The Poetical Works of Leigh Hunt/The Feast of the Poets
THE FEAST OF THE POETS.
T'other day, as Apollo sat pitching his dartsThrough the clouds of November by fits and by starts,He began to consider how long it had been,Since the bards of Old England a session had seen."I think," said the God, recollecting, (and thenHe fell twiddling a sunbeam, as I may my pen,)"I think—let me see—yes, it is, I declare,As long ago now as that Buckingham there:[1]And yet I can't see why I've been so remiss,Unless it may be—and it certainly is, That since Dryden's fine verses, and Milton's sublime,I have fairly been sick of their sing-song and rhyme.There was Collins, 'tis true, had a good deal to say;But the dog had no industry,—neither had Gray:And Thomson, though dear to my heart, was too floridTo make the world see that their own taste was horrid.
So ever since Pope, my pet bard of the town,Set a tune with his verses, half up and half down,There has been such a doling and sameness—by JoveI'd as soon have gone down to see Kemble in love.However, of late, as they've rous'd them anew,I'll e'en go and give them a lesson or two,And as nothing's done there now-a-days without eating,See what kind of set I can muster worth treating."So saying, the God bade his horses walk for'ard,And, leaving them, took a long dive to the nor'ard:For Gordon's he made; and as Gods who drop in do,Came smack on his legs through the drawing-room window.
And here I could tell, were I given to spin it,How all the town shook, as the godhead came in it;How bright look'd the poets, and brisk blew the airs,And the laurels shot up in the gardens and squares;—But fancies like these, though I've stores to supply me,I'd better keep back for a poem I've by me,And merely observe that the girls look'd divine,And the old folks in-doors exclaim'd "Bless us, how fine!"
If you'd fancy, however, what Phœbus might be,Imagine a shape above mortal degree,His limbs the perfection of elegant strength,—A fine flowing roundness inclining to length,—A presence that spoke,-an expansion of chest,(For the God, you'll observe, like his statues was drest),His throat like a pillar for smoothness and grace,His curls in a cluster,—and then such a face,As mark'd him at once the true offspring of Jove,The brow all of wisdom, and lips all of love; For though he was blooming, and oval of cheek,And youth down his shoulders went smoothing and sleek,Yet his look with the reach of past ages was wise,And the soul of eternity thought through his eyes.
I would'nt say more, lest my climax should lose;—Yet now I have mention'd those lamps of the Muse,I can't but observe what a splendour they shed,When a thought more than common came into his head:
Then they leap'd in their frankness, deliciously bright,And shot round about them an arrowy light;And if, as he shook back his hair in its cluster,A curl fell athwart them and darken'd their lustre,A sprinkle of gold through the duskiness came,Like the sun through a tree, when he's setting in flame.
The God then no sooner had taken a chair,And rung for the landlord to order the fare,Than he heard a strange noise and a knock from without,—And scraping and bowing, came in such a rout!There were all the worst play-wrights from Dibdin to Terry,All grinning, as who should say, "Sha'n't we be merry?"With men of light comedy lumb'ring like bears up,And men of deep tragedy patting their hairs up.The God, for an instant, sat fix'd as a stone,Till recov'ring, he said in a good-natur'd tone,"Oh, the waiters, I see;—ah, it's all very well,—Only one of you'll do, just to answer the bell."But lord! to see all the great dramatists' faces!They look'd at each other, and made such grimaces!Then turning about, left the room in vexation,And Colman, they say, fairly mutter'd "Damnation!"
The God fell a laughing to see his mistake,But stopp'd with a sigh for poor Comedy's sake;Then gave mine host orders, who bow'd to the floor,And had scarcely back'd out, and shut gently the door,When a hemming was heard, consequential and snapping,And a sour little gentleman walk'd with a rap in:He bow'd, look'd about him, seem'd cold, and sat down,And said, "I'm surpris'd that you'll visit this town:—To be sure, there are one or two of us who know you,But as for the rest, they are all much below you.So stupid, in gen'ral, the natives are grown,They really prefer Scotch reviews to their own;So that what with their taste, their reformers, and stuff,They have sicken'd myself and my friends long enough.""Yourself and your friends!" cried the God in high glee;"And pray, my frank visitor, who may you be?""Who be?" cried the other; "why really—this tone—William Gifford's a name, I think, pretty well known!""Oh—now I remember," said Phœbus;—"ah true—The Anti-La Cruscan that writes the review:—The rod, though 'twas no such vast matter, that fellOn that plague of the butterflies,—did very well;[2] And there's something, which even distaste must respect,In the self-taught example, that conquer'd neglect:But not to insist on the recommendationsOf modesty, wit, and a small stock of patience,My visit just now is to poets alone,And not to small critics, however well known."So saying he rang, to leave nothing in doubt,And the sour little gentleman bless'd himself out.
But glad look'd the God at the next who appear'd,For 'twas Campbell, by Poland's pale blessing endear'd:And Montgom'ry was with him, a freeman as true,(Heav'n loves the ideal, which practises too);And him follow'd Rogers, whose laurel tree showsThicker leaves, and more sunny, the older it grows;Rejoicing he came in the god-send of weather:Then Scott (for the famous ones all came together);His host overwhelm'd him with thanks for his novels;Then Crabbe, asking questions concerning Greek hovels;And Byron, with eager indifference; and MooreWith admiring glad eyes, that came leaping before;And Keats, with young tresses and thoughts, like the god's;And Shelley, a sprite from his farthest abodes;Phœbus gave him commissions from Marlowe and Plato;And Landor, whom two Latin poets sent bay to,(Catullus and Ovid); and Southey with looksLike a man just awak'd from the depth of his books;And Coleridge, fine dreamer, with lutes in his rhyme;And Wordsworth, the prince of the bards of his time.
"And now," said the God,—but he scarcely had spoken,When bang went the door—you'd have thought it was broken;And in rush'd a mob with a scuffle and squeeze,Exclaiming, "What! Wordsworth, and fellows like these!Nay then, we may all take our seats as we please!"I can't, if I would, tell you who they all were;But a whole shoal of fops and of pedants were there,All the heart and impart men, and such as supposeThey write like the Virgils, and Popes, and Boileaus.The God smil'd at first with a turn tow'rds the fire,And whisper'd "There, tell 'em they'd better retire;"But lord! this was only to set all their quills up;The rogues did but bustle; and pulling their frills up,Stood fixing their faces, and stirr'd not an inch;Nay, some took their snuff out, and join'd in a pinch.
Then wrath seiz'd Apollo; and turning again,"Ye rabble," he cried, "common-minded and vain,Whate'er be the faults which true bards may commit,(And most of 'em lie in your own want of wit,)Ye shall try, wretched creatures, how well ye can bearWhat such only witness, unsmote with despair."
He said; and the place all seem'd swelling with light,While his locks and his visage grew awfully bright;And clouds, burning inward, roll'd round on each side,To encircle his state as he stood in his pride;Till at last the full Deity put on his rays,And burst on the sight in the pomp of his blaze!Then a glory beam'd round, as of fiery rods,With the sound of deep organs and chorister gods;And the faces of bards, glowing fresh from their skies,Came thronging about with intentness of eyes,— And the Nine were all heard, as the harmony swell'd,—And the spheres, pealing in, the long rapture upheld,—And all things above, and beneath, and around,Seem'd a world of bright vision, set floating in sound.
That sight and that music might not be sustain'd,But by those who in wonder's great school had been train'd;And even the bards who had graciousness found,After gazing awhile, bow'd them down to the ground.What then could remain for that feeble-eyed crew?Through the door in an instant they rush'd and they flew;They rush'd, and they dash'd, and they scrambled, and stumbled,And down the hall staircase distractedly tumbled,And never once thought which was head or was feet,And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the street.So great was the panic that smote them to flight,That of all who had come to be feasted that night,Not one ventur'd back, or would stay near the place;Even Ireland declin'd, notwithstanding his face.
But Phœbus no sooner had gain'd his good ends,Than he put off his terrors, and rais'd up his friends,Who stood for a moment entranc'd to beholdThe glories subside and the dim-rolling gold,And listen'd to sounds, that with ecstasy burningSeem'd dying far upward, like heaven returning.Then "Come," cried the God in his elegant mirth,"Let us make us a heaven of our own upon earth,And wake with the lips, that we dip in our bowls,That divinest of music,—congenial souls."So saying, he led through the door in his state,Each bard as he follow'd him blessing his fate; And by some charm or other, as each took his chair,There burst a most beautiful wreath in his hair.I can't tell 'em all, but the groundwork was bay,And Campbell, in his, had some oak-leaves and May;And Forget-me-not, Rogers; and Moore had a vine;And Shelley, besides most magnificent pine,Had the plant which thy least touch, Humanity, knows;And Keats's had forest-tree, basil, and rose;And Southey some buds of the tall Eastern palm;And Coleridge mandragoras, mingled with balm;And Wordsworth, with all which the field-walk endears,The blossom that counts by its hundreds of years.Then Apollo put his on, that sparkled with beams,And rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams,—Not epicure civic, or grossly inclin'd,But such as a poet might dream ere he din'd;For the God had no sooner determin'd the fare,Than it turn'd to whatever was racy and rare:The fish and the flesh for example were done,On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun;The wines were all nectar of different smack,To which Muskat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac,No, nor even Johannisberg, soul of the Rhine,Nor Montepulciano, though King of all Wine.[3]Then as for the fruits, you might garden for ages,Before you could raise me such apples and gages;And all on the table no sooner were spread,Than their cheeks next the God blush'd a beautiful red.'Twas magic, in short, and deliciousness all;—The very men-servants grew handsome and tall;To velvet-hung ivory the furniture turn'd,The service with opal and adamant burn'd,Each candlestick chang'd to a pillar of gold,While a bundle of beams took the place of the mould, The decanters and glasses pure diamond became,And the corkscrew ran solidly round into flame:—In a word, so completely forestall'd were the wishes,E'en harmony struck from the noise of the dishes.
It can't be suppos'd I should think of repeatingThe fancies that flow'd at this laureat meeting;I haven't the brains, and besides was not there;But the wit may be easily guess'd by the chair.
I must mention, however, that during the wine,Our four great old poets were toasted with nine.Then others with six or with three as it fitted,Nor were those who translate with a gusto, omitted.At this, Southey begging the deity's ear—"I know," interrupted Apollo, "'tis Frere:"[4]And Scott put a word in, and begg'd to propose—"I'll drink him with pleasure," said Phœbus, "'tis Rose."[5]Then talking of lyrics, he call'd upon Moore,Who sung such a song, that they shouted "Encore!"And the God was so pleas'd with his taste and his tone,He obey'd the next call, and gave one of his own,—At which you'd have thought,—('twas so witching a warble,)The guests had all turn'd into listening marble;The wreaths on their temples grew brighter of bloom,As the breath of the Deity circled the room;And the wine in the glasses went rippling in rounds,As if follow'd and fann'd by the soft-winged sounds.
Thus chatting and singing they sat till eleven,When Phœbus shook hands, and departed for heaven; "For poets," he said, "who would cherish their powers,And hop'd to be deathless, must keep to good hours."So off he betook him the way that he came,And shot up the north, like an arrow of flame;For the Bear was his inn; and the comet, they say,Was his tandem in waiting to fetch him away.
The others then parted, all highly delighted;And so shall I be, when you find me invited.
- ↑ Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, wrote the last Session of the Poets. Others were written by Suckling and Rochester.
- ↑ Mr. Gifford, in a satire called the Baviad and Mæviad, killed before their time an ephemeral race of poetasters, generated by the affected fancy of Mr. Merry, a gentleman who signed himself Della Crusca from the academy of that name, of which he was a member. Mr. Gifford, whose perceptions were all of the commonplace order, had a good commonplace judgment, which served him well enough to expose errors discernible by most people. He only betrayed his own ignorance and presumption, when he came to speak of such a poet as Mr. Keats.
- ↑ "Montepulciano d'ogni vino è il Re."
Bacco in Toscana. - ↑ See the admirable version from the Spanish, at the end of Mr. Southey's Chronicle of the Cid.
- ↑ The abridger of Casti's Animali Parlanti, and imitator of Berni.