 | Miscellaneous works, prose and poetical |  |
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THE POET.
An Elegy.
Late has the bard survey'd with kindred sigh,
A solitary parson's hapless plight;
Late has the tear roll'd from my trembling eye,
To mourn with me the melancholy sight.
A solitary parson's hapless plight;
Late has the tear roll'd from my trembling eye,
To mourn with me the melancholy sight.
The tale of woe shall still the strain prolong.
The voice of sorrow wake the quiv'ring string,
A poet's woes shall be the plaintive song;
Waft them fair sorrow on your murmuring wing.
The voice of sorrow wake the quiv'ring string,
A poet's woes shall be the plaintive song;
Waft them fair sorrow on your murmuring wing.
The town-clock tolls, the solemn midnight hour,
Nor moon, nor planet trembles in the sky,
The weeping clouds distil a pattering shower,
The fleeting south wind wings its pitying sigh.
Nor moon, nor planet trembles in the sky,
The weeping clouds distil a pattering shower,
The fleeting south wind wings its pitying sigh.
The thoughtless mortal sinks in peaceful rest,
A happy stranger to the frown of woes;
The hand of Fortune lulls his quiet breast,
Her downy mantle o'er his slumber throws.
A happy stranger to the frown of woes;
The hand of Fortune lulls his quiet breast,
Her downy mantle o'er his slumber throws.
In yon lone chamber, where a feeble light
From the sad window's broken front appears,
Thro' which the tempest pours its howling flight,
And the fond shower its sympathizing tears—
From the sad window's broken front appears,
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And the fond shower its sympathizing tears—
A poet makes his solitary stay,
And courts the Muse's sadly pleasing smiles,
Who now at midnight tunes his gloomy lay,
Whose soothing music all his care beguiles.
And courts the Muse's sadly pleasing smiles,
Who now at midnight tunes his gloomy lay,
Whose soothing music all his care beguiles.
Musing he sits upon a limping chair,
And on his hand reclines his thoughtful head;
His rolling eye-balls on the cieling stare,
And a slow tribute to reflection shed.
And on his hand reclines his thoughtful head;
His rolling eye-balls on the cieling stare,
And a slow tribute to reflection shed.
His ragged floor, neglected papers spread,
Some dusty books display their grief-worn forms,
There Richard Blackmore rears his epic head,
And Richard Savage, dauntless bard of storms.
Some dusty books display their grief-worn forms,
There Richard Blackmore rears his epic head,
And Richard Savage, dauntless bard of storms.
Sad Otway, Dryden, Butler, Swift, arise,
Sweet Pope, smooth Thompson, Nature's fav'rite son,
There youthful Chatterton salutes the eyes,
And he who Rome's Augustin laurels won.
Sweet Pope, smooth Thompson, Nature's fav'rite son,
There youthful Chatterton salutes the eyes,
And he who Rome's Augustin laurels won.
His standish on his tott'ring desk remains,
Whence upward rises one sage lonely pen,
In which the Muses pour their thrilling strains,
And move the passions of unfeeling men.
Whence upward rises one sage lonely pen,
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And move the passions of unfeeling men.
His glimmering taper casts its rays around,
And trembles on the garret's laughing walls,
A crippled watch faint chimes a ticking sound,
And DREAMER SCRIPTOR to his straw-bed calls.
And trembles on the garret's laughing walls,
A crippled watch faint chimes a ticking sound,
And DREAMER SCRIPTOR to his straw-bed calls.
The hour of one the city-watchmen cry,
But Scriptor heedless his fond task pursues;
The roaring tempest howls along the sky,
But Scriptor heeds nought, but the whispering Muse.
But Scriptor heedless his fond task pursues;
The roaring tempest howls along the sky,
But Scriptor heeds nought, but the whispering Muse.
Poor rhiming Scriptor's wretched lot I know,
Oft have I seen him steal the street along,
His tattered garments told the man of woe,
The son of poverty, the son of song.
Oft have I seen him steal the street along,
His tattered garments told the man of woe,
The son of poverty, the son of song.
He mov'd with eye dejected on the ground,
His tuneful mouth drawn in a gloomy grin,
Not at each step the silver's jingling sound,
Sung goodly ditties from his poke within.
His tuneful mouth drawn in a gloomy grin,
Not at each step the silver's jingling sound,
Sung goodly ditties from his poke within.
But singing papers peep'd thro' spacious holes,
And caught the air and Sol's declining ray;
There elegies and songs lay snug in folds,
Heroic scraps, each species made their stay.
And caught the air and Sol's declining ray;
There elegies and songs lay snug in folds,
Heroic scraps, each species made their stay.
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I mark'd the colour of his precious coat,
Green it was once, but now 'tis yellow brown,
His hairs behind loose and disordered float,
And in thin locks hung sorrowfully down.
Green it was once, but now 'tis yellow brown,
His hairs behind loose and disordered float,
And in thin locks hung sorrowfully down.
Sweet sorrow! Scriptor's woes no more repine,
Hurt not the feelings of poor virtuous men.
His fate ah! youthful bard may still be thine!
Flee the fond strain, and burn thy humble pen.
Hurt not the feelings of poor virtuous men.
His fate ah! youthful bard may still be thine!
Flee the fond strain, and burn thy humble pen.
Perhaps like him unfriended and unknown,
In poverty and want, e'er long thou'lt roam;
Thy sweet deluded hopes too soon be flown,
And a lone garret be thy dolesome home.
In poverty and want, e'er long thou'lt roam;
Thy sweet deluded hopes too soon be flown,
And a lone garret be thy dolesome home.
Ah! dreadful thought; thou fav'rite strain adieu!
All the kind pleasure which thy music lends,
Poor woeful Scriptor rises to my view,
And his lone footsteps to yon thicket bends.
All the kind pleasure which thy music lends,
Poor woeful Scriptor rises to my view,
And his lone footsteps to yon thicket bends.
| Miscellaneous works, prose and poetical | |