  All night had browsed the Pinion’d Steed Upon that lush and level mead That swathes Parnassos’ feet; Till, when the pranksome Morning Star To van of Day’s slow-driven car Came piping past the eastern bar, A Poet him did greet. ‘Your back, my Pegasos,’ he cried, ‘Shall win me to the tiers espied Of yonder shelfed hill, Where all the Great are, I opine, And on the last proud peak divine Apollo and the Earnest Nine At songs symphonic still.’ Tomes had the Poet, rolls and wraps, Pens at his ears, and scribbled scraps, And so essay’d the mounting— ‘Stand still, O Steed, and I will climb, Tho’ weighted here with pounds of rhyme, If you will only give me time, Who’d been on stirrups counting.’ The Steed stood still; the thing was done; He slided, slip’d and shuffled on, And stay’d to pen his deeds: When now the Monster’s patience wears; He lowers his head, his haunches rears; And flying past the Stallion’s ears The Poet measures weeds. Three times attempting, three times foil’d, The Bard beheld his breeches soil’d; And on his knees the mashed green Gave an arch proof of what had been; And winds like gamboling babes unseen Made all his errant sheets revolve. For now the Morning ’gan to solve The long-strewn sands of heav’nly cloud; And that fair Mountain noble brow’d, In snowy silv’ry laces dight Shone like a bride, against the night Unveil’d, with many-pointed light. And lo half seen thro’ level mist A Critic rode with saucy wrist, Plump, smug and smooth and portly, dress’d In corduroys and velvet vest; Who clip’d at ease an ambling cob With dappled nose and ears alob; While all around a barking brood Of puppies nuzzled in the rood. ‘He who to climb has climbing blood Must fear no fall in marish mud; And he who phantoms fain would ride May sometimes sit the ground,’ he cried. At this his thighs the Poet slam’d And papers in his pocket ram’d; ‘Be off,’ he said, ‘or else be damn’d.’ ‘You lose your time,’ resumed the Man, Whose oozing eyes with mirth o’erran; Whom, if ’twere mine, egad I’d shoot, So gaunt and gall’d a hack is he. But take example now from me, Who riding in this airy plight For breakfast get an appetite; And sitting here (I am so sly) With this my pocket-sextant I Take altitude of those on high.’ ‘Pedant avaunt!’ the Poet cries, And mounting shoots towards the skies An angry palm—‘Come not anear! I, as toward the marineer The welcome star from beacon’d brows Of headland, when the Northern blows His scurrilous spitting spray in air And lobbing billows blotch the Bear, Appears, so shall appear and shine Thro’ streaming rain and hissing brine To cheer the coming better blood; And shall be fire when thou art mud!’ ‘Blind is the goose that play’d the geier And tried to see the white sun nigher!— He flapping lies; so shall you lie And grovel as you think to fly!’ The other cries; whose Nag amazed, Viewing the winged Stallion, gazed, Shook out her tail and with a snort, Approaching in plebeian sort, And having too long mildly borne, Rear’d, spread his wings, and buck’d and neigh’d. She with the monstrous tone affray’d Shot forth her rider like a ball; Who in the mid-air, ere his fall, The like-projected Poet met. As when two Suns in furious set Together dash with whirl and wind, Their shrieking planets drawn behind; Or two great Blacks with blinding rage, Each dragging his black wife, engage, And clash their pates upon the green (The fleas being heard to crack between), The Critic so and Bard pell mell Fighting concuss’d and fighting fell; And puppies tug’d their tatters. Bruises for breakfast got the one; Black eyes the other, and of Fame none. They fought it out, and when they’d done Went home as rough as ratters. |
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