The crook of her shepherd; and close to her lips
Lies the Pan-pipe he blows, which in sleeping she sips;—
The giant's knees totter, with passions diverse;
Ah, how can he bear it! Ah! what could be worse!
He's ready to cry out, for anguish of heart:
And tears himself off, lest she wake with a start.
So much for our deceased friend's "love of sociality, the country, and the fine imagination of the Greeks."—May we add a few specimens of
IV. His love of himself.
He gets Mrs L. H. to model a bust of him, and during the operation, he talks of becoming
"Worthier of Apollo's bough."
What is to be thought of a man writing a triumphal sonnet on his own bust, and publishing it—and what if that man be, at the best, but a small poetaster and newsmonger. Then follows a sonnet to John Keats,
'Tis well you think me truly one of those
Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things, &c.
And then again comes another sonnet on "receiving a crown of ivy from the same."
A crown of ivy!—I submit my head
To the young hand that gives it—young, 'tis true,
But with a right, for 'tis a poet's too.
How pleasant the leaves feel!! and how they spread
With their broad angles, like a nodding shed
Over both eyes!! and how complete and new,
As on my hand I lean, to feel them strew
My sense with freshness, Fancy's rustling bed!
This sonnet presents to us a very laughable picture, which, spite of Mr Hunt's decease, we hope there can be no great harm in enjoying. Mr John Keats was, we believe, at this time, a young apothecary, and if, instead of crowning poor Mr Hunt with ivy, he had clapped a blister upon his head, he would have acted in a way more suitable to his profession. Such an opportunity probably never occurred again. Well—behold the Cockney—strutting about the room, for we hope there was no "out of doors" exposure, with his ivy-crown, dressing gown, yellow breeches, and red slippers—followed, in all his movements by young Esculapius, and ever and anon coquetting with himself in the magic mirror. No doubt, he rung the bell for the ladies, and the children, and the servants, and probably sent out for his favourite "washerwoman." When he dressed for dinner, did the ivy wreath still continue to deck his regal temples? Did he sip tea in it? Play a rubber at whist? And finally, did he go to bed in it and, if so, did he shroud its glories in a night-cap, or did he lay his head on the pillow like Bacchus by the side of Ariadne? All these little interesting-circumstantialities are, no doubt, mentioned in his autobiography.
But one sonnet—two sonnets to John Keats, do not suffice—and we have a third "on the same."
It is a lofty feeling, yet a kind,
Thus to be topped with leaves; to have a sense
Of honour-shaded thought—an influence
As from great nature's fingers, and be twined
With her old, sacred, verdurous ivy-bind,
As though she hallowed with that sylvan fence,
A head that bows to her benevolence,
Midst pomp of fancied trumpets in the wind!!!!
'Tis what's within us crowned.
There is a pair of blockheads for you! John Keats had no more right to dress up Leigh Hunt in this absurd fashion, than he had to tar and feather him—and we do not doubt, that if Leigh Hunt had ever had the misfortune to have been tarred and feathered, he would have written a sonnet on his plumification, and described himself as a Bird of Paradise.
From John Keats the transition is not difficult to John Hamilton Reynolds—for he too had written lines on the story of Rimini—though by nature fit for far other occupation and accordingly Mr Hunt returns him sonnet for sonnet. In it, Mr Reynolds, clever man as he is, is made to look very like a ninny.
to john hamilton reynolds,
On his Lines upon the Story of Rimini.
Reynolds, whose Muse, from out thy gentle embraces,
Holding a little crisp and dewy flower,
Came to me in my close-entwined bower,
Where many fine-eyed Friendships and glad Graces,
Parting the boughs, have looked in with like faces,
And thanked the song which had sufficient power
