May all that hastens, pleases, and secures,
Fair winds and skies, and a swift ship, be yours,
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An airy slope to lounge and read upon;
And may the sun, cooled only by white clouds,
Make constant shadows of the sails and shrouds;
And may there be sweet, watching moons at night,
Or shows, upon the sea, of curious light;
And morning wake with happy-blushing mouth,
As though her husband still had “eyes of youth;”
While fancy, just as you discern from far
The coasts of Virgil and of Sannazzar,
May see the Nymphs emerging, here and there,
To tie up at the light their rolling hair.
I see you now, half eagerness, half ease,
Ride o'er the dancing freshness of the seas;
I see you now (with fancy's eyesight too)
Find, with a start, that lovely vision true,
While on a sudden, o'er the horizon's line
Phœbus looks forth with his long glance divine,
At which old Ocean's white and shapely Daughters
Crowd in the golden ferment of the waters,
And halcyons brood, and there's a glistering show
Of harps, midst bosoms and long arms of snow;
And from the breathing sea, in the God's eye,
A gush of voices breaks up to the sky
To hail the laurelled Bard, that goes careering by.
Ride o'er the dancing freshness of the seas;
I see you now (with fancy's eyesight too)
Find, with a start, that lovely vision true,
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Phœbus looks forth with his long glance divine,
At which old Ocean's white and shapely Daughters
Crowd in the golden ferment of the waters,
And halcyons brood, and there's a glistering show
Of harps, midst bosoms and long arms of snow;
And from the breathing sea, in the God's eye,
A gush of voices breaks up to the sky
To hail the laurelled Bard, that goes careering by.
And who, thus gifted, but must hear and see
Wonders like these, approaching Italy?—
Enchantress Italy,—who born again
In Gothic fires, woke to a sphery strain,
And rose and smiled, far lovelier than before,
Copier of Greece, and Amazon no more,
But altogether a diviner thing,
Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring,
With fancies of her own, and finer powers
Not to enslave these mere outsides of ours,
But bend the godlike mind, and crown it with her flowers.
Wonders like these, approaching Italy?—
Enchantress Italy,—who born again
In Gothic fires, woke to a sphery strain,
And rose and smiled, far lovelier than before,
Copier of Greece, and Amazon no more,
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Fit for the Queen of Europe's second spring,
With fancies of her own, and finer powers
Not to enslave these mere outsides of ours,
But bend the godlike mind, and crown it with her flowers.
Thus did she reign, bright-eyed, with that sweet tone
Long in her ears; and right before her throne
Have sat the intellectual Graces three,
Music, and Painting, and wing'd Poetry,
Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtful-fac'd,
That led the hierarchy of modern taste;—
Heavenly Composers, that with bow symphonious
Drew out, at last, music's whole soul harmonious;
Poets, that knew how Nature should be wooed,
With frank address, and terms heart-understood;
And Painters, worthy to be friends of theirs,
Hands that could catch the very finest airs
Of natural minds, and all that soul express
Of ready concord, which was made to bless,
And forms the secret of true amorousness.
Long in her ears; and right before her throne
Have sat the intellectual Graces three,
Music, and Painting, and wing'd Poetry,
Of whom were born those great ones, thoughtful-fac'd,
That led the hierarchy of modern taste;—
Heavenly Composers, that with bow symphonious
Drew out, at last, music's whole soul harmonious;
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With frank address, and terms heart-understood;
And Painters, worthy to be friends of theirs,
Hands that could catch the very finest airs
Of natural minds, and all that soul express
Of ready concord, which was made to bless,
And forms the secret of true amorousness.
Not that our English clime, how sharp soe'er,
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great Masters of our Song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turned to Italy for added light,
As earth is kissed by the sweet moon at night;—
Milton for half his style, Chaucer for tales,
Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine;
Our's bolder, deeper, and more masculine:
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are,—so may they be,—
England the high-souled man, the charmer Italy.
Yields in ripe genius to the warmest sphere;
For what we want in sunshine out of doors,
And the long leisure of abundant shores,
By freedom, nay by sufferance, is supplied,
And each man's sacred sunshine, his fire-side.
But all the four great Masters of our Song,
Stars that shine out amidst a starry throng,
Have turned to Italy for added light,
As earth is kissed by the sweet moon at night;—
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Spenser for flowers to fill his isles and vales,
And Shakspeare's self for frames already done
To build his everlasting piles upon.
Her genius is more soft, harmonious, fine;
Our's bolder, deeper, and more masculine:
In short, as woman's sweetness to man's force,
Less grand, but softening by the intercourse,
So the two countries are,—so may they be,—
England the high-souled man, the charmer Italy.
But I must finish, and shall chatter less
On Greece, for reasons which yourself may guess.
Only remember what you promised me
About the flask from dark-welled Castaly,—
A draught, which but to think of, as I sit,
Makes the room round me almost turn with wit.
Gods! What may not come true, what dream divine,
If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine!
Remember too elsewhere a certain town,
Whose fame, you know, Cæsar will not hand down.
On Greece, for reasons which yourself may guess.
Only remember what you promised me
About the flask from dark-welled Castaly,—
A draught, which but to think of, as I sit,
Makes the room round me almost turn with wit.
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If thus we are to drink the Delphic wine!
Remember too elsewhere a certain town,
Whose fame, you know, Cæsar will not hand down.
And pray, my Lord, in Italy take care,
You that are poet, and have pains to bear,
Of lovely girls, that step across the sight,
Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light,
With rosy-cushioned mouths, in dimples set,
And ripe dark tresses, and glib eyes of jet.
The very language, from a woman's tongue,
Is worth the finest of all others sung.
You that are poet, and have pains to bear,
Of lovely girls, that step across the sight,
Like Houris in a heaven of warmth and light,
With rosy-cushioned mouths, in dimples set,
And ripe dark tresses, and glib eyes of jet.
The very language, from a woman's tongue,
Is worth the finest of all others sung.
And so adieu, dear Byron,—dear to me
For many a cause, disinterestedly;—
First, for unconscious sympathy, when boys,
In friendship, and the Muse's trying joys;—
Next for that frank surprise, when Moore and you
Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true,
And told me, with your arts of cordial lying,
How well I looked, when you both thought me dying;—
Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn
Of those who trifle with an age free-born;—
For early storms, on Fortune's basking shore,
That cut precocious ripeness to the core;—
For faults unhidden, other's virtues owned;
Nay, unless Cant's to be at once enthroned,
For virtues too, with whatsoever blended,
And e'en were none possessed, for none pretended;—
Lastly, for older friends,—fine hearts, held fast
Through every dash of chance, from first to last;—
For taking spirit as it means to be,—
For a stretched hand, ever the same to me,—
And total, glorious want of vile hypocrisy.
For many a cause, disinterestedly;—
First, for unconscious sympathy, when boys,
In friendship, and the Muse's trying joys;—
lxxvi
Came to my cage, like warblers kind and true,
And told me, with your arts of cordial lying,
How well I looked, when you both thought me dying;—
Next for a rank worn simply, and the scorn
Of those who trifle with an age free-born;—
For early storms, on Fortune's basking shore,
That cut precocious ripeness to the core;—
For faults unhidden, other's virtues owned;
Nay, unless Cant's to be at once enthroned,
For virtues too, with whatsoever blended,
And e'en were none possessed, for none pretended;—
Lastly, for older friends,—fine hearts, held fast
Through every dash of chance, from first to last;—
For taking spirit as it means to be,—
lxxvii
And total, glorious want of vile hypocrisy.
Adieu, adieu:—I say no more.—God speed you!
Remember what we all expect, who read you.
Remember what we all expect, who read you.
Hampstead, April, 1816.
lxxviii
TO THOMAS MOORE.
Ωδε καλον βομβευντι ποτι σμανεσσι μελοσσαι
------ ται δ' επι δενδρω
Ορνιθες λαλαγευντι: ------
------ βαλλει δε και α πιτυς υψοθε κωνους.
Here, here sweetly murmur the bees,
Here talk the quick birds in the trees,
And the pines drop their nuts at their ease.
Theocritus.
------ ται δ' επι δενδρω
Ορνιθες λαλαγευντι: ------
------ βαλλει δε και α πιτυς υψοθε κωνους.
Here, here sweetly murmur the bees,
Here talk the quick birds in the trees,
And the pines drop their nuts at their ease.
Theocritus.
Dear Tom, who enjoying your brooks and your bowers,
Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers,—
A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing,
Yet armed with an exquisite point too for stinging,—
I owe you a letter, and having this time
A whole series to write to you, send them in rhyme;
For rhyme, with its air, and its step-springing tune,
Helps me on, as a march does a soldier in June;
And when chattering to you, I've a something about me,
That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me.
Live just like a bee, when he's flushest of flowers,—
A maker of sweets, busy, sparkling, and singing,
Yet armed with an exquisite point too for stinging,—
lxxix
A whole series to write to you, send them in rhyme;
For rhyme, with its air, and its step-springing tune,
Helps me on, as a march does a soldier in June;
And when chattering to you, I've a something about me,
That makes all my spirits come dancing from out me.
I told you, you know, you should have a detail
Of Hampstead's whole merits,—heath, wood, hill, and vale,
And threatened in consequence (only admire
The metal one's turned to by dint of desire)
To draw you all near me,—vain dog that I was,—
As the bees are made swarm by the clinking of brass.
Of Hampstead's whole merits,—heath, wood, hill, and vale,
And threatened in consequence (only admire
The metal one's turned to by dint of desire)
To draw you all near me,—vain dog that I was,—
As the bees are made swarm by the clinking of brass.
(By the bye, this comparison, well understood,—
Is, modestly speaking, still better than good;
For a man who once kept them in London, they say,
Found out that they came here to dine every day.)
Is, modestly speaking, still better than good;
lxxx
Found out that they came here to dine every day.)
But at present, for reasons I'll give when we meet,
I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat;
And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while,
On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile?
On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded glades,
Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades,
With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees
The hills up above him with roofs in the trees?
Now too, while the season,—half summer, half spring,—
Brown elms and green oaks,—makes one loiter and sing;
And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon,
And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,
And little white clouds lie about in the sun,
And the wind's in the west, and hay-making begun?
I shall spare you the trouble,—I mean to say treat;
And yet how can I touch, and not linger a while,
On the spot that has haunted my youth like a smile?
On its fine breathing prospects, its clump-wooded glades,
Dark pines, and white houses, and long-allied shades,
With fields going down, where the bard lies and sees
The hills up above him with roofs in the trees?
Now too, while the season,—half summer, half spring,—
Brown elms and green oaks,—makes one loiter and sing;
And the bee's weighty murmur comes by us at noon,
And the cuckoo repeats his short indolent tune,
lxxxi
And the wind's in the west, and hay-making begun?
Even now while I write, I'm half stretched on the ground
With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me round,
Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and wild flowers,
While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers.
People talk of “poor insects,” (although, by the way,
Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they);
But lord, what a set of delicious retreats
The epicures live in,—shades, colours, and sweets!
The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em,
Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding through 'em;
And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em,
What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.
Here perks from his arbour of crimson or green
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen:—
Here, over my paper another shall go,
Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,—
Till he reaches the writing,—and then, when he's eyed it,
What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it!
No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine,
Can be graver when he too first crosses the line:—
Now he stops at a question, as who should say “Hey?”
Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A;
Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink,
And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.
With a cheek-smoothing air coming taking me round,
Betwixt hillocks of green, plumed with fern and wild flowers,
While my eye closely follows the bees in their bowers.
People talk of “poor insects,” (although, by the way,
Your old friend, Anacreon, was wiser than they);
But lord, what a set of delicious retreats
The epicures live in,—shades, colours, and sweets!
The least clumps of verdure, on peeping into 'em,
Are emerald groves, with bright shapes winding through 'em;
And sometimes I wonder, when poking down by 'em,
What odd sort of giant the rogues may think I am.
lxxxii
A beau, who slips backward as though he were seen:—
Here, over my paper another shall go,
Looking just like the traveller lost in the snow,—
Till he reaches the writing,—and then, when he's eyed it,
What nodding, and touching, and coasting beside it!
No fresh-water spark, in his uniform fine,
Can be graver when he too first crosses the line:—
Now he stops at a question, as who should say “Hey?”
Now casts his round eye up the yawn of an A;
Now resolves to be bold, half afraid he shall sink,
And like Giffard before him, can't tell what to think.
Oh the wretched transition to insects like these
From those of the country! To town from the trees!
Ah, Tom,—you who've run the gay circle of life,
And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,—
Who in Bond-street by day, when the press has been thickest,
Have had all the “digito monstror” and “hic est,”
Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded streets,
Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats,
And had the best pleasure a guest could befall,
In being, yourself, the best part of it all,—
Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm there)
Can the town, after all, with the country compare?
From those of the country! To town from the trees!
Ah, Tom,—you who've run the gay circle of life,
And squared it, at last, with your books and a wife,—
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Have had all the “digito monstror” and “hic est,”
Who've shone at great houses in coach-crowded streets,
Amidst lights, wits, and beauties, and musical treats,
And had the best pleasure a guest could befall,
In being, yourself, the best part of it all,—
Can the town (and I'm fond of it too, when I'm there)
Can the town, after all, with the country compare?
But this is a subject I keep for my last,
Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a repast.—
Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town;
Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.
Like the fruit in green leaves, which conclude a repast.—
Adieu. In my next you'll hear more of the town;
Till when, and for ever, dear Coz.
Harry Brown.
lxxxiv
EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER LETTER TO THE SAME.
Per me si va nella città dolente.
—Dante.
—Dante.
Through me you go into the city,—grieving.
Would you change, my dear Tom, your old mode of proceeding,
And make a dull end to a passage worth reading,—
I mean would you learn how to let your wit down,
You'd walk some fine morning from Hampstead to town.
And make a dull end to a passage worth reading,—
I mean would you learn how to let your wit down,
You'd walk some fine morning from Hampstead to town.
What think you of going by gardens and bowers,
Through fields of all colours, refreshed by night-showers,—
Some spotted with hay-cocks, some dark with ploughed mould,
Some changed by the mower from green to pale gold,—
A scene of ripe sunshine the hedges betwixt,
With here and there farm-houses, tree-intermixed,
And an air in your face, ever fanning and sweet,
And the birds in your ears, and a turf for your feet;—
And then, after all, to encounter a throng of
Canal-men, and hod-men, unfit to make song of,
Midst ale-houses, puddles, and backs of street-roads,
And all sorts of rubbish, and crashing cart-loads,
And so on, eye-smarting, and ready to choke,
Till you end in hot narrowness, clatter, and smoke!
Through fields of all colours, refreshed by night-showers,—
lxxxv
Some changed by the mower from green to pale gold,—
A scene of ripe sunshine the hedges betwixt,
With here and there farm-houses, tree-intermixed,
And an air in your face, ever fanning and sweet,
And the birds in your ears, and a turf for your feet;—
And then, after all, to encounter a throng of
Canal-men, and hod-men, unfit to make song of,
Midst ale-houses, puddles, and backs of street-roads,
And all sorts of rubbish, and crashing cart-loads,
And so on, eye-smarting, and ready to choke,
Till you end in hot narrowness, clatter, and smoke!
'Tis Swift after Spenser, or daylight with candles,
A sea-song succeeding a pastoral of Handel's,
A step unexpected, that jars one's inside,
The shout-raising fall at the end of a slide,
A yawn to a kiss, a flock followed by dust,
The hoop of a beauty seen after her bust,
A reckoning, a parting, a snake in the grass,
A time when a man says, “What! Come to this pass!”
A sea-song succeeding a pastoral of Handel's,
lxxxvi
The shout-raising fall at the end of a slide,
A yawn to a kiss, a flock followed by dust,
The hoop of a beauty seen after her bust,
A reckoning, a parting, a snake in the grass,
A time when a man says, “What! Come to this pass!”
lxxxvii
EXTRACT FROM ANOTHER TO THE SAME.
THE BERKELEIAN SYSTEM.
You know, my dear Tom, that the objects we see,
Are not, on the whole, what we take 'em to be;
And that colour, shape, surface, are modifications,
At least more or less, of our purblind sensations.
A set now of needles, like certain smooth souls,
Are as rough, on inspection, as old iron poles;
The sun, to us dim little critics, Lord love us!
Seems hardly worth measuring, he's so much above us;
And mountains, like lovers, whatever their hue,
When kept at a distance, are sure to look blue.
Are not, on the whole, what we take 'em to be;
And that colour, shape, surface, are modifications,
At least more or less, of our purblind sensations.
A set now of needles, like certain smooth souls,
Are as rough, on inspection, as old iron poles;
The sun, to us dim little critics, Lord love us!
Seems hardly worth measuring, he's so much above us;
lxxxviii
When kept at a distance, are sure to look blue.
The thing is notorious. Nay, as for that matter,
To talk about colour is only to chatter;
For like a complexion put on for the night,
'Tis all but a business of optics and light;
And a pair of red garters, although 'twould be wrong to—
Are just, in the dark,—like the girl they belong to.
To talk about colour is only to chatter;
For like a complexion put on for the night,
'Tis all but a business of optics and light;
And a pair of red garters, although 'twould be wrong to—
Are just, in the dark,—like the girl they belong to.
This truth, though it's stale to the present deep age,
Had once such effect on a good mitred sage,
That mistrusting those brilliant deceivers the eyes,
He resolved to put faith in no sort of disguise;
And (how he contrived, I don't know, with St. Paul)
Concluded there really was nothing at all.
Friends, pictures, books, gardens, like things in romances,
To him were but fictions,—agreeable fancies;
And things not so pleasant, of course, such as aches,
Wounds, fractures, and thumps, were but cruel mistakes.
Did he cry, “A thought strikes me,” you turn'd round to know
What thought 'twas he spoke of, a kick or bon-mot;
Had your brains been displaced by a bullet of lead,
'Twas a painful idea had got into your head;
And did any one speak of a wreck on the ocean,
He fell, as the crew had done, into a notion.
Had once such effect on a good mitred sage,
That mistrusting those brilliant deceivers the eyes,
He resolved to put faith in no sort of disguise;
And (how he contrived, I don't know, with St. Paul)
Concluded there really was nothing at all.
lxxxix
To him were but fictions,—agreeable fancies;
And things not so pleasant, of course, such as aches,
Wounds, fractures, and thumps, were but cruel mistakes.
Did he cry, “A thought strikes me,” you turn'd round to know
What thought 'twas he spoke of, a kick or bon-mot;
Had your brains been displaced by a bullet of lead,
'Twas a painful idea had got into your head;
And did any one speak of a wreck on the ocean,
He fell, as the crew had done, into a notion.
| The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt | |