 | The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt |  |
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 | |