 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
329
MITCHELL, Solus,
Sitting in a thoughtful Posture: In his Hand, his Taylor's Bill, with an expostulatory Letter: Pen, Ink, and Paper, on the Table by him.
[_]
In Imitation of Cato's Soliloquy, AND Humbly Inscribed to the Rt. Honourable John Earl of Stair, Anno Dom. 1724.
It must be so—Taylor, thou reason'st well!—
Else whence this pleasing Hope, this fond Desire,
This earnest Longing, to discharge thy Bill?
Or whence this secret Dread, and inward Horror,
Of an Arrest? Why shrinks the conscious Soul
Back on her self, and startles at a Bayliff?
The Justice of a Cause prevails within us;
'Tis Honesty that points out better Days,
And intimates ev'n Money to a Bard!
Money! thou pleasing, anxious, dreadful Thought!
Through what Variety of untry'd Life,
Through what new Scenes and Changes must we pass?
The wide, th' unbounded Prospect lies before me;
But Shadows, Clouds, and Darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If a Mæcenas be,
(And That there is, Fame publishes abroad
Thro' British Realms) he must delight in Goodness;
And That which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or who?—at present I'm in Need,
And dun'd for Debt—but This must bring Relief. (Taking his Pen in his Hand.)
Thus am I doubly arm'd. My Pain or Pleasure,
My Bane and Antidote are both before me.
This in a Moment claps me in a Goal;
But That informs me I shall yet be rich.
The Muse, secur'd by Inspiration, smiles
At sight of Catchpoles, and defys a Writ.
Nobles may perish, and the King himself
Submit to Fate, the very Realm be ruin'd;
But Bards shall flourish in immortal Youth,
Unhurt amidst the Whig and Tory Broils,
Our civil Fury, and our foreign Wars.
Else whence this pleasing Hope, this fond Desire,
This earnest Longing, to discharge thy Bill?
Or whence this secret Dread, and inward Horror,
330
Back on her self, and startles at a Bayliff?
The Justice of a Cause prevails within us;
'Tis Honesty that points out better Days,
And intimates ev'n Money to a Bard!
Money! thou pleasing, anxious, dreadful Thought!
Through what Variety of untry'd Life,
Through what new Scenes and Changes must we pass?
The wide, th' unbounded Prospect lies before me;
But Shadows, Clouds, and Darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If a Mæcenas be,
(And That there is, Fame publishes abroad
Thro' British Realms) he must delight in Goodness;
And That which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or who?—at present I'm in Need,
And dun'd for Debt—but This must bring Relief. (Taking his Pen in his Hand.)
331
My Bane and Antidote are both before me.
This in a Moment claps me in a Goal;
But That informs me I shall yet be rich.
The Muse, secur'd by Inspiration, smiles
At sight of Catchpoles, and defys a Writ.
Nobles may perish, and the King himself
Submit to Fate, the very Realm be ruin'd;
But Bards shall flourish in immortal Youth,
Unhurt amidst the Whig and Tory Broils,
Our civil Fury, and our foreign Wars.
What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This Lethargy that creeps thro' all my Senses?
Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with Care,
Sinks down to Dulness.—Let me drink a Bottle,
That my awaken'd Muse may wing her Flight,
Renew'd in all her Strength, and fresh with Life,
An Off'ring fit for Stair. Let Guilt or Fear
Disturb Man's Rest: Mitchell knows neither of 'em,
Indifferent in his Choice to live or die,
If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his Favour.
This Lethargy that creeps thro' all my Senses?
Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with Care,
Sinks down to Dulness.—Let me drink a Bottle,
That my awaken'd Muse may wing her Flight,
Renew'd in all her Strength, and fresh with Life,
332
Disturb Man's Rest: Mitchell knows neither of 'em,
Indifferent in his Choice to live or die,
If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his Favour.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |