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On Leigh Hunt's Poem "The Story of Rimini."

WHO loves to peer up at the morning sun,

With half-shut eyes and comfortable cheek,
Let him, with this sweet tale, full often seek
For meadows where the little rivers run;
Who loves to linger with that brightest one

Of Heaven-Hesperus-let him lowly speak
These numbers to the night, and starlight meek,
Or moon, if that her hunting be begun.

He who knows these delights, and too is prone

To moralize upon a smile or tear, Will find at once a region of his own, A bower for his spirit, and will steer

To alleys where the fir-tree drops its cone,

Where robins hop, and fallen leaves are sear.

Given in the Literary Remains next to the preceding, and dated



WHERE's the Poet? show him! show him,

Muses nine! that I may know him!

'Tis the man who with a man

Is an equal, be he King,
Or poorest of the beggar-clan,
Or any other wondrous thing.
A man may be 'twixt ape and Plato;
'Tis the man who with a bird,
Wren, or Eagle, finds his way to

All its instincts; he hath heard
The Lion's roaring, and can tell
What his horny throat expresseth,
And to him the Tiger's yell

Comes articulate and presseth
On his ear like mother-tongue.




This is one of a group of undated fragments given at the end of Volume I of the Life, Letters &c. (1848).



AND what is love? It is a doll dress'd up
For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;
A thing of soft misnomers, so divine
That silly youth doth think to make itself
Divine by loving, and so goes on
Yawning and doting a whole summer long,
Till Miss's comb is made a pearl tiara,
And common Wellingtons turn Romeo boots;
Then Cleopatra lives at number seven,
And Antony resides in Brunswick Square.
Fools! if some passions high have warm'd the world,
If Queens and Soldiers have play'd deep for hearts,
It is no reason why such agonies

Should be more common than the growth of weeds.
Fools! make me whole again that weighty pearl
The Queen of Egypt melted, and I'll say
That ye may love in spite of beaver hats.




Modern Love follows "Where's the Poet?” in the group of undated fragments at the end of Volume I of the Life, Letters &c.

Fragment of "The Castle Builder."

TO-NIGHT I'll have my friar-let me think
About my room,—I'll have it in the pink ;
It should be rich and sombre, and the moon,
Just in its mid-life in the midst of June,
Should look thro' four large windows and display
Clear, but for gold-fish vases in the way,
Their glassy diamonding on Turkish floor;
The tapers keep aside, an hour and more,
To see what else the moon alone can show;
While the night-breeze doth softly let us know
My terrace is well bower'd with oranges.
Upon the floor the dullest spirit sees
A guitar-ribband and a lady's glove
Beside a crumple-leaved tale of love;
A tambour-frame, with Venus sleeping there,
All finish'd but some ringlets of her hair;
A viol, bow-strings torn, cross-wise upon
A glorious folio of Anacreon;

A skull upon a mat of roses lying,

Ink'd purple with a song concerning dying ;
An hour-glass on the turn, amid the trails
Of passion-flower ;-just in time there sails

A cloud across the moon,-the lights bring in!
And see what more my phantasy can win.





This follows the preceding fragment in the first volume of the Life, Letters &c.

It is a gorgeous room, but somewhat sad;
The draperies are so, as tho' they had
Been made for Cleopatra's winding-sheet;
And opposite the stedfast eye doth meet
A spacious looking-glass, upon whose face,
In letters raven-sombre, you may trace
Old "Mene, Mene, Tekel Upharsin."
Greek busts and statuary have ever been
Held, by the finest spirits, fitter far
Than vase grotesque and Siamesian jar;
Therefore 'tis sure a want of Attic taste
That I should rather love a Gothic waste
Of eyesight on cinque-coloured potter's clay,
Than on the marble fairness of old Greece.
My table-coverlits of Jason's fleece

And black Numidian sheep-wool should be wrought, 40
Gold, black, and heavy, from the Lama brought.

My ebon sofas should delicious be

With down from Leda's cygnet progeny.

My pictures all Salvator's, save a few

Of Titian's portraiture, and one, though new,
Of Haydon's in its fresh magnificence.
My wine-O good! 'tis here at my desire,
And I must sit to supper with my friar.

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