Classic Poem

Obliged by frequent visits of this man,
Whom as priest, poet, and musicían,
I for some branch of Melchizédek took
(Though he derives himself from my Lord Brooke);
I sought his lodging, which is at the sign
Of The Sad Pelican — subject divine
For poetry. There, three staircases high —
Which signifies his triple property —
I found at last a chamber, as 'twas said,
But seemed a coffin set on the stairs' head
Not higher than seven, nor larger than three feet;
Only there was nor ceiling, nor a sheet,
Save that the ingenious door did, as you come,
Turn in, and show to wainscot half the room.
Yet of his state no man could have complained,
There being no bed where he entertained:
And though within one cell so narrow pent,
He'd stanzas for a whole apartément.
Straight without further informatíon,
In hideous verse, he, in a dismal tone,
Begins to exorcise, as if I were
Possessed; and sure the Devil brought me there.
But I, who now imagined myself brought
To my last trial, in a serious thought
Calmed the disorders of my youthful breast,
And to my martyrdom preparèd rest.
Only this frail ambition did remain,
The last distemper of the sober brain,
That there had been some present to assure
The future ages how I did endure:
And how I, silent, turned my burning ear
Towards the verse; and when that could not hear,
Held him the other; and unchangèd yet,
Asked still for more, and prayed him to repeat:
Till the tyrant, weary to persecute,
Left off, and tried to allure me with his lute.
Now as two instruments, to the same key
Being tuned by art, if the one touchèd be
The other opposite as soon replies,
Moved by the air and hidden sympathies;
So while he with his gouty fingers crawls
Over the lute, his murm'ring belly calls,
Whose hungry guts to the same straitness twined
In echo to the trembling strings repined.
I, that perceived now what his music meant,
Asked civilly if he had eat this Lent.
He answered yes, with such and such an one.
For he has this of generous, that alone
He never feeds, save only when he tries
With gristly tongue to dart the passing flies.
I asked if he eat flesh. And he, that was
So hungry that, though ready to say Mass,
Would break his fast before, said he was sick,
And the ordinance was only politic.
Nor was I longer to invite him scant,
Happy at once to make him Protestant,
And silent. Nothing now our dinner stayed
But till he had himself a body made —
I mean till he were dressed: for else so thin
He stands, as if he only fed had been
With consecrated wafers: and the Host
Hath sure more flesh and blood than he can boast.
This basso relievo of a man,
Who as a camel tall, yet easily can
The needle's eye thread without any stitch,
(His only impossible is to be rich),
Lest his too subtle body, growing rare,
Should leave his soul to wander in the air,
He therefore circumscribes himself in rimes;
And swaddled in's own papers seven times,
Wears a close jacket of poetic buff,
With which he doth his third dimension stuff.
Thus armèd underneath, he over all
Does make a primitive sottana fall;
And above that yet casts an antique cloak,
Torn at the first Council of Antioch,
Which by the Jews long hid, and disesteemed,
He heard of by tradition, and redeemed.
But were he not in this black habit decked,
This half-transparent man would soon reflect
Each colour that he passed by, and be seen,
As the chameleon, yellow, blue, or green.
He dressed, and ready to disfurnish now
His chamber, whose compactness did allow
No empty place for complimenting doubt,
But who came last is forced first to go out;
I meet one on the stairs who made me stand,
Stopping the passage, and did him demand.
I answered, ‘He is here, Sir; but you see
You cannot pass to him but thorough me.’
He thought himself affronted, and replied,
‘I whom the palace never has denied
Will make the way here;’ I said, ‘Sir, you'll do
Me a great favour, for I seek to go.’
He gathering fury still made sign to draw;
But himself there closed in a scabbard saw
As narrow as his sword's; and I, that was
Delightful, said, ‘There can no body pass
Except by penetration hither, where
Two make a crowd; nor can three persons here
Consist but in one substance.’ Then, to fit
Our peace, the priest said I too had some wit.
To prov't, I said, ‘The place doth us invite
By its own narrowness, Sir, to unite.’
He asked me pardon; and to make me way
Went down, as I him followed to obey.
But the propitiatory priest had straight
Obliged us, when below, to celebrate
Together our atonement: so increased
Betwixt us two the dinner to a feast.
Let it suffice that we could eat in peace;
And that both poems did and quarrels cease
During the table; though my new-made friend
Did, as he threatened, ere 'twere long intend
To be both witty and valiant: I, loath,
Said 'twas too late, he was already both.
But now, alas, my first tormentor came,
Who satisfied with eating, but not tame,
Turns to recite; though judges most severe
After the assize's dinner mild appear,
And on full stomach do condemn but few,
Yet he more strict my sentence doth renew,
And draws out of the black box of his breast
Ten quire of paper in which he was dressed.
Yet that which was a greater cruelty
Than Nero's poem, he calls charity:
And so the pelican at his door hung
Picks out the tender bosom to its young.
Of all his poems there he stands ungirt
Save only two foul copies for his shirt:
Yet these he promises as soon as clean.
But how I loathed to see my neighbour glean
Those papers which he peelèd from within
Like white flakes rising from a leper's skin!
More odious than those rags which the French youth
At ordinaries after dinner show'th
When they compare their chancres and poulains.
Yet he first kissed them, and after takes pains
To read; and then, because he understood
Not one word, thought and swore that they were good.
But all his praises could not now appease
The provoked author, whom it did displease
To hear his verses, by so just a curse,
That were ill made, condemned to be read, worse:
And how (impossible) he made yet more
Absurdities in them than were before.
For he his untuned voice did fall or raise
As a deaf man upon a viol plays,
Making the half points and the periods run
Confuseder than the atoms in the sun.
Thereat the poet swelled, with anger full,
And roared out, like Perillus in's own bull:
‘Sir, you read false.’ ‘That, any one but you,
Should know the contrary.’ Whereat, I, now
Made mediator, in my room, said, ‘Why,
To say that you read false, Sir, is no lie.’
Thereat the waxen youth relented straight;
But saw with sad despair that 'twas too late.
For the disdainful poet was retired
Home, his most furious satire to have fired
Against the rebel, who, at this struck dead,
Wept bitterly as disinherited.
Who should commend his mistress now? Or who
Praise him? Both difficult indeed to do
With truth. I counselled him to go in time,
Ere the fierce poet's anger turned to rime.
He hasted; and I, finding myself free,
As one 'scaped strangely from captivity,
Have made the chance be painted; and go now
To hang it in Saint Peter's for a vow.