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The Harp of Erin

Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes

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ELEGIAC EXPOSTULATION TO AN UNFORTUNATE TAYLOR.
  
  
  
  
  
  
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100

ELEGIAC EXPOSTULATION TO AN UNFORTUNATE TAYLOR.

O thou whose visionary bills unpaid,
Long as thy measure, o'er my slumber stream;
Whose goose, hot-hissing through the midnight shade,
Disturbs the transport of each softer dream!
Why do imaginary needles wound?
Why do thy sheers clip short my fleeting joys?
Ah! why, emerging from thy hell profound,
The ghost of shreds and patches awful rise?
Once more look up, nor droop thy hanging head;
The liberal linings of that breast unfold;
Be smiles, far brighter than thy buttons, spread;
And nobly scorn the vulgar lust of gold.
Though doom'd by fortune, since remotest time,
No meaner coin of moderate date to use,
Lo! I can well reward with sterling rhyme,
Stamp'd by the sacred mintage of the muse.

101

Why mourn thy folly, why deplore thy fate,
Why call on ev'ry Power in sore dismay?
Thy warmest orisons, alas! are late:
Reflect—didst thou e'er know a poet pay?
Vain from thy shopboard the eternal sigh;
Can guineas from the vacant pocket fly?
Can sorrow fill this empty purse of mine?
Ah me! so long with dire consumption pin'd,
When shall that purse ill-omen'd proudly swell
Full as the sail that holds the fav'ring wind?
Mysterious ministers of Money, tell.
Fond man! while pausing o'er that gloomy page
That tells thee what thou art in terms too plain,
O'er the capacious ledger lo e thy rage,
Nor of unsettled debts again be vain.
There lords, and dukes, and mighty princes lic,
Nor on them canst thou for prompt payment call.
Why starts the big drop in thine anguish'd eye?
One honest genuine bard is worth them all.
A common garment such as mortals wear
(Dull sons of clay, the ready price who give,)
Thou mad'st, and lo! it lasted one short year;
But in my garment thou shalt ever live.

102

Time ne'er shall rip one consecrated seam
Of cloth, from Fancy's loom all superfine;
Nor shall I cruel haunt thy softer dream,
E'en when I dress thee in a suit divine.
Let sage philosophy thy soul inform
With strength heroic every ill to bear:
Not better broad-cloth braves the angry storm,
And constant patience is delightful wear.
Be patient then, and wise, nor meanly shrink
Beneath Despondency's tumultuous blast:
The reck'ning-day may come when least you think,
A joyful day, though miracles are past.