LEIGH HUNT.
Born, 1784. Died, August 28, 1859.
ABOU BEN ADHEM.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?”—The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer’d—“The names of those who love the Lord.”
“And is mine one?” said Abou; “Nay, not so,”
Replied the angel.—Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, “I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote, and vanish’d. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,
And show’d the names whom love of God had bless’d—
And, lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all the rest!
Leigh Hunt.
Making up the Slate.
Stratman Ben Jackey—may his tribe decrease—
Awoke one night, quite sick and ill at ease,
And saw within the lamplight in his room—
Making it yellow with a sickly gloom—
The devil, scratching on a brazen slate.
Thinking to chaff him, Jacky reared his pate,
And said, without the customary hail,
“What writest thou?” The devil whisked his tail,
And quite astonished at the fellow’s cheek,
Answered, “The names of those who office seek.”
“And is mine one?” said Jacky. “Yes you bet!”
The devil said. Not hesitating yet,
Quite unabashed, said Jack, “I beg—ahem!
Write me Collector, or at least P.M.”
The devil smiled and vanished. The next night
He staggered into Jacky’s room, half tight,
And showed the names upon his slate of brass,
And lo! this Jack was written down an Ass.
American Paper.
Ben Disraeli.
Ben Disraeli (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, close by the night light in his room,
Filling it with sulphureous perfume,
An angel(?) writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding cheek had made Ben Dizzy bold;
And to the Presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?” The vision raised its head,
And, with a smile of diabolic beauty,
Answered, “The names of those who do their duty.”
“And is mine one?” said Dizzy. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the Spirit. Dizzy spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said, “I pray thee then,
Write me as one that does his fellow-men.”
The angel wrote and vanished. The next night,
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom Patriotism had blest,
And lo! Ben Dizzy’s name led all the rest.
Echoes from the Clubs. December, 1867.
The Blue.
Muggins of Sixes (may his ward increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the gaslight in the ward
His Grecian, who was whacking one that snored.
The while with pencil—aluminium gold—
He something seemed to write. Muggins grew bold,
And to the Grecian standing by his bed
He cried, “What writest thou?” He raised his head,
And answered, while a shoe at him he threw,
“The names of those who’ve paid up for the Blue!”
“And is mine one?” said Muggins. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the Grecian. Muggins whistled low,
And in his—night shirt—sleeve he chuckled, saying,
“Write me as one that wants one without paying!”
The Grecian smote and vanished. The next night
He came with hockey-stick, not over light,
Holding the names of the heroic few
Who paid a year’s subscription to the Blue.
Then, adding one, he showed the youth the list,
And lo! young Muggins’ name led all the rest!
The Blue. A journal written by, and for, the scholars at Christ’s Hospital (the Bluecoat School), London.
Abou Ben Folsom.
Cousin Ben Folsom (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight of his room,
Making it rich and like a lily bloom,
A fat man writing with a pen of gold:
Exceeding luck had made Ben Folsom bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
“What writest thou?” The fat man raised his head,
And in a voice made sweet by its accent,
Answered: “The names of those who love the President.”
“And is mine one?” asked Benny. “Nay, not so,”
Replied the fat man. Benny spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, “I pray, if not too late,
Write me as one who’d love a consulate.”
The fat man wrote and vanished. The next night
He came again, with a great flickering light,
And showed the names. Ben Folsom looked,
And lo! for Sheffield, England, he was booked.
Albany Express. U.S.A.
[Mr. Benjamin Folsom is a cousin of Mrs. President Cleveland (United States), and has had the management of her affairs. Soon after her marriage to the President, the newspapers began to mention him as likely to have an appointment under the Government, and in a short time he was named United States Consul for Sheffield, England.]
Adam Mac Adam.
Adam Mac Adam (may his clan increase)
Awoke at midnight with a hearty sneeze,
And, as he raised himself in bed, he saw
Something that struck Mac Adam’s soul with awe.
For, bending in the moon’s uncertain light,
An aged man, with locks all silvery white,
Sat making entries in a ledger old.
The sight uncanny made his blood run cold,
And scarce for terror could Mac Adam ask
The nature of the scribe’s untimely task.
“Behold, I write,” the vision answered then,
“The names of those who love their fellow men.”
“And pray,” said Adam, with a hopeful grin,
“Your Honor’s honor, am I counted in?”
“Nay,” spake the presence, with a look of grief,
“My task is easy, for the roll is brief;
Look through the M’s, but all in vain, I fear,
You seek your ancient patronymic here.”
Then meekly Adam said, “I am not one
Who boasts to others of the good I’ve done;
I seldom answer to the public call
With wants so pressing and with means so small;
I ply a woodsaw for my bread and pork,
And half the time, you see, I’m out of work;
So, from my purse no stream of largess flows;
No loud subscription my sign-manual knows;
But this I do,—now lend attentive ear—
Each wintry morning when the dawn grows clear,
I take my bucket to the ash-hole dim,
And there I fill it to the very brim;
Then in the sidewalk take my slippery stand,
And scatter ashes with a liberal hand,
So at my gate no broken heads I see;
No cripple shakes his gory leg at me;
In kind regard I’m held by rich and poor,
Save by the surgeon who resides next door.”
Thus Adam told his tale, the while
The great scribe listened with a brightening smile,
Then vanished. The next night he came again:
“See here,” he cried, “the list of great souled men
Who answer promptest to sweet mercy’s call;”
Lo! A. Mac Adam’s name o’ertopped them all.
P.
American Paper.
Abou Ben Butler.
Abou Ben Butler (who has just been fired)
Awoke one night almighty cross and tired,
He saw within the moonlight in his room
The spirit of a Presidential boom,
Who wrote on parchment tanned from human skin.
Exceeding “cheek” caused Butler to begin,
And to the presence in the room he said—
“What writest thou?”—the Spectre raised his head,
And answered with a gesture most uncouth,
“The names of demagogues who love the truth.”
“Is mine left out?” said Butler. “I should smile,”
Replied the spirit. Butler thought awhile;
And then he said, “Please put it in your note
“I only lie to gain the coloured vote.”
The spirit wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again, with evident delight,
And showed the names of politicians dead,
And lo! Ben Butler’s name was at the head.
American Paper. 1886.
——:o:——
Leigh Hunt’s other poems never attained to sufficiently general popularity to become the butt of the parodist, there is, however, a jocular imitation of his style in The Book of Ballads, by Bon Gaultier, from which a few lines may be quoted:
Francesca Da Rimini.
(Argument.—An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:—
Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness?
Dost thou remember, when, with stately prance,
Our heads went crosswise in the country-dance;
How soft, warm fingers, tipped like buds of balm,
Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;
And how a cheek grew flushed and peachy-wise
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?
There’s wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease,—
A crispy cheekiness, if so I dare
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;
And thus, when swirling from the waltz’s wheel,
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille,
That smiling voice, although it made me start,
Boiled in the meek o’erlifting of my heart;
And, picking at my flowers, I said, with free
And usual tone, “O yes, sir, certainly!”
* * * * *
But when the dance was o’er, and arm in arm
(The full heart beating ’gainst the elbow warm)
We passed into the great refreshment hall,
Where the heaped cheese-cakes and the comfits small
Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn
Around the margin of the negus urn;
When my poor quivering hand you fingered twice,
And, with inquiring accents, whispered, “Ice,
Water, or cream?” I could no more dissemble,
But dropped upon the couch all in a tremble.
A swimming faintness misted o’er my brain,
The corks seemed starting from the brisk champagne,
The custards fell untouched upon the floor,
Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more.
There was an imitation of Leigh Hunt, entitled “A Nursery Ode,” in Warreniana (London, 1824), but it had little merit as a parody, and is of no present interest.
Another short imitation was published, about forty years ago, in The Puppet Showman’s Album, describing the author’s sentiments on viewing that celebrated danseuse.
Carlotta Grisi.
By the Author of “Niminy-Piminy,”
“A Pot of Treacle,” &c.
She floated towards us from the wreathing crowd
Of peachey nymphs, and swam a breathing cloud,
Less with a regulated kind of motion,
Than like a bird scarring the breast of ocean.
I thought and said—“In roseate light she swims,
Guided, not lifted, by those slopy limbs,
And wants in air a sister sylph to meet,
While Earth heaves upward, sick to kiss her feet.”
But when she ceased that sort of moveless gliding,
Her gauzy garments round her form subsiding,
And dashed through all that wonderful display
Which poet ne’er described, and never may—
The whirl—the twist—the turn—the start—the bound,
The step—the spring—the leap—the fling—the round;
The backward bending, and the bold gyration—
The leg for ages in one situation.
The sparkling, glittering, dazzling, flickering feats
Which made us jump, delighted, in our seats,
And then came down, and in child-dalliance pouted,
While you, and I and everybody shouted,
And hurled our flowers with vigour almost rude
(One felt that flowers were such a creature’s food).
I gave up simile—it wasn’t easy—
All I could say was “That’s Carlotta Grisi!”
——:o:——
Song of October.
(After Leigh Hunt.)
October, month of bird and song,
And ivy on old walls,
Trailing some dreary pile along,
From which hard mortar falls.
Come hither, spider, you and I
Have long been friends together;
Approach, old brute, and tell me why
You love October weather;
Perchance, old spinster of the grove,
You come in autumn days,
To spin your yarn, as if to prove
Life is a webby maze.
Punch’s Almanac. 1846.
——:o:——
Manners and Civility.
Let Laws and Commerce, Arts and Science die,
But leave us still our old Nobility!
Lord John Manners (now Duke of Rutland).
The New Age thus describes the august writer of that couplet:—
“The wreck of a beau, of a bard, of a spouter,
The seed of a Duke, he was bound by all rule
To furnish Disraeli, that scorner and flouter,
Of noble-born failures, with friend, foil, and tool.
“Had chances galore and some gifts; took to throw ’em
Away to the winds 63 years or more;
Two laughable lines in an imbecile poem
Will probably furnish his posthumous store.”
Mr. Ritchie’s Speech.
(In which he proposed to disestablish everybody, except the Drinksellers.)
“Let Boards and Benches, Lords and Squires die,
But leave us still our old Debauchery.”
The Star. March 21, 1888.
