Long scrolls of paper solemnly he waves, With characters and figures dire inscribed, Grievous to mortal eyes, (ye gods, avert
Finds no relief, nor heavy eyes repose: But if a slumber haply does invade My weary limbs, my fancy, still awake,
Such plagues from righteous men !) Behind him Thoughtful of drink, and eager, in a dream,
Another monster, not unlike itself,
Sullen of aspect, by the vulgar called
A Catchpole, whose polluted hands the gods With force incredible, and magic charms, First have endued: if he his ample palm Should haply on ill-fated shoulder lay Of debtor, straight his body to the touch Obsequious (as whilom knights were wont) To some enchanted castle is conveyed,
Tipples imaginary pots of ale;
In vain ; — awake I find the settled thirst
Still gnawing, and the pleasant phantom curse. Thus do I live, from pleasure quite debarred, Nor taste the fruits that the sun's genial rays Mature, john-apple, nor the downy peach, Nor walnut in rough-furrowed coat secure, Nor medlar fruit delicious in decay; Afflictions great! yet greater still remain. My galligaskins, that have long withstood
Where gates impregnable, and coercive chains,The winter's fury and encroaching frosts, In durance strict detain him, till, in form Of money, Pallas sets the captive free.
Beware, ye debtors! when ye walk, beware, Be circumspect; oft with insidious ken The caitiff eyes your steps aloof, and oft Lies perdue in a nook or gloomy cave, Prompt to enchant some inadvertent wretch With his unhallowed touch. So (poets sing) Grimalkin to domestic vermin sworn An everlasting foe, with watchful eye Lies nightly brooding o'er a chinky gap, Portending her fell claws, to thoughtless mice Sure ruin. So her disembowelled web Arachne, in a hall or kitchen, spreads Obvious to vagrant flies: she secret stands Within her woven cell; the humming prey, Regardless of their fate, rush on the toils Inextricable, nor will aught avail Their arts, or arms, or shapes of lovely hue. The wasp insidious, and the buzzing drone, And butterfly proud of expanded wings Distinct with gold, entangled in her snares, Useless resistance make; with eager strides, She towering flies to her expected spoils : Then with envenomed jaws the vital blood Drinks of reluctant foes, and to her cave Their bulky carcasses triumphant drags.
So pass my days. But when nocturnal shades This world envelop, and the inclement air Persuades men to repel benumbing frosts With pleasant wines and crackling blaze of wood, Me, lonely sitting, nor the glimmering light Of make-weight candle, nor the joyous talk Of loving friend, delights; distressed, forlorn, Amidst the horrors of the tedious night, Darkling I sigh, and feed with dismal thoughts My anxious mind; or sometimes mournful verse Indite, and sing of groves and myrtle shades, Or desperate lady near a purling stream, Or lover pendent on a willow-tree. Meanwhile I labor with eternal drought, And restless wish, and rave; my parched throat
By time subdued, (what will not time subdue !} An horrid chasm disclose with orifice Wide, discontinuous; at which the winds Eurus and Auster and the dreadful force Of Boreas, that congeals the Cronian waves, Tumultuous enter with dire chilling blasts, Portending agues. Thus a well-fraught ship, Long sails secure, or through the Egean deep, Or the Ionian, till cruising near
The Lilybean shore, with hideous crush On Scylla or Charybdis (dangerous rocks) She strikes rebounding; whence the shattered oak,
So fierce a shock unable to withstand, Admits the sea. In at the gaping side The crowding waves gush with impetuous rage, Resistless, overwhelming; horrors seize The mariners; Death in their eyes appears, They stare, they lave, they pump, they swear,
(Vain efforts!) still the battering waves rush in, Implacable, till, deluged by the foam, The ship sinks foundering in the vast abyss.
ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG
GOOD people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran
Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes: The naked every day he clad
When he put on his clothes.
good or ill - befell,
Since Adam's sons macadamized
The highways into hell: -
And the Devil-whose mirth is never loud
Laughs with a quiet mirth,
As he thinks how well his serpent-tricks Have been mimicked upon earth;
Of Eden and of England, soiled And darkened by the foot
Of those who preach with adder-tongues, And those who eat the fruit;
Of creeping things, that drag their slime Into God's chosen places,
And knowledge leading into crime, Before the angels' faces;
Of lands from Nineveh to Spain - That have bowed beneath his sway, And men who did his work, To Viscount Castlereagh!
THE NOSE AND THE EYES.
BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose ; The spectacles set them, unhappily, wrong; The point in dispute was, as all the world knows, To whom the said spectacles ought to belong.
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause, With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning,
While chief baron Ear sat to balance the laws, So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.
"In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly appear (And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find)
That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray, who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?
"On the whole, it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles, plainly, were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was, as plainly, intended for them."
Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how), He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes: But what were his arguments, few people know, For the court did not think them equally wise. solemn
So his lordship decreed, with a grave, tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but, That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on, By daylight or candlelight, -Eyes should be
O' a' the numerous human dools, Ill har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, Or worthy friends raked i' the mools, Sad sight to see !
The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools, Thou bear'st the gree.
Where'er that place be priests ca' hell, Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, And ranked plagues their numbers tell, In dreadfu' raw,
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell, Among them a';
O thou grim mischief-making chiel, That gars the notes of discord squeal, Till daft mankind aft dance a reel In gore a shoe-thick!
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal A fowmond's Toothache!
« VorigeDoorgaan » |