SAMUEL ROGERS.
Born, 1763. | Died, 18 Dec., 1855.
Mr. Rogers’s poem The Pleasures of Memory, published in 1792, was imitated in a small volume published in 1812, entitled The Pains of Memory, a Poem, in two books, by Peregrine Bingham. London, W. Anderson, 1812.
ON A TEAR.
Oh! that the chemist’s magic art
Could crystalize this sacred treasure!
Long should it glitter near my heart!
A secret source of pensive pleasure.
The little brilliant, ere it fell,
Its lustre caught from Chloe’s eye;
Then, trembling left its coral cell—
The spring of Sensibility!
Sweet drop of pure and pearly light!
In thee the rays of Virtue shine;
More calmly clear, more mildly bright,
Than any gem that gilds the mine.
Benign restorer of the soul!
Who ever fly’st to bring relief,
When first we feel the rude controul
Of Love or Pity, Joy or Grief.
The sage’s and the poet’s theme,
In every clime, in every age;
Thou charm’st in Fancy’s idle dream,
In Reason’s philosophic page.
That very law which moulds a tear,
And bids it trickle from its source,
That law preserves the earth a sphere,
And guides the planets in their course.
On a Tear.
(Suggested by the above Poem.)
Oh! that the tailor’s modish art
Could fashion trousers to our measure,
Secure and strong in every part,
A source of inexpensive pleasure!—
I little thought, mistrustless swell,
Whose garments Snip and Shears supply,
That trousers were but made—to sell—
The test of gullibility!
Yet, though these hands had scarce arrayed
In tourist suit my ugly body,
The fabric frail my trust betrayed,
I thought it cloth, but found it shoddy.
What power malignant sent it here?
Vile rent; my peace of mind it drowns,
It proves these flimsy bags were dear,
That only cost me five half-crowns.
Here must I, sorrowing, wait repairs,
And moralize the mournful scene,
My sad refrain, “Tears, hideous tears,
I know, confound them, what they mean!”
Come, Jane, with silver finger-sheath,
With thread and needle heal my woes;
Come, armed like Curtius to the teeth,
And bid the yawning chasm close!
Fun.
