'Il etait un jeune homme d'un bien beau passe.' WHEN first he sought our haunts, he wore His locks in Hamlet-style; His brow with thought was 'sicklied o'er,' -- We rarely saw him smile; And, e'en when none was looking on, His air was always woe-begone. He kept, I think, his bosom bare To imitate Jean Paul; His solitary topics were AEsthetics, Fate, and Soul; -- Although at times, but not for long, He bowed his Intellect to song. He served, he said, a Muse of Tears: I know his verses breathed A fine funereal air of biers, And objects cypress-wreathed; -- Indeed, his tried aquaintance fled An ode he named 'The Sheeted Dead.' In these light moods, I call to mind, He darkly would allude To some dread sorrow undefined, -- Some passion unsubdued; Then break into a ghastly laugh, And talk of Keats his epitaph. He railed at women's faith as Cant; We thought him grandest when He named them Siren-shapes that 'chant On blanching bones of Men'; -- Alas, not e'en the great go free From that insidious minstrelsy! His lot, he oft would gravely urge, Lay on a lone Rock where Around Time-beaten bases surge The Billows of Despair. We dreamed it true. We never knew What gentler ears he told it to. We, bound with him in common care, One-minded, celibate, Resolved to Thought and Diet spare Our lives to dedicate; -- We, truly, in no common sense, Deserved his closest confidence! But soon, and yet, though soon, too late, We, sorrowing, sighed to find A gradual softness enervate That all superior mind, Until, -- in full assembly met, He dared to speak of Etiquette. The verse that we severe had known, Assumed a wanton air, -- A fond effeminate monotone Of eyebrows, lips, and hair; Not inoos stirred him now or vous, He read 'The Angel in the House'! Nay worse. He, once sublime to chaff, Grew ludicrously sore If we but named a photograph We found him simpering o'er; Or told how in his chambers lurked A watch-guard intricately worked. Then worse again. He tried to dress; He trimmed his tragic mane; Announced at length (to our distress) He had not 'lived in vain'; -- Thenceforth his one prevailing mood Became a base beatitude. And O Jean Paul, and Fate, and Soul! We met him last, grown stout, His throat with wedlock's triple roll, 'All wool,' enwound about; His very hat had changed its brim; -- Our course was clear, -- WE BANISHED HIM! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LEINSTER by LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY THE DEPARTURE OF THE GOOD DAEMON by ROBERT HERRICK SPRING by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS DAYBREAK by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW APRIL, FR. LOVE'S LABOUR'S LOST by WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE THE WINGED WORSHIPPERS; ADDRESSED TO TWO SWALLOWS .. DURING SERVICE by CHARLES SPRAGUE TAKE HER, BREAK HER by ANACREON A DIALOGUE (TO BE SUNG TO THE VIOL, BY A BASE, AND A TREBLE) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT |