Her earthly guide, he then would plight his troth LXII. And that with love which none but poets feel, And deem her his sole treasure, night and day; And when Death's slumber should her eyelids seal, And her soul flit to Paradise, away, Still, upon earth, her sacred name should be LXIII. Here pause we,-for the night is on the wane. Whether the Genius still was doom'd to grieve, Or some kind fortune eased him of his pain,— Is matter which, in verse, I yet may weave:— But months must first roll by,-for such a strain Is fitter far for some calm summer eve Than for these merry winter nights, when we November, 1824. SIR LAUNFAL. INTRODUCTORY SONNET. IN youth's wild fervour, ere my heart had yet Yet chide not, thoughtful reader, though thine ear, CANTO I. I. KING Arthur, in the tenth year of his reign, So many wrongs avenged, and castles ta'en, II. For six whole weeks, the Knights of the Round Table, From morn to night, had nothing else to do Than saunter from the palace to the stable, Play with their falcons, or their ladies woo, Polish their arms, and laugh (when they were able,) At their own languid jests; no mortal knew, Till dinner was announced, what he'd be at ; And King and courtiers all were growing fat. III. The game laws were enforced in all their rigour, IV. As for the ladies, they, poor souls, declared. That " they certayne for dullnesse shulden dye;" The formal knights so prosed, and bow'd, and stared, With their demure, old-fashion'd courtesy ; And poor Sir Tristram, who could ill be spared, With his gay jests, and harp, and poetry, In a late fray had got a broken head, V. In short, Miss Edgeworth's demon, pale Ennui, Had seized on the whole court with dire aggres sion; And made it stupid as a calm at sea, Or wedlock, after half a year's possession, Or poor Lord Byron's last new tragedy, Or octave rhyme when stripp'd of its digression; Or any pitch that human dulness reachesSave that of Mr. Hume's financial speeches. VI. I said the King fell sick (he kept his bed,) VII. 'Tis a complaint that's chiefly incidental To lovers, drunkards, scholars, kings, and bards; To country squires with an encumber'd rental, And gamesters apt to hold unlucky cards; Bards bear it best;-to them it's instrumental In spinning rhymes: there's Chauncey Townshend lards His groaning stanzas (just to eke his strains out,) With gloom enough to blow ten Frenchmen's brains out. VIII. The symptoms vary with the sex, condition, It makes him fretful,-puts him in a rage With wife, friends, children, servants, and physician; If poor, he's apt to quit the world's dull stage With a sore throat ;-it makes the lover sad, The gamester gloomy, and the poet mad. IX. Old ladies call it "fever on the nerves,"- (To say the least,) a handsome flagellation; X. Of this I'll say no more; because I hear In Mr. Knight's best types and paper, bearing The title of " Blue Devils," and I fear "Twould seem absurd, in one so often wearing Their livery as myself, to act physician To others haply in no worse condition. |