THE CHARNEL-HOUSE.
Bless me! what damps are here! how stiff an air!
Kelder of mists, a second fiat's care,
Front'spiece o' th' grave and darkness, a display
Of ruin'd man, and the disease of day,
Lean, bloodless shamble, where I can descry
Fragments of men, rags of anatomy,
Corruption's wardrobe, the transplantive bed
Of mankind, and th' exchequer of the dead!
How thou arrests my sense! how with the sight
My winter'd blood grows stiff to all delight!
Torpedo to the eye! whose least glance can
Freeze our wild lusts, and rescue headlong man.
Eloquent silence! able to immure
An atheist's thoughts, and blast an epicure.
Were I a Lucian, Nature in this dress
Would make me wish a Saviour, and confess.
Where are you, shoreless thoughts, vast tenter'd hope,
Ambitious dreams, aims of an endless scope,
Whose stretch'd excess runs on a string too high,
And on the rack of self-extension die?
Chameleons of state, air-monging band,
Whose breath—like gunpowder—blows up a land,
Come see your dissolution, and weigh
What a loath'd nothing you shall be one day.
As th' elements by circulation pass
From one to th' other, and that which first was
I so again, so 'tis with you; the grave
And Nature but complot; what the one gave
The other takes; think, then, that in this bed
There sleep the relics of as proud a head,
As stern and subtle as your own, that hath
Perform'd, or forc'd as much, whose tempest-wrath
Hath levell'd kings with slaves, and wisely then
Calm these high furies, and descend to men.
Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon; a tomb
Check'd him, who thought the world too straight a room.
Have I obey'd the powers of face,
A beauty able to undo the race
Of easy man? I look but here, and straight
I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit
Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave
Beggar'd by wealth, who starves that he may save,
Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man
That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can
Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff,
Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear
Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.
Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score
Of erring men, and having done, meet more,
Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents,
Fantastic humours, perilous ascents,
False, empty honours, traitorous delights,
And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites;
But these and more which the weak vermins swell,
Are couch'd in this accumulative cell,
Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun
Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;
Day leaves me in a double night, and I
Must bid farewell to my sad library.
Yet with these notes—Henceforth with thought of thee
I'll season all succeeding jollity,
Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit;
Excess hath no religion, nor wit;
But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain,
One check from thee shall channel it again.
IN AMICUM FŒNERATOREM.
Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see
How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee.
Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more,
His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
As lesser lode-stones with the North consent,
Naturally moving to their element,
As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire,
So this vast crying sum draws in a less;
And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess,
For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere
Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear.
Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress
His messages in chink! not an express
Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit.
Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight
I read those lines, which angels do indite!
But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse
Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse?
Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once
What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones?
'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal
In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol;
I fear them not. I have no land to glut
Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut
Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare
To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir.
For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou
But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow
I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A bed of roses I'll provide for thee,
And crystal springs shall drop thee melody.
The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf
Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf.
Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet
Durst make love to, we'll teach the loving fit;
We'll suck the coral of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicy breath, a meal at need:
Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold
That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold;
Then peep for babies, a new puppet play,
And riddle what their prattling eyes would say.
But here thou must remember to dispurse,
For without money all this is a curse.
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
This iron age to gold, as once before.
This thou must do, and yet this is not all,
For thus the poet would be still in thrall,
Thou must then—if live thus—my nest of honey
Cancel old bonds, and beg to lend more money.
TO HIS FRIEND ——
I wonder, James, through the whole history
Of ages, such entails of poverty
Are laid on poets; lawyers—they say—have found
A trick to cut them; would they were but bound
To practise on us, though for this thing we
Should pay—if possible—their bribes and fee.
Search—as thou canst—the old and modern store
Of Rome and ours, in all the witty score
Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime,
And run o'er all the pilgrimage of time,
Thou'lt meet them poor, and ev'rywhere descry
A threadbare, goldless genealogy.
Nature—it seems—when she meant us for earth
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
As ever after niggards her, and she,
Thus stor'd within, beggars us outwardly.
Woful profusion! at how dear a rate
Are we made up! all hope of thrift and state
Lost for a verse. When I by thoughts look back
Into the womb of time, and see the rack
Stand useless there, until we are produc'd
Unto the torture, and our souls infus'd
To learn afflictions, I begin to doubt
That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout
Of slaves to pick out one whom for their sport
They keep afflicted by some ling'ring art;
So we are merely thrown upon the stage
The mirth of fools and legend of the age.
When I see in the ruins of a suit
Some nobler breast, and his tongue sadly mute
Feed on the vocal silence of his eye,
And knowing cannot reach the remedy;
When souls of baser stamp shine in their store,
And he of all the throng is only poor;
When French apes for foreign fashions pay,
And English legs are dress'd th' outlandish way,
So fine too, that they their own shadows woo,
While he walks in the sad and pilgrim shoe;
I'm mad at Fate, and angry ev'n to sin,
To see deserts and learning clad so thin;
To think how th' earthly usurer can brood
Upon his bags, and weigh the precious food
With palsied hands, as if his soul did fear
The scales could rob him of what he laid there.
Like devils that on hid treasures sit, or those
Whose jealous eyes trust not beyond their nose,
They guard the dirt and the bright idol hold
Close, and commit adultery with gold.
A curse upon their dross! how have we sued
For a few scatter'd chips? how oft pursu'd
Petitions with a blush, in hope to squeeze
For their souls' health, more than our wants, a piece?
Their steel-ribb'd chests and purse—rust eat them both!—
Have cost us with much paper many an oath,
And protestations of such solemn sense,
As if our souls were sureties for the pence.
Should we a full night's learnèd 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 hardship 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.