No. IV. Smoke.
I'm the king of the _Cadaverals_,
I'm _Spectral_ President;
And, all from east to occident,
There's not a man whose dermal walls
Contain so narrow intervals,
So lank a resident.
Look at me and you shall see
The ghastliest of the ghastly;
The eyes that have watched a thousand years,
The forehead lined with a thousand cares,
The seaweed-character of hairs!--
You shall see and you shall see,
Or you may hear, as I can feel,
When the winds batter, how these _parchments_ clatter,
And the beautiful tenor that's ever ringing
When thro' the _Seaweed_ the breeze is singing:
And you should know, I know a great deal,
When the _bacchi arcanum_ I clutch and gripe,
I know a great deal of wind and weather
By hearing my own cheeks slap together
A-pulling up a pipe.
I believe--and I conceive
I'm an authority
In all things ghastly,
First for tenuity
For stringiness secondly,
And sallowness lastly--
I say I believe a cadaverous man
Who would live as _long_ and as _lean_ as he can
Should live entirely on bacchi--
On the bacchic ambrosia entirely feed him;
When living thus, so little lack I,
So easy am I, I'll never heed him
Who anything seeketh beyond the _Leaf:_
For, what with mumbling pipe-ends freely,
And snuffing the ashes now and then,
I give it as my firm belief
One might go living on genteelly
To the age of an antediluvian.
This from the king to each spectral _Grim_--
Mind, we address no _bibbing smoker_!
Tell not us 'tis as broad as it's long,
We've no breadth more than a leathern thong
Tanned--or a tarnished poker:
Ye are also lank and slim?--
Your king he comes of an ancient _line_
Which "length without breadth" the Gods define,
And look ye follow him!
Lanky lieges! the Gods one day
Will cut off this _line_, as geometers say,
Equal to any given line:--
PI,--PE--their hands divine
Do more than we can see:
They cut off every length of clay
Really in a most extraordinary way--
They fill your bowls up--Dutch C'naster,
Shag, York River--fill 'em faster,
Fill 'em faster up, I say.
What Turkey, Oronoko, Cavendish!
There's the fuel to make a chafing dish,
A chafing dish to peel the petty
Paint that girls and boys call pretty--
Peel it off from lip and cheek:
We've none such here; yet, if ye seek
An infallible test for a raw beginner,
Mundungus will always discover a sinner.
Now ye are charged, we give the word
Light! and pour it thro' your noses,
And let it hover and lodge in your hair
Bird-like, bird-like--You're aware
Anacreon had a bird--
A bird! and filled _his_ bowl with roses.
Ha ha! ye laugh in ghastlywise,
And the smoke comes through your eyes,
And you're looking very grim,
And the air is very dim,
And the casual paper flare
Taketh still a redder glare.
Now thou pretty little fellow,
Now thine eyes are turning yellow,
Thou shalt be our page to-night!
Come and sit thee next to us,
And as we may want a light
See that thou be dexterous.
Now bring forth your tractates musty,
Dry, cadaverous, and dusty,
One, on the sound of mammoths' bones
In motion; one, on Druid-stones:
Show designs for pipes most ghastly,
And devils and ogres grinning nastily!
Show, show the limnings ye brought back,
Since round and round the zodiac
Ye galloped goblin horses which
Were light as smoke and black as pitch;
And those ye made in the mouldy moon,
And Uranus, Saturn, and Neptune,
And in the planet Mercury,
Where all things living and dead have an eye
Which sometimes opening suddenly
Stareth and startleth strangëly
But now the night is growing better,
And every jet of smoke grows _jetter_,
While yet there blinks sufficient light,
Bring in those skeletons that fright
Most men into fits, but that
We relish for their want of fat.
Bring them in, the Cimabues
With all or each that horribly true is,
Francias, Giottos, Masaccios,
That tread on the tops of their bony toes,
And every one with a long sharp arrow
Cleverly shot through his spinal marrow,
With plenty of gridirons, spikes, and fires
And fiddling angels in sheets and quires.
Hold! 'tis dark! 'tis lack of light,
Or something wrong in this royal sight,
Or else our musty, dusty, and right
Well-beloved lieges all
Are standing in rank against the wall,
And ever thin and thinner, and tall
And taller grow and _cadaveral!_
Subjects, ye are sharp and spare,
Every nose is blue and frosty,
And your back-bone's growing bare,
And your king can count your _costae_,
And your bones are clattering,
And your teeth are chattering,
And ye spit out bits of pipe,
Which, shorter grown, ye faster gripe
In jaws; and weave a cloudy cloak
That wraps up all except your bones
Whose every joint is oozing smoke:
And there's a creaky music drones
Whenas your lungs distend your ribs,
A sound, that's like the grating nibs
Of pens on paper late at night;
Your shanks are yellow more than white
And very like what Holbein drew!
Avaunt! ye are a ghastly crew
Too like the Campo Santo--down!
We are your monarch, but we own
That were we not, we very well
Might take ye to be imps of hell:
But ye are glorious ghastly sprites,
What ho! our page! Sir knave--lights, lights,
The final pipes are to be lit:
Sit, gentlemen, we charge ye sit
Until the cock affrays the night
And heralds in the limping morn,
And makes the owl and raven flit;
Until the jolly moon is white,
And till the stars and moon are gone.
No. V. Rain.
The chamber is lonely and light;
Outside there is nothing but night--
And wind and a creeping rain.
And the rain clings to the pane:
And heavy and drear's
The night; and the tears
Of heaven are dropt in pain.
And the tears of heaven are dropt in pain;
And man pains heaven and shuts the rain
Outside, and sleeps: and winds are sighing;
And turning worlds sing mass for the dying.