THE OLD BACHELOR.
AFTER THE MANNER OF SPENSER.
1 In Phoebus' region while some bards there be
That sing of battles, and the trumpet's roar;
Yet these, I ween, more powerful bards than me,
Above my ken, on eagle pinions soar!
Haply a scene of meaner view to scan,
Beneath their laurelled praise my verse may give,
To trace the features of unnoticed man;
Deeds, else forgotten, in the verse may live!
Her lore, mayhap, instructive sense may teach,
From weeds of humbler growth within my lowly reach.
2 A wight there was, who single and alone
Had crept from vigorous youth to waning age,
Nor e'er was worth, nor e'er was beauty known
His heart to captive, or his thought engage:
Some feeble joyaunce, though his conscious mind
Might female worth or beauty give to wear,
Yet to the nobler sex he held confined
The genuine graces of the soul sincere,
And well could show with saw or proverb quaint
All semblance woman's soul, and all her beauty paint.
3 In plain attire this wight apparelled was,
(For much he conned of frugal lore and knew,)
Nor, till some day of larger note might cause,
From iron-bound chest his better garb he drew:
But when the Sabbath-day might challenge more,
Or feast, or birthday, should it chance to be,
A glossy suit devoid of stain he wore,
And gold his buttons glanced so fair to see,
Gold clasped his shoon, by maiden brushed so sheen,
And his rough beard he shaved, and donned his linen clean.
4 But in his common garb a coat he wore,
A faithful coat that long its lord had known,
That once was black, but now was black no more,
Attinged by various colours not its own.
All from his nostrils was the front embrowned,
And down the back ran many a greasy line,
While, here and there, his social moments owned
The generous signet of the purple wine.
Brown o'er the bent of eld his wig appeared,
Like fox's trailing tail by hunters sore affeared.
5 One only maid he had, like turtle true,
But not like turtle gentle, soft, and kind;
For many a time her tongue bewrayed the shrew,
And in meet words unpacked her peevish mind.
Ne formed was she to raise the soft desire
That stirs the tingling blood in youthful vein,
Ne formed was she to light the tender fire,
By many a bard is sung in many a strain:
Hooked was her nose, and countless wrinkles told
What no man durst to her, I ween, that she was old.
6 When the clock told the wonted hour was come
When from his nightly cups the wight withdrew,
Eight patient would she watch his wending home,
His feet she heard, and soon the bolt she drew.
If long his time was past, and leaden sleep
O'er her tired eyelids 'gan his reign to stretch,
Oft would she curse that men such hours should keep,
And many a saw 'gainst drunkenness would preach;
Haply if potent gin had armed her tongue,
All on the reeling wight a thundering peal she rung.
7 For though, the blooming queen of Cyprus' isle
O'er her cold bosom long had ceased to reign,
On that cold bosom still could Bacchus smile,
Such beverage to own if Bacchus deign:
For wine she prized not much, for stronger drink
Its medicine, oft a cholic-pain will call,
And for the medicine's sake, might envy think,
Oft would a cholic-pain her bowels enthral;
Yet much the proffer did she loathe, and say
No dram might maiden taste, and often answered nay.
8 So as in single animals he joyed,
One cat, and eke one dog, his bounty fed;
The first the cate-devouring mice destroyed,
Thieves heard the last, and from his threshold fled:
All in the sunbeams basked the lazy cat,
Her mottled length in couchant posture laid;
On one accustomed chair while Pompey sat,
And loud he barked should Puss his right invade.
The human pair oft marked them as they lay,
And haply sometimes thought like cat and dog were they.