 | Poems (1806) |  |
188
A POETICAL ADDRESS TO A WIDOW LADY, OVER A DISH OF TEA IN HER HERMITAGE.
In this lone cot, which female hands have grac'd
With all the wildling fantasies of taste;
Where the forc'd trees in Gothic arches frown,
And boast a wreath of mosses not their own;
Where pillar'd birch-bark shews its silvery hue,
Mounts up the sides, and flourishes—in glue;
Where India bends her smooth fantastic root,
And Indian figures sprawl on every shoot—
In this lone cot, miscall'd the Hermit's cell,
No Hermit ever is design'd to dwell.
To spread his sallad on the maple stool,
To catch the clear stream in his beechen bowl;
And every eve, as louder sounds yon rill,
And yon high tower sinks fading from its hill,
To lift his soul in rapturous prayers on high,
Feel his fine spirits mounting to the sky;
And see at times the angels, hovering o'er,
Fling wide their robes, and blazon all the bower.—
With all the wildling fantasies of taste;
Where the forc'd trees in Gothic arches frown,
And boast a wreath of mosses not their own;
Where pillar'd birch-bark shews its silvery hue,
Mounts up the sides, and flourishes—in glue;
Where India bends her smooth fantastic root,
And Indian figures sprawl on every shoot—
In this lone cot, miscall'd the Hermit's cell,
No Hermit ever is design'd to dwell.
To spread his sallad on the maple stool,
To catch the clear stream in his beechen bowl;
And every eve, as louder sounds yon rill,
And yon high tower sinks fading from its hill,
189
Feel his fine spirits mounting to the sky;
And see at times the angels, hovering o'er,
Fling wide their robes, and blazon all the bower.—
For such high ends this cell was not design'd:
It owns a genius of a gentler kind.
Here a fine Lady from Park-lane retires,
And blends the Hermit's and the Courtier's fires;
Now dips in ancient or in modern lore,
Tastes as she reads, and lives past ages o'er;
Now, gayly thoughtful, or politely free,
Lights up the mirth of soft society.
The Hermit's beads around her neck she wears;
The Hermit's bowl in China's earth appears;
His maple board mahogany supplies;
And, for his sallad, tea and coffee rise.
It owns a genius of a gentler kind.
Here a fine Lady from Park-lane retires,
And blends the Hermit's and the Courtier's fires;
Now dips in ancient or in modern lore,
Tastes as she reads, and lives past ages o'er;
Now, gayly thoughtful, or politely free,
Lights up the mirth of soft society.
The Hermit's beads around her neck she wears;
The Hermit's bowl in China's earth appears;
His maple board mahogany supplies;
And, for his sallad, tea and coffee rise.
But one thing still is wanting to the whole;
The body asks an animating soul.
Without a warbler, what's a gilded cage?
Without a Hermit, what's a hermitage?
Take therefore, Madam, one monition well,
And place a Reverend Hermit in your cell.
Then shall to you the Saint's gay visions rise,
Then his elysium open to your eyes,
And all the angels, that should tend him near,
In their best forms—as boys and girls—appear.
The body asks an animating soul.
Without a warbler, what's a gilded cage?
Without a Hermit, what's a hermitage?
Take therefore, Madam, one monition well,
And place a Reverend Hermit in your cell.
190
Then his elysium open to your eyes,
And all the angels, that should tend him near,
In their best forms—as boys and girls—appear.
W. R.
| Poems (1806) | |