 | The poetical works (1906) |  |
435
POEMS WRITTEN LATE IN 1819
437
A PARTY OF LOVERS:
“A few Nonsense Verses” sent in a Letter to George Keats.
Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes,
Nibble their toast and cool their tea with sighs;
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea, forget their appetite.
See, with cross'd arms they sit—Ah! happy crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot. Must he die
Circled by a humane society?
No, no; there, Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Nibble their toast and cool their tea with sighs;
Or else forget the purpose of the night,
Forget their tea, forget their appetite.
See, with cross'd arms they sit—Ah! happy crew,
The fire is going out and no one rings
For coals, and therefore no coals Betty brings.
A fly is in the milk-pot. Must he die
Circled by a humane society?
No, no; there, Mr. Werter takes his spoon,
Inserts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon
The little straggler, sav'd from perils dark,
Across the teaboard draws a long wet mark.
Romeo! Arise, take snuffers by the handle,
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding sheet—ah, me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well;
Where may your Tailor live? I may not tell.
O pardon me. I'm absent now and then.
Where might my Tailor live? I say again
I cannot tell, let me no more be teazed;
He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleased.
There's a large cauliflower in each candle.
A winding sheet—ah, me! I must away
To No. 7, just beyond the circus gay.
Alas, my friend, your coat sits very well;
Where may your Tailor live? I may not tell.
O pardon me. I'm absent now and then.
Where might my Tailor live? I say again
I cannot tell, let me no more be teazed;
He lives in Wapping, might live where he pleased.
SONNET.
[The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!]
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish'd shape, and lang'rous waist!
438
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise—
Vanish'd unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday—or holinight
Of fragrant-curtain'd love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through to-day,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
LINES TO FANNY.
What can I do to drive away
Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,
Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?
When every fair one that I saw was fair,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:
When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,
And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,
Unintellectual, yet divine to me;—
Divine, I say!—What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes
Winging along where the great water throes?
Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen,
Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen!
Touch has a memory. O say, love, say,
What can I do to kill it and be free
In my old liberty?
When every fair one that I saw was fair,
Enough to catch me in but half a snare,
Not keep me there:
When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things,
My muse had wings,
And ever ready was to take her course
Whither I bent her force,
Unintellectual, yet divine to me;—
Divine, I say!—What sea-bird o'er the sea
Is a philosopher the while he goes
Winging along where the great water throes?
How shall I do
To get anew
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
Above, above
The reach of fluttering Love,
And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,
Foisted into the canon law of love;—
No,—wine is only sweet to happy men;
More dismal cares
Seize on me unawares,—
Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour,
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag'd meads
Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
To get anew
Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more
Above, above
The reach of fluttering Love,
And make him cower lowly while I soar?
Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism,
A heresy and schism,
Foisted into the canon law of love;—
439
More dismal cares
Seize on me unawares,—
Where shall I learn to get my peace again?
To banish thoughts of that most hateful land,
Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand
Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life;
That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour,
Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore,
Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods;
Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods,
Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind;
Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind,
Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbag'd meads
Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds;
There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song,
And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
O, for some sunny spell
To dissipate the shadows of this hell!
Say they are gone,—with the new dawning light
Steps forth my lady bright!
O, let me once more rest
My soul upon that dazzling breast!
Let once again these aching arms be plac'd,
The tender gaolers of thy waist!
And let me feel that warm breath here and there
To spread a rapture in my very hair,—
O, the sweetness of the pain!
Give me those lips again!
Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
To dream of thee!
To dissipate the shadows of this hell!
Say they are gone,—with the new dawning light
Steps forth my lady bright!
O, let me once more rest
My soul upon that dazzling breast!
Let once again these aching arms be plac'd,
The tender gaolers of thy waist!
And let me feel that warm breath here and there
To spread a rapture in my very hair,—
O, the sweetness of the pain!
Give me those lips again!
Enough! Enough! it is enough for me
To dream of thee!
440
SONNET. TO FANNY.
I cry your mercy—pity—love!—aye, love!Merciful love that tantalizes not,
One-thoughted, never-wandering, guileless love,
Unmask'd, and being seen—without a blot!
O! let me have thee whole,—all—all—be mine!
That shape, that fairness, that sweet minor zest
Of love, your kiss,—those hands, those eyes divine,
That warm, white, lucent, million-pleasured breast,—
Yourself—your soul—in pity give me all,
Withhold no atom's atom or I die,
Or living on perhaps, your wretched thrall,
Forget, in the mist of idle misery,
Life's purposes,—the palate of my mind
Losing its gust, and my ambition blind!
441
THE FALL OF HYPERION
A DREAM
443
[CANTO I.]
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
A paradise for a sect; the savage too
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
Guesses at Heaven; pity these have not
Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf
The shadows of melodious utterance.
But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die;
For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,
With the fine spell of words alone can save
Imagination from the sable chain
And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say,
“Thou art no Poet—may'st not tell thy dreams?”
Since every man whose soul is not a clod
Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved,
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse
Be poet's or fanatic's will be known
When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.
A paradise for a sect; the savage too
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
Guesses at Heaven; pity these have not
Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf
The shadows of melodious utterance.
But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die;
For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,
With the fine spell of words alone can save
Imagination from the sable chain
And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say,
“Thou art no Poet—may'st not tell thy dreams?”
Since every man whose soul is not a clod
Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved,
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse
Be poet's or fanatic's will be known
When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.
Methought I stood where trees of every clime,
Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech,
With plantain, and spice-blossoms, made a screen;
In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise
Soft-showering in my ears), and, (by the touch
Of scent,) not far from roses. Turning round
I saw an arbour with a drooping roof
Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms,
Like floral censers, swinging light in air;
Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound
Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits,
Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal
By angel tasted or our Mother Eve;
For empty shells were scattered on the grass,
And grape-stalks but half bare, and remnants more,
Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know.
Still was more plenty than the fabled horn
Thrice emptied could pour forth, at banqueting
For Proserpine return'd to her own fields,
Where the white heifers low. And appetite
More yearning than on Earth I ever felt
Growing within, I ate deliciously;
And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby
Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice
Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took,
And, pledging all the mortals of the world,
And all the dead whose names are in our lips,
Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme.
No Asian poppy nor elixir fine
Of the soon-fading jealous Caliphat;
No poison gender'd in close monkish cell,
To thin the scarlet conclave of old men,
Could so have rapt unwilling life away.
Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd,
Upon the grass I struggled hard against
The domineering potion; but in vain:
The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sank,
Like a Silenus on an antique vase.
How long I slumber'd 'tis a chance to guess.
When sense of life return'd, I started up
As if with wings; but the fair trees were gone,
The mossy mound and arbour were no more:
I look'd around upon the carved sides
Of an old sanctuary with roof august,
Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds
Might spread beneath, as o'er the stars of heaven;
So old the place was, I remember'd none
The like upon the Earth: what I had seen
Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers,
The superannuations of sunk realms,
Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds,
Seem'd but the faulture of decrepit things
To that eternal domed Monument.—
Upon the marble at my feet there lay
Store of strange vessels and large draperies,
Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove,
Or in that place the moth could not corrupt,
So white the linen, so, in some, distinct
Ran imageries from a sombre loom.
All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay
Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing-dish,
Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries.
Palm, myrtle, oak, and sycamore, and beech,
With plantain, and spice-blossoms, made a screen;
In neighbourhood of fountains (by the noise
Soft-showering in my ears), and, (by the touch
Of scent,) not far from roses. Turning round
I saw an arbour with a drooping roof
Of trellis vines, and bells, and larger blooms,
Like floral censers, swinging light in air;
Before its wreathed doorway, on a mound
Of moss, was spread a feast of summer fruits,
Which, nearer seen, seem'd refuse of a meal
By angel tasted or our Mother Eve;
444
And grape-stalks but half bare, and remnants more,
Sweet-smelling, whose pure kinds I could not know.
Still was more plenty than the fabled horn
Thrice emptied could pour forth, at banqueting
For Proserpine return'd to her own fields,
Where the white heifers low. And appetite
More yearning than on Earth I ever felt
Growing within, I ate deliciously;
And, after not long, thirsted, for thereby
Stood a cool vessel of transparent juice
Sipp'd by the wander'd bee, the which I took,
And, pledging all the mortals of the world,
And all the dead whose names are in our lips,
Drank. That full draught is parent of my theme.
No Asian poppy nor elixir fine
Of the soon-fading jealous Caliphat;
No poison gender'd in close monkish cell,
To thin the scarlet conclave of old men,
Could so have rapt unwilling life away.
Among the fragrant husks and berries crush'd,
Upon the grass I struggled hard against
The domineering potion; but in vain:
The cloudy swoon came on, and down I sank,
Like a Silenus on an antique vase.
How long I slumber'd 'tis a chance to guess.
When sense of life return'd, I started up
As if with wings; but the fair trees were gone,
The mossy mound and arbour were no more:
I look'd around upon the carved sides
Of an old sanctuary with roof august,
Builded so high, it seem'd that filmed clouds
Might spread beneath, as o'er the stars of heaven;
So old the place was, I remember'd none
The like upon the Earth: what I had seen
Of grey cathedrals, buttress'd walls, rent towers,
The superannuations of sunk realms,
Or Nature's rocks toil'd hard in waves and winds,
445
To that eternal domed Monument.—
Upon the marble at my feet there lay
Store of strange vessels and large draperies,
Which needs had been of dyed asbestos wove,
Or in that place the moth could not corrupt,
So white the linen, so, in some, distinct
Ran imageries from a sombre loom.
All in a mingled heap confus'd there lay
Robes, golden tongs, censer and chafing-dish,
Girdles, and chains, and holy jewelries.
Turning from these with awe, once more I rais'd
My eyes to fathom the space every way;
The embossed roof, the silent massy range
Of columns north and south, ending in mist
Of nothing, then to eastward, where black gates
Were shut against the sunrise evermore.—
Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off
An image, huge of feature as a cloud,
At level of whose feet an altar slept,
To be approach'd on either side by steps,
And marble balustrade, and patient travail
To count with toil the innumerable degrees.
Towards the altar sober-paced I went,
Repressing haste, as too unholy there;
And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine
One minist'ring; and there arose a flame.—
When in mid-way the sickening East wind
Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain
Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers,
And fills the air with so much pleasant health
That even the dying man forgets his shroud;—
Even so that lofty sacrificial fire,
Sending forth Maian incense, spread around
Forgetfulness of everything but bliss,
And clouded all the altar with soft smoke;
From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard
Language pronounc'd: “If thou canst not ascend
“These steps, die on that marble where thou art.
“Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust,
“Will parch for lack of nutriment—thy bones
“Will wither in few years, and vanish so
“That not the quickest eye could find a grain
“Of what thou now art on that pavement cold.
“The sands of thy short life are spent this hour,
“And no hand in the universe can turn
“Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt
“Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.”
I heard, I look'd: two senses both at once,
So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny
Of that fierce threat and the hard task proposed.
Prodigious seem'd the toil; the leaves were yet
Burning—when suddenly a palsied chill
Struck from the paved level up my limbs,
And was ascending quick to put cold grasp
Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat:
I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek
Stung my own ears—I strove hard to escape
The numbness; strove to gain the lowest step.
Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace: the cold
Grew stifling, suffocating, at the heart;
And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not.
One minute before death, my iced foot touch'd
The lowest stair; and as it touch'd, life seem'd
To pour in at the toes: I mounted up,
As once fair angels on a ladder flew
From the green turf to Heaven—“Holy Power,”
Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine,
“What am I that should so be saved from death?
“What am I that another death come not
“To choke my utterance sacrilegious, here?”
Then said the veiled shadow—“Thou hast felt
“What 'tis to die and live again before
“Thy fated hour, that thou hadst power to do so
“Is thy own safety; thou hast dated on
Thy doom.”—“High Prophetess,” said I, “purge off,
Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.”—
“None can usurp this height,” return'd that shade,
“But those to whom the miseries of the world
“Are misery, and will not let them rest.
“All else who find a haven in the world,
“Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days,
“If by a chance into this fane they come,
“Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.”—
“Are there not thousands in the world,” said I,
Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade,
“Who love their fellows even to the death,
“Who feel the giant agony of the world,
“And more, like slaves to poor humanity,
“Labour for mortal good? I sure should see
“Other men here; but I am here alone.”
“Those whom thou spak'st of are no vision'ries,”
Rejoin'd that voice—“They are no dreamers weak,
“They seek no wonder but the human face;
“No music but a happy-noted voice—
“They come not here, they have no thought to come—
“And thou art here, for thou art less than they—
“What benefit canst thou, or all thy tribe,
“To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing,
“A fever of thyself—think of the Earth;
“What bliss even in hope is there for thee?
“What haven? every creature hath its home;
“Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
“Whether his labours be sublime or low—
“The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct:
“Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
“Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.
“Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shar'd,
“Such things as thou art are admitted oft
“Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile,
“And suffer'd in these temples: for that cause
“Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees.”
“That I am favour'd for unworthiness,
“By such propitious parley medicin'd
“In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice,
“Aye, and could weep for love of such award.”
So answer'd I, continuing, “If it please,
“Majestic shadow, tell me: sure not all
“Those melodies sung into the World's ear
“Are useless: sure a poet is a sage;
“A humanist, physician to all men.
“That I am none I feel, as vultures feel
“They are no birds when eagles are abroad.
“What am I then: Thou spakest of my tribe:
“What tribe?” The tall shade veil'd in drooping white
Then spake, so much more earnest, that the breath
Moved the thin linen folds that drooping hung
About a golden censer from the hand
Pendent—“Art thou not of the dreamer tribe?
“The poet and the dreamer are distinct,
“Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes.
“The one pours out a balm upon the World,
“The other vexes it.” Then shouted I
Spite of myself, and with a Pythia's spleen
“Apollo! faded! O far flown Apollo!
“Where is thy misty pestilence to creep
“Into the dwellings, through the door crannies
“Of all mock lyrists, large self worshipers
“And careless Hectorers in proud bad verse.
“Though I breathe death with them it wil be life
“To see them sprawl before me into graves.
“Majestic shadow, tell me where I am,
“Whose altar this; for whom this incense curls;
“What image this whose face I cannot see,
“For the broad marble knees; and who thou art,
“Of accent feminine so courteous?”
My eyes to fathom the space every way;
The embossed roof, the silent massy range
Of columns north and south, ending in mist
Of nothing, then to eastward, where black gates
Were shut against the sunrise evermore.—
Then to the west I look'd, and saw far off
An image, huge of feature as a cloud,
At level of whose feet an altar slept,
To be approach'd on either side by steps,
And marble balustrade, and patient travail
To count with toil the innumerable degrees.
Towards the altar sober-paced I went,
Repressing haste, as too unholy there;
And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine
One minist'ring; and there arose a flame.—
When in mid-way the sickening East wind
Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain
Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers,
And fills the air with so much pleasant health
That even the dying man forgets his shroud;—
Even so that lofty sacrificial fire,
Sending forth Maian incense, spread around
Forgetfulness of everything but bliss,
446
From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard
Language pronounc'd: “If thou canst not ascend
“These steps, die on that marble where thou art.
“Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust,
“Will parch for lack of nutriment—thy bones
“Will wither in few years, and vanish so
“That not the quickest eye could find a grain
“Of what thou now art on that pavement cold.
“The sands of thy short life are spent this hour,
“And no hand in the universe can turn
“Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt
“Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps.”
I heard, I look'd: two senses both at once,
So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny
Of that fierce threat and the hard task proposed.
Prodigious seem'd the toil; the leaves were yet
Burning—when suddenly a palsied chill
Struck from the paved level up my limbs,
And was ascending quick to put cold grasp
Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat:
I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek
Stung my own ears—I strove hard to escape
The numbness; strove to gain the lowest step.
Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace: the cold
Grew stifling, suffocating, at the heart;
And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not.
One minute before death, my iced foot touch'd
The lowest stair; and as it touch'd, life seem'd
To pour in at the toes: I mounted up,
As once fair angels on a ladder flew
From the green turf to Heaven—“Holy Power,”
Cried I, approaching near the horned shrine,
“What am I that should so be saved from death?
“What am I that another death come not
“To choke my utterance sacrilegious, here?”
Then said the veiled shadow—“Thou hast felt
“What 'tis to die and live again before
“Thy fated hour, that thou hadst power to do so
447
Thy doom.”—“High Prophetess,” said I, “purge off,
Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film.”—
“None can usurp this height,” return'd that shade,
“But those to whom the miseries of the world
“Are misery, and will not let them rest.
“All else who find a haven in the world,
“Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days,
“If by a chance into this fane they come,
“Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half.”—
“Are there not thousands in the world,” said I,
Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade,
“Who love their fellows even to the death,
“Who feel the giant agony of the world,
“And more, like slaves to poor humanity,
“Labour for mortal good? I sure should see
“Other men here; but I am here alone.”
“Those whom thou spak'st of are no vision'ries,”
Rejoin'd that voice—“They are no dreamers weak,
“They seek no wonder but the human face;
“No music but a happy-noted voice—
“They come not here, they have no thought to come—
“And thou art here, for thou art less than they—
“What benefit canst thou, or all thy tribe,
“To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing,
“A fever of thyself—think of the Earth;
“What bliss even in hope is there for thee?
“What haven? every creature hath its home;
“Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
“Whether his labours be sublime or low—
“The pain alone; the joy alone; distinct:
“Only the dreamer venoms all his days,
“Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.
“Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shar'd,
“Such things as thou art are admitted oft
“Into like gardens thou didst pass erewhile,
“And suffer'd in these temples: for that cause
“Thou standest safe beneath this statue's knees.”
“That I am favour'd for unworthiness,
448
“In sickness not ignoble, I rejoice,
“Aye, and could weep for love of such award.”
So answer'd I, continuing, “If it please,
“Majestic shadow, tell me: sure not all
“Those melodies sung into the World's ear
“Are useless: sure a poet is a sage;
“A humanist, physician to all men.
“That I am none I feel, as vultures feel
“They are no birds when eagles are abroad.
“What am I then: Thou spakest of my tribe:
“What tribe?” The tall shade veil'd in drooping white
Then spake, so much more earnest, that the breath
Moved the thin linen folds that drooping hung
About a golden censer from the hand
Pendent—“Art thou not of the dreamer tribe?
“The poet and the dreamer are distinct,
“Diverse, sheer opposite, antipodes.
“The one pours out a balm upon the World,
“The other vexes it.” Then shouted I
Spite of myself, and with a Pythia's spleen
“Apollo! faded! O far flown Apollo!
“Where is thy misty pestilence to creep
“Into the dwellings, through the door crannies
“Of all mock lyrists, large self worshipers
“And careless Hectorers in proud bad verse.
“Though I breathe death with them it wil be life
“To see them sprawl before me into graves.
“Majestic shadow, tell me where I am,
“Whose altar this; for whom this incense curls;
“What image this whose face I cannot see,
“For the broad marble knees; and who thou art,
“Of accent feminine so courteous?”
Then the tall shade, in drooping linens veil'd,
Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath
Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung
About a golden censer from her hand
Pendent; and by her voice I knew she shed
Long-treasured tears. “This temple, sad and lone,
“Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war
“Foughten long since by giant hierarchy
“Against rebellion: this old image here,
“Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell,
“Is Saturn's; I Moneta, left supreme
“Sole Priestess of this desolation.”—
I had no words to answer, for my tongue,
Useless, could find about its roofed home
No syllable of a fit majesty
To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn.
There was a silence, while the altar's blaze
Was fainting for sweet food: I look'd thereon,
And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled
Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps
Of other crisped spice-wood—then again
I look'd upon the altar, and its horns
Whiten'd with ashes, and its lang'rous flame,
And then upon the offerings again;
And so by turns—till sad Moneta cried,
“The sacrifice is done, but not the less
“Will I be kind to thee for thy good will.
“My power, which to me is still a curse,
“Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes
“Still swooning vivid through my globed brain,
“With an electral changing misery,
“Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold,
“Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.”
As near as an immortal's sphered words
Could to a mother's soften, were these last:
And yet I had a terror of her robes,
And chiefly of the veils, that from her brow
Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries,
That made my heart too small to hold its blood.
This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand
Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face,
Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd
By an immortal sickness which kills not;
It works a constant change, which happy death
Can put no end to; deathwards progressing
To no death was that visage; it had past
The lilly and the snow; and beyond these
I must not think now, though I saw that face—
But for her eyes I should have fled away.
They held me back, with a benignant light,
Soft mitigated by divinest lids
Half-closed, and visionless entire they seem'd
Of all external things;—they saw me not,
But in blank splendor, beam'd like the mild moon,
Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not
What eyes are upward cast. As I had found
A grain of gold upon a mountain's side,
And twing'd with avarice strain'd out my eyes
To search its sullen entrails rich with ore,
So at the view of sad Moneta's brow,
I ask'd to see what things the hollow brain
Behind environed: what high tragedy
In the dark secret chambers of her skull
Was acting, that could give so dread a stress
To her cold lips, and fill with such a light
Her planetary eyes; and touch her voice
With such a sorrow—“Shade of Memory!”—
Cried I, with act adorant at her feet,
“By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house,
“By this last temple, by the golden age,
“By great Apollo, thy dear Foster Child,
“And by thyself, forlorn divinity,
“The pale Omega of a withered race,
“Let me behold, according as thou saidst,
“What in thy brain so ferments to and fro!”
No sooner had this conjuration pass'd
My devout lips, than side by side we stood
(Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine)
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star.
Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs,
And saw, what first I thought an image huge,
Like to the image pedestal'd so high
In Saturn's temple. Then Moneta's voice
Came brief upon mine ear—“So Saturn sat
When he had lost his Realms—” whereon there grew
A power within me of enormous ken
To see as a god sees, and take the depth
Of things as nimbly as the outward eye
Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme
At those few words hung vast before my mind,
With half-unravel'd web. I set myself
Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see,
And seeing ne'er forget. No stir of life
Was in this shrouded vale, not so much air
As in the zoning of a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest:
A stream went voiceless by, still deaden'd more
By reason of the fallen divinity
Spreading more shade; the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Prest her cold finger closer to her lips.
Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath
Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung
About a golden censer from her hand
Pendent; and by her voice I knew she shed
Long-treasured tears. “This temple, sad and lone,
449
“Foughten long since by giant hierarchy
“Against rebellion: this old image here,
“Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell,
“Is Saturn's; I Moneta, left supreme
“Sole Priestess of this desolation.”—
I had no words to answer, for my tongue,
Useless, could find about its roofed home
No syllable of a fit majesty
To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn.
There was a silence, while the altar's blaze
Was fainting for sweet food: I look'd thereon,
And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled
Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps
Of other crisped spice-wood—then again
I look'd upon the altar, and its horns
Whiten'd with ashes, and its lang'rous flame,
And then upon the offerings again;
And so by turns—till sad Moneta cried,
“The sacrifice is done, but not the less
“Will I be kind to thee for thy good will.
“My power, which to me is still a curse,
“Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes
“Still swooning vivid through my globed brain,
“With an electral changing misery,
“Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold,
“Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not.”
As near as an immortal's sphered words
Could to a mother's soften, were these last:
And yet I had a terror of her robes,
And chiefly of the veils, that from her brow
Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries,
That made my heart too small to hold its blood.
This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand
Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face,
Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd
By an immortal sickness which kills not;
It works a constant change, which happy death
Can put no end to; deathwards progressing
To no death was that visage; it had past
450
I must not think now, though I saw that face—
But for her eyes I should have fled away.
They held me back, with a benignant light,
Soft mitigated by divinest lids
Half-closed, and visionless entire they seem'd
Of all external things;—they saw me not,
But in blank splendor, beam'd like the mild moon,
Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not
What eyes are upward cast. As I had found
A grain of gold upon a mountain's side,
And twing'd with avarice strain'd out my eyes
To search its sullen entrails rich with ore,
So at the view of sad Moneta's brow,
I ask'd to see what things the hollow brain
Behind environed: what high tragedy
In the dark secret chambers of her skull
Was acting, that could give so dread a stress
To her cold lips, and fill with such a light
Her planetary eyes; and touch her voice
With such a sorrow—“Shade of Memory!”—
Cried I, with act adorant at her feet,
“By all the gloom hung round thy fallen house,
“By this last temple, by the golden age,
“By great Apollo, thy dear Foster Child,
“And by thyself, forlorn divinity,
“The pale Omega of a withered race,
“Let me behold, according as thou saidst,
“What in thy brain so ferments to and fro!”
No sooner had this conjuration pass'd
My devout lips, than side by side we stood
(Like a stunt bramble by a solemn pine)
Deep in the shady sadness of a vale,
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star.
Onward I look'd beneath the gloomy boughs,
And saw, what first I thought an image huge,
Like to the image pedestal'd so high
In Saturn's temple. Then Moneta's voice
Came brief upon mine ear—“So Saturn sat
When he had lost his Realms—” whereon there grew
451
To see as a god sees, and take the depth
Of things as nimbly as the outward eye
Can size and shape pervade. The lofty theme
At those few words hung vast before my mind,
With half-unravel'd web. I set myself
Upon an eagle's watch, that I might see,
And seeing ne'er forget. No stir of life
Was in this shrouded vale, not so much air
As in the zoning of a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell there did it rest:
A stream went voiceless by, still deaden'd more
By reason of the fallen divinity
Spreading more shade; the Naiad 'mid her reeds
Prest her cold finger closer to her lips.
Along the margin-sand large footmarks went
No farther than to where old Saturn's feet
Had rested, and there slept, how long a sleep!
Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were clos'd,
While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
No farther than to where old Saturn's feet
Had rested, and there slept, how long a sleep!
Degraded, cold, upon the sodden ground
His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptred; and his realmless eyes were clos'd,
While his bow'd head seem'd listening to the Earth,
His ancient mother, for some comfort yet.
It seem'd no force could wake him from his place;
But there came one who, with a kindred hand
Touch'd his wide shoulders after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
Then came the griev'd voice of Mnemosyne,
And griev'd I hearken'd. “That divinity
“Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlornest wood,
“And with slow pace approach our fallen King,
“Is Thea, softest-natur'd of our Brood.”
I mark'd the Goddess in fair statuary
Surpassing wan Moneta by the head,
And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears.
There was a listening fear in her regard,
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain;
The other upon Saturn's bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his hollow ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenor and deep organ tune;
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in this-like accenting; how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods!
But there came one who, with a kindred hand
Touch'd his wide shoulders after bending low
With reverence, though to one who knew it not.
Then came the griev'd voice of Mnemosyne,
And griev'd I hearken'd. “That divinity
“Whom thou saw'st step from yon forlornest wood,
“And with slow pace approach our fallen King,
“Is Thea, softest-natur'd of our Brood.”
I mark'd the Goddess in fair statuary
Surpassing wan Moneta by the head,
And in her sorrow nearer woman's tears.
452
As if calamity had but begun;
As if the vanward clouds of evil days
Had spent their malice, and the sullen rear
Was with its stored thunder labouring up.
One hand she press'd upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain;
The other upon Saturn's bended neck
She laid, and to the level of his hollow ear
Leaning with parted lips, some words she spake
In solemn tenor and deep organ tune;
Some mourning words, which in our feeble tongue
Would come in this-like accenting; how frail
To that large utterance of the early Gods!
“Saturn! look up—and for what, poor lost King?
“I have no comfort for thee; no not one;
“I cannot say, wherefore thus sleepest thou?
“For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth
“Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a God;
“And Ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
“Has from thy sceptre pass'd, and all the air
“Is emptied of thine hoary majesty:
“Thy thunder, captious at the new command,
“Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
“And thy sharp lightning, in unpracticed hands,
“Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
“With such remorseless speed still come new woes,
“That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
“Saturn! sleep on:—Me thoughtless, why should I
“Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
“Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
“Saturn, sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.”
“I have no comfort for thee; no not one;
“I cannot say, wherefore thus sleepest thou?
“For Heaven is parted from thee, and the Earth
“Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a God;
“And Ocean too, with all its solemn noise,
“Has from thy sceptre pass'd, and all the air
“Is emptied of thine hoary majesty:
“Thy thunder, captious at the new command,
“Rumbles reluctant o'er our fallen house;
“And thy sharp lightning, in unpracticed hands,
“Scorches and burns our once serene domain.
“With such remorseless speed still come new woes,
“That unbelief has not a space to breathe.
“Saturn! sleep on:—Me thoughtless, why should I
“Thus violate thy slumbrous solitude?
“Why should I ope thy melancholy eyes?
“Saturn, sleep on, while at thy feet I weep.”
As when upon a tranced summer-night
Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a noise,
Save from one gradual solitary gust,
Swelling upon the silence; dying off;
As if the ebbing air had but one wave;
So came these words, and went; the while in tears
She prest her fair large forehead to the earth,
Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls,
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet.
Long, long these two were postured motionless,
Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave
Of their own power. A long awful time
I look'd upon them: still they were the same;
The frozen God still bending to the earth,
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet,
Moneta silent. Without stay or prop,
But my own weak mortality, I bore
The load of this eternal quietude,
The unchanging gloom, and the three fixed shapes
Ponderous upon my senses, a whole moon.
For by my burning brain I measured sure
Her silver seasons shedded on the night,
And every day by day methought I grew
More gaunt and ghostly.—Oftentimes I pray'd
Intense, that Death would take me from the Vale
And all its burthens—gasping with despair
Of change, hour after hour I curs'd myself;
Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes,
And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone,
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,
And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet.
As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and leaves,
Fills forest dells with a pervading air,
Known to the woodland nostril, so the words
Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around,
Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks,
And to the windings of the foxes' hole,
With sad low tones, while thus he spake, and sent
Strange musings to the solitary Pan.
“Moan, brethren, moan; for we are swallow'd up
“And buried from all Godlike exercise
“Of influence benign on planets pale,
“And peaceful sway above man's harvesting,
“And all those acts which Deity supreme
“Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail,
“Moan, brethren, moan; for lo, the rebel spheres
“Spin round, the stars their ancient courses keep,
“Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth,
“Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon;
“Still buds the tree, and still the sea-shores murmur;
“There is no death in all the Universe,
“No smell of death—there shall be death—Moan, moan,
“Moan, Cybele, moan; for thy pernicious Babes
“Have changed a god into an aching Palsy.
“Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left,
“Weak as the reed—weak—feeble as my voice—
“O, O, the pain, the pain of feebleness.
“Moan, moan, for still I thaw—or give me help;
“Throw down those imps, and give me victory.
“Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown
“Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival,
“From the gold peaks of Heaven's high-piled clouds;
“Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
“Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
“Beautiful things made new for the surprise
“Of the sky-children.” So he feebly ceas'd,
With such a poor and sickly sounding pause,
Methought I heard some old man of the earth
Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes
And ears act with that pleasant unison of sense
Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form,
And dolorous accent from a tragic harp
With large-limb'd visions.—More I scrutinized:
Still fix'd he sat beneath the sable trees,
Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms,
With leaves all hush'd; his awful presence there
(Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie
To what I erewhile heard—only his lips
Trembled amid the white curls of his beard.
They told the truth, though, round, the snowy locks
Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven
A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose,
And stretched her white arm through the hollow dark,
Pointing some whither: whereat he too rose
Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea
To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight.
They melted from my sight into the woods;
Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, “These twain
“Are speeding to the families of grief,
“Where roof'd in by black rocks they waste, in pain
“And darkness, for no hope.”—And she spake on,
As ye may read who can unwearied pass
Onward from th'Antichamber of this dream,
Where even at the open doors awhile
I must delay, and glean my memory
Of her high phrase:—perhaps no further dare.
Forests, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
453
Save from one gradual solitary gust,
Swelling upon the silence; dying off;
As if the ebbing air had but one wave;
So came these words, and went; the while in tears
She prest her fair large forehead to the earth,
Just where her fallen hair might spread in curls,
A soft and silken mat for Saturn's feet.
Long, long these two were postured motionless,
Like sculpture builded-up upon the grave
Of their own power. A long awful time
I look'd upon them: still they were the same;
The frozen God still bending to the earth,
And the sad Goddess weeping at his feet,
Moneta silent. Without stay or prop,
But my own weak mortality, I bore
The load of this eternal quietude,
The unchanging gloom, and the three fixed shapes
Ponderous upon my senses, a whole moon.
For by my burning brain I measured sure
Her silver seasons shedded on the night,
And every day by day methought I grew
More gaunt and ghostly.—Oftentimes I pray'd
Intense, that Death would take me from the Vale
And all its burthens—gasping with despair
Of change, hour after hour I curs'd myself;
Until old Saturn rais'd his faded eyes,
And look'd around and saw his kingdom gone,
And all the gloom and sorrow of the place,
And that fair kneeling Goddess at his feet.
As the moist scent of flowers, and grass, and leaves,
Fills forest dells with a pervading air,
Known to the woodland nostril, so the words
Of Saturn fill'd the mossy glooms around,
Even to the hollows of time-eaten oaks,
And to the windings of the foxes' hole,
With sad low tones, while thus he spake, and sent
Strange musings to the solitary Pan.
“Moan, brethren, moan; for we are swallow'd up
454
“Of influence benign on planets pale,
“And peaceful sway above man's harvesting,
“And all those acts which Deity supreme
“Doth ease its heart of love in. Moan and wail,
“Moan, brethren, moan; for lo, the rebel spheres
“Spin round, the stars their ancient courses keep,
“Clouds still with shadowy moisture haunt the earth,
“Still suck their fill of light from sun and moon;
“Still buds the tree, and still the sea-shores murmur;
“There is no death in all the Universe,
“No smell of death—there shall be death—Moan, moan,
“Moan, Cybele, moan; for thy pernicious Babes
“Have changed a god into an aching Palsy.
“Moan, brethren, moan, for I have no strength left,
“Weak as the reed—weak—feeble as my voice—
“O, O, the pain, the pain of feebleness.
“Moan, moan, for still I thaw—or give me help;
“Throw down those imps, and give me victory.
“Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown
“Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival,
“From the gold peaks of Heaven's high-piled clouds;
“Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
“Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
“Beautiful things made new for the surprise
“Of the sky-children.” So he feebly ceas'd,
With such a poor and sickly sounding pause,
Methought I heard some old man of the earth
Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes
And ears act with that pleasant unison of sense
Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form,
And dolorous accent from a tragic harp
With large-limb'd visions.—More I scrutinized:
Still fix'd he sat beneath the sable trees,
Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms,
With leaves all hush'd; his awful presence there
(Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie
To what I erewhile heard—only his lips
Trembled amid the white curls of his beard.
455
Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven
A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose,
And stretched her white arm through the hollow dark,
Pointing some whither: whereat he too rose
Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea
To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight.
They melted from my sight into the woods;
Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, “These twain
“Are speeding to the families of grief,
“Where roof'd in by black rocks they waste, in pain
“And darkness, for no hope.”—And she spake on,
As ye may read who can unwearied pass
Onward from th'Antichamber of this dream,
Where even at the open doors awhile
I must delay, and glean my memory
Of her high phrase:—perhaps no further dare.
END OF CANTO I.
CANTO II.
“Mortal, that thou may'st understand aright,“I humanize my sayings to thine ear,
“Making comparisons of earthly things;
“Or thou might'st better listen to the wind,
“Whose language is to thee a barren noise,
“Though it blows legend-laden thro' the trees.—
“In melancholy realms big tears are shed,
“More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
“Too huge for mortal tongue, or pen of scribe.
“The Titans fierce, self hid or prison bound,
“Groan for the old allegiance once more,
“Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice.
“But one of our whole eagle-brood still keeps
“His sov'reignty, and rule, and majesty;
“Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire
“Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up
456
“For as upon the earth dire prodigies
“Fright and perplex, so also shudders he:
“Nor at dog's howl or gloom-bird's Even screech,
“Or the familiar visitings of one
“Upon the first toll of his passing bell:
“But horrors, portioned to a giant nerve,
“Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright,
“Bastion'd with pyramids of glowing gold,
“And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks,
“Glares a blood-red thro' all the thousand courts,
“Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries:
“And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds
“Flush angerly; when he would taste the wreaths
“Of incense breathed aloft from sacred hills,
“Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes
“Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick.
“Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy West,
“After the full completion of fair day,
“For rest divine upon exalted couch
“And slumber in the arms of melody,
“He paces through the pleasant hours of ease,
“With strides colossal, on from hall to hall;
“While far within each aisle and deep recess
“His winged minions in close clusters stand
“Amaz'd, and full of fear; like anxious men,
“Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops,
“When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
“Even now, while Saturn, roused from icy trance,
“Goes, step for step, with Thea from yon woods,
“Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,
“Is sloping to the threshold of the West.—
“Thither we tend.”—Now in clear light I stood,
457
Was sitting on a square-edg'd polish'd stone,
That in its lucid depth reflected pure
Her priestess-garments.—My quick eyes ran on
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bow'rs of fragrant and enwreathed light
And diamond-paved lustrous long arcades.
Anon rush'd by the bright Hyperion;
His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels,
And gave a roar, as if of earthly fire,
That scared away the meek ethereal hours,
And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared.
459
THE CAP AND BELLS
OR THE JEALOUSIES
A FAERY TALE—UNFINISHED
461
I
In midmost Ind, beside Hydaspes cool,There stood, or hover'd, tremulous in the air,
A faery city, 'neath the potent rule
Of Emperor Elfinan; fam'd ev'rywhere
For love of mortal women, maidens fair,
Whose lips were solid, whose soft hands were made
Of a fit mould and beauty, ripe and rare,
To pamper his slight wooing, warm yet staid:
He lov'd girls smooth as shades, but hated a mere shade.
II
This was a crime forbidden by the law;And all the priesthood of his city wept,
For ruin and dismay they well foresaw,
If impious prince no bound or limit kept,
And faery Zendervester overstept;
They wept, he sin'd, and still he would sin on,
They dreamt of sin, and he sin'd while they slept;
In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne,
Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon.
III
Which seeing, his high court of parliamentLaid a remonstrance at his Highness' feet,
Praying his royal senses to content
Themselves with what in faery land was sweet,
Befitting best that shade with shade should meet:
Whereat, to calm their fears, he promis'd soon
From mortal tempters all to make retreat,—
Aye, even on the first of the new moon,
An immaterial wife to espouse as heaven's boon.
462
IV
Meantime he sent a fluttering embassyTo Pigmio, of Imaus sovereign,
To half beg, and half demand, respectfully,
The hand of his fair daughter Bellanaine;
An audience had, and speeching done, they gain
Their point, and bring the weeping bride away;
Whom, with but one attendant, safely lain
Upon their wings, they bore in bright array,
While little harps were touch'd by many a lyric fay.
V
As in old pictures tender cherubimA child's soul thro' the sapphir'd canvas bear,
So, thro' a real heaven, on they swim
With the sweet princess on her plumag'd lair,
Speed giving to the winds her lustrous hair;
And so she journey'd, sleeping or awake,
Save when, for healthful exercise and air,
She chose to promener à l'aile, or take
A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake.
VI
“Dear Princess, do not whisper me so loud,”Quoth Corallina, nurse and confidant,
“Do not you see there, lurking in a cloud,
Close at your back, that sly old Crafticant?
He hears a whisper plainer than a rant:
Dry up your tears, and do not look so blue;
He's Elfinan's great state-spy militant,
His running, lying, flying foot-man too,—
Dear mistress, let him have no handle against you!
VII
“Show him a mouse's tail, and he will guess,With metaphysic swiftness, at the mouse;
Show him a garden, and with speed no less,
He'll surmise sagely of a dwelling house,
And plot, in the same minute, how to chouse
463
Peace! nor contrive thy mistress' ire to rouse!”
Return'd the Princess, “my tongue shall not cease
Till from this hated match I get a free release.
VIII
“Ah, beauteous mortal!” “Hush!” quoth Coralline,“Really you must not talk of him, indeed.”
“You hush!” replied the mistress, with a shine
Of anger in her eyes, enough to breed
In stouter hearts than nurse's fear and dread:
'Twas not the glance itself made nursey flinch,
But of its threat she took the utmost heed;
Not liking in her heart an hour-long pinch,
Or a sharp needle run into her back an inch.
IX
So she was silenc'd, and fair Bellanaine,Writhing her little body with ennui,
Continued to lament and to complain,
That Fate, cross-purposing, should let her be
Ravish'd away far from her dear countree;
That all her feelings should be set at naught,
In trumping up this match so hastily,
With lowland blood; and lowland blood she thought
Poison, as every staunch true-born Imaian ought.
X
Sorely she griev'd, and wetted three or fourWhite Provence rose-leaves with her faery tears,
But not for this cause;—alas! she had more
Bad reasons for her sorrow, as appears
In the fam'd memoirs of a thousand years,
Written by Crafticant, and published
By Parpaglion and Co., (those sly compeers
Who rak'd up ev'ry fact against the dead,)
In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head.
XI
Where, after a long hypercritic howlAgainst the vicious manners of the age
He goes on to expose, with heart and soul,
What vice in this or that year was the rage,
Backbiting all the world in every page;
464
(Section'd and subsection'd with learning sage,)
Of faeries stooping on their wings sublime
To kiss a mortal's lips, when such were in their prime.
XII
Turn to the copious index, you will findSomewhere in the column, headed letter B,
The name of Bellanaine, if you're not blind;
Then pray refer to the text, and you will see
An article made up of calumny
Against this highland princess, rating her
For giving way, so over fashionably,
To this new-fangled vice, which seems a burr
Stuck in his moral throat, no coughing e'er could stir.
XIII
There he says plainly that she lov'd a man!That she around him flutter'd, flirted, toy'd,
Before her marriage with great Elfinan;
That after marriage too, she never joy'd
In husband's company, but still employ'd
Her wits to 'scape away to Angle-land;
Where liv'd the youth, who worried and annoy'd
Her tender heart, and its warm ardours fann'd
To such a dreadful blaze, her side would scorch her hand.
XIV
But let us leave this idle tittle-tattleTo waiting-maids, and bed-room coteries,
Nor till fit time against her fame wage battle.
Poor Elfinan is very ill at ease,
Let us resume his subject if you please:
For it may comfort and console him much
To rhyme and syllable his miseries;
Poor Elfinan! whose cruel fate was such,
He sat and curs'd a bride he knew he could not touch.
XV
Soon as (according to his promises)The bridal embassy had taken wing,
And vanish'd, bird-like, o'er the suburb trees,
The Emperor, empierc'd with the sharp sting
Of love, retired, vex'd and murmuring
465
Into his cabinet, and there did fling
His limbs upon a sofa, full of spleen,
And damn'd his House of Commons, in complete chagrin.
XVI
“I'll trounce some of the members,” cried the Prince,“I'll put a mark against some rebel names,
I'll make the Opposition-benches wince,
I'll show them very soon, to all their shames,
What 'tis to smother up a Prince's flames;
That ministers should join in it, I own,
Surprises me!—they too at these high games!
Am I an Emperor? Do I wear a crown?
Imperial Elfinan, go hang thyself or drown!
XVII
“I'll trounce 'em!—there's the square-cut chancellor,His son shall never touch that bishopric;
And for the nephew of old Palfior,
I'll show him that his speech has made me sick,
And give the colonelcy to Phalaric;
The tiptoe marquis, moral and gallant,
Shall lodge in shabby taverns upon tick;
And for the Speaker's second cousin's aunt,
She sha'n't be maid of honour,—by heaven that she sha'n't!
XVIII
“I'll shirk the Duke of A.; I'll cut his brother;I'll give no garter to his eldest son;
I won't speak to his sister or his mother!
The Viscount B. shall live at cut-and-run;
But how in the world can I contrive to stun
That fellow's voice, which plagues me worse than any
That stubborn fool, that impudent state-dun,
Who sets down ev'ry sovereign as a zany,—
That vulgar commoner, Esquire Biancopany?
466
XIX
“Monstrous affair! Pshaw! pah! what ugly minxWill they fetch from Imaus for my bride?
Alas! my wearied heart within me sinks,
To think that I must be so near allied
To a cold dullard fay,—ah, woe betide!
Ah, fairest of all human loveliness!
Sweet Bertha! what crime can it be to glide
About the fragrant pleatings of thy dress,
Or kiss thine eyes, or count thy locks, tress after tress?”
XX
So said, one minute's while his eyes remain'dHalf lidded, piteous, languid, innocent;
But, in a wink, their splendour they regain'd,
Sparkling revenge with amorous fury blent.
Love thwarted in bad temper oft has vent:
He rose, he stampt his foot, he rang the bell,
And order'd some death-warrants to be sent
For signature:—somewhere the tempest fell,
As many a poor felon does not live to tell.
XXI
“At the same time Eban,”—(this was his page,A fay of colour, slave from top to toe,
Sent as a present, while yet under age,
From the Viceroy of Zanguebar,—wise, slow,
His speech, his only words were “yes” and “no,”
But swift of look, and foot, and wing was he,—)
“At the same time, Eban, this instant go
To Hum the soothsayer, whose name I see
Among the fresh arrivals in our empery.
XXII
“Bring Hum to me! But stay—here, take my ring,The pledge of favour, that he not suspect
Any foul play, or awkward murdering,
Tho' I have bowstrung many of his sect;
Throw in a hint, that if he should neglect
467
And the next after that shall see him neck'd,
Or swallow'd by my hunger-starved asp,—
And mention ('tis as well) the torture of the wasp.”
XXIII
These orders given, the Prince, in half a pet,Let o'er the silk his propping elbow slide,
Caught up his little legs, and, in a fret,
Fell on the sofa on his royal side.
The slave retreated backwards, humble-eyed,
And with a slave-like silence clos'd the door,
And to old Hum thro' street and alley hied;
He “knew the city,” as we say, of yore,
And for short cuts and turns, was nobody knew more.
XXIV
It was the time when wholesale houses closeTheir shutters with a moody sense of wealth,
But retail dealers, diligent, let loose
The gas (objected to on score of health),
Convey'd in little solder'd pipes by stealth,
And make it flare in many a brilliant form,
That all the powers of darkness it repell'th,
Which to the oil-trade doth great scaith and harm,
And supersedeth quite the use of the glow-worm.
XXV
Eban, untempted by the pastry-cooks,(Of pastry he got store within the palace,)
With hasty steps, wrapp'd cloak, and solemn looks,
Incognito upon his errand sallies,
His smelling-bottle ready for the allies;
He pass'd the Hurdy-gurdies with disdain,
Vowing he'd have them sent aboard the gallies;
Just as he made his vow, it 'gan to rain,
Therefore he call'd a coach, and bade it drive amain.
XXVI
“I'll pull the string,” said he, and further said,“Polluted Jarvey! Ah, thou filthy hack!
Whose springs of life are all dried up and dead,
Whose linsey-woolsey lining hangs all slack,
Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack;
468
Whose glass once up can never be got back,
Who prov'st, with jolting arguments and bitter,
That 'tis of modern use to travel in a litter.
XXVII
“Thou inconvenience! thou hungry cropFor all corn! thou snail-creeper to and fro,
Who while thou goest ever seem'st to stop,
And fiddle-faddle standest while you go;
I' the morning, freighted with a weight of woe,
Unto some lazar-house thou journeyest,
And in the evening tak'st a double row
Of dowdies, for some dance or party drest,
Besides the goods meanwhile thou movest east and west.
XXVIII
“By thy ungallant bearing and sad mien,An inch appears the utmost thou couldst budge;
Yet at the slightest nod, or hint, or sign,
Round to the curb-stone patient dost thou trudge,
School'd in a beckon, learned in a nudge,
A dull-eyed Argus watching for a fare;
Quiet and plodding, thou dost bear no grudge
To whisking Tilburies, or Phaetons rare,
Curricles, or Mail-coaches, swift beyond compare.”
XXIX
Philosophizing thus, he pull'd the check,And bade the Coachman wheel to such a street,
Who, turning much his body, more his neck,
Louted full low, and hoarsely did him greet:
“Certes, Monsieur were best take to his feet,
469
For press of coaches, that to-night here meet
Many as bees about a straw-capp'd hive,
When first for April honey into faint flowers they dive.”
XXX
Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe wentTo Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass
With head inclin'd, each dusky lineament
Show'd in the pearl-pav'd street, as in a glass;
His purple vest, that ever peeping was
Rich from the fluttering crimson of his cloak,
His silvery trowsers, and his silken sash
Tied in a burnish'd knot, their semblance took
Upon the mirror'd walls, wherever he might look.
XXXI
He smil'd at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth,And seeing his white teeth, he smil'd the more;
Lifted his eye-brows, spurn'd the path beneath,
Show'd teeth again, and smil'd as heretofore,
Until he knock'd at the magician's door;
Where, till the porter answer'd, might be seen,
In the clear panel more he could adore,—
His turban wreath'd of gold, and white, and green,
Mustachios, ear-ring, nose-ring, and his sabre keen.
XXXII
“Does not your master give a rout to-night?”Quoth the dark page. “Oh, no!” return'd the Swiss,
“Next door but one to us, upon the right,
The Magazin des Modes now open is
Against the Emperor's wedding;—and, sir, this
My master finds a monstrous horrid bore;
As he retir'd, an hour ago I wis,
With his best beard and brimstone, to explore
And cast a quiet figure in his second floor.
470
XXXIII
“Gad! he's oblig'd to stick to business!For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price;
And as for aqua vitæ—there's a mess!
The dentes sapientiæ of mice,
Our barber tells me too, are on the rise,—
Tinder's a lighter article,—nitre pure
Goes off like lightning,—grains of Paradise
At an enormous figure!—stars not sure!—
Zodiac will not move without a sly douceur!
XXXIV
“Venus won't stir a peg without a fee,And master is too partial, entre nous,
To”—“Hush—hush!” cried Eban, “sure that is he
Coming down stairs,—by St. Bartholomew!
As backwards as he can,—is't something new?
Or is't his custom, in the name of fun?”
“He always comes down backward, with one shoe”—
Return'd the porter—“off, and one shoe on,
Like, saving shoe for sock or stocking, my man John!”
XXXV
It was indeed the great Magician,Feeling, with careful toe, for every stair,
And retrograding careful as he can,
Backwards and downwards from his own two pair:
“Salpietro!” exclaim'd Hum, “is the dog there?
He's always in my way upon the mat!”
“He's in the kitchen, or the Lord knows where,”—
Replied the Swiss,—“the nasty, yelping brat!”
“Don't beat him!” return'd Hum, and on the floor came pat.
XXXVI
Then facing right about, he saw the Page,And said: “Don't tell me what you want, Eban;
The Emperor is now in a huge rage,—
'Tis nine to one he'll give you the rattan!
Let us away!” Away together ran
471
Nor rested till they stood to cool, and fan,
And breathe themselves at the Emperor's chamber door,
When Eban thought he heard a soft imperial snore.
XXXVII
“I thought you guess'd, foretold, or prophesied,That's Majesty was in a raving fit?”
“He dreams,” said Hum, “or I have ever lied,
That he is tearing you, sir, bit by bit.”
“He's not asleep, and you have little wit,”
Replied the page: “that little buzzing noise,
Whate'er your palmistry may make of it,
Comes from a play-thing of the Emperor's choice,
From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys.”
XXXVIII
Eban then usher'd in the learned Seer:Elfinan's back was turn'd, but, ne'ertheless,
Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear,
Crept silently, and waited in distress,
Knowing the Emperor's moody bitterness;
Eban especially, who on the floor 'gan
Tremble and quake to death,—he feared less
A dose of senna-tea or nightmare Gorgon
Than the Emperor when he play'd on his Man-Tiger-Organ.
XXXIX
They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet faceOf glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green,
Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace
A silver tissue, scantly to be seen,
As daisies lurk'd in June-grass, buds in treen;
Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand
Of majesty, by dint of passion keen,
Doubled into a common fist, went grand,
And knock'd down three cut glasses, and his best ink-stand.
472
XL
Then turning round, he saw those trembling two:“Eban,” said he, “as slaves should taste the fruits
Of diligence, I shall remember you
To-morrow, or the next day, as time suits,
In a finger conversation with my mutes,—
Begone!—for you, Chaldean! here remain!
Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits
A conjurer's spirits, what cup will you drain?
Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass'd champagne?”
XLI
“Commander of the Faithful!” answer'd Hum,“In preference to these, I'll merely taste
A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum.”
“A simple boon!” said Elfinan; “thou may'st
Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee's lac'd.”
“I'll have a glass of Nantz, then,”—said the Seer,—
“Made racy—(sure my boldness is misplac'd!)—
With the third part—(yet that is drinking dear!)—
Of the least drop of crème de citron, crystal clear.”
XLII
“I pledge you, Hum! and pledge my dearest love,My Bertha!” “Bertha! Bertha!” cried the sage,
“I know a many Berthas!” “Mine's above
All Berthas!” sighed the Emperor. “I engage,”
Said Hum, “in duty, and in vassalage,
To mention all the Berthas in the Earth;—
There's Bertha Watson,—and Miss Bertha Page,—
This fam'd for languid eyes, and that for mirth,—
There's Bertha Blount of York,—and Bertha Knox of Perth.”
XLIII
“You seem to know”—“I do know,” answer'd Hum,“Your Majesty's in love with some fine girl
Named Bertha; but her surname will not come,
Without a little conjuring.” “'Tis Pearl,
'Tis Bertha Pearl that makes my brains so whirl;
473
“Where does she live?” ask'd Hum. “Her fair locks curl
So brightly, they put all our fays to shame!—
Live?—O! at Canterbury, with her old grand-dame.”
XLIV
“Good! good!” cried Hum, “I've known her from a child!She is a changeling of my management;
She was born at midnight in an Indian wild;
Her mother's screams with the striped tiger's blent,
While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent
Into the jungles; and her palanquin,
Rested amid the desert's dreariment,
Shook with her agony, till fair were seen
The little Bertha's eyes oped on the stars serene.”
XLV
“I can't say,” said the monarch; “that may beJust as it happen'd, true or else a bam!
Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me,
Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I am;
And if your science is not all a sham,
Tell me some means to get the lady here.”
“Upon my honour!” said the son of Cham,
“She is my dainty changeling, near and dear,
Although her story sounds at first a little queer.”
XLVI
“Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown,My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe,
I'll knock you”—“Does your majesty mean—down?
No, no, you never could my feelings probe
To such a depth!” The Emperor took his robe,
And wept upon its purple palatine,
While Hum continued, shamming half a sob,—
“In Canterbury doth your lady shine?
But let me cool your brandy with a little wine.”
474
XLVII
Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took,That once belong'd to Admiral de Witt,
Admir'd it with a connoisseuring look,
And with the ripest claret crowned it,
And, ere one lively bead could burst and flit,
He turn'd it quickly, nimbly upside down,
His mouth being held conveniently fit
To catch the treasure: “Best in all the town!”
He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown.
XLVIII
“Ah! good my Prince, weep not!” And then againHe fill'd a bumper. “Great Sire, do not weep!
Your pulse is shocking, but I'll ease your pain.”
“Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep
Your voice low,” said the Emperor; “and steep
Some lady's-fingers nice in Candy wine;
And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do peep
For the rose-water vase, magician mine!
And sponge my forehead,—so my love doth make me pine.
XLIX
“Ah, cursed Bellanaine!” “Don't think of her,”Rejoin'd the Mago, “but on Bertha muse;
For, by my choicest best barometer,
You shall not throttled be in marriage noose;
I've said it, Sire; you only have to choose
Bertha or Bellanaine.” So saying, he drew
From the left pocket of his threadbare hose,
A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new,
Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view.
L
“Sire, this is Bertha Pearl's neat handy-work,Her name, see here, Midsummer, ninety-one.”
Elfinan snatch'd it with a sudden jerk,
And wept as if he never would have done,
475
Whereon were broider'd tigers with black eyes,
And long-tail'd pheasants, and a rising sun,
Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies
Bigger than stags,—a moon,—with other mysteries.
LI
The monarch handled o'er and o'er againThese day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh;
Somewhat in sadness, but pleas'd in the main,
Till this oracular couplet met his eye
Astounded—Cupid I, do thee defy!
It was too much. He shrunk back in his chair,
Grew pale as death, and fainted—very nigh!
“Pho! nonsense!” exclaim'd Hum, “now don't despair;
She does not mean it really. Cheer up hearty there!
LII
“And listen to my words. You say you won't,On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine;
It goes against your conscience—good! Well, don't.
You say you love a mortal. I would fain
Persuade your honour's highness to refrain
From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say,
What good would that do? And, to be more plain,
You would do me a mischief some odd day,
Cut off my ears and hands, or head too, by my fay!
LIII
“Besides, manners forbid that I should pass anyVile strictures on the conduct of a prince
Who should indulge his genius, if he has any,
Not, like a subject, foolish matters mince.
476
Your Majesty there is no crime at all
In loving pretty little Bertha, since
She's very delicate,—not over tall,—
A fairy's hand, and in the waist, why—very small.”
LIV
“Ring the repeater, gentle Hum!” “'Tis five,”Said gentle Hum; “the nights draw in apace;
The little birds I hear are all alive;
I see the dawning touch'd upon your face;
Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace?”
“Do put them out, and, without more ado,
Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace,—
How you can bring her to me.” “That's for you,
Great Emperor! to adventure, like a lover true.”
LV
“I fetch her!”—“Yes, an 't like your Majesty;And as she would be frighten'd wide awake
To travel such a distance through the sky,
Use of some soft manœuvre you must make,
For your convenience, and her dear nerves' sake;
Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon,
Anon, I'll tell what course were best to take;
You must away this morning.” “Hum! so soon?”
“Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o'clock at noon.”
LVI
At this great Cæsar started on his feet,Lifted his wings, and stood attentive-wise.
“Those wings to Canterbury you must beat,
If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize.
Look in the Almanack—Moore never lies—
April the twenty-fourth,—this coming day,
Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies,
Will end in St. Mark's Eve;—you must away,
For on that eve alone can you the maid convey.”
477
LVII
Then the magician solemnly 'gan frown,So that his frost-white eyebrows, beetling low,
Shaded his deep-green eyes, and wrinkles brown
Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow:
Forth from the hood that hung his neck below,
He lifted a bright casket of pure gold,
Touch'd a spring-lock, and there in wool, or snow
Charm'd into ever-freezing, lay an old
And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold.
LVIII
“Take this same book,—it will not bite you, Sire;There, put it underneath your royal arm;
Though it's a pretty weight it will not tire,
But rather on your journey keep you warm:
This is the magic, this the potent charm,
That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit!
When the time comes, don't feel the least alarm,
Uplift her from the ground, and swiftly flit
Back to your palace, where I wait for guerdon fit.”
LIX
“What shall I do with this same book?” “Why merelyLay it on Bertha's table, close beside
Her work-box, and 'twill help your purpose dearly;
I say no more.” “Or good or ill betide,
Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!”
Exclaim'd the Emperor. “When I return,
Ask what you will,—I'll give you my new bride!
And take some more wine, Hum;—O Heavens! I burn
To be upon the wing! Now, now, that minx I spurn!”
LX
“Leave her to me,” rejoin'd the magian:“But how shall I account, illustrious fay!
For thine imperial absence? Pho! I can
Say you are very sick, and bar the way
478
If either of their two archbishops' graces
Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say
You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases,
Which never should be used but in alarming cases.”
LXI
“Open the window, Hum; I'm ready now!”“Zooks!” exclaim'd Hum, as up the sash he drew,
“Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow
Of yonder hill, what crowds of people!” “Whew!
The monster's always after something new,”
Return'd his Highness, “they are piping hot
To see my pigsny Bellanaine. Hum! do
Tighten my belt a little,—so, so,—not
Too tight,—the book!—my wand!—so, nothing is forgot.”
LXII
“Wounds! how they shout!” said Hum, “and there,—see, see!The Ambassadors return'd from Pigmio!
The morning's very fine,—uncommonly!
See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go,
Tinging it with soft crimsons! Now below
The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines
They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow
Along the forest side! Now amber lines
Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines.”
LXIII
“Why, Hum, you're getting quite poetical!Those nows you managed in a special style.”
“If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall
See scraps of mine will make it worth your while,
479
Hark! Hah! the bells!” “A little further yet,
Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil.”
Then the great Emperor full graceful set
His elbow for a prop, and snuff'd his mignonnette.
LXIV
The morn is full of holiday; loud bellsWith rival clamours ring from every spire;
Cunningly-station'd music dies and swells
In echoing places; when the winds respire,
Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire;
A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm,
Comes from the northern suburbs; rich attire
Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm;
While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm.
LXV
And now the fairy escort was seen clear,Like the old pageant of Aurora's train,
Above a pearl-built minster, hovering near;
First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain,
Balanc'd upon his grey-grown pinions twain,
His slender wand officially reveal'd;
Then black gnomes scattering sixpences like rain;
Then pages three and three; and next, slave-held,
The Imaian 'scutcheon bright,—one mouse in argent field.
LXVI
Gentlemen pensioners next; and after them,A troop of winged Janizaries flew;
Then Slaves, as presents bearing many a gem;
Then twelve physicians fluttering two and two;
And next a chaplain in a cassock new;
Then Lords in waiting; then (what head not reels
For pleasure?)—the fair Princess in full view,
Borne upon wings,—and very pleas'd she feels
To have such splendour dance attendance at her heels.
480
LXVII
For there was more magnificence behind:She wav'd her handkerchief. “Ah, very grand!”
Cried Elfinan, and clos'd the window-blind;
“And, Hum, we must not shilly-shally stand,—
Adieu! adieu! I'm off for Angle-land!
I say, old Hocus, have you such a thing
About you,—feel your pockets, I command,—
I want, this instant, an invisible ring,—
Thank you, old mummy!—now securely I take wing.”
LXVIII
Then Elfinan swift vaulted from the floor,And lighted graceful on the window-sill;
Under one arm the magic book he bore,
The other he could wave about at will;
Pale was his face, he still look'd very ill:
He bow'd at Bellanaine, and said—“Poor Bell!
Farewell! farewell! and if for ever! still
For ever fare thee well!”—and then he fell
A laughing!—snapp'd his fingers!—shame it is to tell!
LXIX
“By'r Lady! he is gone!” cries Hum, “and I—(I own it)—have made too free with his wine;
Old Crafticant will smoke me. By the bye—
This room is full of jewels as a mine,—
Dear valuable creatures, how ye shine!
Sometime to-day I must contrive a minute,
If Mercury propitiously incline,
To examine his scrutoire, and see what's in it,
For of superfluous diamonds I as well may thin it.
LXX
“The Emperor's horrid bad; yes, that's my cue!”Some histories say that this was Hum's last speech;
That, being fuddled, he went reeling through
The corridor, and scarce upright could reach
The stair-head; that being glutted as a leech,
And us'd, as we ourselves have just now said,
To manage stairs reversely, like a peach
Too ripe, he fell, being puzzled in his head
With liquor and the staircase: verdict—found stone dead.
481
LXXI
This as a falsehood Crafticanto treats;And as his style is of strange elegance,
Gentle and tender, full of soft conceits,
(Much like our Boswell's,) we will take a glance
At his sweet prose, and, if we can, make dance
His woven periods into careless rhyme;
O, little faery Pegasus! rear—prance—
Trot round the quarto—ordinary time!
March, little Pegasus, with pawing hoof sublime!
LXXII
Well, let us see,—tenth book and chapter nine,—Thus Crafticant pursues his diary:—
“'Twas twelve o'clock at night, the weather fine,
Latitude thirty-six; our scouts descry
A flight of starlings making rapidly
Towards Thibet. Mem.:—birds fly in the night;
From twelve to half-past—wings not fit to fly
For a thick fog—the Princess sulky quite
Call'd for an extra shawl, and gave her nurse a bite.
LXXIII
“Five minutes before one—brought down a mothWith my new double-barrel—stew'd the thighs
And made a very tolerable broth—
Princess turn'd dainty;—to our great surprise,
Alter'd her mind, and thought it very nice:
Seeing her pleasant, tried her with a pun,
She frown'd; a monstrous owl across us flies
About this time,—a sad old figure of fun;
Bad omen—this new match can't be a happy one.
LXXIV
“From two till half-past, dusky way we made,Above the plains of Gobi,—desert, bleak;
Beheld afar off, in the hooded shade
Of darkness, a great mountain (strange to speak),
Spitting, from forth its sulphur-baken peak,
A fan-shap'd burst of blood-red, arrowy fire,
Turban'd with smoke, which still away did reek,
Solid and black from that eternal pyre,
Upon the laden wind that scantly could respire.
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LXXV
“Just upon three o'clock a falling starCreated an alarm among our troop,
Kill'd a man-cook, a page, and broke a jar,
A tureen, and three dishes, at one swoop,
Then passing by the Princess, singed her hoop:
Could not conceive what Coralline was at,
She clapp'd her hands three times and cried out ‘Whoop!’
Some strange Imaian custom. A large bat
Came sudden 'fore my face, and brush'd against my hat.
LXXVI
“Five minutes thirteen seconds after three,Far in the west a mighty fire broke out,
Conjectur'd, on the instant, it might be
The city of Balk—'twas Balk beyond all doubt:
A Griffin, wheeling here and there about,
Kept reconnoitring us—doubled our guard—
Lighted our torches, and kept up a shout,
Till he sheer'd off—the Princess very scar'd—
And many on their marrow-bones for death prepar'd.
LXXVII
“At half-past three arose the cheerful moon—Bivouack'd for four minutes on a cloud—
Where from the earth we heard a lively tune
Of tambourines and pipes, serene and loud,
While on a flowery lawn a brilliant crowd
Cinque-parted danc'd, some half asleep reposed
Beneath the green-fan'd cedars, some did shroud
In silken tents, and 'mid light fragrance dozed,
Or on the open turf their soothed eyelids closed.
LXXVIII
“Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettledrum—It went for apoplexy—foolish folks!—
Left it to pay the piper—a good sum—
(I've got a conscience, maugre people's jokes;)
To scrape a little favour 'gan to coax
Her Highness' pug-dog—got a sharp rebuff—
She wish'd a game at whist—made three revokes—
Turn'd from myself, her partner, in a huff;
His majesty will know her temper time enough.
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LXXIX
“She cried for chess—I play'd a game with her—Castled her king with such a vixen look,
It bodes ill to his Majesty—(refer
To the second chapter of my fortieth book,
And see what hoity-toity airs she took).
At half-past four the morn essay'd to beam—
Saluted, as we pass'd, an early rook—
The Princess fell asleep, and, in her dream,
Talk'd of one Master Hubert, deep in her esteem.
LXXX
“About this time,—making delightful way,—Shed a quill-feather from my larboard wing—
Wish'd, trusted, hop'd 'twas no sign of decay—
Thank heaven, I'm hearty yet!—'twas no such thing:—
At five the golden light began to spring,
With fiery shudder through the bloomed east;
At six we heard Panthea's churches ring—
The city all her unhiv'd swarms had cast,
To watch our grand approach, and hail us as we pass'd.
LXXXI
“As flowers turn their faces to the sun,So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze,
And, as we shap'd our course, this, that way run,
With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze;
Sweet in the air a mild-ton'd music plays,
And progresses through its own labyrinth;
Buds gather'd from the green spring's middle-days,
They scatter'd,—daisy, primrose, hyacinth,—
Or round white columns wreath'd from capital to plinth.
LXXXII
“Onward we floated o'er the panting streets,That seem'd throughout with upheld faces paved;
Look where we will, our bird's-eye vision meets
Legions of holiday; bright standards waved,
And fluttering ensigns emulously craved
Our minute's glance; a busy thunderous roar,
From square to square, among the buildings raved,
As when the sea, at flow, gluts up once more
The craggy hollowness of a wild reefed shore.
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LXXXIII
“And ‘Bellanaine for ever!’ shouted they,While that fair Princess, from her winged chair,
Bow'd low with high demeanour, and, to pay
Their new-blown loyalty with guerdon fair,
Still emptied, at meet distance, here and there,
A plenty horn of jewels. And here I
(Who wish to give the devil her due) declare
Against that ugly piece of calumny,
Which calls them Highland pebble-stones not worth a fly.
LXXXIV
“Still ‘Bellanaine!’ they shouted, while we glide'Slant to a light Ionic portico,
The city's delicacy, and the pride
Of our Imperial Basilic; a row
Of lords and ladies, on each hand, make show
Submissive of knee-bent obeisance,
All down the steps; and, as we enter'd, lo!
The strangest sight—the most unlook'd-for chance—
All things turn'd topsy-turvy in a devil's dance.
LXXXV
“'Stead of his anxious Majesty and courtAt the open doors, with wide saluting eyes,
Congées and scape-graces of every sort,
And all the smooth routine of gallantries,
Was seen, to our immoderate surprise,
A motley crowd thick gather'd in the hall,
Lords, scullions, deputy-scullions, with wild cries
Stunning the vestibule from wall to wall,
Where the Chief Justice on his knees and hands doth crawl.
LXXXVI
“Counts of the palace, and the state purveyorOf moth's-down, to make soft the royal beds,
The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor
Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads;
485
Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other;
Toe crush'd with heel ill-natur'd fighting breeds,
Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother,
And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother.
LXXXVII
“A Poet, mounted on the Court-Clown's back,Rode to the Princess swift with spurring heels,
And close into her face, with rhyming clack,
Began a Prothalamion;—she reels,
She falls, she faints! while laughter peals
Over her woman's weakness. ‘Where!’ cried I,
‘Where is his Majesty?’ No person feels
Inclin'd to answer; wherefore instantly
I plung'd into the crowd to find him or to die.
LXXXVIII
“Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ranTo the first landing, where, incredible!
I met, far gone in liquor, that old man,
That vile impostor Hum,—”
So far so well,—
For we have prov'd the Mago never fell
Down stairs on Crafticanto's evidence;
And therefore duly shall proceed to tell,
Plain in our own original mood and tense,
The sequel of this day, though labour 'tis immense!
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LINES SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN ADDRESSED TO FANNY BRAWNE
This living hand, now warm and capableOf earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou would[st] wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calm'd—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.
SONNET Written on a Blank Page in Shakespeare's Poems, facing “A Lover's Complaint.”
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.
| The poetical works (1906) | |