Poems to Thespia :: :: University of Virginia Library

On the last twentieth of December
I vow'd, as you perhaps remember
No more to sound the Muses' shell,
And bade to all their strains farewell,
This holiday alone excepted,
And from the general ban protected.
While firmly my resolves to bind,
And keep me in the self-same mind,
Three tyrants have combined their force,
Sworn enemies to fancy's course.

121

Business, with stern and solemn air,
Now plodding studious in his chair,
Now cane in hand the city pacing,
Now thro the neighbouring country racing,
Intent to mark each latent ill,
Prescribing bolus, draught or pill,
As points success, so sinking, rising,
Or with the wretched sympathising.
Business and poesy (no wonder)
Must dwell at least a league asunder.

Next, Time, which sways all human things,
And to an end their progress brings,
Who bids the trifler's whims be o'er,
The charms of beauty charm no more,
Who, as we in the picture see,
Holds little Cupid on his knee;
Nor tho he weeps, his victim spares,
But trims his pinions with his sheers,
Advances on with frosty pace,
And shakes his hour-glass in my face.

122

As if they play'd a losing game,
To aid them, lately Fever came,
Destructive both of love and wit,
She sprung from Acheron's dark pit,
Prepared to strike a fatal blow,
And drag me to the shades below:
Deep thro my veins her poison roll'd,
This beating heart was well-nigh cold.
Nor had the invidious monster fail'd,
But you my Thespia still prevail'd.
The shield of wedded faith you brought,
And many a shaft thereon was caught.
By day, by night you took your stand,
The sacred nectar in your hand,
With antidotes to Hermes due,
By him imported from Peru.
Nor less with sighs and gentle prayer
You soothed the fiend's barbaric ear,
Till vanquisht she at length retired,
Health beam'd anew, and I respired.

123

But ere she fled, from out my brain
She chaced imagination's train,
Each crink and cranny rummaged out,
And fairly put them to the rout.
Nor an idea left behind
To feed the enthusiastic mind:
Nothing of high poetic folly,
But grave and holy melancholy,
And prudence, man's most sure defence,
And reason fixt, and common sense,
By genius stiled a stupid set,
But which without demur or let
Perform the offices of life,
Can serve a friend, or praise a wife,
And, tho without a song, can prove
Stedfast in amity and love.

These are the powers I now revere,
And only quit them once a year,

124

A rhime or twain for you to spin
Among your friends to figure in.
Once they were form'd, tho somewhat rough,
Of good, substantial, thick-wove stuff,
But now, for fashion rules the roast,
No solid texture can they boast:
In the last Gallic colour died,
And flimzy as the dress of pride:
But take them, wear them as you may,
Such as they are, they'll last a day.