Classic Poem

O THOU , whom old Homer would call, were he living,
Home-lover, thought-feeder, abundant-joke-giving;
Whose charity springs from deep-knowledge, nor swerves
Into mere self-reflections, or scornful reserves;
In short, who were made for two centuries ago,
When Shakspeare drew men, and to write was to know; —

You'll guess why I can't see the snow-covered streets,
Without thinking of you and your visiting feats,
When you call to remembrance how you and one more,
When I wanted it most, used to knock at my door.
For when the sad winds told us rain would come down,
Or snow upon snow fairly clogged up the town,
And dun yellow fogs brooded over its white,
So that scarcely a being was seen towards night,
Then, then said the lady yclept near and dear,
" Now mind what I tell you, — the L.'s will be here."
So I poked up the flame, and she got out the tea,
And down we both sat, as prepared as could be;
And there, sure as fate, came the knock of you two,
Then the lanthorn, the laugh, and the " Well, how d'ye do?"

Then your palm tow'rds the fire, and your face turned to me,
And shawls and great-coats being — where they should be, —
And due " never saw's" being paid to the weather,
We cherished our knees, and sat sipping together,
And leaving the world to the fogs and the fighters,
Discussed the pretensions of all sorts of writers;
Of Shakspeare's coevals, all spirits divine;
Of Chapman, whose Homer's a fine rough old wine;
Of Marvell, wit, patriot, and poet, who knew
How to give, both at once, Charles and Cromwell their due;
Of Spenser, who wraps you, wherever you are,
In a bow'r of seclusion beneath a sweet star;
Of Richardson too, who afflicts us so long,
We begin to suspect him of nerves over strong;
In short, of all those who give full-measured page,
Not forgetting Sir Thomas, my ancestor sage,
Who delighted (so happy were all his digestions)
In puzzling his head with impossible questions.

But now , Charles — you never (so blissful you deem me)
Come lounging, with twirl of umbrella, to see me,
In vain have we hoped to be set at our ease
By the rains, which you know used to bring Lamb and pease;
In vain we look out like the children in Thomson,
And say, in our innocence, " Surely he'll come soon".

'Tis true, I do live in a vale, at my will,
With sward to my gateway, and trees on the hill:
My health too gets on; and now autumn is nigh,
The sun has come back, and there 's really blue sky,
But then, the late weather, I think, had its merits,
And might have induced you to look at one's spirits;
We hadn't much thunder and lightning, I own;
But the rains might have led you to walk out of town;
And what made us think your desertion still stranger,
The roads were so bad, there was really some danger;
At least where I live; for the nights were so groping,
The rains made such wet, and the paths are so sloping,
That few, unemboldened by youth or by drinking,
Came down without lanthorns, — nor then without shrinking
And really, to see the bright spots come and go,
As the path rose or fell, was a fanciful show.
Like fairies they seemed, pitching up from their nooks,
And twinkling upon us their bright little looks;
Or if there appeared but a single, slow light,
It seemed Polyphemus, descending by night
To walk in his anguish about the green places,
And see where his mistress lay dreaming of Acis.

I fancy him now, coming just where she sleeps;
He parts the close hawthorns, and hushes, and creeps; —
The moon slips from under the dark clouds, and throws
A light, through the leaves, on her smiling repose
There, there she lies, bowered; — a slope for her bed;
One branch, like a hand, reaches over her head;
Half naked, half shrinking, with side-swelling grace,
A crook's 'twixt her bosom, and crosses her face, —
The crook of her shepherd; — and close to her lips
Lies the Pan-pipe he blows, which in sleeping she sips; —
The giant's knees totter, with passions diverse;
Ah, how can he bear it! Ah, what could be worse!
He's ready to cry out, for anguish of heart;
And tears himself off, lest she wake with a start.