Rhyme had always a sort of magnetic
power over me, whether I caught at any idea it contained or not.
This was written in the measure which I afterwards learned was
called Spenserian. It was Byron's "Vision of Judgment," and
Southey's also was bound up with it.
Southey's hexameters were too much of a mouthful for me, but
Byron's lines jingled, and apparently told a story about
something. St. Peter came into it, and King George the Third;
neither of which names meant anything to me; but the scenery
seemed to be somewhere up among the clouds, and I, unsuspicious
of the author's irreverence, took it for a sort of semi-Biblical
fairy tale.
There was on my mother's bed a covering of pink chintz, pictured
all over with the figure of a man sitting on a cloud, holding a
bunch of keys. I put the two together in my mind, imagining the
chintz counterpane to be an illustration of the poem, or the poem
an explanation of the counterpane. For the stanza I liked best
began with the words,--
"St.
Pages:
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172