 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
19
From York to my Forgetful Friends in Lombard-Street.
What? have ye eaten shame, and quaft up bowls
Of Lethe after it? Or have Your Souls
Fled their false Earth? if not? curs'd be the Cells,
In which so treacherous a mem'ry dwells.
Or do my feet in paths unwonted stray?
Such as they call, Terra incognita.
Yet, if ye lov'd me, ye'd procure, no doubt,
The Cynicks Lanthorn, and enquire me out.
Y'have no such store, pretend all, what You can;
'Tis worth Your while, to look an honest Man.
And Citizens have Lanthorns, sure, but Sirs,
The reason's plain, y' are no Philosophers.
When I mov'd South y' ador'd my Horses Hoofs,
And waited on my Beams like Heliotrophs.
But now are insects by my absence slain,
Till, like the Spring, I bring ye life again.
Where are those Charms of Verse, that once could make
Vast Rocks, and rooted Oaks their site forsake?
What timber'd Men are ye? those hearts of Yours
Are Niobean, marble-moulded sure.
Bruits I may say, whom neither natures Law,
The Cords of Love, nor Love of lines can draw.
Of Lethe after it? Or have Your Souls
Fled their false Earth? if not? curs'd be the Cells,
In which so treacherous a mem'ry dwells.
Or do my feet in paths unwonted stray?
Such as they call, Terra incognita.
Yet, if ye lov'd me, ye'd procure, no doubt,
The Cynicks Lanthorn, and enquire me out.
Y'have no such store, pretend all, what You can;
'Tis worth Your while, to look an honest Man.
And Citizens have Lanthorns, sure, but Sirs,
The reason's plain, y' are no Philosophers.
When I mov'd South y' ador'd my Horses Hoofs,
And waited on my Beams like Heliotrophs.
But now are insects by my absence slain,
Till, like the Spring, I bring ye life again.
Where are those Charms of Verse, that once could make
Vast Rocks, and rooted Oaks their site forsake?
What timber'd Men are ye? those hearts of Yours
Are Niobean, marble-moulded sure.
Bruits I may say, whom neither natures Law,
The Cords of Love, nor Love of lines can draw.
But Ile repress my rage, since 'tis my fate,
To have to do with Men illiterate.
What can I think? indeed, what think I not?
But Your right hands their cunning has forgot:
Yet, lov'd ye but reciprocal delights,
Ye would have writ, though, but as Ephramites?
My papers, like a prey to Cacus Den,
All Post to London, none return again.
But, now I dare ye, let me answer get,
Or to my Love, or to my challenge yet.
If neither? know my mem'ry shall advance,
Above the Clouds of Your gross ignorance.
When ye shall in Devotion come, I trust,
Neglected Pilgrims, to my scornful dust.
To have to do with Men illiterate.
What can I think? indeed, what think I not?
But Your right hands their cunning has forgot:
20
Ye would have writ, though, but as Ephramites?
My papers, like a prey to Cacus Den,
All Post to London, none return again.
But, now I dare ye, let me answer get,
Or to my Love, or to my challenge yet.
If neither? know my mem'ry shall advance,
Above the Clouds of Your gross ignorance.
When ye shall in Devotion come, I trust,
Neglected Pilgrims, to my scornful dust.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |