 | Poems by Matthew Stevenson |  |
Upon a long, long'd for Friend contingently met in an Inn, who lay all night next Chamber to me, and I never knew it till next morning.
Next Room, and I not know it? 'tis a sign
The Poet had forgotten to Divine.
What Circe charm'd me? did the last Nights Cup
Of Lethe's Ice, lock my dull senses up.
With Morpheus Leaden Key? Endymions Cave
Was never so profound, as the warm Grave.
Rockt me in this dead sleep; No more then, say
With those of Old, Love will find out the way.
For Love is blind, as midnight, else for certain,
His eyes had pierc'd a porous Wainscoat Curtain.
Dead men can look through clay, and never stood
In need of Souls to call out murder'd blood.
And shall Revenge such correspondence keep
With Death, and (Love) none with Deaths Brother, sleep?
Officious steel to's proper pole does move:
How call ye Love the Load-stone then of Love?
The Marygold, and Heliotroph obey
Each motion of the Emperor of the day.
The crusty Oyster knows the Tides just hour,
And by instinct unlocks her Pearly Tower.
Jet will attract, and, if ye rub it, Amber;
What soul had I, reacht not to the next Chamber?
Could my dull Muse my senses recommend
To rest, should lose th' Idea of my Friend.
I have not ly'd, (I hope) when I exprest,
I alwayes did at his devotion rest.
Where were those active Atomes that convey
Intelligence? had they too lost their way?
Was I forsaken of my Genius?
No Mercury? No Mephestophilus?
Another, if but talkt of, far or near,
The news comes glowing hot up to his ear.
If good, or bad? he need no further seek,
For a Discovery than his own Cheek:
If thought on by his Mistriss, as much mis'd,
A flea leaps with the tidings to his wrist:
If he must kisse a fool, Or else drink Wine?
Follow his Nose, it leads him to the sign.
Swine ken the Wind, Beasts Rain, the silly Mouse
Foresees, and shuns the downfall of a house.
Plants, Fish, and Fowle, even all things know their season,
And bring their sense, thus, to upbraid my reason.
The Poet had forgotten to Divine.
What Circe charm'd me? did the last Nights Cup
Of Lethe's Ice, lock my dull senses up.
With Morpheus Leaden Key? Endymions Cave
Was never so profound, as the warm Grave.
Rockt me in this dead sleep; No more then, say
With those of Old, Love will find out the way.
For Love is blind, as midnight, else for certain,
His eyes had pierc'd a porous Wainscoat Curtain.
Dead men can look through clay, and never stood
In need of Souls to call out murder'd blood.
And shall Revenge such correspondence keep
With Death, and (Love) none with Deaths Brother, sleep?
Officious steel to's proper pole does move:
How call ye Love the Load-stone then of Love?
The Marygold, and Heliotroph obey
Each motion of the Emperor of the day.
The crusty Oyster knows the Tides just hour,
And by instinct unlocks her Pearly Tower.
137
What soul had I, reacht not to the next Chamber?
Could my dull Muse my senses recommend
To rest, should lose th' Idea of my Friend.
I have not ly'd, (I hope) when I exprest,
I alwayes did at his devotion rest.
Where were those active Atomes that convey
Intelligence? had they too lost their way?
Was I forsaken of my Genius?
No Mercury? No Mephestophilus?
Another, if but talkt of, far or near,
The news comes glowing hot up to his ear.
If good, or bad? he need no further seek,
For a Discovery than his own Cheek:
If thought on by his Mistriss, as much mis'd,
A flea leaps with the tidings to his wrist:
If he must kisse a fool, Or else drink Wine?
Follow his Nose, it leads him to the sign.
Swine ken the Wind, Beasts Rain, the silly Mouse
Foresees, and shuns the downfall of a house.
Plants, Fish, and Fowle, even all things know their season,
And bring their sense, thus, to upbraid my reason.
But more than Fortune had a hand in this,
To add the greater sweetnesse to our blisse.
Not willing that our joy should come to light,
Like greasie Candles in a gloomy night.
When I should say, well met, but I must leave ye,
My heart is light Sir, but, my eyes are heavy.
My kinder stars did well my joyes suspend,
Because the Morning is the Muses Friend.
It therefore, was of Industry forborn,
Till the sweet up-rise of the Rosie Morn;
That Titan might avow it with a beam,
Which, had we met o're night, had been a dream.
To add the greater sweetnesse to our blisse.
Not willing that our joy should come to light,
Like greasie Candles in a gloomy night.
When I should say, well met, but I must leave ye,
My heart is light Sir, but, my eyes are heavy.
My kinder stars did well my joyes suspend,
Because the Morning is the Muses Friend.
It therefore, was of Industry forborn,
Till the sweet up-rise of the Rosie Morn;
That Titan might avow it with a beam,
Which, had we met o're night, had been a dream.
| Poems by Matthew Stevenson | |