III. With curling lip and glancing eye Had such a holy spell within it, IV. Then stepped a gloomy phantom up, Pale, cypress-crowned, Night's awful daughter, And proffered him a fearful cup Full to the brim of bitter water: Poor Childhood bade her tell her name; And when the beldame muttered-"Sorrow," He said,-"Don't interrupt my game; I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." V. The Muse of Pindus thither came, And wooed him with the softest numbers That ever scattered wealth and fame Upon a youthful poet's slumbers; Though sweet the music of the lay, To Childhood it was all a riddle, And "Oh," he cried, "do send away That noisy woman with the fiddle!" VI. Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, And taught him, with most sage endeavour, Why bubbles rise and acorns fall, And why no toy may last for ever. VII. Sleep on, sleep on! Oh! Manhood's dreams (1829.) CHILDHOOD'S CRITICISM. TO MISSES ON HER REPEATING THE PRECEDING LINES. "You've only got to curtsey, whisp - I. REJECTED ADDRESSES. A POET o'er his tea and toast Composed a page of verse last winter, Transcribed it on the best Bath post, And sent the treasure to a printer. He thought it an enchanting thing; And, fancying no one else could doubt it, Went out, as happy as a king, To hear what people said about it. II. Queen Fame was driving out that day; And, though she scarcely seemed to know him, He bustled up, and tried to say Something about his little poem; But ere from his unhappy lip Three timid trembling words could falter, The goddess cracked her noisy whip, And went to call upon Sir Walter ! III. Old Criticism, whose glance observed The rack at least for his intrusion : The poor youth stared and strove to speak ; Which Dullness said was quite convincing. IV. Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch, And "Rhyme," quoth she, "won't make you rich; Sauce them with puns and disquisitions; Let Colburn cook your title-page, And I'll ensure you six editions." V. Ambition met him next ;—he sighed To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel, And crept into a bower to hide, For he and she had had a quarrel. The goddess of the cumbrous crown Called after him, in tones of pity, "My son, you've dropped your wig and gown! And, bless me, how you've torn your Chitty!" VI. 'Twas all unheeded or unheard, For now he knocked at Beauty's portal; He knew, would make his lays immortal. VII. He turned away with sullen looks From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning. "To-night," he said, "I'll burn my books; I'll break my harpstrings in the morning.”. When lo, a laughing Fay drew near; And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's, She whispered in the poet's ear The sounds the poet loved-his verses! VIII. He looked, and listened; and it seemed In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter: Good lack till now he had not dreamed How bright the thought, how smooth the metre. Ere the last stanza was begun, He managed all his wrath to smother; And when the little Nymph had done, Said "Thank you, Love;-I'll write another!" OCTOBER 1, 1829. |