Ye thoughtless fair!—her early death bemoan,
Sense, virtue, beauty, to oblivion gone.[337]
[336] In the 1788 edition this appeared as two poems. The opening six lines had the title "Epitaph" and the remainder was entitled "Lines on the Death of a Lady." In the 1809 edition, the text of which is followed here, the poem was placed in the group of Amanda poems.
[337] "And while you mourn your fate, think on your own."—Ed. 1788.
THE INSOLVENT'S RELEASE[338]
(By H. Salem)
Not from those dismal dreary coasts I come
Where wizzard Faustus chews his brimstone rolls,
Nor have I been to wrangle with the men
Of that sad country, where, for want of rum,
Dead putrid water from the stagnant fen
Is drank, unmingled, by departed souls:
Nor from that dog-house do I bring you news,
Where Macedonian Philip[A] mends old shoes,
But from that dreadful place arrived,
Where men in debt at cribbage play,
And I most cunningly contrived
To fatten on two groats a day—
Full on my back now turned the key,
The 'squire himself is not so free.
When to these rugged walls, a fathom thick,
I came, directed by the sheriff's stick,
Alas, said I, what can they mean to do!
I am not conscious of one roguish trick!
I am no thief—I took no Christian's life,
Nor have I meddled with the parson's wife,
(Which would have been a dreadful thing you know)
Then, by these gloomy walls, this iron gate
Appointed by the wisdom of your state
To shut in little rogues, and keep out great;
Tell me, ye pretty lads, that deal in law,
Ye men of mighty wigs, ye judges, say—
Say! by the jailor's speckled face
That never beamed one blush of grace;
How long must I
In prison lie
For just nine guineas—that I cannot pay!
Return, ye happy times, when all were free,
No jails on land, no nets at sea;
When mountain beasts unfettered ran,
And man refused to shut up man,
As men of modern days have shut up me!—
This is the dreary dark abode
Of poverty and solitude;
Such was the gloomy cell where Bunyan lay
While his dear pilgrim helped the time away—
Such was the place where Wakefield's vicar drew
Grave morals from the imprisoned crew,
And found both time to preach and pray.
In bed of straw and broken chair
What consolation could be found!
No gay companions ventured there
To push the ruddy liquor round!
From jug of stone
I drank, alone,
A beverage, neither clear nor strong
No table laid,
No village maid
Came there to cheer me with her song;
My days were dull, my nights were long!
My evening dreams,
My morning schemes
Were how to break that cruel chain,
And, Jenny, be with you again.
[A] See Lucian's Dialogues; to the following effect: