Part 10 (2/2)

Should we a full night's learned cares present, They'll scarce return us one short hour's content.

'Las! they're but quibbles, things we poets feign, The short-liv'd squibs and crackers of the brain.

But we'll be wiser, knowing 'tis not they That must redeem the hards.h.i.+p of our way.

Whether a Higher Power, or that star Which, nearest heav'n, is from the earth most far, Oppress us thus, or angell'd from that sphere By our strict guardians are kept luckless here, It matters not, we shall one day obtain Our native and celestial scope again.

TO HIS RETIRED FRIEND, AN INVITATION TO BRECKNOCK.

Since last we met, thou and thy horse--my dear-- Have not so much as drunk, or litter'd here; I wonder, though thyself be thus deceas'd, Thou hast the spite to coffin up thy beast; Or is the palfrey sick, and his rough hide With the penance of one spur mortified?

Or taught by thee--like Pythagoras's ox-- Is then his master grown more orthodox Whatever 'tis, a sober cause't must be That thus long bars us of thy company.

The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see But half her suff'rings, now distress'd for thee, Thou'ldst swear--like Rome--her foul, polluted walls Were sack'd by Brennus and the savage Gauls.

Abominable face of things! here's noise Of banged mortars, blue ap.r.o.ns, and boys, Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoa.r.s.e, h.e.l.lish notes Of politicly-deaf usurers' throats, With new fine Wors.h.i.+ps, and the old cast team Of Justices vex'd with the cough and phlegm.

'Midst these the Cross looks sad, and in the s.h.i.+re- Hall furs of an old Saxon fox appear, With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange sight Of high monumental hats, ta'en at the fight Of 'Eighty-eight; while ev'ry burgess foots The mortal pavement in eternal boots.

Hadst thou been bach'lor, I had soon divin'd Thy close retirements, and monastic mind; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or The beauteous churl was to be waited for, And like the Greek, ere you the sport would miss, You stay'd, and strok'd the distaff for a kiss.

But in this age, when thy cool, settled blood Is ti'd t'one flesh, and thou almost grown good, I know not how to reach the strange device, Except--Domitian-like--thou murder'st flies.

Or is't thy piety? for who can tell But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell, And--like a badger--with attentive looks In the dark hole sit rooting up of books.

Quick hermit! what a peaceful change hadst thou, Without the noise of haircloth, whip, or vow!

But there is no redemption? must there be No other penance but of liberty?

Why, two months hence, if thou continue thus, Thy memory will scarce remain with us, The drawers have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles, his reign, Or if they mention thee, like some old man, That at each word inserts--”Sir, as I can Remember”--so the cyph'rers puzzle me With a dark, cloudy character of thee.

That--certs!--I fear thou wilt be lost, and we Must ask the fathers ere't be long for thee.

Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine And precious wit lie dead for want of thine.

Shall the dull market-landlord with his rout Of sneaking tenants dirtily swill out This harmless liquor? shall they knock and beat For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat?

O let not such prepost'rous tippling be In our metropolis; may I ne'er see Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!

Here lives that chymic, quick fire which betrays Fresh spirits to the blood, and warms our lays.

I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up, And teach her yet more charming words and skill Than ever C[oe]lia, Chloris, Astrophil, Or any of the threadbare names inspir'd Poor rhyming lovers with a mistress fir'd.

Come then! and while the slow icicle hangs At the stiff thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs Benumb the year, blithe--as of old--let us 'Midst noise and war of peace and mirth discuss.

This portion thou wert born for: why should we Vex at the time's ridiculous misery?

An age that thus hath fool'd itself, and will --Spite of thy teeth and mine--persist so still.

Let's sit then at this fire, and while we steal A revel in the town, let others seal, Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay, Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day.

Innocent spenders we! a better use Shall wear out our short lease, and leave th' obtuse Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best Have cares in earnest; we care for a jest.

MONSIEUR GOMBAULD.

I've read thy soul's fair nightpiece, and have seen Th' amours and courts.h.i.+p of the silent Queen, Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did move her To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover, With Latmos' louder rescue, and--alas!-- To find her out a hue and cry in bra.s.s; Thy journal of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnal pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad In fancies darker than thy cave, thy gla.s.s Of sleepy draughts; and as thy soul did pa.s.s In her calm voyage what discourse she heard Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard Ismena led thee through, with thy proud flight O'er Periardes, and deep, musing night Near fair Eurotas' banks; what solemn green The neighbour shades wear, and what forms are seen In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat Which none but light-heel'd nymphs and fairies beat;[55]

Their solitary life, and how exempt From common frailty, the severe contempt They have of man, their privilege to live A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve What ages they consume, with the sad vale Of Diophania, and the mournful tale, Of th' bleeding vocal myrtle; these and more Thy richer thoughts, we are upon the score To thy rare fancy for, nor dost thou fall From thy first majesty, or ought at all Betray consumption; thy full vig'rous bays Wear the same green, and scorn the lean decays Of style, or matter. Just so have I known Some crystal spring, that from the neighbour down Deriv'd her birth, in gentle murmurs steal To their next vale, and proudly there reveal Her streams in louder accents, adding still More noise and waters to her channel, till At last swoln with increase she glides along The lawns and meadows in a wanton throng Of frothy billows, and in one great name Swallows the tributary brooks' drown'd fame.

Nor are they mere inventions, for we In th' same piece find scatter'd philosophy And hidden, dispers'd truths that folded lie In the dark shades of deep allegory; So neatly weav'd, like arras, they descry Fables with truth, fancy with history.

So that thou hast in this thy curious mould Cast that commended mixture wish'd of old, Which shall these contemplations render far Less mutable, and lasting as their star, And while there is a people or a sun, Endymion's story with the moon shall run.

FOOTNOTES:

[55] So Grosart, for the _heat_ of the original.

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