KING Arthur, in the tenth year of his reign, That there began to be a lack of sport. The realm, in fact, from Cornwall to the border, II. For six whole weeks, the Knights of the Round Table, From morn to night, had nothing else to do Than saunter from the palace to the stable, Play with their falcons, or their ladies woo, Polish their arms, and laugh (when they were able,) III. The game laws were enforced in all their rigour, L IV. As for the ladies, they, poor souls, declared That "they certayne for wearynesse should dye;" The formal knights so prosed, and bowed, and stared, With their demure, old-fashion'd courtesy; And poor Sir Tristram, who could ill be spared, With his gay jests, and harp, and poetry, In a late fray had got a broken head, And was not able yet to leave his bed. V. In short, Miss Edgeworth's demon, pale Ennui, Had seiz'd on the whole court with dire aggression ; And made it stupid as a calm at sea, Or wedlock, after half a year's possession, Or this same metre, stripp'd of its digression; VI. I said the King fell sick (he kept his bed,) And if you wish to know the remedies VII. 'Tis a complaint that's chiefly incidental To lovers, drunkards, scholars, kings, and bards; To country squires with an encumber'd rental, And gamesters apt to hold unlucky cards; Bards bear it best;-to them it 's instrumental In spinning rhymes: there's Chauncey Townshend lards His groaning stanzas (just to eke his strains out,) With gloom enough to blow six Frenchmen's brains out. VIII. The symptoms vary with the sex, condition, It makes him fretful,-puts him in a rage IX. Old ladies call it "fever on the nerves," Which for all sorts of peevish humours serves, (To say the least,) a handsome flagellation; X. Of this I'll say no more; because 1 hear A work upon the subject, to appear In Mr. Knight's best types and paper, bearing The title of Blue Devils," and I fear "Twould seem absurd, in one so often wearing Their livery as myself, to act physician XI. I wonder whether Mr. Wordsworth's yacht, To bear my Muse and me, some afternoon, "Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot, Which men call earth;" for I'm quite out of tune Blue-devil'd by eternal common-places And business-and uninteresting faces. XII. There's nothing in the world (that is in Trinity) And as I'm one who feel the full divinity Of a fair face in woman, I protest I'm sick of this unvaried regularity Of whisker'd cheeks and chins of black barbarity. XIII. 'Tis a vile world-a world of dung and draymen, XIV. In me these things breed legions of blue devils;- Muster'd in grim and terrible array, Looks none the sweeter for the thought that I XV. And that fond dream, which lured me on for ever And write my name on an enduring urn, Hath now departed; while ambition's fever, Unquench'd, though aimless, hath not ceas'd to burn With self-exciting fire, and thirst supplied By longings which can ne'er be satisfied. XVI. Here am I now, at twenty-three, inditing And once abjured-just when I should be fighting My soul, to rush at famous destinies; No occupation for my pen more meet XVII. sheet. "Time's past❞—I should have nurs'd the seed, and cherish'd XVIII. I should have been more cautious in my diet, And then my poems would have been divine. XIX. Affections, tastes, and impulses, which should, Under the care of Study and of Nature, Have fed my spirit with the proper food, And made it reach the true poetic stature. I should have then been strong, and wise, and good, Yet my friends like me still (at least I think so,) |