 | A collection of poems |  |
9
An Elegy on the long expected Death of Old JANUS. [The New-England Weekly Courant.]
I mourn, alas! for in the grave is laid
Old rev'rend Janus with his double head.
Assist, ye nine, my mournful song inspire,
And thou, O Bacchus, add thy gen'rous fire;
Let high Parnassus weep in ev'ry place,
And let each summit celebrate a face:
Tears from all Argus' eyes this death demands,
While griev'd Briareus wrings his hundred hands.
Old rev'rend Janus with his double head.
Assist, ye nine, my mournful song inspire,
And thou, O Bacchus, add thy gen'rous fire;
Let high Parnassus weep in ev'ry place,
And let each summit celebrate a face:
Tears from all Argus' eyes this death demands,
While griev'd Briareus wrings his hundred hands.
Mourn, all ye scribblers who attempted fame,
Screen'd by the umbrage of his pow'rful name:
Whose works now cease each rolling week to rise,
A grateful cov'ring over smoaking pies;
Or when a squib a holliday declares,
To mount in air, and blaze among the stars.
You, woeful Wights! his lost protection mourn,
And let your griefs flow plenteous o'er his urn;
Alas! no more shall your bright souls be shown,
In foreign shapes, and features not your own:
No more you'll write beneath his shade conceal'd,
But in full dulness be abroad reveal'd.
So when th' ambitious Asse around him ty'd,
The shaggy horrors of the Lion's hyde,
Wheree'er he stalk'd the beasts forsook their prey,
And from the tawney terror fled away;
When now forgetting what he was before,
He tries to scowl, and thinks it time to roar;
He takes full breath,—but, ah, it came to pass,
That a loud bray confess'd the cover'd Asse:
In rush the shouting swains from ev'ry side,
Strip the vile beast, and bang his batter'd hyde.
Screen'd by the umbrage of his pow'rful name:
Whose works now cease each rolling week to rise,
A grateful cov'ring over smoaking pies;
Or when a squib a holliday declares,
To mount in air, and blaze among the stars.
You, woeful Wights! his lost protection mourn,
And let your griefs flow plenteous o'er his urn;
Alas! no more shall your bright souls be shown,
In foreign shapes, and features not your own:
No more you'll write beneath his shade conceal'd,
But in full dulness be abroad reveal'd.
10
The shaggy horrors of the Lion's hyde,
Wheree'er he stalk'd the beasts forsook their prey,
And from the tawney terror fled away;
When now forgetting what he was before,
He tries to scowl, and thinks it time to roar;
He takes full breath,—but, ah, it came to pass,
That a loud bray confess'd the cover'd Asse:
In rush the shouting swains from ev'ry side,
Strip the vile beast, and bang his batter'd hyde.
But, O my muse, some consolation bring,
And in this doleful ditty cease to sing.
Few thought his rev'rend vitals were so strong,
Or that th' old fellow could have liv'd so long.
For, many a month did to the world display,
How all his parts were hast'ning to decay;
And (as 'tis usual, e'er one's parting breath)
He lighten'd once or twice before his death;
For fire besure's in those who verses write;
And where, my friends, is fire, unless there's light?
These melancholy signals first appear'd,
And his approaching end to all declar'd.
So some old oak upon a plain appears,
Bending beneath a mighty weight of years;
If then, from heav'n, commission'd storms arise,
Fly o'er the fields, and thunder through the skies,
The tree astonish'd at the loud alarm,
Waves with the wind, and totters to the storm;
Its leafy honours all around are spread,
And acorns rattle from its lofty head;
'Till it's huge trunk breaks with a crashing sound,
And the tall top lies level with the ground.
And in this doleful ditty cease to sing.
Few thought his rev'rend vitals were so strong,
Or that th' old fellow could have liv'd so long.
For, many a month did to the world display,
How all his parts were hast'ning to decay;
And (as 'tis usual, e'er one's parting breath)
He lighten'd once or twice before his death;
For fire besure's in those who verses write;
And where, my friends, is fire, unless there's light?
These melancholy signals first appear'd,
And his approaching end to all declar'd.
11
Bending beneath a mighty weight of years;
If then, from heav'n, commission'd storms arise,
Fly o'er the fields, and thunder through the skies,
The tree astonish'd at the loud alarm,
Waves with the wind, and totters to the storm;
Its leafy honours all around are spread,
And acorns rattle from its lofty head;
'Till it's huge trunk breaks with a crashing sound,
And the tall top lies level with the ground.
| A collection of poems | |