Walter Savage Landor (Уолтер Сэвидж Лэндор)
To Barry Cornwall
Barry! your spirit long ago Has haunted me; at last I know The heart it sprung from: one more sound Ne'er rested on poetic ground. But, Barry Cornwall! by what right Wring you my breast and dim my sight, And make me wish at every touch My poor old hand could do as much? No other in these later times Has bound me in so potent rhymes. I have observed the curious dress And jewelry of brave Queen Bess, But always found some o'ercharged thing, Some flaw in even the brightest ring, Admiring in her men of war, A rich but too argute guitar. Our foremost now are more prolix, And scrape with three-fell fiddlesticks, And, whether bound for griefs or smiles, Are slow to turn as crocodiles. Once, every court and country bevy Chose the gallant of loins less heavy, And would have laid upon the shelf Him who could talk but of himself. Reason is stout, but even Reason May walk too long in Rhyme's hot season. I have heard many folks aver They have caught horrid colds with her. Imagination's paper kite, Unless the string is held in tight, Whatever fits and starts it takes, Soon bounces on the ground, and breaks. You, placed afar from each extreme, Nor dully drowse nor wildly dream, But, ever flowing with good-humour, Are bright as spring and warm as summer. Mid your Penates not a word Of scorn or ill-report is heard; Nor is there any need to pull A sheaf or truss from cart too full, Lest it o'erload the horse, no doubt, Or clog the road by falling out. We, who surround a common table, And imitate the fashionable, Wear each two eyeglasses: _this_ lens Shows us our faults, _that_ other men's. We do not care how dim may be This by whose aid our own we see, But, ever anxiously alert That all may have their whole desert, We would melt down the stars and sun In our heart's furnace, to make one Thro' which the enlighten'd world might spy A mote upon a brother's eye.
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