Kings and Courtiers
How pleasant 'tis the courtier clan to see!
So prompt to drop to majesty the knee;
To start, to run, to leap, to fly,
And gambol in the royal eye;
And, if expectant of some high employ,
How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!
How rich the incense to the royal nose!
How liquidly the oil of flattery flows!
But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour,
Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour,
How altered instantly the courtier clan!
How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!
Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms,
In fancy holds her ever in his arms:
In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours;
Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow
In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow,
And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.
Night, too, entrances — slumber brings the dream —
Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss;
Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream,
And deluge every nerve with bliss:
But if his nymph unfortunately frowns,
Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!
Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile:
Strive not to make your sovereign frown — but smile:
Sublime are royal nods — most precious things! —
Then, to be whistled to by kings!
To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder,
Becoming thus the royal arm upholder,
A heart of very stone must grow quite glad.
Oh! would some king so far himself demean,
As on my shoulder but for once to lean,
The excess of joy would nearly make me mad!
How on the honored garment I should dote,
And think a glory blazed around the coat!
Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms,
In fancy glittering with a thousand charms;
And show my children's children o'er and o'er;
" Here, babies, " I should say, " with awe behold
This coat — worth fifty times its weight in gold:
This very, very coat your grandsire wore!
" Here " — pointing to the shoulder — I should say,
" Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay " —
Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter;
As — " Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what?
What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat?
Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter? "
Then should I, strutting, give myself an air,
And deem myself adorned with immortality:
Then should I make the children, calf-like stare,
And fancy grandfather a man of quality:
And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note,
The muse should sing an ode upon the coat.
Poor lost America, high honors missing,
Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing;
Knows naught of golden promises of kings;
Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings;
In solitude the lovely rebel sighs!
But vainly drops the penitential tear —
Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries,
We suffer not her wail to wound our ear:
For food we bid her hopeless children prowl,
And with the savage of the desert howl.
So prompt to drop to majesty the knee;
To start, to run, to leap, to fly,
And gambol in the royal eye;
And, if expectant of some high employ,
How kicks the heart against the ribs, for joy!
How rich the incense to the royal nose!
How liquidly the oil of flattery flows!
But should the monarch turn from sweet to sour,
Which cometh oft to pass in half an hour,
How altered instantly the courtier clan!
How faint! how pale! how woe-begone, and wan!
Thus Corydon, betrothed to Delia's charms,
In fancy holds her ever in his arms:
In maddening fancy, cheeks, eyes, lips devours;
Plays with the ringlets that all flaxen flow
In rich luxuriance o'er a breast of snow,
And on that breast the soul of rapture pours.
Night, too, entrances — slumber brings the dream —
Gives to his lips his idol's sweetest kiss;
Bids the wild heart, high panting, swell its stream,
And deluge every nerve with bliss:
But if his nymph unfortunately frowns,
Sad, chapfallen, lo! he hangs himself or drowns!
Oh, try with bliss his moments to beguile:
Strive not to make your sovereign frown — but smile:
Sublime are royal nods — most precious things! —
Then, to be whistled to by kings!
To have him lean familiar on one's shoulder,
Becoming thus the royal arm upholder,
A heart of very stone must grow quite glad.
Oh! would some king so far himself demean,
As on my shoulder but for once to lean,
The excess of joy would nearly make me mad!
How on the honored garment I should dote,
And think a glory blazed around the coat!
Blessed, I should make this coat my coat of arms,
In fancy glittering with a thousand charms;
And show my children's children o'er and o'er;
" Here, babies, " I should say, " with awe behold
This coat — worth fifty times its weight in gold:
This very, very coat your grandsire wore!
" Here " — pointing to the shoulder — I should say,
" Here majesty's own hand so sacred lay " —
Then p'rhaps repeat some speech the king might utter;
As — " Peter, how go sheep a score? what? what?
What's cheapest meat to make a bullock fat?
Hae? hae? what, what's the price of country butter? "
Then should I, strutting, give myself an air,
And deem myself adorned with immortality:
Then should I make the children, calf-like stare,
And fancy grandfather a man of quality:
And yet, not stopping here, with cheerful note,
The muse should sing an ode upon the coat.
Poor lost America, high honors missing,
Knows naught of smile, and nod, and sweet hand-kissing;
Knows naught of golden promises of kings;
Knows naught of coronets, and stars, and strings;
In solitude the lovely rebel sighs!
But vainly drops the penitential tear —
Deaf as the adder to the woman's cries,
We suffer not her wail to wound our ear:
For food we bid her hopeless children prowl,
And with the savage of the desert howl.
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