The Harp of Erin :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ah me! that Learning should be so forlorn,
That oer the heath her houseless son must stray;
Or pillowing on yon turf, beneath the thorn,
His aching head, await the cheerless day!

Suspended from his satchel'd back, behold
Of ancient classics a compendious store;
Full ill they feed, or fence him from the cold,
Those ancient classics, like himself, were poor.

Yet often has he charm'd th' untutor'd ear,
With tales, the blind, old bard of Chios sung;
Oft, the rude hind has shed a gen'rous tear,
As Dido's anguish trembled on his tongue.

Oft, has his magic made ev'n misers feel,
And turn'd, on rusty hinge, their stubborn door;
Season'd, with Attic salt, their coarsest meal,
And, with the Roman Style, eras'd his score.

Oft, has the gossip's talk, by blazing hearth,
Eternal talk! been silenc'd for his strain;
Oft, has the whizzing wheel, and rustic mirth,
Subsided in his ditty's am'rous pain;

Meanwhile, the plodding brow, and stupid stare,
Proclaim'd the triumph of his mystic lore,
That won with mighty words the village-fair.—
Ah! transient triumph! now proclaim'd no more.

Remorseless, now, each former host is found,
Satiate of treasures from his mental mine,
Deaf to the soft Æolic's silver sound,
Nay, unrewarded by a golden line.

Admir'd in vain, though from yon leafless spray,
The nightingale prolongs her various note,
Will the grave owl, fell kite, or prattling jay,
One feather lend to patch her russet coat?

What plumy patron helps to form her nest?
Or, with a straw, repays the minstrel mild?
Yet lo! the thorn deep-rankling in her breast,
She fills th' unconscious wood with warblings wild.

To Genius useless his Elysian dreams;
Will mortgag'd Pindus save him from a jail?
Or Tagus' or Pactolus' precious streams?
The Muses, seldom, are sufficient bail.

What talents in yon tatter'd form may meet,
Now to ambition dead, and lost to hope;
Some new Erasmus, to preside o'er wit,
Some second Luther, to pull down a Pope!

No glitt'ring branch had he, his course to guide
Through college-fellows in their Stygian hall,
The deep Cerberean mouth who open wide,
And, triple-tongu'd, for opiate dainties call:

Nor Arabic, nor Coptic, did he learn,
Nor Runic, nor Formosan can he speak;
But if the Greek may, haply, serve his turn,
Not Scaliger could thunder purer Greek.

Sententious Sallust, Tacitus succinct,
And Livy's grace, and Tully's tuneful flow,
In bright assemblage, has his study linkt:
What more did Strada, or old Vossius know?

And crabbed Logic featly can he chop;
And problems intricate expound with ease:
Proud sophisters! your vain distinctions drop,
And, while he begs, oh! blush for your degrees!

See, from the wicker'd door, with yelp severe,
True cynic, as in tub e'er took his seat,
The peasant's cur, with sharp-erected ear,
And wagging tail, avert his vagrant feet:

His churlish master see! with grim malign,
In dull derision, shake his brainless head;
Nor, may he, with “the tale of Troy divine,”
Pelops, or Thebes, procure a scanty bed.

Beneath the midnight dews, and angry Jove,
Forc'd with th'unshelter'd savage to abide,
His lot to pity may that savage move,
And mock the falsehood of man's reas'ning pride.

But, such the baleful influence of that pow'r,
That, with misfortune, wrings the lonely mind;
Ev'n amid Nature's offspring, in that hour,
That tort'ring hour, no solace can he find.

Ev'n they, as with contempt or hatred stung,
Seem to adopt Ingratitude's vile plan;
And though awake to nought but present wrong,
Fly the sad footstep of forsaken Man!

Or Stylus.

Celebrated for his Latinity.