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 learn'd 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 read in book, Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderness. You will see Hogg, and I cannot express His virtues, though I know that they are great, Because he locks, then barricades the gate Within which they inhabit; - of his wit And wisdom, you '11 cry out when you are bit. He is a pearl within an oyster-shell,
One of the richest of the deep; — and there Is English Peacock with his mountain fair Turned into a Flamingo; — that shy bird That gleams i' the Indian air - have you not heard, 235 When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, His best friends hear no more of him? Will see him, and will like him too, I hope, With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope
Matched with this cameleopard: - his fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it; A strain too learnèd for a shallow age, Too wise for selfish bigots, let his page, Which charms the chosen spirits of the time, Fold itself up for the serener clime
years to come, and find its recompense In that just expectation.— Wit and sense, Virtue and human knowledge, all that might Make this dull world a business of delight,
Are all combined in Horace Smith. - And these,
With some exceptions, which I need not tease Your patience by descanting on, are all You and I know in London.
My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night. As water does a sponge, so the moonlight Fills the void, hollow, universal air:
What see you? unpavilioned heaven is fair Whether the moon, into her chamber gone, Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep;
Or whether clouds sail o'er the inverse deep,
Piloted by the many-wandering blast,
And the rare stars rush through them dim and fast: All this is beautiful in every land.
But what see you beside? a shabby stand
Of Hackney coaches a brick house or wall Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl Of our unhappy politics; or worse
A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse Mixed with the watchman's, partner of her trade, You must accept in place of serenade; Or yellow-haired Pollonia, murmuring
To Henry some unutterable thing.
I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit But round dark caverns, even to the root
Of the living stems that feed them—in whose bowers There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers; Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn Trembles not in the slumbering air, and, borne In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance, Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance, Pale in the open moonshine; but each one Under the dark trees seems a little sun, A meteor tamed, a fixed star gone astray From the silver regions of the milky way;-
Afar the Contadino's song is heard,
Rude, but made sweet by distance — and a bird Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet
I know none else that sings so sweet as it
At this late hour; — and then all is still Now Italy or London, which you will!
Next winter you must pass with me; I'll have My house by that time turned into a grave Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care,
And all the dreams which our tormentors are;
Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock and Smith were there,
With every thing belonging to them fair! —
We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek; And ask one week to make another week As like his father as I'm unlike mine, Which is not his fault, as you may divine. Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let's be merry: we 'll have tea and toast, Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,
And other such lady-like luxuries, —
Feasting on which we will philosophize!
And we 'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's wood, To thaw the six weeks' winter in our blood.
And then we'll talk ; — what shall we talk about?
Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout Of thought-entangled descant;
With cones and parallelograms and curves
I've sworn to strangle them if once they dare To bother me when you are with me there. And they shall never more sip laudanum, From Helicon or Himeros ; – well, come; And, in despite of God and of the devil, We'll make our friendly philosophic revel
Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flowers Warn the obscure inevitable hours,
Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew; "To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new."
I STOOD within the city disinterred,
And heard the autumnal leaves like light footfalls Of spirits passing through the streets, and heard The Mountain's slumberous voice at intervals Thrill through those roofless halls;
The oracular thunder penetrating shook
The listening soul in my suspended blood;
I felt that Earth out of her deep heart spoke —
I felt, but heard not: -- through white columns glowed
The isle-sustaining Ocean-flood,
A plane of light between two Heavens of azure: Around me gleamed many a bright sepulchre Of whose pure beauty, Time, as if his pleasure Were to spare Death, had never made erasure; But every living lineament was clear As in the sculptor's thought; and there The wreaths of stony myrtle, ivy and pine, Like winter leaves o'ergrown by moulded snow, Seemed only not to move and grow Because the crystal silence of the air
Weighed on their life; even as the Power divine Which then lulled all things, brooded upon mine.
Then gentle winds arose
With many a mingled close
Of wild Æolian sound and mountain-odour keen ; And where the Baian ocean
Welters with air-like motion,
Within, above, around its bowers of starry green, Moving the sea-flowers in those purple caves Even as the ever stormless atmosphere Floats o'er the Elysian realm,
It bore me like an Angel, o'er the waves Of sunlight, whose swift pinnace of dewy air No storm can overwhelm;
I sailed, where ever flows Under the calm Serene
A spirit of deep emotion From the unknown graves
Of the dead kings of Melody.
Shadowy Aornos darkened o'er the helm The horizontal æther; heaven stripped bare Its depths over Elysium, where the prow
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