English

" They cut it in squares,
sometimes it comes
in little jars — "

" O — ? "

" Under the trees — "
" Where? "

" By his sheep -pen. "

" Whose? "

" The man
who brings eggs:
he put it
in a basket with moss. "

" What? "

" Why,
the little jar. "

" What for? "

" Why,
to carry it over — "

" Over where? "

" The field to Io's house. "

" Then? "

" Her mother took it out

I'll have you by the short and curly hair,
Furius and Aurelius, horrible pair,
Bugger and bum-boy! So you dare conclude
Because my verse is wanton that I'm lewd?
Fools! Though the sacred poet should abjure
Grossness himself, his work need not be pure;
Indeed, it will taste dry and dull unless
It's sauced and salted with licentiousness
And has the power to tickle and provoke
Some action — not in boys, I mean old folk
With grey hairs and rheumaticky, stiff hips.
Do you think that just because you read of " lips"

Suffenus, whom so well you know,
My Varus, as a wit and beau,
Of smart address and smirking smile,
Will write you verses by the mile.
You cannot meet with daintier fare
Than title-page and binding are;
But when you once begin to read
You find it sorry stuff indeed,
And you are ready to cry out
Upon this beau--"O what a lout!"
No man on earth so proud as he
Of his own precious poetry,
Or knows such perfect bliss as when
He takes in hand that nibbled pen.
Have we not all some faults like these?

Society has quite forsaken all her wicked courses,
Which empties our police courts, and abolishes divorces.
(Divorce is nearly obsolete in England.)
No tolerance we show to undeserving rank and splendour;
For the higher his position is, the greater the offender.
(That's a maxim that is prevalent in England.)
No Peeress at our Drawing-Room before the Presence passes
Who wouldn't be accepted by the lower-middle classes;
Each shady dame, whatever be her rank, is bowed out neatly.
In short, this happy country has been Anglicised completely!

Loud roars the wind that shakes this wall,
It is no common blast:
Deep hollow sounds pass through my hall:
O would the night were past!

" Methinks the demons of the air
Upon the turrets growl,
While down the empty winding stair
Their deepening murmurs roll.

" The glimmering fire cheers not the gloom,
How blue its weakly ray!
And, like a taper in a tomb,
But spreads the more dismay.

" Athwart its melancholy light
The lengthened shadow falls;
My grandsires, to my troubled sight,

Cock, warm roosting midst his feathered dames,
Now lifts his beak and snuffs the morning air,
Stretches his neck and claps his heavy wings,
Gives three hoarse crows and, glad his task is done,
Low-chuckling turns himself upon the roost,
Then nestles down again amongst his mates.
The labouring hind, who, on his bed of straw
Beneath his home-made coverings, coarse but warm,
Locked in the kindly arms of her who spun them,
Dreams of the gain that next year's crop should bring;
Or at some fair disposing of his wool,

These feeble sounds
Give not my soul's rich meaning; or my thought
Rises too boldly o'er the human line
Of alphabets (misused). Why should I wish
For words to form a picture for the world
Too rare? O world! what hast thou in thy sounds
So dear as silent memory when she leads
The shade of the departed? Ask despair
What renovation is, when friendship bends
To kiss her tears away; but ask her eyes;
The pleasing anguish dwells not on her tongue.
Will friendship stay, when love and virtue fly?

Yonder behold a little purling rill,
Sweet flowing down the green, enamelled hill:
This aqueduct proceeds from Morrit's drains,
And well compensates his ingenious pains.
The rotten ground, which trembled as we trod,
Is now released from the exuberant load
Of chilly waters, that the grass deprive
Of its nutritious particles, and drive,
With moist, diluting qualities, away
The salts impregnating the foodful hay.
Where the dejected sheep all bleating stood,
Benumbed with chilly damps, and starved for food,

Sweet Sensibility, thou soothing pow'r
Who shed'st thy blessings on the natal hour
Like fairy favours! Art can never seize,
Nor affectation catch, thy pow'r to please;
Thy subtle essence still eludes the chains
Of definition, and defeats her pains.
Sweet Sensibility, thou keen delight!
Thou hasty moral, sudden sense of right,
Thou untaught goddess, virtue's precious seed,
Thou sweet precursor of the gen'rous deed!
Beauty's quick relish, reason's radiant morn
Which dawns soft light before reflection's born!

I never tasted the Pierian spring,
Of which great Pope does with such rapture sing.
For, since deprived from infancy of sight,
How should my muse in lofty numbers write?
Milton and Homer both, you say, were blind,
And where on earth can we their equals find?
But were they blind like me in infant state?
Or did they taste like me tenebrous fate?
No — long they lived great nature to explore,
Their minds enriching with poetic store.
Then in compassion say, ye critics, say
You'll cheer my soul with one reviving ray;