قراءة كتاب Poetry

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‏اللغة: English

Poetry

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المؤلف:

Oldham Thomas

دار النشر: Project Gutenberg

الصفحة رقم: 3

changeful breast, With hope exalted, or by fear deprest! Now, by the Muse inspired, I snatch the lyre, And proudly to poetic fame aspire; Now dies the sacred flame, my pride declines, And diffidence the immortal wreath resigns. Friends, void of taste, warm advocates for trade, With shafts of ridicule, my peace invade: 'A Poet!'—thus they sneeringly exclaim— 'Well may you court that glorious, envied name; For, sure, no common joys his lot attend; None but himself those joys can comprehend.

O, superhuman bliss, employ sublime, To scribble fiction, and to jingle rhyme! Caged in some muse-behaunted, Grub-street garret, To prate his feeders' promptings, like a parrot! And what, though want and scorn his life assail? What, though he rave in Bedlam, starve in jail? Such trifling ills the Bard may well despise; Sure of immortal honour when he dies. But, seriously—the advice of friendship hear: Stop short in your poetical career; O! quell the frenzies of your fever'd brain, And turn, at Wisdom's call, to trade and gain,'

Absorb'd in passive sadness, I comply; Turn from the Muse my disenchanted eye, And deign to study, as my friends persuade, The little, money-getting arts of trade. But soon the Goddess, fired with high disdain To see me woo the yellow strumpet, Gain, Resuming all her beauty, all her power, Returns to triumph in the vacant hour; Weakly reluctant, on her charms I gaze, Trembling, I feel her fascinating lays; Roused from ignoble dreams, my wondering soul Springs to the well-known bliss, regardless of control.

Say then, ye blind, profane! who dare to blame The heaven-born Poet, and his thirst of fame; Ye slaves of Mammon! whose low minds behold No fair, no great, no good, in aught but gold; Say! will the Captive of tyrannic sway, Restored to genial air, and boundless day, Turn to his dungeon's suffocating night? Will the proud Eagle, who with daring flight Sublimely soars against the solar blaze, And eyes the inspiring God with raptured gaze, Stoop from his native kingdom in the sky, To share the breathings of mortality?

How, then, can he, whose breast the Muse inspires, Restrain his soul, or quench those hallow'd fires? How can he quit the world of mental bliss, For all the riches,—miseries!—of this?

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

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When to the region of the tuneful Nine, Rapt in poetic vision, I retire, Listening intent to catch the strain divine— What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!

Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes, Stray the fair daughters of immortal song; Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries, And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.

O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo? Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar? A solemn pause ensues:—then falters low The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'

'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour Saw each poetic star indulgent shine; E'en Phœbus' self o'erruled with kindliest power, And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."

'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring; In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried; We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing, And watch'd his progress with delight and pride.

'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind, Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known; Taught him to range, by matter unconfined, And claim the world of fancy for his own.

'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race; Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul, Started at once with more than human pace, And urged his flight, impatient for the goal:

'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired, He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth, The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired:

'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast! The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade; Soon dire Adversity's relentless host, Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade:

'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride; Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn, Rush into solitude his pangs to hide.

'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires: In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear! Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.'

ELEGY,

(WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY.)

SYLVIA ON HER DEAD CANARY-BIRD.

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