The Poetical Works of Horace Smith Now First Collected. In Two Volumes |
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THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST. |
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 | The Poetical Works of Horace Smith |  |
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THE POET AND THE ALCHEMIST.
Authors of modern date are wealthy fellows;—
'Tis but to snip his locks and follow
Now the golden-hair'd Apollo.
Invoking Plutus to blow up the bellows
Of inspiration, they distil
The rhymes and novels which cajole us,
Not from the Heliconian rill
But from the waters of Pactolus.
'Tis but to snip his locks and follow
Now the golden-hair'd Apollo.
Invoking Plutus to blow up the bellows
Of inspiration, they distil
The rhymes and novels which cajole us,
Not from the Heliconian rill
But from the waters of Pactolus.
Before this golden age of writers,
A Grub-street Garreteer existed,
One of the regular inditers
Of odes and poems to be twisted
Into encomiastic verses,
For patrons who have heavy purses.
Besides the Bellman's rhymes, he had
Others to let, both gay and sad,
All ticketed from A to Izzard;
And living by his wits, I need not add,
The rogue was lean as any lizard.
A Grub-street Garreteer existed,
One of the regular inditers
Of odes and poems to be twisted
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For patrons who have heavy purses.
Besides the Bellman's rhymes, he had
Others to let, both gay and sad,
All ticketed from A to Izzard;
And living by his wits, I need not add,
The rogue was lean as any lizard.
Like a rope-maker's were his ways,
For still one line upon another
He spun, and, like his hempen brother,
Kept going backwards all his days.
For still one line upon another
He spun, and, like his hempen brother,
Kept going backwards all his days.
Hard by his attic lived a Chemist,
Or Alchemist, who had a mighty
Faith in the Elixir Vitæ;
And though unflatter'd by the dimmest
Glimpses of success, kept groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation,
Stupidly hoping
To find the art of changing metals,
And guineas coin from pots and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.
Or Alchemist, who had a mighty
Faith in the Elixir Vitæ;
And though unflatter'd by the dimmest
Glimpses of success, kept groping
And grubbing in his dark vocation,
Stupidly hoping
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And guineas coin from pots and kettles,
By mystery of transmutation.
Our starving poet took occasion
To seek this conjuror's abode;
Not with encomiastic ode,
Or laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds the secret art,
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.
To seek this conjuror's abode;
Not with encomiastic ode,
Or laudatory dedication,
But with an offer to impart,
For twenty pounds the secret art,
Which should procure, without the pain
Of metals, chemistry, and fire,
What he so long had sought in vain,
And gratify his heart's desire.
The money paid, our bard was hurried
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, somewhat sublimized and flurried
Out of his chemical decorum,
Crow'd, caper'd, giggled, seem'd to spurn his
Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried as he secured the door,
And carefully put to the shutter,
“Now, now, the secret I implore;
For God's sake speak, discover, utter!”
To the philosopher's sanctorum,
Who, somewhat sublimized and flurried
Out of his chemical decorum,
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Crucibles, retort, and furnace,
And cried as he secured the door,
And carefully put to the shutter,
“Now, now, the secret I implore;
For God's sake speak, discover, utter!”
With grave and solemn air the Poet
Cried—“List—oh, list! for thus I show it:—
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,
Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave,
That we may all have what we like,
Simply by liking what we have!”
Cried—“List—oh, list! for thus I show it:—
Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,
Who still, though bless'd, new blessings crave,
That we may all have what we like,
Simply by liking what we have!”
| The Poetical Works of Horace Smith | |