Poetry, John Keats [grave mercy .txt] 📗
- Author: John Keats
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Comes from a plaything of the Emperor’s choice,
From a Man-Tiger-Organ, prettiest of his toys.” XXXVIII
Eban then usher’d in the learned Seer:
Elfinan’s back was turn’d, but, ne’ertheless,
Both, prostrate on the carpet, ear by ear,
Crept silently, and waited in distress,
Knowing the Emperor’s moody bitterness;
Eban especially, who on the floor ’gan
Tremble and quake to death,—he feared less
A dose of senna-tea, or nightmare Gorgon,
Than the Emperor when he play’d on his Man-Tiger-Organ.
They kiss’d nine times the carpet’s velvet face
Of glossy silk, soft, smooth, and meadow-green,
Where the close eye in deep rich fur might trace
A silver tissue, scantly to be seen,
As daisies lurk’d in June-grass, buds in green;
Sudden the music ceased, sudden the hand
Of majesty, by dint of passion keen,
Doubled into a common fist, went grand,
And knock’d down three cut glasses, and his best ink-stand.
Then turning round, he saw those trembling two:
“Eban,” said he, “as slaves should taste the fruits
Of diligence, I shall remember you
To-morrow, or next day, as time suits,
In a finger conversation with my mutes,—
Begone!—for you, Chaldean! here remain!
Fear not, quake not, and as good wine recruits
A conjurer’s spirits, what cup will you drain?
Sherry in silver, hock in gold, or glass’d champagne?”
“Commander of the Faithful!” answer’d Hum,
“In preference to these, I’ll merely taste
A thimble-full of old Jamaica rum.”
“A simple boon!” said Elfinan, “thou may’st
Have Nantz, with which my morning-coffee’s laced.”1
“I’ll have a glass of Nantz, then,”—said the Seer,—
“Made racy—(sure my boldness is misplaced!)—
With the third part—(yet that is drinking dear!)—
Of the least drop of crème de citron crystal clear.”
“I pledge you. Hum! and pledge my dearest love,
My Bertha!” “Bertha! Bertha!” cried the sage,
“I know a many Berthas!” “Mine’s above
All Berthas!” sighed the Emperor. “I engage,”
Said Hum, “in duty, and in vassalage,
To mention all the Berthas in the earth;—
There’s Bertha Watson,—and Miss Bertha Page,—
This famed for languid eyes, and that for mirth,—
There’s Bertha Blount of York,—and Bertha Knox of Perth.”
“You seem to know”—“I do know,” answer’d Hum,
“Your Majesty’s in love with some fine girl
Named Bertha; but her surname will not come,
Without a little conjuring.” “ ’Tis Pearl,
’Tis Bertha Pearl! What makes my brain so whirl?
And she is softer, fairer than her name!”
“Where does she live?” ask’d Hum. “Her fair locks curl
So brightly, they put all our fays to shame!—
Live?—O! at Canterbury, with her old grand dame.”
“Good! good!” cried Hum, “I’ve known her from a child!
She is a changeling of my management;
She was born at midnight in an Indian wild;
Her mother’s screams with the striped tiger’s blent,
While the torch-bearing slaves a halloo sent
Into the jungles; and her palanquin,
Rested amid the desert’s dreariment,
Shook with her agony, till fair were seen
The little Bertha’s eyes ope on the stars serene.”
“I can’t say,” said the monarch, “that may be
Just as it happen’d, true or else a bam!
Drink up your brandy, and sit down by me,
Feel, feel my pulse, how much in love I am;
And if your science is not all a sham,
Tell me some means to get the lady here.”
“Upon my honour!” said the son of Cham,2
“She is my dainty changeling, near and dear,
Although her story sounds at first a little queer.”
“Convey her to me, Hum, or by my crown,
My sceptre, and my cross-surmounted globe,
I’ll knock you—” “Does your majesty mean—down?
No, no, you never could my feelings probe
To such a depth!” The Emperor took his robe,
And wept upon its purple palatine,
While Hum continued, shamming half a sob,—
“In Canterbury doth your lady shine?
But let me cool your brandy with a little wine.”
Whereat a narrow Flemish glass he took,
That since belong’d to Admiral De Witt,
Admired it with a connoisseuring look,
And with the ripest claret crowned it,
And, ere the lively head could burst and flit,
He turn’d it quickly, nimbly upside down,
His mouth being held conveniently fit
To catch the treasure: “Best in all the town!”
He said, smack’d his moist lips, and gave a pleasant frown.
“Ah! good my Prince, weep not!” And then again
He fill’d a bumper. “Great Sire, do not weep!
Your pulse is shocking, but I’ll ease your pain.”
“Fetch me that Ottoman, and prithee keep
Your voice low,” said the Emperor, “and steep
Some lady’s-fingers nice in Candy wine;
And prithee, Hum, behind the screen do peep
For the rose-water vase, magician mine!
And sponge my forehead—so my love doth make me pine.”
“Ah, cursed Bellanaine!” “Don’t think of her,”
Rejoin’d the Mago, “but on Bertha muse;
For, by my choicest best barometer,
You shall not throttled be in marriage noose;
I’ve said it, Sire; you only have to choose
Bertha or Bellanaine.” So saying, he drew
From the left pocket of his threadbare hose,
A sampler hoarded slyly, good as new;
Holding it by his thumb and finger full in view.
“Sire, this is Bertha Pearl’s neat handywork,
Her name, see here, Midsummer, ninety-one’—
Elfinan snatch’d it with a sudden jerk,
And wept as if he never would have done,
Honouring with royal tears the poor homespun;
Whereon were broider’d tigers with black eyes,
And long-tailed pheasants, and a rising sun,
Plenty of posies, great stags, butterflies
Bigger than stags—a moon—with other mysteries.
The monarch handled o’er and o’er again
These day-school hieroglyphics with a sigh;
Somewhat in sadness, but pleased in the main,
Till this oracular couplet met his eye
Astounded—Cupid, I do thee defy!
It was too much. He shrunk back in his chair,
Grew pale as death and
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