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Not far from our young hero’s peaceful home,
Lies the fair grove wherein he loves to roam.
Tho’ but a stunted copse in vacant lot,
He dubs it Tempe, and adores the spot;
When shallow puddles dot the wooded plain,
And brim o’er muddy banks with muddy rain,
He calls them limpid lakes or poison pools,
(Depending on which bard his fancy rules).
‘Tis here he comes with Heliconian fire
On Sundays when he smites the Attic lyre;
And here one afternoon he brought his gloom,
Resolv’d to chant a poet’s lay of doom.
Roget’s Thesaurus, and a book of rhymes,
Provide the rungs whereon his spirit climbs:
With this grave retinue he trod the grove
And pray’d the Fauns he might a Poe-et prove.
But sad to tell, ere Pegasus flew high,
The not unrelish’d supper hour drew nigh;
Our tuneful swain th’ imperious call attends,
And soon above the groaning table bends.
Though it were too prosaic to relate
Th’ exact particulars of what he ate,
(Such long-drawn lists the hasty reader skips,
Like Homer’s well-known catalogue of ships)
This much we swear: that as adjournment near’d,
A monstrous lot of cake had disappear’d!
Soon to his chamber the young bard repairs,
And courts soft Somnus with sweet Lydian airs;
Thro’ open casement scans the star-strown deep,
And ‘neath Orion’s beams sinks off to sleep.
Now start from airy dell the elfin train
That dance each midnight o’er the sleeping plain,
To bless the just, or cast a warning spell
On those who dine not wisely, but too well.
First Deacon Smith they plague, whose nasal glow
Comes from what Holmes hath call’d “Elixir Pro”;
Group’d round the couch his visage they deride,
Whilst through his dreams unnumber’d serpents glide.
Next troop the little folk into the room
Where snore our young Endymion, swath’d in gloom:
A smile lights up his boyish face, whilst he
Dreams of the moon – or what he ate at tea.
The chieftain elf th’ unconscious youth surveys,
And on his form a strange enchantment lays:
Those lips, that lately trill’d with frosted cake,
Uneasy sounds in slumbrous fashion make;
At length their owner’s fancies they rehearse,
And lisp this awesome Poe-em in blank verse:

Небылица

Чрезмерность враг покоя неизменно.

Лукулл, что Лэнгвиш, астроном-любитель
Гренков и сладких пирожков ценитель,
Душою бард, занятьем – продавец,
(Унынья полон: славы где ж венец?)
Желанье тайное имел: блистать
Живым стихом и песнею вещать.
Перо ж строчило ежедневно с ходу
О лавке панихиду или оду:
Увы, не полнилось высоким чувством
Поэта сердце, билось что искусством.
Взывал он к музе робкой вечерами
Пирожными и прочими сластями,
Хоть из подростка вырос фантазер,
Не тешил образ аониды взор.
На небо он смотрел в закатный час,
В звезде вечерней чтоб обресть экстаз;
Раз ночью взялся ухватить гимн чуду
В глуби кристальной – подхватил простуду.
Тужил Лукулл от горя своего,
Пока однажды не купил книг По:
Пленившись ужасами на страницах,
Поклялся хмуро, что придет девица.
Зрит в грезах Йанек, озеро Обера,