Imaginary Sonnets By Eugene Lee-Hamilton |
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| LATUDE TO HIS RATS.
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 | Imaginary Sonnets |  |
84
LATUDE TO HIS RATS.
(1750.)
I.
I've found a bit of stick, and made a flute;
My prison rats, what shall I pipe you now?
Oh, shall I pipe to you of streams that flow
Through tangled grass where swallows whirl and shoot;
My prison rats, what shall I pipe you now?
Oh, shall I pipe to you of streams that flow
Through tangled grass where swallows whirl and shoot;
Or of the mossy carpets at the root
Of forest trees, with branches waving low;
Or of autumnal orchards, all aglow
With mellow sunshine and with reddened fruit?
Of forest trees, with branches waving low;
Or of autumnal orchards, all aglow
With mellow sunshine and with reddened fruit?
Or shall I pipe to you how kind is man,
Here on this earth, where no despair endures,
Where sound no sobs, where teardrops never ran;
Here on this earth, where no despair endures,
Where sound no sobs, where teardrops never ran;
Where none pray daily for the death that cures;
Where tyranny ne'er reigned, since things began;
Where gnaws not woe, with sharper teeth than yours?
Where tyranny ne'er reigned, since things began;
Where gnaws not woe, with sharper teeth than yours?
85
II.
Am I a corpse? a plant? a shape of clay?
Or flows there still a dull and sluggish stream
Through my numb body, while the cruel dream
That I was once a man fades slow away?
Or flows there still a dull and sluggish stream
Through my numb body, while the cruel dream
That I was once a man fades slow away?
And am I thinking? or has mind to-day
Unlearnt to think, here in this cell where seem
To be nor years nor hours, and where the gleam
Of heaven shows me but my rats at play?
Unlearnt to think, here in this cell where seem
To be nor years nor hours, and where the gleam
Of heaven shows me but my rats at play?
Am I myself a rat? I gnaw my slice
Of bread with a rat's teeth. There are no things
Beyond this cell. Naught is, save rats and mice.
Of bread with a rat's teeth. There are no things
Beyond this cell. Naught is, save rats and mice.
Space is a stifling cell; Time has nor feet nor wings:
Is't God or man who holds me in this vice?
My jug is empty. Cease, ye mutterings.
Is't God or man who holds me in this vice?
My jug is empty. Cease, ye mutterings.
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