Heaven help us! what a merciless digression!
Prometheus, Hymen, and the golden age-
Upon my word, such folly's past expression,
When I've as much to do as might engage
The House of Commons for at least a session:
But I'll turn over a new leaf-next
page;-
This graceless cub Prometheus christen'd Elfe,',
Or Quick'-and shortly found him so himself.
Away ran Elfe-Prometheus strove to follow,
Beseeching and imploring him to stay;-
'Twas all in vain,-the goblin beat him hollow,—
He found he'd thrown his time and toil away,
And felt as disappointed as Apollo
At clasping in his arms some boughs of bay,
When he pursued, in hopes of kissing, Daphne,
While the rude wind display'd her leg and half knee.
Away ran Elfe, rejoicing in his vigour,
O'er hill and dale, through river, lake, and sea;
An active sprite, and of a handsome figure,
And wild, but winning, countenance was he.
Shaped like a mortal,-neither less nor bigger-
A goodly work of human fantasy,
When fantasy as yet was in her prime-
Not the weak dreamer of the present time.
Away ran Elfe-through village, town, and city,
Made close acquaintance with the sons of men,
And on their follies was severely witty,
Though things occurr'd, that pleased him, now and then.
He thought some men sincere, some women pretty
But if he loved, was ne'er beloved again:
There was a sort of wildness in his eye,
Of which young ladies were extremely shy.
For, not to mention bis absurd creation,
(Which form'd one grand objection, not ill grounded,) And strange ingredients, of whose combination His extra-human nature was compoundedThe source whence he derived his animation Was a sufficient cause to have confounded All hopes of love-for from the sun it came, And so was mingled with poetic flame.
Therefore no woman loved him-nor could love;
'Twas not his fault nor their's-'tis the condition
Of genius, which nought human can remove;
If you've a spark, in all your composition,
Of poetry, remember you may rove
From East to West, and light on no physician,
Who can enable you, with charms or philtres,
To gain the affections of these pretty jilters.
Not but they'll all caress you, and admire,
Doat on your rhymes, request you to transcribe
In gilt morocco, till your fingers tire,
With sweetest smiles and speeches for a bribe.
And cold the Muse such prizes can't inspire-
For my part, I avow, without a gibe,
mind no critic's praise can vie my With one bright twinkle in a woman's eye.
And there are noble creatures (though uncommon)
Who'll give you noble friendship-such as far
Transcends the love of any meaner woman,
And may be worshipp'd as the polar star.
To your world-weary bark-but further no man
Must hope to pass that dim mysterious bar
Between the woman's and the poet's heart,
Which keeps them (more's the pity) miles apart.
That is, when once the woman's turn'd of twenty;
Till then, from warm sixteen, I doubt not you
May find full-hearted little things in plenty,
Who'll love you—or at least believe they do;
But when her head's once ripe, and heart half spent, I
Fear 'tis in vain for any bard to woo
A fair one, whether talented or stupid,
Or bid Calliope shake hands with Cupid.
Woman-I grieve to say it—is a creature—
A heavenly one, no doubt-but ne'ertheless
Extremely unpoetical by nature,
As those, who form exceptions, all confess.
I can't tell why this is--indeed I hate your
Reasons in rhyme-perhaps they don't possess
The organs (as Gall says) of ideality-
They never dream-their lives are all reality.
They-but I wont philosophize-in short
Terpsichore's the female's only Muse;
A bard can have no chance who comes to court
Against some whisker'd bully of the blues,
Who piques himself on dancing as his forte,
And stands full six feet six without his shoes.
Or should the bard find favour, yet in sooth
The course of his love never does run smooth.
Shakspeare and Spenser, Petrarch, Tasso-others
Of note-some dead and buried, some alive-
The tunefullest of all the tuneful brothers,
Are proofs how badly love-sick poets thrive.
Few make their Lauras either wives or mothers,
Or live to stock their Hymeneal hive
With offspring fruitful of poetic honey,
Begot and born in lawful matrimony.
There were three Mrs. Miltons to be sure
But I suspect they shortly saw their blunder; The first soon found her place no sinecure,
So took French leave, at which I don't much wonder : He must have been (besides that he was poor)
A terrible old fellow to live under;
And I conceive it must be hard to find
A handsome wife who'd have her husband blind.
But they've all motives, foolisher or fitter-
I've heard a woman of true genius say
She thought that poets were too apt to fritter
Their hearts on light and worthless things away:
The observation was correct, though bitter-
There is no doubt we're apt to go astray:
Falling in love head foremost, as we do,
It's seldom that our hearts sink deeply too.
But when they do-oh! then we love indeed-
With true devotion both of heart and brain,
Nor wholly from that thraldom can be freed,
While life and thought and fantasy remain;
Or if we are, according to my creed,
"Love's flower, once blighted, never blooms again." The last line's from Glenarvon, slightly alter'd,I heard it sung once by a voice that falter'd:
And, ever since, its melody hath haunted
Mine ear, although I really scarce know why-
But it does haunt me, like some voice enchanted,
As if the phantom of young hopes gone by
Wail'd at my side-and yet no ghost seems wanted
To tell one that such hopes are born to die:
Such bubbles are as stale as melted vapours,
Or lists of bankrupts in the London papers.
Therefore I count myself a lucky fellow,
To find my feelings, with my hopes, decay;
My heart, which once was as a medlar mellow,
Is crusting like a walnut, day by day;
So that I never shall look green and yellow
With melancholy thoughts, but cast away
Care for the future, sorrow for the past,
And die a good old bachelor at last.
One thing perplexes me-and I must leave it
To great philosophers, who'll either see all
The reasons at a glance, or won't believe it—
Which is, that grief, when palpable and real,
Falls pointless on my heart, and fails to grieve it,
While I still weep for sorrows half ideal,
Or dimly known-I'm sometimes touched with woe
E'en now, when thinking of Christine T * * * * * t.
Not that I ever saw her; but her story
Was told me by a tongue which I can trust;
And as I've promised to extend her glory
Far as my song can bear it-why I must;
Though she's a Buonapartist-I a Tory-
At least an Anti-Gallican-but dust
And book-worms be my portion, if I mix
My English gallantry with politics!
Some years ago from green Montpelier came
This pale but pretty Protestant-her sire
Fell at Vittoria, where King Joseph's game
Was lost a grenadier thought fit to fire
Into his carriage, which you'll think a shame ;
But it appears that some confounded liar
Declared he was the king, and so they shot him,
While Joe himself escaped in safety-rot him.
|