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 Phoebus 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 behold The glories subside and the dim-rolling gold, And listen'd to sounds, that with ecstasy burning Seem'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.*
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, [red.
Than their cheeks next the God blush'd a beautiful
'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,

* " Montepulciano d'ogni vino è il Re."

Bacco in Toscana.

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 repeating The 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:"* And Scott put a word in, and begg'd to propose"I'll drink him with pleasure," said Phoebus, "tis Rose."+

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 Phoebus shook hands, and departed for heaven;

* 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.

"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.

To the RIGHT HON. LORD BROUGHAM, with whom the writer humbly differs on some points, but deeply respects for his motives on all; great in office for what he did for the world, greater out of it for calmly awaiting his time to do more; the promoter of education; the expediter of justice; the liberator from slavery; and (what is the rarest virtue in a statesman) always a denouncer of war, this Poem is inscribed by his ever affectionate servant,

Jan. 30, 1835.

LEIGH HUNT.

I.

HOW CAPTAIN SWORD MARCHED TO WAR.

CAPTAIN SWORD got up one day,

Over the hills to march away,

Over the hills and through the towns;

They heard him coming across the downs,
Stepping in music and thunder sweet,

Which his drums sent before him into the street,
And lo! 'twas a beautiful sight in the sun;
For first came his foot, all marching like one,

With tranquil faces, and bristling steel,

And the flag full of honour as though it could feel,
And the officers gentle, the sword that hold
'Gainst the shoulder heavy with trembling gold,
And the massy tread, that in passing is heard,
Though the drums and the music say never a word.

And then came his horse, a clustering sound
Of shapely potency, forward bound,
Glossy black steeds, and riders tall,
Rank after rank, each looking like all,
Midst moving repose and a threatening charm,
With mortal sharpness at each right arm,
And hues that painters and ladies love,
And ever the small flag blush'd above.

And ever and anon the kettle-drums beat
Hasty power midst order meet;

And ever and anon the drums and fifes
Came like motion's voice, and life's;
Or into the golden grandeurs fell
Of deeper instruments, mingling well,
Burdens of beauty for winds to bear;
And the cymbals kiss'd in the shining air,
And the trumpets their visible voices rear'd,
Each looking forth with its tapestried beard,
Bidding the heavens and earth make way
For Captain Sword and his battle-array.

He, nevertheless, rode indifferent-eyed,
As if pomp were a toy to his manly pride,
Whilst the ladies lov'd him the more for his scorn,
And thought him the noblest man ever was born,
And tears came into the bravest eyes,

And hearts swell'd after him double their size,
And all that was weak, and all that was strong,
Seem'd to think wrong's self in him could not be
wrong;