Then a glory beam'd round, as of fiery rods,

With the sound of deep organs and chorister gods;
And the faces of bards, glowing fresh from their skies,
Came thronging about with intentness of eyes,
And the Nine were all heard, as the harmony swell'd,-
And the spheres, pealing in, the long rapture upheld,—
And all things, above, and beneath, and around,
Seem'd a world of bright vision, set floating in sound.

That sight and that music might not be sustain'd
But by those who a glory like Dryden's had gain'd;
And even the four who had graciousness found,
After gazing awhile, bow'd them down to the ground.
What then could remain for that feeble-eyed crew?
Through the door in an instant they rush'd and they
flew,

They rush'd, and they dash'd, and they scrambled, and stumbled,

And down the hall staircase distractedly tumbled,

And never once thought which was head or was feet,
And slid through the hall, and fell plump in the street.
So great was the panic they struck with their fright,
That of all who had come to be feasted that night,
Not one ventur❜d up, or would stay near the place;
Even Croker declin'd, notwithstanding his face;
And old Peter Pindar turn'd pale, and suppress'd,
With a death-bed sensation, a blasphemous jest.

But Phoebus no sooner had gain'd his good ends,
Than he put off his terrors, and rais'd up his friends,
Who stood for a moment, entranc'd to behold
The glories subside and the dim-rolling gold,

And listen'd to sounds, that with ecstasy burning
Seem'd dying far upward, like heaven returning.
Then "Come," cried the God in his elegant mirth,
"Let us make us a heav'n of our own upon earth,
And wake with the lips, that we dip in our bowls,
That divinest of music, congenial souls."
So saying, he led through the dining-room door,
And seating the poets, cried "Laurels for four!"
No sooner demanded, than lo! they were there,
And each of the bards had a wreath in his hair.
Tom Campbell's with willow and poplar was twin'd,
And Southey's with mountain-ash pluck'd in the wind,
And Scott's with a heath from his old garden stores,
And with vine-leaves and Jump-up-and-kiss-me, Tom
Moore's.

Then Apollo put his on, that sparkled with beams,
And rich rose the feast as an epicure's dreams,
Not epicure civic, or grossly inclin'd,
But such as a poet might dream ere he din'd;
For the God had no sooner determin'd the fare,
Then it turn'd to whatever was racy and rare:
The fish and the flesh, for example, were done,
On account of their fineness, in flame from the sun;
The wines were all nectar of different smack,
To which Muskat was nothing, nor Virginis Lac,
No, nor Lachryma Christi, though clearly divine,
Nor Montepulciano, though King of all Wine.
Then as for the fruits, you might garden for ages,
Before you could raise me such apples and gages;

And all on the table no sooner were spread,

Than their cheeks next the God blush'd a beautiful red.

'Twas magic, in short, and deliciousness all; -
The very men-servants grew handsome and tall,
To velvet-hung ivory the furniture turn'd,
The service with opal and adamant burn'd,
Each candlestick chang'd to a pillar of gold,
While a bundle of beams took the place of the mould,
The decanters and glasses pure diamond became,
And the corkscrew ran solidly round into flame.
In a word, so completely forestall'd were the wishes,
Ev'n harmony struck from the noise of the dishes.

It can't be suppos'd I should think of repeating
The fancies that flow'd at this laureat meeting;
I haven't the brains, and besides, was not there;
But the wit may be easily guess'd, by the chair:
Suffice it to say, it was keen as could be,
Though it soften'd to prettiness rather at tea.

I must mention, however, that during the wine,
The mem'ry of Shakspeare was toasted with nine;
When lo, as each poet was lifting his cup,
A strain of invisible music struck up:

'Twas a mixture of all the most exquisite sounds
To be heard upon earthly or fanciful grounds,
When pomps or when passions their coming declare,
Or there's something at work in the moonshiny air;
For the trumpet sprang out, with a fierce-flowing
blast,

And the hautboys lamentingly, mingled and pass'd,

Till a smile-drawing sweetness stole in at the close With the breathing of flutes and the smoothing of bows, And Ariel was heard, singing thinly and soft,

Then with tricksy tenuity vanish'd aloft.

The next name was Milton, and six was the shout,
When bursting at once in it's mightiness out,
The organ came gath'ring and rolling its thunder;
Yet wanted not intervals, calmer of wonder,

Nor stops of low sweetness, like winds when they fall,
Nor voices Elysian, that came with a call.

Then follow'd my Spenser, with five to his share, And the light-neighing trumpet leap'd freshly on air, With preludes of flutes as to open a scene,

And pipes with coy snatches that started between, Till sudden it stopp'd, and you heard a dim strain, Like the shell of old Triton far over the main.

"Twould be tedious to count all the names as they

rose,

But none were omitted, you'll eas❜ly suppose,
Whom Fancy has crown'd with one twig of the bay,
From old father Chaucer to Collins and Gray.
I must'nt forget though, that Bob, like a gander,
Would give "a great genius," one Mr. Landor;
And Walter look'd up too, and begg'd to propose
A particular friend of his, one Mr. Rose :

-

But the God look'd at Southey, and shrugging his shoulder,

Cried, "When, my good friend, will you try to grow older?"

Then nodding to Scott, he said, "Pray be as portly
And rich as you please, but a little less courtly."
So, changing the subject, he call'd upon Moore,
Who sung such a song, that they shouted "Encore!
And the God was so pleas'd with his taste and his tone,
He obey'd the next call, and gave one of his own,
At which you'd have thought, ('twas so witching a
warble)

The guests had all turn'd into listening marble;
The wreaths on their temples grew brighter of bloom,
As the breath of the Deity circled the room;

And the wine in the glasses went rippling in rounds,
As if follow'd and fann'd by the soft-winged sounds.

Thus chatting and singing they sat till eleven, When Phoebus shook hands, and departed for heaven; "For poets" he said, "who would cherish their powers, And hop'd to be deathless, must keep to good hours." So off he betook him the way that he came,

And shot up the north, like an arrow of flame;
For the Bear was his inn; and the comet, they say,
Was his tandem in waiting to fetch him away.
The others then parted, all highly delighted;
And so shall I be, when you find me invited.