Selected Poems (148 page)

Before, to profit by a new occasion;

735

The monarch, mute till then, exclaim’d, ‘What! what!

Pye
come again? No more – no more of that!’

XCIII

The tumult grew; an universal cough

Convulsed the skies, as during a debate,

When Castlereagh has been up long enough

740

(Before he was first minister of state,

I mean — the
slaves hear now
); some cried ‘Off, off!’

As at a farce; till, grown quite desperate,

The bard Saint Peter pray’d to interpose

(Himself an author) only for his prose.

XCIV

745

The varlet was not an ill-favour’d knave;

A good deal like a vulture in the face,

With a hook nose and a hawk’s eye, which gave

A smart and sharper-looking sort of grace

To his whole aspect, which, though rather grave,

750

Was by no means so ugly as his case;

But that indeed was hopeless as can be,

Quite a poetic felony ‘
de se
.’

XCV

Then Michael blew his trump, and still’d the noise

With one still greater, as is yet the mode

755

On earth besides; except some grumbling voice,

Which now and then will make a slight inroad

Upon decorous silence, few will twice

Lift up their lungs when fairly overcrow’d;

And now the bard could plead his own bad cause,

760

With all the attitudes of self-applause.

XCVI

He said – (I only give the heads) – he said,

He meant no harm in scribbling; ’twas his way

Upon all topics; ’twas, besides, his bread,

Of which he butter’d both sides; ’twould delay

765

Too long the assembly (he was pleased to dread),

And take up rather more time than a day,

To name his works – he would but cite a few –

‘Wat Tyler’ — ‘Rhymes on Blenheim’ — ‘Waterloo.’

XCVII

He had written praises of a regicide;

770

He had written praises of all kings whatever;

He had written for republics far and wide,

And then against them bitterer than ever:

For pantisocracy he once had cried

Aloud, a scheme less moral than ’twas clever;

775

Then grew a hearty anti-jacobin –

Had turn’d his coat – and would have turn’d his skin.

XCVIII

He had sung against all battles, and again

In their high praise and glory; he had call’d

Reviewing
¹
‘the ungentle craft,’ and then

780

Become as base a critic as e’er crawl’d —

Fed, paid, and pamper’d by the very men

By whom his muse and morals has been maul’d:

He had written much blank verse, and blanker prose,

And more of both than any body knows.

XCIX

785

He had written Wesley’s life: – here turning round

To Satan, ‘Sir, I’ m ready to write yours,

In two octavo volumes, nicely bound,

With notes and preface, all that most allures

The pious purchaser; and there’s no ground

790

For fear, for I can choose my own reviewers:

So let me have the proper documents,

That I may add you to my other saints.’

C

Satan bow’d, and was silent. ‘Well, if you,

With amiable modesty, decline

795

My offer, what says Michael? There are few

Whose memoirs could be render’d more divine.

Mine is a pen of all work; not so new

As it was once, but I would make you shine

Like your own trumpet. By the way, my own

800

Has more of brass in it, and is as well blown.

CI

‘But talking about trumpets, here’s my Vision!

Now you shall judge, all people; yes, you shall

Judge with my judgment, and by my decision

Be guided who shall enter heaven or fall.

805

I settle all these things by intuition,

Times present, past, to come, heaven, hell, and all,

Like King Alfonso.
¹
When I thus see double,

I save the Deity some worlds of trouble.’

CII

He ceased, and drew forth an MS.; and no

810

Persuasion on the part of devils, or saints,

Or angels, now could stop the torrent; so

He read the first three lines of the contents;

But at the fourth, the whole spiritual show

Had vanish’d, with variety of scents,

815

Ambrosial and sulphureous, as they sprang,

Like lightning, off from his ‘melodious twang.’
²

CIII

Those grand heroics acted as a spell;

The angels stopp’d their ears and plied their pinions;

The devils ran howling, deafen’d, down to hell;

820

The ghosts fled, gibbering, for their own dominions –

(For ’tis not yet decided where they dwell,

And I leave every man to his opinions);

Michael took refuge in his trump – but, lo!

His teeth were set on edge, he could not blow!

CIV

825

Saint Peter, who has hitherto been known

For an impetuous saint, upraised his keys,

And at the fifth line knock’d the poet down;

Who fell like Phaeton, but more at ease,

Into his lake, for there he did not drown;

830

A different web being by the Destinies

Woven for the Laureate’s final wreath, whene’er

Reform shall happen either here or there.

CV

He first sank to the bottom — like his works,

But soon rose to the surface – like himself;

835

For all corrupted things are buoy’d like corks,
¹

By their own rottenness, light as an elf,

Or wisp that flits o’er a morass: he lurks,

It may be, still, like dull books on a shelf,

In his own den, to scrawl some ‘Life’ or ‘Vision,’

840

As Welborn says – ‘the devil turn’d precisian.’

CVI

As for the rest, to come to the conclusion

Of this true dream, the telescope is gone

Which kept my optics free from all delusion,

And show’d me what I in my turn have shown;

845

All I saw farther, in the last confusion,

Was, that King George slipp’d into heaven for one;

And when the tumult dwindled to a calm,

I left him practising the hundredth psalm.

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year

Missolonghi
,
Jan
. 22, 1824.

I

’Tis time this heart should be unmoved,

Since others it hath ceased to move:

Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love!

II

5

My days are in the yellow leaf;

The flowers and fruits of love are gone;

The worm, the canker, and the grief

Are mine alone!

III

The fire that on my bosom preys

10

Is lone as some volcanic isle;

No torch is kindled at its blaze –

A funeral pile!

IV

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

The exalted portion of the pain

15

And power of love, I cannot share,

But wear the chain.

V

But ’tis not
thus
– and ’tis not
here
–

Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor
now
,

Where glory decks the hero’s bier,

20

Or binds his brow.

VI

The sword, the banner, and the field,

Glory and Greece, around me see!

The Spartan, borne upon his shield,

Was not more free.

VII

25

Awake! (not Greece – she
is
awake!)

Awake, my spirit! Think through
whom

Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,

And then strike home!

VIII

Tread those reviving passions down,