My ink is mix'd with tears of deep vexation To know what Mr. Courtenay has decreed; That here no more our King shall fill his station, That Club and Punchbowl all to fate must cede! What! can't we have another Coronation
In the Fusticular Kingdom? I, indeed, Have half a mind-but ah! 'tis much too late For this same Crown to be a candidate...
Ah! Gerard! Gerard! what wouldst thou be doing? (Quoth my astonish'd Muse) is this thine high Commiseration of the cares pursuing
The unblest course of wretched Royalty? Why didst thou prate, last Canto, of the ruin Of Royal spirits ? was it all a lie?
And did you talk in that high-sounding way Only because you'd nothing else to say?
Gerard, I'm quite asham'd of you-take care- I'll not to be treated (trust me) in this sort; How can you hope to breathe poetic air In the unhealthy climate of a court? Do you suppose you'll ever find me there? Pray have the voters promis'd you support? Poetic air, said I?-your chance is small, Just now, of breathing any air at all.
Haven't you had an asthma all the spring?
An't you, this moment, wheezing like a kettle?
And yet forsooth, you want to be a King;
And, though you scarce can fetch your breath, to settle Affairs of State!-'twould be a pretty thingI thought you'd been a man of different metal. Reign if you will-but when by me forsaken, You'll find that you're confoundedly mistaken.
Sweet Muse, have patience trust me, I ne'er meant In earnest to petition for the throne; Though thou dost smile but seldom, I'm content With thy uncertain humours; but I own "Tis a sad bore to have thy fancies pent
Within my brain all joys of printing flown— No praise my dear anonymous state to sweeten, And all because some folks are leaving Eton.
But come once more, and kindly condescend To lend thine inspiration, dearest Muse; Look not so grave,I ask you as a friend, For, if you don't assist me, I shall lose My way in long digressions without end, And not a single reader will peruse
My tedious rhymes I scarce could get a man to Wade through my last interminable Canto.
I said, just now, I'd introduce my reader
To the fair Sprite who gives my Tale a name; And since, in a few stanzas, I shall need her For special purposes, 'twould be a shame, Should I delay into your view to dead her; So forth she steps, this visionary dame, Maimoune, a mad Fairy, gay and bright As any elf that e'er play'd pranks by night. VIII.
She came on Earth soon after the creation, And was akin to Oberon, 'tis said; In Faery-land receiv'd her education,
But never yet had been induc'd to wed, Though she was woo'd by half the Elfin nation- But still a free and roving life she led ; And sought diversion for her gentle mind Chiefly among the haunts of humankind.
There was a deep and solitary well in
The palace where the Prince was now confin'd, Which serv'd this lovely Fairy for a dwelling, A spot just suited to a Fairy's mind; Much like the fountain where Narcissus fell in Love with his own fair face, and pin'd, and pin'd To death (the passion's not at all uncommon In Man, and very prevalent with Woman).
Beneath this fountain's fresh and bubbling water, Unfathomably deep, the livelong day,
This wondrous Fairy, Time's most radiant daughter, In unimaginable visions lay,
Where never earthly care or sorrow sought her, But o'er her head did the wild waters play, And flitting spirits of the Earth and Air, Scatter'd sweet dreams and airy music there.
For she was well belov'd by all th' immortal Beings that roam through Ocean, Earth, or Sky; And oft would blessed spirits pass the portal Of the vast Eden of Eternity
To be her slaves, and to her did resort all Angelic thoughts, each heavenly phantasy, That mortals may not know-all came to bless This gentle Being's dreams of happiness.
And all around that fountain, the pure air Breath'd of her presence; every leaf was hung With music, and each flow'r that blossom'd there A fine and supernatural fragrance flung On the glad sense; and thither did repair
Garlanded maids, and lovers fond and young; And by the side of the low-murmuring stream Would youthful Poets lay them down to dream. XIII.
And ever on that spot the rays of Morning Fell thickest, and the Sun's meridian light Sparkled and danced amid the waves, adorning The crystal chamber of the sleeping Sprite. But when the rising Moon was nightly born in The Eastern skies, and the sweet dews of Night Lay heavy on the Earth, that Sprite arose Fresh from the visions of the day's repose.
And then, she gaily wander'd through the world, Where'er her fancy led her, and would stray (The sails of her bright meteor-wings unfurl'd) Through many a populous city, and survey The chambers of the sleeping; oft she curl'd The locks of young chaste maidens, as they lay, And lit new lustre in their sleeping eyes,
And breath'd upon their cheeks the bloom of Paradise.
And she would scatter o'er the Poet's brain (As he lay smiling through swift-springing tears) A strange and unintelligible train
Of fancies, and ring loud into his ears A long, mysterious, and perplexing strain
Of music, or combine the joy of years In half an hour of slumber; till he started From such sweet visions, weeping and wild-hearted.
And, in her mirthful moments, would she seek The bachelor's room, and spoil his lonely rest; Or with old maids play many a wicked freak ; Or rattle loudly at the miser's chest, Till he woke trembling; she would often wreak
Her vengeance on stern fathers who repress'd Their children's young and innocent loves, and sold (Like our two Kings) their happiness for gold.
I can't tell half the merry tricks she play'd On earth, nor half the clamour, and the fuss Old women made about her.-I'm afraid No Sprite was ever half so mischievous. But so it happen'd that one night she stray'd Into the Prince's chamber-(prying Puss! I wonder what, the deuce, she wanted there With a young man abed, so fresh and fair.)
Tranquil and happy in his sleep he lay,
For he was dreaming of that vision bright; And o'er his flush'd cheek stole a wandering ray Of silent but most passionate delight, As he was gazing his soul's eyes away On some imagined form-he was a sight Of wondrous beauty, and Maimoune stood Gazing upon him long in solitude.
Oh! how she long'd to peep beneath the lid That veil'd his eyes' dark azure, and espy. The sweet imaginations that it hid
Wandering beneath its fringed canopy. Yet would she not awake him; all she did Was but one instant on his breast to lie, And kiss the lips which tremulously mov'd As if to meet the lips of her he lov❜d.
Hark! a dull sound swings through the troubled air! She hears the flapping of unholy wings- Awhile she listens mute with finger fair
Rais'd to her delicate lips; then swiftly springs Into the infinite sky-what meets she there? Ha! a bad Spirit in its wanderings Darkens the face of the full moon, and mars The pale-ey'd beauty of the silent stars.
Up sprang Maimoune-winds are not so fleet Through the spell-troubled atmosphere, and soon You might behold those hostile Spirits meet Within the circle of the full-orb'd moon. Well knew the Fiend that battle or retreat To him was hopeless-so he crav'd a boon, That, as her anger he was loth to stir, She'd let him pass in peace-and he'd let her.
"Ho!" quoth the Fairy (and she laugh'd aloud) "Kind Sir Rebellious, courteous terms are these: But mine must first be thought on-Spirit proud, Now whether thy sweet Spritehood doth it please, That I should dash thee from thy murky cloud Into yon deep uncomfortable seas;
Or shut those fair and dainty limbs of thine In the dark trunk of that wind-shaken pine? XXIII.
"Or wilt thou shiver in the realm of Frost, Ten thousand years fast fetter'd to the Pole?
Or, to the centre of the deep earth tost, There tumble, free from Gravity's control,
In many an antic gambol?-to thy cost
Curs'd Spirit thou hast dar'd me for a soul
More dark than thou, more mischievously wicked, Roams not the earth- at least with such a thick head.
"I've some old scores to pay you off, Sir, now :- Didn't I see you tap Tom Goddard's ale? Didn't you pull down Pocock's barley-mow? Didn't you nick the Parson's pony's tail? Didn't you milk John Squizzle's spotted cow? And thump his Sister with the milking pail? Didn't I see you through the keyhole creep, And give Miss Bab the fidgets in her sleep?
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