The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop :: :: University of Virginia Library

“Write on a Broomstick, Friend,” you cry'd:—
“Write on, and for Yourself,” says Pride.—
How shall I both commands fulfil?
You ought to rule me, and Pride will.—

What if I try, in one design
Duty, and Vanity to join?—
And while I urge the Broomstick's plea,
Describe, how it resembles Me?
Perhaps you may approve the hint;
Tho' if you should, there's danger in't:

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Approval, such as yours, to get,
Would only make me prouder yet.

“Can prouder be?”—quoth Critic Laughter.
That's even as shall appear hereafter:—
Enquire we now, wherein, and why,
Such as the Broomstick is, am I.

When once 'tis sever'd from the tree,
None heeds the Broomstick's pedigree:
And who, I wonder, cares a pin,
From whom I sprung, to whom I'm kin?

Before the Broomstick of to-day
Came, as a Broomstick, into play,
'Twas pluck'd, and peel'd, and lopt, and clipt,
Of Boughs, as I of Fortune stript;
Then, like myself, at random hurl'd,
A bare adventurer on the world.

Most Broomsticks to a twist incline,
Just like this poking Pate of mine:

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Nor can you set, by art or might,
The Wood quite straight, the Head upright:
Nor is the Head, nor is the Wood,
Worth half the trouble, if you cou'd.

A Broomstick's point (if you attend)
Is always near it's bigger end:
So, (this dull ditty makes it plain,)
My thickest part is next my brain.

Humour a Broomstick, as you may,
'Twill crack, before it will give way:
And I, for my own whims contending,
Bear great antipathy to bending.

Tho' oft in squabbles it appear,
No Broomstick fights a volunteer;
Press'd into combat, if it break
One's head, 'tis for another's sake:
—Such would I be;—my friends to guard,
Would smite; and, if I smote, smite hard;

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But never thro' the whole of life,
Stand forth, a Principal in strife.

The Broomstick ne'er affects extremes,
Content to be, the thing it seems:
May I, with stedfast mind and phiz,
Taking the world, as the world is,
Make such philosophy my own;
Glad to let well enough alone!

True to it's proper part, and place,
The Broomstick scorns to push a face:
And I that maxim to a tittle
Pursue, some think too far a little;
More prone to quit the ground I've got,
Than claim a rank I merit not;
Conscious how scanty, at the most,
Is all Truth can, or Sense would, boast.

Witches, 'tis said, on Lapland's coast,
Astride their Broomsticks travel post:

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So when the Muse is pleas'd to back
My wooden Genius for an hack,
Away she scampers, like a Witch,
Thro' thick and thin, cross hedge and ditch;
As if resolv'd, before we part,
To break her own neck, or my heart.

Broomsticks on no punctilios stand,
Ready alike for every hand:
So I my skill and powers would suit,
(Powers how confin'd! skill how minute!)
To any need, at any call!—
Be useful—or not be at all.

One semblance more of me (God knows)
The Broomstick, too exactly, shows;
By bands, long! long! perhaps to last,
'Tis, like myself, to Birch bound fast!
—And shall things ever thus remain?—
'Tis fair to hope, tho' not complain.

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I bear, meanwhile, what must be born:
And when to a mere Stump I'm worn,
Let this Eulogium on my Tomb stick,
“Here lies the Model of a Broomstick!”