Poetry, John Keats [grave mercy .txt] 📗
- Author: John Keats
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“Pho! nonsense!” exclaim’d Hum, “now don’t despair:
She does not mean it really. Cheer up, hearty—there! LII
“And listen to my words. You say you won’t,
On any terms, marry Miss Bellanaine;
It goes against your conscience—good! well, don’t.
You say, you love a mortal. I would fain
Persuade your honour’s highness to refrain
From peccadilloes. But, Sire, as I say,
What good would that do? And, to be more plain,
You would do me a mischief some odd day,
Cut off my ears and hands, or head too, by my fay!
“Besides, manners forbid that I should pass any
Vile strictures on the conduct of a prince
Who should indulge his genius, if he has any,
Not, like a subject, foolish matter mince.
Now I think on ’t, perhaps I could convince
Your Majesty there is no crime at all
In loving pretty little Bertha, since
She’s very delicate—not over tall,—
A fairy’s hand, and in the waist why—very small.”
“Ring the repeater, gentle Hum!” “ ’Tis five,”
Said gentle Hum; “the nights draw in apace;
The little birds I hear are all alive;
I see the dawning touch’d upon your face;
Shall I put out the candles, please your Grace?”
“Do put them out, and, without more ado,
Tell me how I may that sweet girl embrace,—
How you can bring her to me.” “That’s for you,
Great Emperor! to adventure, like a lover true.”
“I fetch her!”—“Yes, an ’t like your Majesty;
And as she would be frighten’d wide awake,
To travel such a distance through the sky,
Use of some soft manœuvre you must make,
For your convenience, and her dear nerves’ sake;
Nice way would be to bring her in a swoon,
Anon, I’ll tell you what course were best to take;
You must away this morning.” “Hum! so soon?”
“Sire, you must be in Kent by twelve o’clock at noon.”
At this great Caesar started on his feet,
Lifted his wings, and stood attentivewise.
“Those wings to Canterbury you must beat,
If you hold Bertha as a worthy prize,
Look in the Almanac—Moore never lies—
April the twenty-fourth—this coming day,
Now breathing its new bloom upon the skies,
Will end in St. Mark’s Eve;—you must away,
For on that eve alone can you the maid convey.”
Then the magician solemnly ’gan to frown,
So that his frost-white eye-brows, beetling low,
Shaded his deep green eyes, and wrinkles brown
Plaited upon his furnace-scorched brow:
Forth from his hood that hung his neck below
He lifted a bright casket of pure gold,
Touch’d a spring-lock, and there in wool or snow,
Charm’d into ever freezing, lay an old
And legend-leaved book, mysterious to behold.
“Take this same book—it will not bite you, Sire;
There, put it underneath your royal arm;
Though it’s a pretty weight, it will not tire,
But rather on your journey keep you warm:
This is the magic, this the potent charm,
That shall drive Bertha to a fainting fit!
When the time comes, don’t feel the least alarm
But lift her from the ground, and swiftly flit
Back to your palace …
“What shall I do with that same book?” “Why merely
Lay it on Bertha’s table, close beside
Her work-box, and ’twill help your purpose dearly;
I say no more.” “Or good or ill betide,
Through the wide air to Kent this morn I glide!”
Exclaim’d the Emperor, “When I return,
Ask what you will,—I’ll give you my new bride!
And take some more wine. Hum;—O, Heavens! I burn
To be upon the wing! Now, now, that minx I spurn!”
“Leave her to me,” rejoin’d the magian:
“But how shall I account, illustrious fay!
For thine imperial absence? Pho! I can
Say you are very sick, and bar the way
To your so loving courtiers for one day;
If either of their two Archbishops’ graces
Should talk of extreme unction, I shall say
You do not like cold pig with Latin phrases,
Which never should be used but in alarming cases.”
“Open the window. Hum; I’m ready now!”
“Zooks!” exclaim’d Hum, as up the sash he drew,
“Behold, your Majesty, upon the brow
Of yonder hill, what crowds of people!” “Whew!
The monster’s always after something new,”
Return’d his Highness, “they are piping hot
To see my pigsney Bellanaine. Hum! do
Tighten my belt a little,—so, so,—not
Too tight,—the book!—my wand!—so, nothing is forgot.”
“Wounds! how they shout!” said Hum, “and there,—see, see,
Th’ ambassador’s return’d from Pigmio!
The morning’s very fine,—uncommonly!
See, past the skirts of yon white cloud they go,
Tinging it with soft crimsons! Now below
The sable-pointed heads of firs and pines
They dip, move on, and with them moves a glow
Along the forest side! Now amber lines
Reach the hill top, and now throughout the valley shines.”
“Why, Hum, you’re getting quite poetical!
Those nows you managed in a special style.”
“If ever you have leisure, Sire, you shall
See scraps of mine will make it worth your while,
Tit-bits for Phœbus!—yes, you well may smile.
Hark! hark! the bells!” “A little further yet,
Good Hum, and let me view this mighty coil.”
Then the great Emperor full graceful set
His elbow for a prop, and snuff’d his mignonette.
The morn is full of holiday: loud bells
With rival clamors ring from every spire;
Cunningly-station’d music dies and swells
In echoing places; when the winds respire,
Light flags stream out like gauzy tongues of fire;
A metropolitan murmur, lifeful, warm,
Comes from the northern suburbs; rich attire
Freckles with red and gold the moving swarm;
While here and there clear trumpets blow a keen alarm.
And now the fairy escort was seen clear,
Like the old pageant of Aurora’s train,
Above a pearl-built minster, hovering near;
First wily Crafticant, the chamberlain,
Balanced upon his gray-grown pinions twain,
His
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