Classic Poem

A MONG the rest a Florentine there came,
A boon companion, of a gentle kin
I say a Florentine, although the name
Had taken root some time in Casentin,
Where his good father wedded a fair dame,
And pitched his tent. The place he married in
Was called Bibbiena, as it is at present;
A spot upon the Arno, very pleasant.

Nigh to this place was Lamporecchio (scene
Of great Masetto's gardening recreations);
There was our hero born; — then, till nineteen,
Bred up in Florence, not on the best rations;
Then, it pleased God, settled at Rome; I mean,
Drawn there by hopes from one of his relations;
Who, though a cardinal, and Pope's right arm,
Did the poor devil neither good nor harm.

This great man's heir vouchsafed him then his grace,
With whom he fared as he was wont to fare;
Whence, finding himself still in sorry case,
He thought he might as well look out elsewhere;
So hearing people wish they had a place
With the good Datary of St. Peter's chair,
A thing they talked of with a perfect unction —
Place get he did in that enchanting function.

This was a business which he thought he knew;
Alas! he found he didn't know a bit of it;
Nothing went right, slave as he might, and stew;
And yet he never, somehow, could get quit of it;
The more he did, the more he had to do;
Desk, shelves, hands, arms, whatever could admit of it,
Were always stuffed with letters and with dockets,
Turning his brains, and bulging out his pockets.

Luckless in all, perhaps not worth his hire,
He even missed the few official sweets;
Some petty tithes assigned him did but tire
His patience; nil was always on their sheets.
Now 'twas bad harvests, now a flood, now fire,
Now dev'l himself, that hindered his receipts.
There were some fees his due; — God knows, not many;
No matter; — never did he touch a penny.

The man, for all that, was a happy man;
Thought not too much; indulged no gloomy fit;
Folks wished him well. Prince, peasant, artisan,
Every one loved him; for the rogue had wit,
And knew how to amuse. His fancy ran
On thousands of odd things, on which he writ
Certain mad waggeries in the shape of poems,
With strange elaborations of their proems.

Choleric he was withal, when fools reproved him;
Free of his tongue, as he was frank of heart;
Ambition, avarice, neither of them moved him;
True to his word; caressing without art;
A lover to excess of those that loved him;
Yet if he met with hate, could play a part
Which showed the fiercest he had found his mate;
Still he was proner far to love than hate.

In person he was big, yet tight and lean,
Had long, thin legs, big nose, and a large face;
Eyebrows which there was little space between;
Deep-set, blue eyes; and beard in such good case,
That the poor eyes would scarcely have been seen,
Had it been suffered to forget its place;
But not approving beards to that amount,
The owner brought it to a sharp account

But of all things, all servitude loathed he;
Why then should fate have wound him in its bands?
Freedom seemed made for him, yet strange to see,
His lot was always in another's hands;
His! who had always thirsted instantly
To disobey commands, because commands!
Left to his own free will, the man was glad
To further yours. Command him, he went mad.

Yet field-sports, dice, cards, balls, and such like courses,
Things which he might be thought to set store by,
Gave him but little pleasure. He liked horses;
But was content to let them please his eye,
Buying them squaring not with his resources:
Therefore his summum bonum was to lie
Stretched at full length; — yea, frankly be it said,
To do no single thing but lie in bed.

'Twas owing all to that infernal writing.
Body and brain had borne such grievous rounds
Of kicks, cuffs, floors, from copying and inditing,
That he could find no balsam for his wounds,
No harbour for his wreck half so inviting
As to lie still, far from all sights and sounds,
And so, in bed, do nothing on God's earth,
But try and give his senses a new birth.

Bed, bed 's the thing, by Heaven! (thus would he swear,)
Bed is your only work; your only duty.
Bed is one's gown, one's slippers, one's arm-chair,
Old coat; you're not afraid to spoil its beauty.
Large you may have it, long, wide, brown, or fair,
Down-bed or mattress, just as it may suit ye;
Then take your clothes off, turn in, stretch, lie double;
Be but in bed, you're quit of earthly trouble.

Borne to the fairy palace then, but tired
Of seeing so much dancing, he withdrew
Into a distant room, and there desired
A bed might be set up, handsome and new,
With all the comforts that the case required —
Mattresses huge, and pillows not a few,
Put here and there, in order that no ease
Might be found wanting to cheeks, arms, or knees.

The bed was eight feet wide, lovely to see,
With white sheets, and fine curtains and rich loops,
Things vastly soothing to calamity;
The coverlet hung light in silken droops:
It might have held six people easily,
But he disliked to lie in bed by groups.
A large bed to himself; that was his notion;
With room enough to swim in, like the ocean.

In this retreat there joined him a good soul,
A Frenchman, one who had been long at court,
An admirable cook; though, on the whole,
His gains of his deserts had fallen short
For him was made, cheek, as it were, by jowl,
A second bed of the same noble sort,
Yet not so close, but that the folks were able
To set between the two a dinner-table.

Here was served up on snow-white table-cloths,
Every the daintiest possible comestible
In the French taste (all others being Goths),
Dishes alike delightful and digestible;
Only our scribe chose syrups, soups, and broths,
The smallest trouble being a detestable
Bore, into which not even his dinner led him;
Therefore the servants always came, and fed him.

Nothing at these times but his head was seen;
The coverlet came close beneath his chin;
And then, from out the bottle or tureen,
They filled a silver pipe, which he let in
Between his lips, all easy, smooth, and clean,
And so he filled his philosophic skin:
For not a finger all the while he stirred;
Nor, lest his tongue should tire, scarce uttered word.

The name of that same cook was Master Pierre:
He told a tale well, something short and light.
Quoth scribe, " Those people that keep dancing there,
Have little wit." Quoth Pierre, " You're very right."
And then he told a tale, or hummed an air;
Then took a sup of something, or a bite;
And then he turned himself to sleep; and then
Awoke and ate: and then he slept again.

This was their mode of living, day by day;
'Twixt food and sleep their moments softly spun;
They took no note of time and tide, not they;
Feast, fast, or working-day, they held all one:
Never disputed one another's say;
Never heard bell, never were told of dun.
It was particularly understood,
No news was to be brought them, bad or good.

But, above all, no writing was known there,
No pen and ink, no pounce-box. Oh, my God!
Like toads and snakes we shunned 'em; like despair,
Like death, like judgment, like a fiery rod;
So green the wounds, so dire the memories were,
Left by that rack of ten long years and odd,
Which tore out of his very life and senses
The most undone of all amanuenses

One more thing I may note, that made the day
Pass well; one custom, not a little healing;
Which was, to look above us, as we lay,
And count the spots and blotches in the ceiling:
Noting what shapes they took to, and which way,
And where the plaster threatened to be peeling;
Whether the spot looked new, or old, or what;
Or whether 'twas, in fact, a spot or not.