 | Poems (1931) |  |
No. 45. From the Cock-Pit
A torn Fragment
Far other Labours now demand my Time.
Who from the Cock-pit ever writ in Rhyme?
Here while my Mind more useful Paths pursues,
No Gods I call on, and invoke no Muse;
But grown more grave, affect a diff'rent Praise,
The Style of Bus'ness and the Whitehall Phrase. [OMITTED]
Trembling I touch the Lyre, reluctant sing,
And know what Cares the tuneful Sisters bring.
My offspring in the Midnight Silence born,
Review'd with vigour on th' approaching Morn,
Oft fall unpity'd; and the work of Hours
The pen-knife mangles or the Flame devours. [OMITTED]
Thrice happy—whose prolific Brain
Three Folios teem'd without one moment's pain,
Whose un-repented Rhymes, fair Ludgate's Boast,
No Blot e'er soil'd nor friendly Pencil crost.
But one day scribbled, e'er anothers Dawn [OMITTED]
Who from the Cock-pit ever writ in Rhyme?
Here while my Mind more useful Paths pursues,
No Gods I call on, and invoke no Muse;
But grown more grave, affect a diff'rent Praise,
The Style of Bus'ness and the Whitehall Phrase. [OMITTED]
Trembling I touch the Lyre, reluctant sing,
And know what Cares the tuneful Sisters bring.
231
Review'd with vigour on th' approaching Morn,
Oft fall unpity'd; and the work of Hours
The pen-knife mangles or the Flame devours. [OMITTED]
Thrice happy—whose prolific Brain
Three Folios teem'd without one moment's pain,
Whose un-repented Rhymes, fair Ludgate's Boast,
No Blot e'er soil'd nor friendly Pencil crost.
But one day scribbled, e'er anothers Dawn [OMITTED]
[Tickell papers.]
| Poems (1931) | |