THE ROD: A POEM.
(Vol. vi., p. 493.)
My copy of this poem bears date 1754, and is not stated to be a second edition. It has "an advertisement" of three pages, deprecatory of the imputation of any personal allusions, or design to encourage school rebellions. It has also a frontispiece ("Jas. Green, sculp., Oxon."), representing two youths, one standing, the other sitting, on a form; and before them the figure of an ass, erect on his hind legs, clothed in a pallium. A birch, doctorial hat, and books, lettered Priscian and
Lycophron, form the base; and on a ribbon above is the legend, "An ass in the Greek pallium teaching." In other respects my copy agrees with Mr. Crossley's description of his, except that the argument (p. 7.) commences, "The great and good King Alfred," &c.
Perhaps the following lines (though I doubt their having been written at the age of thirteen) may be received as germane to the subject:
THE BIRCH: A POEM.
Written by a Youth of thirteen.
Though the Oak be the prince and the pride of the grove,
The emblem of power and the fav'rite of Jove;
Though Phœbus his temples with Laurel has bound,
And with chaplets of Poplar Alcides is crown'd;
Though Pallas the Olive has graced with her choice,
And old mother Cybel in Pines may rejoice,
Yet the Muses declare, after diligent search,
That no tree can be found to compare with the Birch.
The Birch, they affirm, is the true tree of knowledge,
Revered at each school and remember'd at college.
Though Virgil's famed tree might produce, as its fruit,
A crop of vain dreams, and strange whims on each shoot,
Yet the Birch on each bough, on the top of each switch,
Bears the essence of grammar and eight parts of speech.
'Mongst the leaves are conceal'd more than mem'ry can mention,
All cases, all genders, all forms of declension.
Nine branches, when cropp'd by the hands of the Nine,
And duly arranged in a parallel line,
Tied up in nine folds of a mystical string,
And soak'd for nine days in cold Helicon spring,
Form a sceptre composed for a pedagogue's hand,
Like the Fasces of Rome, a true badge of command.
The sceptre thus finish'd, like Moses's rod,
From flints could draw tears, and give life to a clod.
Should darkness Egyptian, or ignorance, spread
Their clouds o'er the mind, or envelope the head,
The rod, thrice applied, puts the darkness to flight,
Disperses the clouds, and restores us to light.
Like the Virga Divina, 'twill find out the vein
Where lurks the rich metal, the ore of the brain.
Should Genius a captive in sloth be confined,
Or the witchcraft of Pleasure prevail o'er the mind,
The magical wand but apply—with a stroke
The spell is dissolved, the enchantment is broke.
Like Hermes' caduceus, these switches inspire
Rhetorical thunder, poetical fire:
And if Morpheus our temples in Lethe should steep,
Their touch will untie all the fetters of sleep.
Here dwells strong conviction—of Logic the glory,
When applied with precision à posteriori.
I've known a short lecture most strangely prevail,
When duly convey'd to the head through the tail;
Like an electrical shock, in an instant 'tis spread,
And flies with a jerk from the tail to the head;
Promotes circulation, and thrills through each vein,
The faculties quickens, and purges the brain.
By sympathy thus, and consent of the parts,
We are taught, fundamentally, classics and arts.
The Birch, à priori, applied to the palm,
Can settle disputes and a passion becalm.
Whatever disorders prevail in the blood
The birch can correct them, like guaiacum wood:
It sweetens the juices, corrects our ill humours,
Bad habits removes, and disperses foul tumours.
When applied to the hand it can cure with a switch,
Like the salve of old Molyneux, used in the itch!
As the famed rod of Circe to brutes could turn men,
So the twigs of the Birch can unbrute them again.
Like the wand of the Sybil, that branch of pure gold,
These sprays can the gates of Elysium unfold—
The Elysium of learning, where pleasures abound,
Those sweets that still flourish on classical ground.
Prometheus's rod, which, mythologists say,
Fetch'd fire from the sun to give life to his clay,
Was a rod well applied his men to inspire
With a taste for the arts, and their genius to fire.
This bundle of rods may suggest one reflection,
That the arts with each other maintain a connexion.
Another good moral this bundle of switches
Points out to our notice and silently teaches;
Of peace and good fellowship these are a token,
For the twigs, well united, can scarcely be broken.
Then, if such are its virtues, we'll bow to the tree,
And the Birch, like the Muses, immortal shall be.
I copy from a MS. extract-book, and shall be glad of a reference to any place in which these lines have appeared in print.
Balliolensis.