Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes Pensive they sit, and roll their languid eyes, Nibble their toasts 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! hapless 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, Inverts it, dips the handle, and lo! soon The little struggler, 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 teas'd; He lives in Wapping, might) live where he pleas'd " . To Autumn Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run, To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core, To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel, to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind, Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook, Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue, Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river shallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies, And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn, Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream 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 charm And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say " Thou art no poet; mayst not tell thy dreams " ? Since every man whose soul is not a clod Hath visions, and would speak, if he had lov'd And been well nurtured in his mother tongue Whether the dream now purposed 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 plantane, and spice blossoms, made a screen; In neighbourhood of fountains, by the noise Soft-showering in mine 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. Amongst 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 sunk 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 remembered 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 ‐ 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-pac'd 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-May) 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 hour glass, 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 sav'd from death? What am I that another death come not To choak 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, " returned 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 rotted'st 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. " " They 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 do, 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 favored 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 Mov'd 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, farflown Apollo! Where is thy misty pestilence to creep Into the dwellings, thro' the door crannies, Of all mock lyrists, large self-worshipers, And careless hectorers in proud bad verse. Tho' I breathe death with them it will 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, Spake 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 his 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 pil'd Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps Of other crisped spicewood ‐ 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 goodwill. 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 those 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 But 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 pass'd The lily 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 ached to see what things the hollow brain Behind enwombed 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 wither'd race, Let me behold, according as thou said'st, 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 Press'd 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 antient 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 spoke 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 cry, Wherefore) thus) sleepest) thou) For heaven is parted from thee, and the earth Knows thee not, so afflicted, for a God; The 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 press'd 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, those 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 ever 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 winding in the foxes' holes, 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 antient 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 chang'd a God into a shaking 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 let there be Beautiful things made new, for the surprize 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 dolourous 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 midday fleece of clouds. Thoea arose, And stretch'd 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 the 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. The Fall of Hyperion: A Dream CANTO II " Mortal, that thou mayst 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 through the trees ‐ In melancholy realms big tears are shed, More sorrow like to this, and suchlike 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 From man to the Sun's God yet unsecure, 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, portion'd 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 through all the thousand courts, Arches, and domes, and fiery galeries; And all its curtains of Aurorian clouds Flush angerly when he would taste the wreaths Of incense breath'd 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, rous'd 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, Reliev'd from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne 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, Thro' bowers 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 scar'd away the meek ethereal hours And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared. The day id 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! Faded the flower and all its budded charms, 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. I cry your mercy ‐ pity ‐ love! ‐ a ye, love I cry your mercy ‐ pity ‐ love! ‐ aye, love! Merciful love that tantalises 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, Without 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! What can I do to drive away 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? 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. 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 Fanny Physician Nature, let my spirit blood, O ease my heart of verse and let me rest, Throw me upon thy tripod, till the flood Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast. A theme, a theme, Great Nature! give a theme, Let me begin my dream. I come I see thee, as thou standest there, Beckon me not into the wintry air. Ah, dearest love, sweet home of all my fears, And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries, To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears A smile of such delight, As brilliant and as bright, As when with ravished, aching, vassal eyes, Lost in soft amaze, I gaze, I gaze, Who now, with greedy looks, eats up my feast? What stare outfaces now my silver moon, Ah, keep that hand unravished at the least, Let, let, the amorous burn But, pr'ythee, do not turn The current of your heart from me so soon. O, save, in charity, The quickest pulse for me. Save it for me, sweet love, though music breathe Voluptuous visions into the warm air, Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath, Be like an April day, Smiling and cold and gay, A temperate lily, temperate as fair, Then, heaven, there will be A warmer June for me. Why, this you'll say, my Fanny, is not true Put your soft hand upon your snowy side, Where the heart beats confess 'tis nothing new Must not a woman be A feather on the sea, Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide? Of as uncertain speed As blow-ball from the mead? I know it and to know it is despair To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny, Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where, Nor, when away you roam, Dare keep its wretched home, Love, love alone, has pains severe and many Then, loveliest, keep me free From torturing jealousy. Ah, if you prize my subdued soul above The poor, the fading, brief, pride of an hour, Let none profane my Holy See of Love, Or with a rude hand break The sacramental cake Let none else touch the just new-budded flower, If not may my eyes close, Love, on their last repose. King Stephen: A Fragment of a Tragedy ACT I SCENE I Steph. If shame can on a soldier's vein-swoll'n front Steph. Spread deeper crimson than the battle's toil, Steph. Blush in your casing helmets! for see, see! Steph. Yonder my chivalry, my pride of war, Steph. Wrench'd with an iron hand from firm array, Steph. Are routed loose about the plashy meads, Steph. Of honour forfeit. O that my known voice Steph. Could reach your dastard ears, and fright you more! Steph. Fly, cowards, fly! gloucester is at your backs! Steph. Throw your slack bridles o'er the flurried manes, Steph. Ply well the rowel with faint trembling heels, Steph. Scampering to death at last! 1-knt. The enemy 1-knt. Bears his flaunt standard close upon their rear. 2-knt. Sure of a bloody prey, seeing the fens 2-knt. Will swamp them girth-deep. c Steph. Over head and ears, c Steph. No matter! 'tis a gallant enemy; Steph. How like a comet he goes streaming on. Steph. But we must plague him in the flank, ‐ hey, friends? Steph. We are well breath'd, ‐ follow! deredvers! Steph. What is the monstrous bugbear that can fright Steph. Baldwin? bal. No scare-crow, but the fortunate star Bal. Of boisterous chester, whose fell truncheon now Bal. Points level to the goal of victory. Bal. This way he comes, and if you would maintain Bal. Your person unaffronted by vile odds, Bal. Take horse, my lord. c Steph. And which way spur for life? c Steph. Now I thank heaven I am in the toils, Steph. That soldiers may bear witness how my arm Steph. Can burst the meshes. Not the eagle more Steph. Loves to beat up against a tyrannous blast, Steph. Than I to meet the torrent of my foes. Steph. This is a brag, ‐ be't so, ‐ but if I fall, Steph. Carve it upon my 'scutcheon'd sepulchre. Steph. On, fellow soldiers! Earl of Redvers, back! Steph. Not twenty Earls of Chester shall brow-beat Steph. The diadem. King Stephen: A Fragment of a Tragedy ACT I SCEN E II Gloc. Now may we lift our bruised visors up, Gloc. And take the flattering freshness of the air, Gloc. While the wide din of battle dies away Gloc. Into times past, yet to be echoed sure Gloc. In the silent pages of our chroniclers. 1-knt. Will Stephen's death be mark'd there, my good lord, 1-knt. Or that we gave him lodging in yon towers? Gloc. Fain would I know the great usurper's fate. 1-capt. My lord! 2-capt. Most noble Earl! c 1-capt. The King ‐ 2-capt. The Empress greets ‐ c Gloc. What of the King? 1-capt. He sole and lone maintains 1-capt. A hopeless bustle mid our swarming arms, 1-capt. And with a nimble savageness attacks, 1-capt. Escapes, makes fiercer onset, then anew 1-capt. Eludes death, giving death to most that dare 1-capt. Trespass within the circuit of his sword! 1-capt. He must by this have fallen. Baldwin is taken; 1-capt. And for the Duke of Bretagne, like a stag 1-capt. He flies, for the Welsh beagles to hunt down. 1-capt. God save the Empress! c Gloc. Now our dreaded Queen c Gloc. What message from her Highness? 2-capt. Royal Maud 2-capt. From the throng'd towers of Lincoln hath look'd down, 2-capt. Like Pallas from the walls of Ilion, 2-capt. And seen her enemies havock'd at her feet. 2-capt. She greets most noble gloster from her heart, 2-capt. Intreating him, his captains, and brave knights, 2-capt. To grace a banquet. The high city gates 2-capt. Are envious which shall see your triumph pass; 2-capt. The streets are full of music. c Gloc. Whence come you? c 2-knt. From Stephen, my good Prince, ‐ Stephen! Stephen! Gloc. Why do you make such echoing of his name? 2-knt. Because I think, my lord, he is no man, 2-knt. But a fierce demon, 'nointed safe from wounds, 2-knt. And misbaptized with a Christian name. Gloc. A mighty soldier! ‐ does he still hold out? 2-knt. He shames our victory. His valour still 2-knt. Keeps elbow-room amid our eager swords, 2-knt. And holds our bladed falchions all aloof ‐ 2-knt. His gleaming battle-axe being slaughter-sick, 2-knt. Smote on the morion of a Flemish knight, 2-knt. Broke short in his hand; upon the which he flung 2-knt. The heft away with such a vengeful force, 2-knt. It paunch'd the Earl of Chester's horse, who then 2-knt. Spleen-hearted came in full career at him. Gloc. Did no one take him at a vantage then? 2-knt. Three then with tiger leap upon him flew, 2-knt. Whom, with his sword swift-drawn and nimbly held, 2-knt. He stung away again, and stood to breathe, 2-knt. Smiling. Anon upon him rush'd once more 2-knt. A throng of foes, and in this renew'd strife, 2-knt. My sword met his and snapp'd off at the hilts. Gloc. Come, lead me to this Mars ‐ and let us move Gloc. In silence, not insulting his sad doom Gloc. With clamorous trumpets. To the Empress bear Gloc. My salutation as befits the time. King Stephen: A Fragment of a Tragedy ACT I SCENE III Steph. Another sword! and what if I could seize Steph. One from Bellona's gleaming armoury, Steph. Or choose the fairest of her sheaved spears! Steph. Where are my enemies? Here, close at hand, Steph. Here comes the testy brood. O, for a sword! Steph. I'm faint ‐ a biting sword! A noble sword! Steph. A hedge-stake ‐ or a ponderous stone to hurl Steph. With brawny vengeance, like the labourer Cain Steph. Come on! Farewell my kingdom, and all hail Steph. Thou superb, plum'd, and helmeted renown, Steph. All hail ‐ I would not truck this brilliant day Steph. To rule in Pylos with a Nestor's beard ‐ Steph. Come on! De k. Is't madness or a hunger after death De k. That makes thee thus unarm'd throw taunts at us? De k. Yield, Stephen, or my sword's point dip in De k. The gloomy current of a traitor's heart. Steph. Do it, De Kaims, I will not budge an inch. De k. Yes, of thy madness thou shalt take the meed. Steph. Darest thou? De k. How dare, against a man disarm'd? Steph. What weapons has the lion but himself? Steph. Come not near me, De Kaims, for by the price Steph. Of all the glory I have won this day, Steph. Being a king, I will not yield alive Steph. To any but the second man of the realm, Steph. Robert of Glocester. De k. Thou shalt vail to me. Steph. Shall I, when I have sworn against it, sir? Steph. Thou think'st it brave to take a breathing king, Steph. That, on a court-day bow'd to haughty Maud, Steph. The awed presence-chamber may be bold Steph. To whisper, there's the man who took alive Steph. Stephen ‐ me ‐ prisoner. Certes, De Kaims, Steph. The ambition is a noble one. De k. 'Tis true, De k. And, Stephen, I must compass it. Steph. No, no, Steph. Do not tempt me to throttle you on the gorge, Steph. Or with my gauntlet crush your hollow breast, Steph. Just when your knighthood is grown ripe and full Steph. For lordship. Soldr. Is an honest yeoman's spear Soldr. Of no use at a need? Take that. c Steph. Ah, dastard! c De k. What, you are vulnerable! my prisoner! Steph. No, not yet. I disclaim it, and demand Steph. Death as a sovereign right unto a king Steph. Who 'sdains to yield to any but his peer, Steph. If not in title, yet in noble deeds, Steph. The Earl of Glocester. Stab to the hilts, De Kaims, Steph. For I will never by mean hands be led Steph. From this so famous field. D'ye hear! be quick! King Stephen: A Fragment of a ACT I SCENE IV Mau. Glocester, no more I will behold that Boulogne Mau. Set him before me. Not for the poor sake Mau. Of regal pomp and a vain-glorious hour, Mau. As thou with wary speech, yet near enough, Mau. Hast hinted. Gloc. Faithful counsel have I given; Gloc. If wary, for your Highness' benefit. Mau. The heavens forbid that I should not think so, Mau. For by thy valour have I won this realm, Mau. Which by thy wisdom will I ever keep. Mau. To sage advisors let me ever bend Mau. A meek attentive ear, so that they treat Mau. Of the wide kingdom's rule and government, Mau. Not trenching on our actions personal. Mau. Advis'd, not school'd, I would be; and henceforth Mau. Spoken to in clear, plain, and open terms, Mau. Not side-ways sermon'd at. Gloc. Then, in plain terms, Gloc. Once more for the fallen King ‐ c Mau. Your pardon, brother, c Mau. I would no more of that; for, as I said, Mau. 'Tis not for wordly pomp I wish to see Mau. The rebel, but as a dooming judge to give Mau. A sentence something worthy of his guilt. Gloc. If't must be so, I'll bring him to your presence. Mau. A meaner summoner might do as well ‐ Mau. My Lord of Chester, is't true what I hear Mau. Of Stephen of Boulogne, our prisoner, Mau. That he, as a fit penance for his crimes, Mau. Eats wholesome, sweet, and palatable food Mau. Off Glocester's golden dishes ‐ drinks pure wine, Mau. Lodges soft? ches. More than that, my gracious Queen, Ches. Has anger'd me. The noble Earl, methinks, Ches. Full soldier as he is, and without peer Ches. In Counsel, dreams too much among his books. Ches. It may read well, but sure 'tis out of date Ches. To play the Alexander with Darius. Mau. Truth! I think so. By heavens it shall not last! Ches. It would amaze your Highness now to mark Ches. How Glocester overstrains his courtesy Ches. To that crime-loving rebel, that Boulogne ‐ Mau. That ingrate! ches. For whose vast ingratitude Ches. To our late sovereign lord, your noble sire, Ches. The generous Earl condoles in his mishaps, Ches. And with a sort of lackeying friendliness, Ches. Talks off the mighty frowning from his brow, Ches. Woos him to hold a duet in a smile, Ches. Or, if it please him, play an hour at chess ‐ Mau. A perjured slave! ches. And for his perjury, Ches. Glocester has fit rewards ‐ nay, I believe, Ches. He sets his bustling household's wits at work Ches. For flatteries to ease this Stephen's hours, Ches. And make a heaven of his purgatory; Ches. Adorning bondage with the pleasant gloss Ches. Of feasts and music, and all idle shows Ches. Of indoor pageantry; while syren whispers, Ches. Predestin'd for his ear, 'scape as half-check'd Ches. From lips the courtliest and the rubiest Ches. Of all the realm, admiring of his deeds. Mau. A frost upon his summer! ches. A queen's nod Ches. Can make his June December. Here he comes. This living hand, now warm and capable This living hand, now warm and capable Of 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 wouldst 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. The Jealousies: A Faery Tale Written by Lucy Vau ghan Lloyd of China Walk, Lambeth 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. 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 sinn'd while they slept; In vain the pulpit thunder'd at the throne, Caricature was vain, and vain the tart lampoon. Which seeing, his High court of parliament Laid 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 promised 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. Meantime he sent a fluttering embassy To 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. As in old pictures tender cherubim A child's soul thro' the sapphired 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) a) l'aile), or take A pigeon's somerset, for sport or change's sake. " 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! " 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 The owner out of it; show him a ‐ " " Peace! 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. " 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. So she was silenced, 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. Sorely she grieved, and wetted three or four White Provense 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 raked up ev'ry fact against the dead, ) In Scarab Street, Panthea, at the Jubal's Head. Where, after a long hypercritic howl Against 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 ev'ry page; With special strictures on the horrid crime, ( 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. Turn to the copious index, you will find Somewhere 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. There he says plainly that she loved 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. But let us leave this idle tittle tattle To 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 cursed a bride he knew he could not touch. 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 Like any drone shut from the fair bee-queen, 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. " 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! " 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 speeches 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! " 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? " Monstrous affair! Pshaw! pah! what ugly minx Will 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 plaitings of thy dress, Or kiss thine eyes, or count thy locks, tress after tress? " So said, one minute's while his eyes remain'd Half 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. " 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. " 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 One hour, the next shall see him in my grasp, 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. " 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 closed 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. It was the time when wholesale houses close Their 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. 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. " 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-wolsey lining hangs all slack, Whose rug is straw, whose wholeness is a crack; And evermore thy steps go clatter-clitter; 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. " Thou inconvenience! thou hungry crop For 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. 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. " Philosophising 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, Seeing his servant can no further drive 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. " Eban then paid his fare, and tiptoe went To Hum's hotel; and, as he on did pass With head inclin'd, each dusky lineament Show'd in the pearl-paved 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. He smiled at self, and, smiling, show'd his teeth, And seeing his white teeth, he smiled the more; Lifted his eye-brows, spurn'd the path beneath, Show'd teeth again, and smiled 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. " 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 retired, an hour ago I wis, With his best beard and brimstone, to explore And cast a quiet figure in his second floor. " Gad! he's obliged to stick to business! For chalk, I hear, stands at a pretty price; And as for aqua vitae ‐ there's a mess! The dentes) sapientioe) 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! " 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! " 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. 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 The plain-dress'd sage and spangled blackamoor, 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. " 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. " 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. They kiss'd nine times the carpet's velvet face Of 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 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? " " 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 misplaced! ) ‐ With the third part ‐ ( yet that is drinking dear! ) ‐ Of the least drop of creme) de) citron) crystal clear. " " 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! " sigh'd 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. " " 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 what makes my brains so whirl; And she is softer, fairer than her name! " " 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. " " 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. " " I can't say, " said the monarch; " that may be Just 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. " " 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. " Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took, That once belong'd to Admiral De Witt, Admired 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 save " the creature " " Best in all the town! " He said, smack'd his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown. " Ah! good my Prince, weep not! " And then again He 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. " 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. " 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, Honouring with royal tears the poor homespun; 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. The monarch handled o'er and o'er again These 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! " 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! " Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince Who should indulge his genius, if he has any, Not, like a subject, foolish matters mince. Now I think on't, perhaps I could convince 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. " " 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. " " 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 manoeuvre 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. " At this great Caesar 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. " 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. " 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. " " What shall I do with this same book? " " Why merely Lay 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! " " 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 To your so loving courtiers for one day; 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. " " 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 pigsney Bellanaine. Hum! do Tighten my belt a little, ‐ so, so, ‐ not Too tight, ‐ the book! ‐ my wand! ‐ so, nothing is forgot. " " Wounds! how they shout! " said Hum, " and there, ‐ see see! Th' Ambassador's 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. " " 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, Tit-bits for Phoebus! ‐ yes, you well may smile. 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. The morn is full of holiday; loud bells With 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. 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, Balanced 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. 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 pleased she feels To have such splendour dance attendance at her heels. For there was more magnificence behind She wav'd her handkerchief. " Ah, very grand! " Cried Elfinan, and closed 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. " 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! " 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. " 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 used, 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). 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! 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 Toward 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. " Five minutes before one ‐ brought down a moth With 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. " 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-shaped 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 winds that scantly could respire. " Just upon three o'clock a falling star Created 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. " 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 scared ‐ And many on their marrow-bones for death prepared. " At half-past three arose the cheerful moon ‐ Bivouac'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 danced, 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. " Dropp'd my gold watch, and kill'd a kettle-drum ‐ 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. " 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. " 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. " As flowers turn their faces to the sun, So on our flight with hungry eyes they gaze, And, as we shaped our course, this, that way run, With mad-cap pleasure, or hand-clasp'd amaze; Sweet in the air a mild-toned music plays, And progresses through its own labyrinth; Bud 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. " 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. " 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. " 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. " 'Stead of his anxious Majesty and court At the open doors, with wide saluting eyes, Congees) 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. " Counts of the palace, and the state purveyor Of moth's down, to make soft the royal beds, The Common Council and my fool Lord Mayor Marching a-row, each other slipshod treads; Powder'd bag-wigs and ruffy-tuffy heads Of cinder wenches meet and soil each other; Toe crush'd with heel ill-natured fighting breeds, Frill-rumpling elbows brew up many a bother, And fists in the short ribs keep up the yell and pother. " 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 Inclined to answer; wherefore instantly I plunged into the crowd to find him or to die. " Jostling my way I gain'd the stairs, and ran To 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 proved 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! Now Hum, new fledg'd with high authority, Came forth to quell the hubbub in the hall. In after time a sage of mickle lore In after-time, a sage of mickle lore Yclep'd Typographus, the giant took, And did refit his limbs as heretofore, And made him read in many a learned book, And into many a lively legend look; Thereby in goodly themes so training him, That all his brutishness he quite forsook, When, meeting Artegall and Talus grim, The one he struck stone-blind, the other's eyes wox dim. Normal End In Statement 52 Run Time-Msec 2760 Stmts Executed 35290 Mcsec / Stmt 78 Regenerations 10