The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop ... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare |
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 | The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop |  |
150
WATER.
If right “Αριστον Υδωρ” Pindar sings,
That simple Water is the best of things,—
Would Water-Poets were the best of Bards!
But oh! that chance is not upon the cards!
Vain were th' attempt such logick to apply;
My verse would give my arguments the lie:—
Yet what I can, I will:—Not he, whose lyre
Leads on th' Aonian mount the Sister Choir,
(Tho' all th' inspiring potions he explore
From water up to nectar,) can do more.
That simple Water is the best of things,—
Would Water-Poets were the best of Bards!
But oh! that chance is not upon the cards!
Vain were th' attempt such logick to apply;
My verse would give my arguments the lie:—
Yet what I can, I will:—Not he, whose lyre
Leads on th' Aonian mount the Sister Choir,
(Tho' all th' inspiring potions he explore
From water up to nectar,) can do more.
From earth's deep womb (for earth their store supplies)
Thro' countless pores the moist effluvia rise
Distinct below, where oozing strata shed
Drop after drop; till from their humid bed
Th' emergent vapours steam; and as they go,
Condense, incorporate, extend, and flow.
—Thanks, kind Philosophy! whose lore profound
Thus helps me bring my Water above ground!
—Henceforth to trace it little will suffice,
Obvious to common sense, and common eyes.
Thro' countless pores the moist effluvia rise
151
Drop after drop; till from their humid bed
Th' emergent vapours steam; and as they go,
Condense, incorporate, extend, and flow.
—Thanks, kind Philosophy! whose lore profound
Thus helps me bring my Water above ground!
—Henceforth to trace it little will suffice,
Obvious to common sense, and common eyes.
If in the mental calm of joy serene,
I seek, thro' Fancy's aid, the sylvan scene,
There Water meets me, by the pebbled side
Of sedgy-fringed brooks, expanding wide
In dimpled eddies:—or with murmurs shrill
Running sweet unisons, where responsive still
In cadence meet, impending aspens hail
Heaven's mildest breath, soft quivering to the gale.
I seek, thro' Fancy's aid, the sylvan scene,
There Water meets me, by the pebbled side
Of sedgy-fringed brooks, expanding wide
In dimpled eddies:—or with murmurs shrill
Running sweet unisons, where responsive still
In cadence meet, impending aspens hail
Heaven's mildest breath, soft quivering to the gale.
Too charming visions of intense delight!
Why? whither vanish ye?—Her eagle flight
Fancy renews: and full athwart mine eye
Throws an enormous Cataract:—from on high
In awful stillness deepening waters glide
Ev'n to the rude rock's ridge abrupt—then slide
Ponderous, down, down, the void; and pitch below
In thunder.—Dash'd to foam, awhile they know
No certain current;—'till again combin'd,
In boiling tides along the vales they wind.
Why? whither vanish ye?—Her eagle flight
152
Throws an enormous Cataract:—from on high
In awful stillness deepening waters glide
Ev'n to the rude rock's ridge abrupt—then slide
Ponderous, down, down, the void; and pitch below
In thunder.—Dash'd to foam, awhile they know
No certain current;—'till again combin'd,
In boiling tides along the vales they wind.
O! bear me hence, where Water's force displays
More useful energy;—where classic praise
Adorns the names of chiefs long dead, who brought
Thro' channel'd rocks concentring streams, and taught
One Aqueduct divided lands to lave,
And hostile realms to drink one common wave.
More useful energy;—where classic praise
Adorns the names of chiefs long dead, who brought
Thro' channel'd rocks concentring streams, and taught
One Aqueduct divided lands to lave,
And hostile realms to drink one common wave.
But soft—methinks some horrid sounds I hear!
What throbbing passion speaks?—'Tis fear: 'tis fear.
—Water, where yonder Spout to Heaven ascends,
Rides in tremendous triumph—Ocean bends—
—And Ruin, raising high her baleful head,
Broods o'er the waste, the bursting Mass will spread.
What throbbing passion speaks?—'Tis fear: 'tis fear.
—Water, where yonder Spout to Heaven ascends,
Rides in tremendous triumph—Ocean bends—
153
Broods o'er the waste, the bursting Mass will spread.
Enough of wat'ry wonders:—all dismay'd
Ev'n Fancy starts, at forms herself hath made.
Ev'n Fancy starts, at forms herself hath made.
Let them, whom terror can inspire, pursue
Themes too terrific:—I with humble view
Retire unequal,—nor will e'er again
To Water's greater works devote my strain;
Content to praise it, when with gentle sway,
Profuse of rich increase, it winds it's way
Thro' the parch'd glebe; or fills with influence bland,
The cup of temperance, in the peasant's hand.
Themes too terrific:—I with humble view
Retire unequal,—nor will e'er again
To Water's greater works devote my strain;
Content to praise it, when with gentle sway,
Profuse of rich increase, it winds it's way
Thro' the parch'd glebe; or fills with influence bland,
The cup of temperance, in the peasant's hand.
| The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop | |