Hail, human compound quadrifarious! Invincible as Wight Briareus! Hail! Doubly doubled mighty merry one, Stronger than triple-bodied Geryon! O may your vastness deign t' excuse The praises of a puny Muse, Unable in her utmost flight To reach thy huge Colossian height. T' attempt to write like thee were frantic, Whose lines are, like thyself, gigantic. Yet let me bless, in humbler strain, Thy vast, thy bold Cambysian vein, Poured out t' enrich thy native isle, As Egypt wont to be with Nile. O how I joy to see thee wander In many a winding, loose meander, In circling mazes, smooth and supple, And ending in a clink quadruple; Loud, yet agreeable withal, Like rivers rattling in their fall. Thine, sure, is poetry divine, Where wit and majesty combine; Where every line, as huge as seven, If stretched in length, would reach to Heaven: Here all comparing would be sland'ring; The least is more than Alexandrine. Against thy verse Time sees with pain He whets his envious scythe in vain; For, though from thee he much may pare, Yet much thou still wilt have to spare. Thou hast alone the skill to feast With Roman elegance of taste, Who hast of rhymes as vast resources As Pompey's caterer of courses. O thou, of all the Nine inspired! My languid soul, with teaching tired, How is it raptured when it thinks On thy harmonious set of clinks; Each answ'ring each in various rhymes, Like Echo to St. Patrick's chimes! Thy Muse, majestic in her rage, Moves like Statira on the stage, And scarcely can one page sustain The length of such a flowing train. Her train, of variegated dye, Shows like Thaumantia's in the sky; Alike they glow, alike they please, Alike impressed by Phoebus' rays. Thy verse -- (Ye Gods! I cannot bear it) To what, to what shall I compare it? 'Tis like, what I have oft heard spoke on, The famous statue of Laocoon. 'Tis like -- O yes, 'tis very like it, The long long string with which you fly kite. 'Tis like what you, and one or two more, Roar to your Echo in good humor; And every couplet thou hast writ Concludes like Rattah-whittah-whit. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...I'M GOING BACK TO SOMETHING by DAVID IGNATOW LITTLE SON by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TRIFLE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON FLUTE-PRIEST SONG FOR RAIN; CEREMONIAL AT THE SUN SPRING by AMY LOWELL CHILD OF MY HEART by EDWIN MARKHAM TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND |