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VERSES, OCCASIONED BY THE LIBERAL OFFER OF A GENTLEMAN AFTER READING “THE POET'S COTTAGE .”
“Accept,” a generous Stranger said,—
Touch'd by the pages he had read,—
“Accept, since you at length have found
Joy-giving Health on Hampshire ground;
Hampshire, where Health delights to reign,
The Goddess of the Wood and Plain:
Accept a little sylvan spot,
Where you may build your Poet's Cot:
Nay where, already cut and dried,
A river running close beside,
With valley low and mountain high,
And many a capability,
A Cot you'll find, which little care
And no great cost may soon repair:
That Cot is yours, and garden ground;
But first survey the Scene around.”
Touch'd by the pages he had read,—
“Accept, since you at length have found
Joy-giving Health on Hampshire ground;
Hampshire, where Health delights to reign,
The Goddess of the Wood and Plain:
Accept a little sylvan spot,
Where you may build your Poet's Cot:
Nay where, already cut and dried,
A river running close beside,
With valley low and mountain high,
And many a capability,
A Cot you'll find, which little care
And no great cost may soon repair:
That Cot is yours, and garden ground;
But first survey the Scene around.”
Our grateful Poet bow'd the head
To all the generous Stranger said;
And Fancy, with her usual charm,
Resolv'd to keep the Subject warm;
Pursu'd in sleep the tempting theme,
And sketch'd her Cottage in a Dream;
And they who know her power can tell
Her style of Architecture well;
Nor wonder, if, in labour light,
Her work was finish'd in a night.
To all the generous Stranger said;
And Fancy, with her usual charm,
Resolv'd to keep the Subject warm;
Pursu'd in sleep the tempting theme,
And sketch'd her Cottage in a Dream;
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Her style of Architecture well;
Nor wonder, if, in labour light,
Her work was finish'd in a night.
Auspicious to the Poet's prayer,
The morning came, and it was fair;
For never did Aurora shine
Or tint more exquisitely fine:
And though the gale of Autumn blew,
And her rich clouding swiftly flew;
Now dark and menacing a storm,
Striding the Sun in giant form;
And now, more beauteous to behold,
The colours dipp'd in heavenly gold.
'Twas a Bard's Morn, when earth and sky
The richest scenery supply.
Oh, Man! like thy much-chequer'd day,
Now with heart-cheering prospect gay;
Envelop'd now in awful gloom,
Pointing the prospect to the tomb;
Thence bursting forth again to light,
Making the prospect doubly bright.
The morning came, and it was fair;
For never did Aurora shine
Or tint more exquisitely fine:
And though the gale of Autumn blew,
And her rich clouding swiftly flew;
Now dark and menacing a storm,
Striding the Sun in giant form;
And now, more beauteous to behold,
The colours dipp'd in heavenly gold.
'Twas a Bard's Morn, when earth and sky
The richest scenery supply.
Oh, Man! like thy much-chequer'd day,
Now with heart-cheering prospect gay;
Envelop'd now in awful gloom,
Pointing the prospect to the tomb;
Thence bursting forth again to light,
Making the prospect doubly bright.
Yet more, it was the day decreed,
With chosen Friend on Forest Steed,
To view the generous Stranger's Cot,
And Land of Promise on the spot.
Forth then they went o'er hill and dale,
And stubborn heath and ductile vale.
With hope elate, and weather fair,
A few hours' riding took them there.
With chosen Friend on Forest Steed,
To view the generous Stranger's Cot,
And Land of Promise on the spot.
Forth then they went o'er hill and dale,
And stubborn heath and ductile vale.
With hope elate, and weather fair,
A few hours' riding took them there.
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And now our Poet view'd his ground,
Enter'd the premises, and found
The terra firma fair and good;
Enough of garden, orchard, wood;
Enough of water, were it freed
From straggling sedge and wanton weed:
And for the Cot, 'twas strong and stout,
And snug within, and warm without;
And the blest southern Sun his ray
Shot in aslant at early day:
A rural church, a parsonage near,
And baronry of grander air;
And, what the Poet thought most sweet,
The scenery around complete;
And, what was still to him more dear,
A nest of little dwellings near,
Where the small neighbourhood, at ease,
Did seem to prosper like their trees;
While ruddy cheek, and sparkling eye,
Bespoke a healthy peasantry,
With whom the Bard his hours might share,
And in hard times relieve their care;
For, from a morsel split in twain,
Enough for nature may remain.
Enter'd the premises, and found
The terra firma fair and good;
Enough of garden, orchard, wood;
Enough of water, were it freed
From straggling sedge and wanton weed:
And for the Cot, 'twas strong and stout,
And snug within, and warm without;
And the blest southern Sun his ray
Shot in aslant at early day:
A rural church, a parsonage near,
And baronry of grander air;
And, what the Poet thought most sweet,
The scenery around complete;
And, what was still to him more dear,
A nest of little dwellings near,
Where the small neighbourhood, at ease,
Did seem to prosper like their trees;
While ruddy cheek, and sparkling eye,
Bespoke a healthy peasantry,
With whom the Bard his hours might share,
And in hard times relieve their care;
For, from a morsel split in twain,
Enough for nature may remain.
Thus, at a glance, did all things seem
To realize our Poet's Dream.
“A few additions to all this,”
Observ'd the Friend, “were not amiss;”
And those to give—the same kind Friend,
Who help'd to make, now help'd to mend;
She who so well had wrought before,
Now, zealous, form'd one fabric more,—
Without a shovel or a spade,
Or other instrument of trade,
Mortar or lime, or brick or straw,
Cement or trowel, axe or saw,
Fancy did all things fit command,
With the slight waving of her wand;
And, without digging, sowing, planting,
To house and ground sent all was wanting;
Dress'd Bard in Fortunatus' cap,
And lull'd Dame Reason with a nap;
And while the spell was stronger making,
Kept only Muse and Poet waking;
And what they did, in one half-hour,
Exceeds a dozen draymen's power,
Counting a day against a minute,
Yet smil'd as there was nothing in it;
Play'd with their work, and did such things,
Time lagg'd behind with weary wings.
To realize our Poet's Dream.
“A few additions to all this,”
Observ'd the Friend, “were not amiss;”
And those to give—the same kind Friend,
Who help'd to make, now help'd to mend;
She who so well had wrought before,
Now, zealous, form'd one fabric more,—
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Or other instrument of trade,
Mortar or lime, or brick or straw,
Cement or trowel, axe or saw,
Fancy did all things fit command,
With the slight waving of her wand;
And, without digging, sowing, planting,
To house and ground sent all was wanting;
Dress'd Bard in Fortunatus' cap,
And lull'd Dame Reason with a nap;
And while the spell was stronger making,
Kept only Muse and Poet waking;
And what they did, in one half-hour,
Exceeds a dozen draymen's power,
Counting a day against a minute,
Yet smil'd as there was nothing in it;
Play'd with their work, and did such things,
Time lagg'd behind with weary wings.
Fancy, her wand light waving thrice,
Settled impovements in a trice;
A room was added to the end,
With a spare chamber for a Friend;
Both smiling on the mountain's brow,
And vale and meadow grounds below:
The furniture was simply neat,
Just fit for Poet's lov'd retreat:
A dingey wall, that fronts the door,
With evergreens she cover'd o'er;
The crazy hovel, near the well,
At Fancy's touch obedient fell;
The swampy land she dried and drain'd;
The good old apple-trees remain'd:
She, in a moment, made a Mead,
For happy Poet's Cow and Steed.
A Horse like that the Poet rode,
A better sure ne'er Bard bestrode;
For, though he once did make a slip,—
Heav'n help us all!—who does not trip?
Then for the Garden, swift she brought
Green sward and gravel with a thought;
Topp'd the rude hedge, enwove a bower,
And bade her new creation flower;
In short, commanded all things meet,
Till Cot and Garden were complete;
And Brown and Repton needs must own,
To Fancy they should yield the throne.
Settled impovements in a trice;
A room was added to the end,
With a spare chamber for a Friend;
Both smiling on the mountain's brow,
And vale and meadow grounds below:
The furniture was simply neat,
Just fit for Poet's lov'd retreat:
A dingey wall, that fronts the door,
With evergreens she cover'd o'er;
The crazy hovel, near the well,
At Fancy's touch obedient fell;
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The good old apple-trees remain'd:
She, in a moment, made a Mead,
For happy Poet's Cow and Steed.
A Horse like that the Poet rode,
A better sure ne'er Bard bestrode;
For, though he once did make a slip,—
Heav'n help us all!—who does not trip?
Then for the Garden, swift she brought
Green sward and gravel with a thought;
Topp'd the rude hedge, enwove a bower,
And bade her new creation flower;
In short, commanded all things meet,
Till Cot and Garden were complete;
And Brown and Repton needs must own,
To Fancy they should yield the throne.
While thus she work'd, our Bard survey'd
What Friendship gave, and Fancy made;
He heav'd involuntary sighs,
And tears unbidden bath'd his eyes.
“And shall I then yet call my own,”
He cried, “when half my years are flown—
Though flown, alas! my heart, too slow,
Swift though they were for swifter woe!—
And shall I then no longer roam
The varied World, in search of Home?
From, foul Ingratitude, thy strife,
Hyæna false of social life!
And, Slander, from thy venom'd tongue,
And, Flattery, from thy syren song,
And from Deceit in Friendship's shape,—
Oh! from all these shall I escape?
Shall I from snakes and snares retire,
To Summer bow'r and Winter fire;
My Friend receive, forget my Foe;
And only those who love me know:
While all the rest shall keep aloof,
Nor dare profane my humble roof?
Oh joys! of every joy supreme!
What pity still 'tis half a dream!”
What Friendship gave, and Fancy made;
He heav'd involuntary sighs,
And tears unbidden bath'd his eyes.
“And shall I then yet call my own,”
He cried, “when half my years are flown—
Though flown, alas! my heart, too slow,
Swift though they were for swifter woe!—
And shall I then no longer roam
The varied World, in search of Home?
From, foul Ingratitude, thy strife,
Hyæna false of social life!
And, Slander, from thy venom'd tongue,
And, Flattery, from thy syren song,
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Oh! from all these shall I escape?
Shall I from snakes and snares retire,
To Summer bow'r and Winter fire;
My Friend receive, forget my Foe;
And only those who love me know:
While all the rest shall keep aloof,
Nor dare profane my humble roof?
Oh joys! of every joy supreme!
What pity still 'tis half a dream!”
With this soliloquy he clos'd;
But Reason now no longer doz'd;
And Fancy vanish'd into air.
“Oh, Bard!” stern Reason cried, “beware!
Half of thy wish before thee lies;
Let Reason teach thee to be wise:
For t'other half with patience wait,
The happier turns of future fate;
The premises contented take
E'en as they are, nor dare to make,
Except by gentle, due gradations,
Any of Fancy's alterations.
She may, I own, thy heart allure;
But I, though slow, work far more sure,
And those who treat me with respect
Find me a better architect:
In honest truth, I'm better skill'd
A Cottage to repair or build;
For, though the thing's complete in verse,
I never build without a purse;
Know what my Fund can safely bear,
While Fancy's Bank is form'd of Air.”
But Reason now no longer doz'd;
And Fancy vanish'd into air.
“Oh, Bard!” stern Reason cried, “beware!
Half of thy wish before thee lies;
Let Reason teach thee to be wise:
For t'other half with patience wait,
The happier turns of future fate;
The premises contented take
E'en as they are, nor dare to make,
Except by gentle, due gradations,
Any of Fancy's alterations.
She may, I own, thy heart allure;
But I, though slow, work far more sure,
And those who treat me with respect
Find me a better architect:
In honest truth, I'm better skill'd
A Cottage to repair or build;
For, though the thing's complete in verse,
I never build without a purse;
Know what my Fund can safely bear,
While Fancy's Bank is form'd of Air.”
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The Poet bow'd, and, sighing, said,
Reason should surely be obey'd;
He only hop'd the sacred Dame
Would not the Bard or Fancy blame,
If, till that distant, golden time,
They were to help him out in rhyme;
For, sure, in Rhyme itself there's Reason,
Till things more solid are in season.
“If Reason frowns at this,” said he,
“Her Majesty's no Queen for me:
How can I keep her lines and rules,
Till Fortune helps me to her tools?
But, while they both my suit refuse,
Welcome, dear Fancy and the Muse!
For, till I dwell in Reason's Cot,
These best can beautify the spot:
Alternately they work and play;
And Hope works with them, ever gay.
And, though they all are fond of Verse,
What's Reason, pray, without her Purse?
Reason should surely be obey'd;
He only hop'd the sacred Dame
Would not the Bard or Fancy blame,
If, till that distant, golden time,
They were to help him out in rhyme;
For, sure, in Rhyme itself there's Reason,
Till things more solid are in season.
“If Reason frowns at this,” said he,
“Her Majesty's no Queen for me:
How can I keep her lines and rules,
Till Fortune helps me to her tools?
But, while they both my suit refuse,
Welcome, dear Fancy and the Muse!
For, till I dwell in Reason's Cot,
These best can beautify the spot:
Alternately they work and play;
And Hope works with them, ever gay.
And, though they all are fond of Verse,
What's Reason, pray, without her Purse?
“But, mighty Dame, when that is fill'd,
O come, and help thy Bard to build!
Then Fancy, and the tuneful throng,
Shall yield to thee in all but song;
Invite thee to the Poet's bower,
And offer incense to thy power:
Nay, thou shalt be our constant guest,
By Fancy and the Muse caress'd.”
O come, and help thy Bard to build!
Then Fancy, and the tuneful throng,
Shall yield to thee in all but song;
Invite thee to the Poet's bower,
And offer incense to thy power:
Nay, thou shalt be our constant guest,
By Fancy and the Muse caress'd.”
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