 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
214
THE POET.
Tell me, dear Florio! didst thou never know
The Poet by his Mien, and outward Show?
Say, didst thou ne'er observe the Head elate,
Slow-measur'd step, and ever-sober Gate;
The serious Look, with fix'd, uplifted Eyes,
In pensive Mood conversing with the Skies?
Hast not thou seen him musing thro' the Woods,
Or lonely dreaming by the silver Floods,
Where a slow River rowls it's easy Stream,
Calm as his Thoughts, and gentle as his Theme?
The Poet by his Mien, and outward Show?
Say, didst thou ne'er observe the Head elate,
Slow-measur'd step, and ever-sober Gate;
The serious Look, with fix'd, uplifted Eyes,
In pensive Mood conversing with the Skies?
Hast not thou seen him musing thro' the Woods,
Or lonely dreaming by the silver Floods,
Where a slow River rowls it's easy Stream,
Calm as his Thoughts, and gentle as his Theme?
215
Oft by his Dress you may the Bard descry,
The Sun-burnt Caxton, stareing all awry;
The brown, unbuckled Shoe, the Stockings down,
The Crop-ear'd Hat, and tatter'd Morning-Gown;
The Shirt unbutton'd at his tuneful Throat,
Whilst Want sits cringing on his Thread-bare Coat;
Unknowing where, he passes thro' the Throng,
And rumbles Verses, as he moves along.
The Sun-burnt Caxton, stareing all awry;
The brown, unbuckled Shoe, the Stockings down,
The Crop-ear'd Hat, and tatter'd Morning-Gown;
The Shirt unbutton'd at his tuneful Throat,
Whilst Want sits cringing on his Thread-bare Coat;
Unknowing where, he passes thro' the Throng,
And rumbles Verses, as he moves along.
Have you not seen him in an upper Floor,
Scratching for Rhime, Poetically Poor?
The Books he has, one little Shelf contains,
No Ready Cash, the Price of all his Pains!
Whate'er the Muses bring with Morning Light,
Melts in mild-Ale the next succeeding Night.
His Room's uncooth, disorder'd, as his Dress,
The very Windows speak his sore Distress:
No glitt'ring Candlesticks adorn his Board,
Nor common Candles will his Purse afford;
A black Tobacco-Pipe must serve instead,
And Make-weight Candle light the Bard to Bed.
Broke by the Chimney stands an Elbow-Chair,
The bursten Bellows wheezing for Repair:
Extended Cob-webs hang the sable Room,
And throw around a dim, Religious Gloom:
Disjoynted Table, Chimney void of Grate,
All speak their Master's broken, low Estate.
Scratching for Rhime, Poetically Poor?
The Books he has, one little Shelf contains,
No Ready Cash, the Price of all his Pains!
Whate'er the Muses bring with Morning Light,
Melts in mild-Ale the next succeeding Night.
His Room's uncooth, disorder'd, as his Dress,
The very Windows speak his sore Distress:
No glitt'ring Candlesticks adorn his Board,
Nor common Candles will his Purse afford;
216
And Make-weight Candle light the Bard to Bed.
Broke by the Chimney stands an Elbow-Chair,
The bursten Bellows wheezing for Repair:
Extended Cob-webs hang the sable Room,
And throw around a dim, Religious Gloom:
Disjoynted Table, Chimney void of Grate,
All speak their Master's broken, low Estate.
Say then, dear Florio! didst thou never see
The wretched Creature of this mean Degree?
Macer's the Man (if e'er you heard his Name)
And if we were to search the Books of Fame,
I fancy, all True Poets are the Same.
The wretched Creature of this mean Degree?
Macer's the Man (if e'er you heard his Name)
And if we were to search the Books of Fame,
I fancy, all True Poets are the Same.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |