Peter Faultless to his brother Simon tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott] |
 |
 |
|
|
TO ONE WHO ONCE KNEW ME. |
 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon |  |
TO ONE WHO ONCE KNEW ME.
Frown'st thou, to think a wretch so poor as IDares write to thee? and dost thou wonder why?
217
I heard men hail thee blessed! and fear'd to write
To one who—awful in his morning gown,—
Breakfasts no more on porridge greyly brown.
Now, bolder grown, I scrawl to thee a letter,
Hoping thou'lt deign to answer in a better;
For she, the Goddess whom the wise implore,
Hath rein'd, at length, her chariot at my door.
But truce with metaphors! methinks 'tis time
Plainly to speak, and write plain prose in rhyme.
This night, our rich aunt (may she still be richer!)
Sent me two guineas, and of ale a pitcher,
Besides four candles, and three quires of paper;
And, therefore, write I by my midnight taper,
As thriving author should, since never more
Will famine dare to enter at my door.
My wife is gone to bed, (there lies she, fair!)
That I may throne me on our only chair.
'Twould warm thy heart, could'st thou the poet see,
While my poor garret, bright as bright can be,
Seems lost in wonder at itself and me.
218
I stole the candles, and the pitcher, too;
The very pot that holds our nightly beer,
Jealous o' th' ale, (or I mistake,) looks queer;
And—by this beef, 'tis true, as these are pies!—
A mouse peep'd, and scarce could trust his eyes,
Scarce could I mine. Lo, rising through the floor,
Again he peeps!—“What! dubious, as before?
There, sceptic! eat—and, henceforth, doubt no more.”—
As some lean rat, long parch'd in famine's hell,
Long doom'd by Fate, (but not content,) to smell
The pantry's viands, which he may not taste,
At length, gains entrance, and, with hunger's haste,
Licks on Sir Loin's fresh cheek the dewy rose,
Dips in the bliss of broth his ravish'd nose,
Or, lapping gravy from its china boat,
Feels as if furnish'd with new tongue and throat;
So I, long darkling through each dreary night
Enjoy in gloom the luxury of light,
With famine blue, on savoury steaks regale,
Transported, quaff the amber heaven of ale,
219
What witch has chang'd to me thy cream-fac'd friend?—
But writing is a task of thirsty pain:
Friend of my youth! I'll drink thy health again—
Alas! my pitcher rues inebriate theft!
Not one, one thought-inspiring drop is left!
Ah, why depart so soon ye visions, bright
With feastful days, and nights of candle-light?
I see to-morrow in this empty pitcher!
Oh, had I cobbled shoes, or been a ditcher,
Or, like the devil, dealt in liquid fire,
And kept a dram-shop, with good Christians nigher,
Though poor, perchance as now, I had not been
Half-craz'd, blue-grey, and, as a broomstick, lean.
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon | |