Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, Which by the force of figured spells might win Its way over the sea, and sport therein;- For round the walls are hung dread engines, such As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch Ixion or the Titan; or the quick
Wit of that man of God, Saint Dominic, To convince atheist, Turk, or heretic; Or those in philosophic councils met
Who thought to pay some interest for the debt They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation By giving a faint foretaste of damnation
To Shakspeare, Sydney, Spenser, and the rest Who made our land an island of the blessed, (When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with empire),
With thumbscrews, wheels with tooth and spike and jag, Which fishes found under the utmost crag
Of Cornwall, and the storm-encompassed isles Where to the sky the rude sea seldom smiles Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn When the exulting elements in scorn, Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey,
As panthers sleep. And other strange and dread Magical forms the brick floor overspread.
Proteus transformed to metal did not make
More figures, or more strange; nor did he take Such shapes of unintelligible brass,
Or heap himself in such a horrid mass Of tin and iron not to be understood,
And forms of unimaginable wood,
To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood:
Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved blocks,
The elements of what will stand the shocks
Of wave and wind and time.-Upon the table
More knacks and quips there be than I am able
To catalogize in this verse of mine:
A pretty bowl of wood-not full of wine,
But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink When at their subterranean toil they swink, Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who
Reply to them in lava-cry "halloo!"
And call out to the cities o'er their head.
Roofs, towns, and shrines, the dying and the dead, Crash through the chinks of earth: and then all quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. This quicksilver no gnome has drunk: within The walnut bowl it lies, veinèd and thin,
In colour like the wake of light that stains The Tuscan deep when from the moist moon rains The inmost shower of its white fire-the breeze Is still-blue heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver-for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy
Outlasting manhood-I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat,
A hollow screw with cogs: Henry will know The thing I mean, and laugh at me.
He fears not I should do more mischief.-Next Lie bills and calculations much perplexed
With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint, Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. Then comes a range of mathematical Instruments, for plans nautical and statical; A heap of rosin; a green broken glass With ink in it; a china cup that was (What it will never be again, I think)
A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink The liquor doctors rail at—and which I Will quaff in spite of them; and, when we die, We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea, And cry out "heads or tails!" where'er we be. Near that, a dusty paint-box, some old hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures, disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near them a most inexplicable thing, With lead in the middle-I'm conjecturing How to make Henry understand; but no!
I'll leave, as Spenser says "with many mo," This secret in the pregnant womb of Time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme.
And here like some weird archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells and devilish enginery,— The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind, Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind The gentle spirit of our meek Reviews
Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Ruffling the ocean of their self-content.
I sit, and smile,- or sigh, as is my bent, But not for them. Libeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound;
I heed him more than them. The thunder-smoke Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean; and the vines Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines; The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill The empty pauses of the blast; the hill Looks hoary through the white electric rain; And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain, The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of heaven smiles, like the Age of Love On the unquiet world;-while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the war Of worms,—the shriek of the world's carrion jays, Their censure or their wonder or their praise?
You are not here! The quaint witch Memory sees In vacant chairs your absent images,
And points where once you sat, and now should be, But are not.-I demand if ever we
Shall meet as then we met ;-and she replies,
Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes,
"I know the past alone: but summon home My sister Hope-she speaks of all to come." But I, an old diviner who know well Every false verse of that sweet oracle, Turned to the sad enchantress once again, And sought a respite from my gentle pain
In acting every passage o'er and o'er
Of our communion:-How on the sea shore We watched the ocean and the sky together, Under the roof of blue Italian weather;
How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm, And felt the transverse lightning linger warm Upon my cheek; and how we often made Treats for each other where good-will outweighed The frugal luxury of our country cheer, (As it well might, were it less firm and clear Than ours must ever be). And how we spun
A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not,-or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe; or sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world, and then anatomize The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years; or widely guess The issue of the earth's great business, When we shall be as we no longer are
(Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not); or how You listened to some interrupted flow Of visionary rhyme, in joy and pain
Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, With little skill perhaps; or how we sought Those deepest wells of passion or of thought Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years, Staining the sacred waters with our tears, Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed; Or how I, wisest lady! then indued The language of a land which now is free, And, winged with thoughts of truth and majesty, Flits round the tyrant's sceptre like a cloud, And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud "My name is Legion!"-that majestic tongue Which Calderon over the desert flung Of ages and of nations, and which found An echo in our hearts, and with the sound Startled Oblivion. Thou wert then to me As is a nurse when inarticulately
A child would talk as its grown parents do. If living winds the rapid clouds pursue,
If hawks chase doves through the aërial way, Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, Why should not we rouse with the spirit's blast Out of the forest of the pathless past
These recollected pleasures?
In London; that great sea whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. Yet in its depth what treasures! You will see Your old friend Godwin,-greater none than he; Though fallen on evil times, yet will he stand, Among the spirits of our age and land,
Before the dread tribunal of To-come
The foremost, whilst Rebuke cowers pale and dumb. You will see Coleridge; he who sits obscure In the exceeding lustre and the pure
Intense irradiation of a mind
Which, with its own internal lightning blind, Flags wearily through darkness and despair— A cloud-encircled meteor of the air,
A hooded eagle among blinking owls.
You will see Hunt; one of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom This world would smell like what it is—a tomb; Who is what others seem. His room no doubt Is still adorned by many a cast from Shout; With graceful flowers tastefully placed about, And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung, The gifts of the most learned among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and cousins.
And there is he with his eternal puns,
Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns Thundering for money at a poet's door; Alas! it is no use to say "I'm poor !"— Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever said in book, Except in Shakspeare's wisest tenderness. You will see Hogg; and I cannot express
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