THE HYPOCHONDRIACAL PLUTO.
A ROMANCE.
BOOK I.
The sullen mayor who reigns in hell,
By mortals Pluto hight,
Who thrashes all his subjects well,
Both morn and eve, as stories tell,
And rules the realms of night,
All pleasure lost in cursing once,
All joy in flogging, for the nonce.
The sedentary life he led
Upon his brazen chair
Made his hindquarters very red,
While pricks, as from a nettle-bed,
He felt both here and there:
A burning sun, too, chanced to shine,
And boiled down all his blood to brine.
'Tis true he drank full many a draught
Of Phlegethon's black flood;
By cupping, leeches, doctor's craft,
And venesection, fore and aft,
They took from him much blood.
Full many a clyster was applied,
And purging, too, was also tried.
His doctor, versed in sciences,
With wig beneath his hat,
Argued and showed with wondrous ease,
From Celsus and Hippocrates,
When he in judgment sat,—
"Right worshipful the mayor of hell,
The liver's wrong, I see full well."
"He's but a booby," Pluto said,
"With all his trash and pills!
A man like me—pray where's his head?
A young man yet—his wits have fled!
While youth my veins yet fills!
Unless electuaries he'll bring,
Full in his face my club I'll fling!"
Or right or wrong,—'twas a hard case
To weather such a trial;
(Poor men, who lose a king's good grace!)
He's straight saluted in the face
By every splint and phial.
He very wisely made no fuss;
This hint he learnt of Cerberus.
"Go! fetch the barber of the skies,
Apollo, to me soon!"
An airy courier straightway flies
Upon his beast, and onward hies,
And skims past poles and moon;
As he went off, the clock struck four,
At five his charger reached the door.
Just then Apollo happened—"Heigh-ho!
A sonnet to have made?"
Oh, dear me, no!—upon Miss Io
(Such is the tale I heard from Clio)
The midwife to have played.
The boy, as if stamped out of wax,
Might Zeus as father fairly tax.
He read the letter half asleep,
Then started in dismay:
"The road is long, and hell is deep,
Your rocks I know are rough and steep . . .
Yet like a king he'll pay!"
He dons his cap of mist and furs,
Then through the air the charger spurs.
With locks all frizzled a la mode,
And ruffles smooth and nice,
In gala dress, that brightly glowed
(A gift Aurora had bestowed),
With watch-chains of high price,
With toes turned out, and chapeau bas,
He stood before hell's mighty czar.
BOOK II.
The grumbler, in his usual tone,
Received him with a curse:
"To Pomerania straight begone!
Ugh! how he smells of eau de Cologne!
Why, brimstone isn't worse.
He'd best be off to heaven again,
Or he'll infect hell's wide domain."
The god of pills, in sore surprise,
A spring then backwards took:
"Is this his highness' usual guise?
'Tis in the brain, I see, that lies
The mischief—what a look!
See how his eyes in frenzy roll!
The case is bad, upon my soul!
"A journey to Elysium
The infectus would dissolve,
Making the saps less tough become,
As through the Capitolium
And stomach they revolve.
Provisionally be it so:
Let's start then—but incognito!"
"Ay, worthy sir, no doubt well meant!
If, in these regions hazy,
As with you folk, so charged with scent,
You dapper ones who heaven frequent,
'Twere proper to be lazy,
If hell a master needed not,
Why, then I'd follow on the spot!
"Ha! if the cat once turned her back,
Pray where would be the mice?
They'd sally forth from every crack,
My very mufti would attack,
Spoil all things in a trice!
Oddsbodikins! 'tis pretty cool!
I'll let him see I'm no such fool!
"A pleasant uproar happened erst,
When they assailed my tower!
No fault of mine 'twas, at the worst,
That from their desks and chains to burst
Philosophers had power.
What, has there e'er escaped a poet?
Help, heaven! what misery to know it!
"When days are long, folks talk more stuff!
Upon your seats, no doubt,
With all your cards and music rough,
And scribblings too, 'tis hard enough
The moments to eke out.
Idleness, like a flea will gnaw
On velvet cushions,—as on straw.
"My brother no attempt omits
To drive away ennui;
His lightning round about him flits,
The target with his storms he hits
(Those howls prove that to me),
Till Rhea's trembling shoulders ache,
And force me e'en for hell to quake.
"Were I grandfather Coelus, though,
You wouldn't soon escape!
Into my belly straight you'd go,
And in your swaddling-clothes cry 'oh!'
And through five windows gape!
First o'er my stream you'd have to come,
And then, perhaps, to Elysium!
"Your steed you mounted, I dare say,
In hopes to catch a goose;
If it is worth the trouble, pray
Tell what you've heard from me to-day,
At shaving time, to Zeus.
Just leave him then to swallow it;
I don't care what he thinks a bit;
"You'd better now go homeward straight!
Your servant! there's the door!
For all your pains—one moment wait!
I'll give you—liberal is the rate—
A piece of ruby-ore.
In heaven such things are rareties;
We use them for base purposes."
BOOK III.
The god at once, then, said farewell,
At small politeness striving;
When sudden through the crowds of hell
A flying courier rushed pell-mell,
From Tellus' bounds arriving.
"Monarch! a doctor follows me!
Behold this wondrous prodigy!"
"Place for the doctor!" each one said—
He comes with spurs and whip,
To every one he nods his head,
As if he had been born and bred
In Tartarus—the rip!
As jaunty, fearless, full of nous
As Britons in the Lower House.
"Good morrow, worthy sirs!—Ahem!
I'm glad to see that here
(Where all they of Prometheus' stem
Must come, whene'er the Fates condemn)
One meets with such good cheer!
Why for Elysium care a rush?
I'd rather see hell's fountains gush!"
"Stop! stop! his impudence, I vow,
Its due reward shall meet;
By Charles's wain, I swear it now!
He must—no questions I'll allow,—
Prescribe me a receipt.
All hell is mine, I'm Pluto hight!
Make haste to bring your wares to light!"
The doctor, with a knowing look,
The swarthy king surveyed;
He neither felt his pulse, nor took
The usual steps,—(see Galen's book),—
No difference 'twould have made
As piercing as electric fire
He eyed him to his heart's desire.
"Monarch! I'll tell thee in a trice
The thing that's needed here;
Though desperate may seem the advice—
The case itself is very nice—
And children dragons fear.
Devil must devil eat!—no more!—
Either a wife,—or hellebore!
"Whether she scold, or sportive play,
('Tween these, no medium's known),
She'll drive the incubus away
That has assailed thee many a day
Upon thine iron throne.
She'll make the nimble spirits fleet
Up towards the head, down towards the feet."
Long may the doctor honored be
Who let this saying fall!
He ought to have his effigy
By Phidias sculptured, so that he
May be discerned by all;
A monument forever thriving,
Boerhaave, Hippocrates, surviving!
REPROACH—TO LAURA.
Maiden, stay!—oh, whither wouldst thou go?
Do I still or pride or grandeur show?
Maiden, was it right?
Thou the giant mad'st a dwarf once more,
Scattered'st far the mountains that of yore
Climbed to glory's sunny height.
Thou hast doomed my flowerets to decay,
All the phantoms bright hast blown away,
Whose sweet follies formed the hero's trust;
All my plans that proudly raised their head
Thou dost, with gentle zephyr-tread,
Prostrate, laughing, in the dust.
To the godhead, eagle-like, I flew,—
Smiling, fortune's juggling wheel to view,
Careless wheresoe'er her ball might fly;
Hovering far beyond Cocytus' wave,
Death and life receiving like a slave—
Life and death from out one beaming eye!
Like the victors, who, with thunder-lance,
On the iron plain of glory dance,
Starting from their mistress' breast,—
From Aurora's rosy bed upsprings
God's bright sun, to roam o'er towns of kings,
And to make the young world blest!
Toward the hero doth this heart still strain?
Drink I, eagle, still the fiery rain
Of thine eye, that burneth to destroy?
In the glances that destructive gleam,
Laura's love I see with sweetness beam,—
Weep to see it—like a boy!
My repose, like yonder image bright,
Dancing in the waters—cloudless, light,
Maiden, hath been slain by thee!
On the dizzy height now totter I—
Laura—if from me—my Laura fly!
Oh, the thought to madness hurries me!
Gladly shout the revellers as they quaff,
Raptures in the leaf-crowned goblet laugh,
Jests within the golden wine have birth,
Since the maiden hath enslaved my mind,
I have left each youthful sport behind,
Friendless roam I o'er the earth.
Hear I still bright glory's thunder-tone?
Doth the laurel still allure me on?
Doth thy lyre, Apollo Cynthius?
In my breast no echoes now arise,
Every shamefaced muse in sorrow flies,—
And thou, too, Apollo Cynthius?
Shall I still be, as a woman, tame?
Do my pulses, at my country's name,
Proudly burst their prison-thralls?
Would I boast the eagle's soaring wing?
Do I long with Roman blood to spring,
When my Hermann calls?
Oh, how sweet the eye's wild gaze divine
Sweet to quaff the incense at that shrine!
Prouder, bolder, swells the breast.
That which once set every sense on fire,
That which once could every nerve inspire,
Scarce a half-smile now hath power to wrest!
That Orion might receive my fame,
On the time-flood's heaving waves my name
Rocked in glory in the mighty tide;
So that Kronos' dreaded scythe was shivered,
When against my monument is quivered,
Towering toward the firmament in pride.
Smil'st thou?—No? to me naught's perished now!
Star and laurel I'll to fools allow,
To the dead their marble cell;—
Love hath granted all as my reward,
High o'er man 'twere easy to have soared,
So I love him well!
THE SIMPLE PEASANT. [62]
MATTHEW.
Gossip, you'll like to hear, no doubt!
A learned work has just come out—
Messias is the name 'twill bear;
The man has travelled through the air,
And on the sun-beplastered roads
Has lost shoe-leather by whole loads,—
Has seen the heavens lie open wide,
And hell has traversed with whole hide.
The thought has just occurred to me
That one so skilled as he must be
May tell us how our flax and wheat arise.
What say you?—Shall I try to ascertain?
LUKE.
You fool, to think that any one so wise
About mere flax and corn would rack his brain.
ACTAEON.
Thy wife is destined to deceive thee!
She'll seek another's arms and leave thee,
And horns upon thy head will shortly sprout!
How dreadful that when bathing thou shouldst see me
(No ether-bath can wash the stigma out),
And then, in perfect innocence, shouldst flee me!
MAN'S DIGNITY.
I am a man!—Let every one
Who is a man, too, spring
With joy beneath God's shining sun,
And leap on high, and sing!
To God's own image fair on earth
Its stamp I've power to show;
Down to the front, where heaven has birth
With boldness I dare go.
'Tis well that I both dare and can!
When I a maiden see,
A voice exclaims: thou art a man!
I kiss her tenderly.
And redder then the maiden grows,
Her bodice seems too tight—
That I'm a man the maiden knows,
Her bodice therefore's tight.
Will she, perchance, for pity cry,
If unawares she's caught?
She finds that I'm a man—then, why
By her is pity sought?
I am a man; and if alone
She sees me drawing near,
I make the emperor's daughter run,
Though ragged I appear.
This golden watchword wins the smile
Of many a princess fair;
They call—ye'd best look out the while,
Ye gold-laced fellows there!
That I'm a man is fully shown
Whene'er my lyre I sweep;
It thunders out a glorious tone—
It otherwise would creep.
The spirit that my veins now hold,
My manhood calls its brother!
And both command, like lions bold,
And fondly greet each other.
From out this same creative flood
From which we men have birth,
Both godlike strength and genius bud,
And everything of worth.
My talisman all tyrants hates,
And strikes them to the ground;
Or guides us gladly through life's gates
To where the dead are found.
E'en Pompey, at Pharsalia's fight,
My talisman o'erthrew;
On German sand it hurled with might
Rome's sensual children, too.
Didst see the Roman, proud and stern,
Sitting on Afric's shore?
His eyes like Hecla seem to burn,
And fiery flames outpour.
Then comes a frank and merry knave,
And spreads it through the land:
"Tell them that thou on Carthage's grave
Hast seen great Marius stand!"
Thus speaks the son of Rome with pride,
Still mighty in his fall;
He is a man, and naught beside,—
Before him tremble all.
His grandsons afterwards began
Their portions to o'erthrow,
And thought it well that every man
Should learn with grace to crow.
For shame, for shame,—once more for shame!
The wretched ones?—they've even
Squandered the tokens of their fame,
The choicest gifts of heaven.
God's counterfeit has sinfully
Disgraced his form divine,
And in his vile humanity
Has wallowed like the swine.
The face of earth each vainly treads,
Like gourds, that boys in sport
Have hollowed out to human heads,
With skulls, whose brains are—naught.
Like wine that by a chemist's art
Is through retorts refined,
Their spirits to the deuce depart,
The phlegma's left behind.
From every woman's face they fly,
Its very aspect dread,—
And if they dared—and could not—why,
'Twere better they were dead.
They shun all worthies when they can,
Grief at their joy they prove—
The man who cannot make a man,
A man can never love!
The world I proudly wander o'er,
And plume myself and sing
I am a man!—Whoe'er is more?
Then leap on high, and spring!
THE MESSIAD.
Religion 'twas produced this poem's fire;
Perverted also?—prithee, don't inquire!
THOUGHTS ON THE 1ST OCTOBER, 1781.
What mean the joyous sounds from yonder vine-clad height?
What the exulting Evoe? [63] Why glows the cheek? Whom is't that I, with pinions light,
Swinging the lofty Thyrsus see?
Is it the genius whom the gladsome throng obeys?
Do I his numerous train descry?
In plenty's teeming horn the gifts of heaven he sways,
And reels from very ecstacy!—
See how the golden grape in glorious beauty shines,
Kissed by the earliest morning-beams!
The shadow of yon bower, how lovingly it signs,
As it with countless blessings teams!
Ha! glad October, thou art welcome unto me!—
October's first-born, welcome thou!
Thanks of a purer kind, than all who worship thee,
More heartfelt thanks I'm bringing now!
For thou to me the one whom I have loved so well,
And love with fondness to the grave,
Who merits in my heart forevermore to dwell,—
The best of friends in Rieger [64] gave.
'Tis true thy breath doth rock the leaves upon the trees,
And sadly make their charms decay;
Gently they fall:—and swift, as morning phantasies
With those who waken, fly away.
'Tis true that on thy track the fleecy spoiler hastes,
Who makes all Nature's chords resound
With discord dull, and turns the plains and groves to wastes,
So that they sadly mourn around.
See how the gloomy forms of years, as on they roll,
Each joyous banquet overthrows,
When, in uplifted hand, from out the foaming bowl,
Joy's noble purple brightly flows!
See how they disappear, when friends sweet converse hold,
And loving wander arm-in-arm;
And, to revenge themselves on winter's north wind cold,
Upon each other's breasts grow warm!
And when spring's children smile upon us once again,
When all the youthful splendor bright,
When each melodious note of each sweet rapturous strain
Awakens with it each delight:
How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades!
What life from out our glances pours!
Sweet Philomela's song, resounding through the glades,
Ourselves, our youthful strength restores!
Oh, may this whisper breathe—(let Rieger bear in mind
The storm by which in age we're bent!)—
His guardian angel, when the evening's star so kind
Gleams softly from the firmament!
In silence be he led to yonder thundering height,
And guided be his eye, that he,
In valley and on plain, may see his friends aright.
And that, with growing ecstacy,
On yonder holy spot, when he their number tells,
He may experience friendship's bliss,
Now first unveiled, until with pride his bosom swells,
Conscious that all their love is his.
Then will the distant voice be loudly heard to say:
"And G—, too, is a friend of thine!
When silvery locks no more around his temples play,
G— still will be a friend of thine!"
"E'en yonder"—and now in his eye the crystal tear
Will gleam—"e'en yonder he will love!
Love thee too, when his heart, in yonder spring-like sphere,
Linked on to thine, can rapture prove!"
EPITAPH.
Here lies a man cut off by fate
Too soon for all good men;
For sextons he died late—too late
For those who wield the pen.
QUIRL.
You tell me that you feel surprise
Because Quirl's paper's grown in size;
And yet they're crying through the street
That there's a rise in bread and meat.
THE PLAGUE.
A PHANTASY.
Plague's contagious murderous breath
God's strong might with terror reveals,
As through the dreary valley of death
With its brotherhood fell it steals!
Fearfully throbs the anguish-struck heart,
Horribly quivers each nerve in the frame;
Frenzy's wild laughs the torment proclaim,
Howling convulsions disclose the fierce smart.
Fierce delirium writhes upon the bed—
Poisonous mists hang o'er the cities dead;
Men all haggard, pale, and wan,
To the shadow-realm press on.
Death lies brooding in the humid air,
Plague, in dark graves, piles up treasures fair,
And its voice exultingly raises.
Funeral silence—churchyard calm,
Rapture change to dread alarm.—
Thus the plague God wildly praises!