html website builder

A RHAPSODY.

Of all the various lots around the ball,
Which Fate to man distributes absolute;
Avert, ye gods! that of the Muse's son,
Cursed with dire poverty: poor hungry wretch,
What shall he do for life? he cannot work
With manual labour: shall those sacred hands,
That brought the counsels of the gods to light;
Shall that inspired tongue, which every Muse
Has touch'd divine, to charm the sons of men;
These hallow'd organs; these! be prostitute
To the vile service of some fool in power,
All his behests submissive to perform,
Howe'er to him ingrateful? Oh! he scorns
The' ignoble thought with generous disdain;
More eligible deeming it to starve,
Like his famed ancestors renown'd in verse,
Than poorly bend to be another's slave--
Than feed, and fatten in obscurity.
--These are his firm resolves, which fate, nor time,
Nor poverty can shake. Exalted high
In garret vile he lives; with remnants hung
Of tapestry: but oh! precarious state
Of this vain transient world! all powerful time!
What dost thou not subdue? See what a chasm
Gapes wide, tremendous! see where Saul enraged
High on his throne, encompass'd by his guards,
With level'd spear, and arm extended, sits,
Ready to pierce old Jesse's valiant son,
Spoil'd of his nose--around in tottering ranks
On shelves pulverulent, majestic stands
His library; in ragged plight, and old;
Replete with many a load of criticism,
Elaborate products of the midnight toil
Of Belgian brains; snatch'd from the deadly hands
Of murderous grocer, or the careful wight
Who vends the plant that glads the happy shore
In Indian Patomack; which citizens
In balmy fumes exhale, when, o'er a pot
Of sage inspiring coffee, they dispose
Of kings and crowns, and settle Europe's fate.

 

Elsewhere the dome is fill'd with various heaps
Of old domestic lumber; that huge chair
Has seen six monarchs fill the British throne;
Here a broad massy table stands, o'erspread
With ink and pens, and scroll replete with rhyme:
Chests, stools, old razors, fractured jars half full
Of muddy zythum, sour and spiritless:
Fragments of verse, hose, sandals, utensils
Of various fashion and of various use,
With friendly influence hide the sable floor.

 

This is the Bard's Museum, this the fane
To Phoebus sacred, and the' Aonian maids:
But oh! it stabs his heart, that niggard Fate
To him in such small measure should dispense
Her better gifts; to him; whose generous soul
Could relish, with as fine an elegance,
The golden joys of grandeur and of wealth;
He who could tyrannize o'er menial slaves,
Or swell beneath a coronet of state,
Or grace a gilded chariot with a mien
Grand as the haughtiest Timon of them all.--
But 'tis in vain to rave at destiny?
Here he must rest, and brook the best he can,
To live remote from grandeur, learning, wit;
Immured amongst the' ignoble, vulgar herd,
Of lowest intellect; whose stupid souls
But half inform their bodies; brains of lead
And tongues of thunder: whose insensate breasts
Ne'er felt the rapturous soul-entrancing fire
Of the celestial Muse; whose savage ears
Ne'er heard the sacred rules, nor e'en the names,
Of the Venusian Bard or critic sage
Full famed of Stagyra: whose clamorous tongues
Stun the tormented ear with colloquy,
Vociferate, trivial, or impertinent;
Replete with boorish scandal. Yet, alas!
This, this! he must endure; or muse alone,
Pensive and moping o'er the stubborn rhyme,
Or line imperfect.--No! the door is free,
And calls him to evade their deafening clang,
By private ambulation;--'tis resolved:
Off from his waist he throws the tatter'd gown,
Beheld with indignation, and unloads
His pericranium of the weighty cap,
With sweat and greas discolour'd: then explores
The spacious chest, and from its hollow womb
Draws his best robe, yet not from tincture free
Of age's reverend russet, scant and bare;
Then down his meagre visage waving flows
The shadowy peruke; crown'd with gummy hat,
Clean brush'd; a cane supports him. Thus equipp'd,
He sallies forth; swift traverses the streets,
And seeks the lonely walk; 'Hail, silvan scenes!
Ye groves, ye valleys, ye meandering brooks,
Admit me to your joys; in rapturous phrase,
Loud he exclaims; while with the' inspiring Muse
His bosom labours; and all other thoughts,
Pleasure and wealth, and poverty itself,
Before her influence vanish. Rapp'd in thought,
Fancy presents before his ravish'd eyes
Distant posterity upon his page
With transport dwelling; while bright Learning's sons,
That ages hence must tread this earthly ball,
Indignant seem to curse the thankless age
That starved such merit. Meantime, swallow'd up
In meditation deep, he wanders on,
Unweeting of his way.--But ah! he starts!
With sudden fright his glaring eyeballs roll,
Pale turns his cheeks, and shake his loosen'd joints;
His cogitations vanish into air,
Like painted bubbles, or a morning dream:
Behold the cause! see! through the opening glade,
With rosy visage, and abdomen grand,
A cit, a dun!--As in Apulia's wilds,
Or where the Thracian Hebrus rolls his wave,
A heedless kid, disportive, roves around,
Unheeding, till upon the hideous cave
Of the dire wolf she treads; half dead, she views
His bloodshot eyeballs, and his dreadful fangs,
And, swift as Eurus, from the monster flies:
So fares the trembling bard; amazed he turns,
Scarce by his legs upborne; yet fear supplies
The place of strength; straight home he bends his course,
Nor looks behind him till he safe regain
His faithful citadel; there spent, fatigued,
He lays him down to ease his heaving lungs,
Quaking, and of his safety scarce convinced.
Soon as the panic leaves his panting breast,
Down to the Muse's sacred rites he sits,
Volumes piled round him; see! upon his brow
Perplex'd anxiety, and struggling thought,
Painful as female throes: whether the bard
Display the deeds of heroes; or the fall
Of vice in lay dramatic; or expand
Thy lyric wing; or in elegiac strains
Lament the fair; or lash the stubborn age
With laughing satire; or in rural scenes
With shepherds sport; or rack his hard-bound brains
For the' unexpected turn. Arachne so,
In dusty kitchen corner, from her bowels
Spins the fine web; but spins with better fate
Than the poor bard: she! caitiff! spreads her snares,
And with their aid enjoys luxurious life,
Bloated with fat of insects, flesh'd in blood:
He! hard, hard lot! for all his toil and care,
And painful watchings, scarce protracts a while
His meagre, hungry days: ungrateful world!
If with his drama he adorn the stage;
No worth-discerning concourse pays the charge,
Or of the' orchestra, or the' enlightening torch.
He who supports the luxury and pride
Of craving Lais: he! whose carnage fills
Dogs, eagles, lions; has not yet enough
Wherewith to satisfy the greedier maw
Of that most ravenous, that devouring beast,
Yclep'd a Poet. What new Halifax,
What Somers, or what Dorset canst thou find,
Thou hungry mortal? break, wretch, break thy quill;
Blot out the studied image; to the flames
Commit the Stagyrite; leave this thankless trade;
Erect some peddling stall with trinkets stock'd,
There earn thy daily halfpence, nor again
Trust the false Muse: so shall the cleanly meal
Repel intruding hunger.--Oh! 'tis vain,
The friendly admonition's all in vain;
The scribbling itch has seized him: he is lost
To all advice, and starves for starving's sake.

 

Thus sung the sportful Muse, in mirthful mood,
Indulging gay the frolic vein of youth;
But, oh! ye gods, avert the' impending stroke
This luckless omen threatens! Hark! methinks
I hear my better angel cry, 'Retreat,
Rash youth! in time retreat! let those poor bards
Who slighted all, all! for the flattering Muse,
Yet cursed with pining want, as landmarks stand,
To warn thee from the service of the' ingrate.'