Classic Poem

T' OTHER day, as Apollo sat pitching his darts
Through the clouds of November, by fits and by starts,
He began to consider how long it had been,
Since the bards of Old England had all been rung in.
" I think," said the God, recollecting, (and then
He fell twiddling a sunbeam as I may my pen,)
" I think — let me see — yes, it is, I declare,
As long ago now as that Buckingham there:
And yet I can't see why I've been so remiss,
Unless it may be — and it certainly is,
That since Dryden's fine verses, and Milton's sublime,
I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme.
There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say;
But the rogue had no industry, — neither had Gray:
And Thomson, though best in his indolent fits,
Either slept himself weary, or bloated his wits.
But ever since Pope spoiled the ears of the town
With his cuckoo-song verses, half up and half down,
There has been such a doling and sameness, — by Jove,
I'd as soon have gone down to see Kemble in love.
However, of late as they've roused them anew,
I'll e'en go and give them a lesson or two,
And as nothing's done there nowadays without eating,
See what kind of set I can muster worth treating."
So saying, the God bade his horses walk for'ard,
And leaving them, took a long dive to the nor'ard:
For Gordon's he made; and as God who drop in do,
Came smack on his legs through the drawing-room window.
And here I could tell, if it wasn't for stopping,
How all the town shook as the godhead went pop in,
How bright looked the poets, and brisk blew the airs,
And the laurels took flow'r in the gardens and squares; —
But fancies like these, though I've stores to supply me,
I'd better keep back for a poem I've by me,
And merely observe that the girls looked divine,
And the old folks in-doors exclaimed " Bless us, how fine!"
Apollo, arrived, had no sooner embodied
His essence ethereal, than quenching his godhead,
He changed his appearance — to — what shall I say?
To a young gallant soldier returning in May?
No — that's a resemblance too vapid and low: —
Let's see — to a finished young traveller? — No:
To a graceful young lord just stept out of his carriage?
Or handsome young poet, the day of his marriage?
No, — nobody's likeness will help me, I see,
To afford you a notion of what he could be,
Not though I collected one pattern victorious
Of all that was good, and accomplished, and glorious,
From deeds in the daylight, or books on the shelf,
And called up the shape of young Alfred himself.
Imagine, however, if shape there must be,
A figure sublimed above mortal degree,
His limbs the perfection of elegant strength, —
A fine flowing roundness inclining to length, —
A back dropping in, — an expansion of chest,
(For the God, you'll observe, like his statues was drest)
His throat like a pillar for smoothness and grace,
His curls in a cluster, — and then such a face,
As marked him at once the true offspring of Jove,
The brow all of wisdom, and lips all of love;
For though he was blooming, and oval of cheek,
And youth down his shoulders went smoothing and sleek,
Yet his look with the reach of past ages was wise,
And the soul of eternity thought through his eyes.
I wouldn't say more, lest my climax should lose; —
Yet now I have mentioned those lamps of the Muse,
I can't but observe what a splendour they shed,
When a thought more than common came into his head:
Then they leaped in their frankness, deliciously bright,
And shot round about them an arrowy light;
And if, as he shook back his hair in its cluster,
A curl fell athwart them and darkened their lustre,
A sprinkle of gold through the duskiness came,
Like the sun through a tree, when he's setting in flame.
The God, then, no sooner had taken a chair,
And rung for the landlord to order the fare,
Than he heard a strange noise and a knock from without, —
And scraping and bowing, came in such a rout!
There was Arnold, and Reynolds, and Dibdin, and Cherry,
All grinning as who should say, " Shan't we be merry?"
And Hook, who had come with an absolute tear up,
And sweet Billy Dimond, a-patting his hair up.
The God, for an instant, sat fixed as a stone,
Till recov'ring, he said in a good-natured tone,
" Oh, the waiters, I see; — ah, it's all very well, —
Only one of you'll do just to answer the bell."
But lord! to see all the great dramatists' faces!
They looked at each other, and made such grimaces!
Then turning about, left the room in vexation,
And Hook, they say, couldn't help mutt'ring " Damnation!"
'Twas lucky for Colman he wasn't there too,
For his pranks would have certainly met with their due,
And Sheridan's also, that finished old tricker; —
But one was in prison, and both were in liquor.
The God fell a-laughing to see his mistake,
But stopped with a sigh for poor Comedy's sake;
Then gave mine host orders, who bowed to the floor,
And presented three cards that were brought to the door:
Apollo just gave them a glance with his eye,
" Spencer — Rogers — Montgom'ry," — and putting them by,
Begged the landlord to give his respects to all three,
And say he'd be happy to see them to tea.
" Your Majesty, then," said the Gaius, " don't know
That a person named Crabbe has been waiting below?
He has taken his chair in the kitchen, they say."
" Indeed!" said Apollo, " Oh, pray let him stay:
He'll be much better pleased to be with 'em downstairs,
And will find ye all out with your cookings and cares: —
But mind that you treat him as well as you're able,
And let him have part of what goes from the table."
A soft, smiling voice then arose on the ear,
As if some one from court was about to appear: —
" Oh, this is the room, my good friend? Ah, I see it is; —
Room, sure enough, for the best-bred of deities!"
Then came a whisper, — and then was a hush, —
And then, with a sort of a look of a blush,
Came in Mr. Hayley, all polished confusion,
And said, " Will Apollo excuse this intrusion?
I might have kept back, — but I thought 'twould look odd, —
And friendship, you know, — pray, how is my dear God?"
A smile, followed up by a shake of the head,
Crossed the fine lip of Phoebus, who viewed him, and said, —
" I'll give you a lesson, Sir, quite your own seeking,
And one that you very much want — on plain speaking.
Pray, have you to learn, — and at this time of day,
That your views on regard have been all the wrong way?
One ten thousandth part of the words and the time
That you've wasted on praises instead of your rhyme,
Might have gained you a title to this kind of freedom;
But volumes of endings, lugged in as you need 'em,
Of hearts and imparts , where's the soul that can read 'em?"
So saying, his eye so alarmingly shone,
That ere it could wink, the poor devil was gone.
A hem was then heard, consequential and snapping,
And a sour little gentleman walked with a rap in.
He bowed, looked about him, seemed cold, and sat down,
And said, " I'm surprised that you'll visit this town: —
To be sure, there are one or two of us who know you,
But as for the rest, they are all much below you.
So stupid, in gen'ral, the natives are grown,
They really prefer Scotch reviews to their own;
So that what with their taste, their reformers, and stuff,
They have sickened myself and my friends long enough."
" Yourself and your friends!" cried the God in high glee;
" And pray, my frank visitor, who may you be?"
" Who be?" cried the other; " why really — this tone —
William Gifford's a name, I think, pretty well known!"
" Oh — now I remember," said Phoebus; — " ah true —
My thanks to that name are undoubtedly due:
The rod, that got rid of the Cruscas and Lauras, —
That plague of the butterflies, — saved me the horrors;
The Juvenal too stops a gap in one's shelf,
At least in what Dryden has not done himself;
And there's something, which even distaste must respect,
In the self-taught example, that conquered neglect.
But not to insist on the recommendations
Of modesty, wit, and a small stock of patience,
My visit just now is to poets alone,
And not to small critics, however well known."
So saying he rang, to leave nothing in doubt,
And the sour little gentleman blessed himself out.
Next came Walter Scott with a fine weighty face,
For as soon as his visage was seen in the place,
The diners and barmaids all crowded to know him,
And thank him with smiles for that sweet pretty poem!
However, he scarcely had got through the door,
When he looked adoration, and bowed to the floor,
For his host was a God, — what a very great thing!
And what was still greater in his eyes, — a King!
Apollo smiled shrewdly, and bade him sit down
With " Well, Mr. Scott, you have managed the town;
Now pray, copy less, — have a little temerity, —
Try if you can't also manage posterity.
All you add now only lessens your credit;
And how could you think too of taking to edite?
A great deal's endured, where there's measure and rhyme;
But prose such as yours is a pure waste of time, —
A singer of ballads unstrung by a cough,
Who fairly talks on, till his hearers walk off.
Be original, man; study more, scribble less;
Nor mistake present favour for lasting success;
And remember, if laurels are what you would find,
The crown of all triumph is freedom of mind.
And here," cried Apollo, " is one at the door,
Who shall prove what I say, or my art is no more.
Ah, Campbell, you're welcome: — well, how have you been,
Since the last time I saw you on Sydenham-green?
I need not ask after the plans you've in view;
'Twould be odd, I believe, if I hadn't them too:
But there's one thing I've always forgotten to mention, —
Your versification, — pray give it invention.
A fancy like yours, that can play its own part,
And clip with five fingers the chords of the heart,
Should draw from itself the whole charm of its song,
Nor put up with notes, that to others belong."
The poet to this was about to reply,
When Moore, coming in, caught the Deity's eye,
Who gave him his hand; and said, " Show me a sight
That can give a divinity sounder delight,
Or that earth should more prize from its core to the poles,
Than the self-improved morals of elegant souls.
Repentant I speak it, — though when I was wild,
My friends should remember the world was a child, —
That customs were diff'rent, and young people's eyes
Had no better examples than those in the skies.
But soon as I learnt how to value these doings,
I never much valued your billings and cooings;
They only make idle the best of my race;
And since my poor Daphne turned tree in my face,
There are very few poets, whose caps or whose curls
Have obtained such a laurel by hunting the girls.
So it gives me, dear Tom, a delight beyond measure,
To find how you've mended your notions of pleasure;
For never was poet, whose fanciful hours
Could bask in a richer abstraction of bowers,
With sounds and with spirits, of charm to detain
The wonder-eyed soul in their magic domain;
And never should poet, so gifted and rare,
Pollute the bright Eden Jove gives to his care,
But love the fair Virtue, for whom it is given,
And keep the spot pure for the visits of heaven."
He spoke with a warmth, but his accent was bland,
And the poet bowed down with a blush to his hand,
When Byron relieved him by taking his place,
Which he did with so kind yet unconscious a face,
So ardent a frankness, yet modest an ease,
As much as to say " Now for me, if you please," —
That Apollo took his hand, and earnestly said,
" Pray how came misanthropy into your head?
I suspect (it is true), that in all which you tell us
Of robbers, and rakes, and such terrible fellows,
There's something mere scorn could have never devised,
And a sorrow-wise charity roughly disguised;
But you must not be always indulging this tone;
You owe some relief to our hearts and your own;
For poets, earth's heav'n-linking spirits, were born,
What they can, to amend, — what they can't, to adorn;
And you hide the best proof of your office and right,
If you make not as I do a contrast with night,
And help to shed round you a gladness and light.
So remember; and as to the style of your song,
And to straight-forward speaking, 'twill come before long:
But the fact is, that what with your courts and your purses,
I've never done well with you lords who write verses:
I speak not of people like Sheffield or Lansdowne,
Whom some silly Body of Poetry hands down, —
But Rochester raked himself into his grave;
A poor sceptred scoundrel slew Surrey the brave;
And Sackville stopped short of his better ambition,
And lost a great name in the shrewd politician
I wouldn't divorce, mind, the muse from the state;
Great poets have been politicians as great;
Let both be combined as becomes a true Briton,
And laurels add weight to the bench that you sit on;
I love a free spirit; its fancy is free;
But so much the more you and I must agree."
He smiled; and his Lordship shook hands as before,
And was turning about to say something to Moore,
When all on a sudden, there rose on the stairs
A noise as of persons with singular airs;
You'd have thought 'twas the Bishops or Judges a-coming,
Or whole court of Aldermen hawing and humming,
Or Abbot, at least, with his ushers before,
But 'twas only Bob Southey and two or three more.
Bob walked at the head with a tattered bay crown,
And looked such a compound of courtier and clown,
Such a thing of pure nature that should have been true,
With such an assumption of tenfold his due,
That a jerk took the eye-brows of every one there
With a pleasant suspense 'twixt a smile and a stare;
When lo, as poor Bob was collecting his wit,
The thing on his head, as if seized with a fit,
Began crackling, and splitting, and writhing about,
And so in a flash and a vapour went out
I waive all attempt to describe how he coloured,
Winced, capered, and twirled, and cried " What's this?" and " Oh Lord!"
With all his dilemmas, made worse by their chuckles,
'Twixt easing his temples, and burning his knuckles:
The circle, half-dying, scarce knew what to do,
With all their good breeding, and handkerchiefs too,
And Apollo, who laughed till the tears in his eyes
Had quenched the dread sparkle that caused the surprise,
Said, " Nay, don't be frightened; — there, help him a seat;
" His head's in no danger from that sort of heat."
Then breathing his laugh off, the God raised his chest,
And looked with a pained sort of pride at the rest;
For Coleridge had vexed him long since, I suppose,
By his idling, and gabbling, and muddling in prose;
And Wordsworth, one day, made his very hairs bristle,
By going and changing his harp for a whistle.
The bards, for a moment, stood making a pause,
And looked rather awkward, and lax round the jaws,
When one began spouting the cream of orations
In praise of bombarding one's friends and relations;
And t'other some lines he had made on a straw,
Showing how he had found it, and what it was for,
And how, when 'twas balanced, it stood like a spell! —
And how, when 'twas balanced no longer, it fell! —
A wild thing of scorn he described it to be,
But he said it was patient to heaven's decree: —
Then he gazed upon nothing, and looking forlorn,
Dropt a natural tear for that wild thing of scorn !
Apollo half laughed betwixt anger and mirth,
And cried, " Was there ever such trifling on earth?
What I think ye a bard's a mere gossip, who tells
Of the ev'ry-day feelings of every one else,
And that poetry lies, not in something select,
But in gath'ring the refuse that others reject?
Must a ballad doled out by a spectacled nurse
About Two-Shoes or Thumb, be your model of verse;
And your writings, instead of sound fancy and style,
Look more like the morbid abstractions of bile?
There is one of you here, who, instead of these fits,
And becoming a joke to half-thinkers and wits,
Should have brought back our fine old pre-eminent way,
And been the first man at my table to-day:
But resolved as I am to maintain the partitions
'Twixt wit and mere wildness, he knows the conditions;
And if he retains but a spark of my fire,
Will show it this instant, — and blush, — and retire."
He spoke; and poor Wordsworth, his cheeks in a glow,
(For he felt the God in him) made symptoms to go,
When Apollo, in pity, to screen him from sight,
Threw round him a cloud that was purple and white,
The same that of old used to wrap his own shoulders,
When coming from heaven, he'd spare the beholders:
'Twas culled from the east, at the dawning of day,
In a bright show'ry season 'twixt April and May.
Yet the bard was no sooner obeying his king,
And gliding away like a shadow of spring,
Than the latter, who felt himself touched more and more
Tow'rds a writer whose faults were as one to five score,
And who found that he shouldn't well know what to say,
If he sent, after all, his best poet away,
Said, " Come, my dear Will, — imperfections apart, —
Let us have a true taste of our exquisite art;
You know very well you've the key to my heart."
At this the glad cloud, with a soft heaving motion,
Stopped short, like a sail in a nook of the ocean;
And out of its bosom there trembled and came
A voice, that grew upwards, and gathered like flame:
Of nature it told, and of simple delights
On days of green sunshine, and eye-lifting nights;
Of summer-sweet isles and their noon-shaded bowers,
Of mountains, and valleys, trees, waters, and flowers,
Of hearts, young and happy, and all that they show
For the home that we came from and whither we go;
Of wisdom in age by this feeling renewed,
Of hopes that stand smiling o'er passions subdued,
Of the springs of sweet waters in evil that lie; —
Of all, which, in short, meets the soul's better eye
When we go to meek nature our hearts to restore,
And bring down the Gods to walk with us once more.
You may think what effect was produced by this strain:
Apollo put on all his graces again,
With face just inclining, and smiles that agreed;
And Scott looked as who should say " Lofty indeed!"
And Campbell, as if 'twould be stupid to doubt it;
And Bob, as if he, forsooth, knew all about it;
And Byron, as though he were wrapt in his place;
And Moore, as if pleasure had burst on his face;
And all cried at last, with a passion sublime,
" This, this is the Prince of the Bards of his Time!"
So the cloud rolled apart, and the poet came forth,
And took his proud seat as was due to his worth;
And Apollo, who felt all his spirits restored,
And wouldn't, for trifles, make gaps at his board,
Twitched Coleridge's ear, who stood yawning askew,
And said, " There, you lazy dog, sit you down too."
" And now," said the God, — but he scarcely had spoken,
When bang went the door — you'd have thought it was broken;
And in rushed a mob with a scuffle and squeeze,
Exclaiming, " What! Wordsworth, and fellows like these!
Nay then, we may all take our seats as we please!"
I can't, if I would, tell you who they all were;
The names have escaped me; but Wharton was there,
Besides a whole host of pretenders and slaves,
And parsons turned bullies, and brief-begging knaves.
The God smiled at first with a turn tow'rds the fire,
And whispered " There, tell 'em they'd better retire;"
But lord! this was only to set all their quills up;
The rogues did but bustle; and pulling their frills up,
Stood fixing their faces, and stirred not an inch;
Nay, some took their snuff out, and joined in a pinch
Then wrath seized Apollo; and turning again,
" Ye rabble," he cried, " common-minded and vain,
Whate'er be the faults which true bards may commit,
(And most of 'em lie in your own want of wit,)
Ye shall try, wretched creatures, how well ye can bear
What such only witness, unsmote with despair."
He said; and the place all seemed swelling with light,
While his locks and his visage grew awfully bright;
And clouds, burning inward, rolled round on each side,
To encircle his state, as he stood in his pride;
Till at last the full Deity put on his rays,
And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze!
Then a glory beamed round, as of fiery rods,
With the sound of deep organs and chorister gods;
And the faces of bards, glowing fresh from their skies,
Came thronging about with intentness of eyes, —
And the Nine were all heard, as the harmony swelled, —
And the spheres, pealing in, the long rapture upheld, —
And all things, above, and beneath, and around,
Seemed a world of bright vision, set floating in sound.
That sight and that music might not be sustained
But by those who a hold on true feeling had gained;
And even the bards who had graciousness found,
After gazing awhile, bowed them down to the ground
What then could remain for that feeble-eyed crew?
Through the door in an instant they rushed and they flew,
They rushed, and they dashed, and they scrambled, and stumbled,
And down the hall staircase distractedly tumbled,
And never once thought which was head or was feet,
And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the street.
So great was the panic that smote them to flight,
That of all who had come to be feasted that night,
Not one ventured back, or would stay near the place;
Even Croker declined, notwithstanding his face;
And old Peter Pindar turned pale, and suppressed,
With a death-bed sensation, a blasphemous jest.
But Phoebus no sooner had gained his good ends,
Than he put off his terrors, and raised up his friends,
Who stood for a moment, entranced to behold
The glories subside and the dim-rolling gold,
And listened to sounds, that with ecstasy burning
Seemed dying far upward, like heaven returning.
Then " Come," cried the God in his elegant mirth,
" Let us make us a heav'n of our own upon earth,
And wake with the lips, that we dip in our bowls,
That divinest of music, — congenial souls."
So saying, he led through the door in his state,
And seating the poets, cried " Laurels for eight!"
No sooner demanded, than lo! they were there,
And each of the bards had a wreath in his hair.
Lord Byron's with turk's-cap and cypress was mixed,
And Scott's with a thistle, with creeper betwixt;
And Wordsworth's with celandin, aloe, and pine;
And, Bob, penny-royal and blow-ball with thine;
Then Sam's with mandragoras, fearful to wear;
With willow Tom Campbell's, and oak here and there;
And lastly, with shamrock from tear-bedewed shores,
And with vine-leaves and Jump-up-and kiss-me, Tom Moore's.
Then Apollo put his on, that sparkled with beams,
And rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams, —
Not epicure civic, or grossly inclined,
But such as a poet might dream ere he dined;
For the God had no sooner determined the fare,
Than it turned to whatever was racy and rare:
The fish and the flesh, for example, were done,
On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun;
The wines were all nectar of different smack,
To which Muskat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac,
No, nor Lachryma Christi, though clearly divine,
Nor Montepulciano, though King of all Wine.
Then as for the fruits, you might garden for ages,
Before you could raise me such apples and gages;
And all on the table no sooner were spread,
Than their cheeks next the God blushed a beautiful red.
'Twas magic, in short, and deliciousness all; —
The very men-servants grew handsome and tall,
To velvet-hung ivory the furniture turned,
The service with opal and adamant burned,
Each candlestick changed to a pillar of gold,
While a bundle of beams took the place of the mould,
The decanters and glasses pure diamond became,
And the corkscrew ran solidly round into flame: —
In a word, so completely forestalled were the wishes,
E'en harmony struck from the noise of the dishes.
It can't be supposed I should think of repeating
The fancies that flowed at this laureat meeting;
I haven't the brains, and besides, was not there;
But the wit may be easily guessed, by the chair:
Suffice it to say, it was keen as could be,
Though it softened to prettiness rather at tea.
I must mention, however, that during the wine,
The mem'ry of Shakespeare was toasted with nine;
When lo, as each poet was lifting his cup,
A strain of invisible music struck up: —
'Twas a mixture of all the most exquisite sounds
To be heard upon earthly or fanciful grounds,
When pomps or when passions their coming declare,
Or there's something at work in the moonshiny air;
For the trumpet sprang out, with a fierce-flowing blast,
And the hautboys lamentingly mingled, and passed,
Till a smile-drawing sweetness stole in at the close.
With the breathing of flutes and the smoothing of bows,
And Ariel was heard, singing thinly and soft,
Then with tricksy tenuity vanished aloft.
The next name was Chaucer, — and part of the strain
For the glorious old boy was played over again.
Then " Milton!" they cried, with a solemner shout,
When bursting at once in its mightiness out,
The organ came gath'ring and rolling its thunder;
Yet wanted not intervals, calmer of wonder,
Nor stops of low sweetness, like winds when they fall,
Nor voices Elysian, that came with a call.
Last followed my Spenser, (I wish I'd been there!)
And the light-neighing trumpet leaped freshly on air,
With preludes of flutes as to open a scene,
And pipes with coy snatches that started between,
Till sudden it stopped, — and you heard a dim strain,
Like the shell of old Triton far over the main.
'Twould be tedious to count all the names as they rose;
But none were omitted, you'll eas'ly suppose,
Whom Fancy has crowned with one twig of the bay,
From old Gawin Douglas to Shenstone and Gray.
I mustn't forget though, that Bob, like a gander,
Would give " a great genius", — one Mr. Landor;
And Walter looked up too, and begged to propose
A particular friend of his, — one Mr. Rose:
But the God looked at Southey, and shrugging his shoulder,
Cried, " When, my good friend, will you try to grow older?"
Then nodding to Scott, he said, " Pray be as portly
And rich as you please, but a little less courtly."
So, changing the subject, he called upon Moore,
Who sung such a song, that they shouted " Encore!"
And the God was so pleased with his taste and his tone,
He obeyed the next call, and gave one of his own, —
At which you'd have thought, — ('twas so witching a warble,)
The guests had all turned into listening marble;
The wreaths on their temples grew brighter of bloom,
As the breath of the Deity circled the room;
And the wine in the glasses went rippling in rounds,
As if followed and fanned by the soft-winged sounds.
Thus chatting and singing they sat till eleven,
When Phoebus shook hands, and departed for heaven;
" For poets," he said, " who would cherish their powers,
And hoped to be deathless, must keep to good hours."
So off he betook him the way that he came,
And shot up the north, like an arrow of flame;
For the Bear was his inn; and the comet, they say,
Was his tandem in waiting to fetch him away.
The others then parted, all highly delighted;
And, so shall I be, when you find me invited.