English Satires Part 32

XIX.

"He was, if I remember, King of France, That head of his, which could not keep a crown On earth, yet ventured in my face to advance A claim to those of martyrs--like my own.

If I had had my sword, as I had once When I cut ears off, I had cut him down; But having but my _keys_, and not my brand, I only knock'd his head from out his hand.

XX.

"And then he set up such a headless howl, That all the saints came out and took him in; And there he sits by St. Paul, cheek by jowl; That fellow Paul--the parvenu! The skin Of Saint Bartholomew, which makes his cowl In heaven, and upon earth redeem'd his sin So as to make a martyr, never sped Better than did that weak and wooden head.

XXI.

"But had it come up here upon its shoulders, There would have been a different tale to tell; The fellow-feeling in the saints' beholders Seems to have acted on them like a spell; And so this very foolish head heaven solders Back on its trunk: it may be very well, And seems the custom here to overthrow Whatever has been wisely done below."

XXII.

The angel answer'd, "Peter! do not pout: The king who comes has head and all entire, And never knew much what it was about-- He did as doth the puppet--by its wire, And will be judged like all the rest, no doubt: My business and your own is not to inquire Into such matters, but to mind our cue-- Which is to act as we are bid to do."

XXIII.

While thus they spake, the angelic caravan, Arriving like a rush of mighty wind, Cleaving the fields of s.p.a.ce, as doth the swan Some silver stream (say Ganges, Nile, or Inde, Or Thames, or Tweed), and 'midst them an old man With an old soul, and both extremely blind, Halted before the gate, and in his shroud Seated their fellow-traveller on a cloud.

XXIV.

But bringing up the rear of this bright host, A Spirit of a different aspect waved His wings, like thunder-clouds above some coast Whose barren beach with frequent wrecks is paved; His brow was like the deep when tempest-toss'd; Fierce and unfathomable thoughts engraved Eternal wrath on his immortal face, And _where_ he gazed, a gloom pervaded s.p.a.ce.

XXV.

As he drew near, he gazed upon the gate Ne'er to be enter'd more by him or Sin, With such a glance of supernatural hate, As made St. Peter wish himself within: He patter'd with his keys at a great rate, And sweated through his apostolic skin: Of course his perspiration was but ichor, Or some such other spiritual liquor.

XXVI.

The very cherubs huddled all together, Like birds when soars the falcon; and they felt A tingling to the tip of every feather, And form'd a circle like Orion's belt Around their poor old charge; who scarce knew whither His guards had led him, though they gently dealt With royal manes (for by many stories, And true, we learn the angels all are Tories).

XXVII.

As things were in this posture, the gate flew Asunder, and the flashing of its hinges Flung over s.p.a.ce an universal hue Of many-color'd flame, until its tinges Reach'd even our speck of earth, and made a new Aurora Borealis spread its fringes O'er the North Pole, the same seen, when ice-bound, By Captain Perry's crew, in "Melville's Sound".

XXVIII.

And from the gate thrown open issued beaming A beautiful and mighty Thing of Light, Radiant with glory, like a banner streaming Victorious from some world-o'erthrowing fight: My poor comparisons must needs be teeming With earthly likenesses, for here the night Of clay obscures our best conceptions, saving Johanna Southcote, or Bob Southey raving.

XXIX.

'Twas the archangel Michael: all men know The make of angels and archangels, since There's scarce a scribbler has not one to show, From the fiends' leader to the angels' prince.

There also are some altar-pieces, though I really can't say that they much evince One's inner notions of immortal spirits; But let the connoisseurs explain _their_ merits.

x.x.x.

Michael flew forth in glory and in good, A goodly work of Him from whom all glory And good arise: the portal pa.s.s'd--he stood Before him the young cherubs and saints h.o.a.ry-- (I say _young_, begging to be understood By looks, not years, and should be very sorry To state, they were not older than St. Peter, But merely that they seem'd a little sweeter).

x.x.xI.

The cherubs and the saints bow'd down before That archangelic hierarch, the first Of essences angelical, who wore The aspect of a G.o.d; but this ne'er nursed Pride in his heavenly bosom, in whose core No thought, save for his Maker's service, durst Intrude, however glorified and high; He knew him but the viceroy of the sky.

x.x.xII.

He and the sombre silent Spirit met-- They knew each other both for good and ill; Such was their power that neither could forget His former friend and future foe; but still There was a high, immortal, proud regret In either's eye, as if't were less their will Than destiny to make the eternal years Their date of war, and their _champ clos_ the spheres.

x.x.xIII.

But here they were in neutral s.p.a.ce: we know From Job, that Satan hath the power to pay A heavenly visit thrice a year or so; And that "the sons of G.o.d", like those of clay, Must keep him company; and we might show From the same book, in how polite a way The dialogue is held between the powers Of Good and Evil--but 'twould take up hours.

x.x.xIV.

And this is not a theologic tract, To prove with Hebrew and with Arabic, If Job be allegory or a fact, But a true narrative; and thus I pick From out the whole but such and such an act, As sets aside the slightest thought of trick.

'Tis every t.i.ttle true, beyond suspicion, And accurate as any other vision.

LIX. THE WALTZ.

Published in 1813 and described by its author as an "Apostrophic Hymn".

Muse of the many-twinkling feet! whose charms Are now extended up from legs to arms; Terpsich.o.r.e!--too long misdeem'd a maid-- Reproachful term--bestow'd but to upbraid-- Henceforth in all the bronze of brightness shine, The least a vestal of the virgin Nine.

Far be from thee and thine the name of prude; Mock'd, yet triumphant; sneer'd at, unsubdued; Thy legs must move to conquer as they fly, If but thy coats are reasonably high; Thy breast, if bare enough, requires no shield: Dance forth--_sans armour_ thou shalt take the field, And own--impregnable to _most_ a.s.saults, Thy not too lawfully begotten "Waltz".

Hail, nimble nymph! to whom the young huzzar, The whisker'd votary of waltz and war, His night devotes, despite of spurs and boots; A sight unmatch'd since Orpheus and his brutes: Hail, spirit-stirring Waltz! beneath whose banners A modern hero fought for modish manners; On Hounslow's heath to rival Wellesley's fame, c.o.c.k'd, fired, and miss'd his man--but gain'd his aim: Hail, moving muse! to whom the fair one's breast Gives all it can, and bids us take the rest.

Oh, for the flow of Busby or of Fitz, The latter's loyalty, the former's wits, To "energize the object I pursue", And give both Belial and his dance their due!

Imperial Waltz! imported from the Rhine (Famed for the growth of pedigree and wine), Long be thine import from all duty free, And hock itself be less esteem'd than thee; In some few qualities alike--for hock Improves our cellar--_thou_ our living stock.

The head to hock belongs--thy subtler art Intoxicates alone the heedless heart: Through the full veins thy gentler poison swims, And wakes to wantonness the willing limbs.

O Germany! how much to thee we owe, As heaven-born Pitt can testify below.

Ere cursed confederation made thee France's, And only left us thy d--d debts and dances!

Of subsidies and Hanover bereft, We bless thee still--for George the Third is left!

Of kings the best, and last not least in worth, For graciously begetting George the Fourth.

To Germany, and highnesses serene, Who owe us millions--don't we owe the queen?

To Germany, what owe we not besides?

So oft bestowing Brunswickers and brides: Who paid for vulgar, with her royal blood, Drawn from the stem of each Teutonic stud; Who sent us--so be pardon'd all our faults-- A dozen dukes, some kings, a queen--and Waltz.

But peace to her, her emperor and diet, Though now transferr'd to Bonaparte's "fiat!"

Back to thy theme--O Muse of motion! say, How first to Albion found thy Waltz her way?

Borne on thy breath of hyperborean gales From Hamburg's port (while Hamburg yet had _mails_), Ere yet unlucky Fame, compelled to creep To snowy Gottenburg was chill'd to sleep; Or, starting from her slumbers, deign'd arise, Heligoland, to stock thy mart with lies; While unburnt Moscow yet had news to send, Nor owed her fiery exit to a friend.

She came--Waltz came--and with her certain sets Of true despatches, and as true gazettes: Then flamed of Austerlitz the blest despatch, Which _Moniteur_ nor _Morning Post_ can match; And, almost crush'd beneath the glorious news, Ten plays, and forty tales of Kotzebue's; One envoy's letters, six composers' airs, And loads from Frankfort and from Leipsic fairs: Meiner's four volumes upon womankind, Like Lapland witches to ensure a wind; Brunck's heaviest tome for ballast, and, to back it, Of Heyne, such as should not sink the packet.

Fraught with this cargo, and her fairest freight, Delightful Waltz, on tiptoe for a mate, The welcome vessel reach'd the genial strand, And round her flock'd the daughters of the land.

Not decent David, when, before the ark, His grand _pas-seul_ excited some remark, Not love-lorn Quixote, when his Sancho thought The knight's fandango friskier than it ought; Not soft Herodias, when, with winning tread, Her nimble feet danced off another's head; Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck, Display'd so much of _leg_, or more of _neck_, Than thou ambrosial Waltz, when first the moon Beheld thee twirling to a Saxon tune!