Rhymes By William Stewart Rose |
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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN HOOKHAM
FRERE, IN MALTA. |
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5
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN HOOKHAM FRERE, IN MALTA.
William Stewart Rose presents with such kind cheer
And health as he can give John Hookham Frere.
And health as he can give John Hookham Frere.
Brighton, mdcccxxxiv.
That bound like bold Promethous on a rock, O
Self-banished man, you boil in a Scirocco,
Save when a Mäestrale makes you shiver,
While worse than vulture pecks and pines your liver;
Where neither lake nor river glads the eye,
Seared with the glare of ‘hot and copper sky;’
Where dwindled tree o'ershadows withered sward;
Where green blade grows not; where the ground is charred:
Where, if from withered turf and dwindled tree
You turn to look upon a summer sea,
And Speronaro's sail of snowy hue,
Whitening and brightening on that field of blue;
Or eye the palace, rich in tapestried hall,
The Moorish window and the massive wall;
Or mark the many loitering in its shade,
In many-coloured garb and guise arraid;
Long-haired Sclavonian skipper, with the red
And scanty cap, which ill protects his head;
White-kilted Suliot, gay and gilded Greek,
Grave, turbanned Turk, and Moor of swarthy cheek:
Or sainted John's contiguous pile explore,
Gemmed altar, gilded beam, and gorgeous floor,
Where you imblazoned in mosaïc see
Memorials of a monkish chivalry;
The vaulted roof, impervious to the bomb,
The votive tablet, and the victor's tomb,
Where vanquished Moslem, captive to his sword,
Upholds the trophies of his conquering lord:
Where if, while clouds from hallowed censer steam,
You muse and fall into a mid-day dream,
And hear the pealing chaunt and sacring bell,
Amid loud 'larum and the burst of shell;
—Short time to mark those many sights which I
Have sung, short time to dream of days gone-by,
Forced alms must purchase from a greedy crowd
Of lazy beggars, filthy, fierce, and loud,
Who landing-place, street, stair and temple crowd:
Where on the sultry wind for ever swells
The jangle of ten thousand tuneless bells,
While priestly drones in hourly pageant pass,
Hived in their several cells by sound of brass;
Where merry England's merriest month looks sorry,
And your waste island seems but one wide quarry;
I muse: and think you might prefer my town,
Its pensile pier, dry beach, and breezy down.
Self-banished man, you boil in a Scirocco,
Save when a Mäestrale makes you shiver,
While worse than vulture pecks and pines your liver;
Where neither lake nor river glads the eye,
Seared with the glare of ‘hot and copper sky;’
Where dwindled tree o'ershadows withered sward;
Where green blade grows not; where the ground is charred:
6
You turn to look upon a summer sea,
And Speronaro's sail of snowy hue,
Whitening and brightening on that field of blue;
Or eye the palace, rich in tapestried hall,
The Moorish window and the massive wall;
Or mark the many loitering in its shade,
In many-coloured garb and guise arraid;
Long-haired Sclavonian skipper, with the red
And scanty cap, which ill protects his head;
White-kilted Suliot, gay and gilded Greek,
Grave, turbanned Turk, and Moor of swarthy cheek:
Or sainted John's contiguous pile explore,
Gemmed altar, gilded beam, and gorgeous floor,
Where you imblazoned in mosaïc see
Memorials of a monkish chivalry;
The vaulted roof, impervious to the bomb,
The votive tablet, and the victor's tomb,
Where vanquished Moslem, captive to his sword,
Upholds the trophies of his conquering lord:
7
You muse and fall into a mid-day dream,
And hear the pealing chaunt and sacring bell,
Amid loud 'larum and the burst of shell;
—Short time to mark those many sights which I
Have sung, short time to dream of days gone-by,
Forced alms must purchase from a greedy crowd
Of lazy beggars, filthy, fierce, and loud,
Who landing-place, street, stair and temple crowd:
Where on the sultry wind for ever swells
The jangle of ten thousand tuneless bells,
While priestly drones in hourly pageant pass,
Hived in their several cells by sound of brass;
Where merry England's merriest month looks sorry,
And your waste island seems but one wide quarry;
I muse: and think you might prefer my town,
Its pensile pier, dry beach, and breezy down.
Upon this tumbled bed of thyme and turf
I lounge, and listen to the rumbling surf;
Or idly mark the shadows as they fly,
While green earth maps the changes of the sky,
When, at the passing of the summer cloud,
The frighted wheatear runs in haste, to shroud
Its body in some sheltering hole; and there
(Poor fool!) is prisoned in the fowler's snare.
So may not I—to moralize my verse—
Shun paltry perils, and encounter worse!
Here, gladdened by pure air and savour sweet
Of wild herb crushed beneath my pony's feet,
I rove, when, warmed by softer wind and shower,
They show their creeping blue or crimson flower.
Here, when the sun is low, and air is still,
And silence is upon the sea and hill,
Well-pleased I mark the rampant lambs unite
To race, or match themselves in mimic fight,
Or through the prickly furze adventurous roam;
Till by the milky mothers summoned home,
They quit their game, and ply their nimble feet,
In quick obedience to the peevish bleat.
I lounge, and listen to the rumbling surf;
8
While green earth maps the changes of the sky,
When, at the passing of the summer cloud,
The frighted wheatear runs in haste, to shroud
Its body in some sheltering hole; and there
(Poor fool!) is prisoned in the fowler's snare.
So may not I—to moralize my verse—
Shun paltry perils, and encounter worse!
Here, gladdened by pure air and savour sweet
Of wild herb crushed beneath my pony's feet,
I rove, when, warmed by softer wind and shower,
They show their creeping blue or crimson flower.
Here, when the sun is low, and air is still,
And silence is upon the sea and hill,
Well-pleased I mark the rampant lambs unite
To race, or match themselves in mimic fight,
Or through the prickly furze adventurous roam;
Till by the milky mothers summoned home,
They quit their game, and ply their nimble feet,
In quick obedience to the peevish bleat.
9
Here, oft descending through a double swell,
I dive into a little wooded dell,
Embosoming a hamlet, church and yard,
Whose graves, except a few of more regard,
(Where wood some record of the dead preserves,
Or harder stone) are ridged with humble turves.
O'ergrown with greenwood is the curate's rest;
So screened, it might be called the parson's nest,
And never would you dream that such abode
Was but two paces from the London-road.
The chancel of the church in ochry stain
Shows Becket's death, before the altar slain:
And here, in red and yellow lines we trace
A stiffness which appears not out of place,
And, as in Grecian vase, an antique grace:
While in the knightly murderers' mail we read
The painter's toil coeval with the deed.
Much joys the curate to have first displaid
This rude design, with roughcast overlaid:
Simple are all his joys; books, garden, spaniel!
Yet lions he for Truth would dare like Daniel.
I dive into a little wooded dell,
Embosoming a hamlet, church and yard,
Whose graves, except a few of more regard,
(Where wood some record of the dead preserves,
Or harder stone) are ridged with humble turves.
O'ergrown with greenwood is the curate's rest;
So screened, it might be called the parson's nest,
And never would you dream that such abode
Was but two paces from the London-road.
The chancel of the church in ochry stain
Shows Becket's death, before the altar slain:
And here, in red and yellow lines we trace
A stiffness which appears not out of place,
And, as in Grecian vase, an antique grace:
While in the knightly murderers' mail we read
The painter's toil coeval with the deed.
Much joys the curate to have first displaid
This rude design, with roughcast overlaid:
10
Yet lions he for Truth would dare like Daniel.
Keen in the cause of altar and of throne,
My peerless parson, careless in his own,
Says in his heart, (what poets do but sing)
‘That a glad poverty's an honest thing.’
Dear is his dog, whom mouth of darkest dye
Makes dearer in a Tory master's eye.
Such is the pair: I to the man demur
Upon one point alone; he calls me Sir.
My peerless parson, careless in his own,
Says in his heart, (what poets do but sing)
‘That a glad poverty's an honest thing.’
Dear is his dog, whom mouth of darkest dye
Makes dearer in a Tory master's eye.
Such is the pair: I to the man demur
Upon one point alone; he calls me Sir.
This priest and beast oft join me, where no harrow
Has raked the ground, by bottom, hill or barrow;
Or, since new path and place new pleasure yield,
We rove by sheep walk wide, and open field,
Where the red poppy and pale wheaten spike
Are mingled, to that ridge miscalled the dyke,
Deemed by our clowns a labour of the devil;
A height whose frowning brow o'erhangs a level,
Where the glad eye field, farm, and forest sees,
And grey smoke curling through the greenwood trees:
Or measures coast which fronts the middle day,
Walled with white cliffs that rise from beach, by bay
And bight indented, with arms opening wide;
As if to woo or welcome back the tide.
Here busy boats are seen: some overhawl
Their loaded nets: some shoot the lightened trawl;
And, while their drags the slimy bottom sweep,
Stealthily o'er the face o' the waters creep:
While some make sail; and, singly or together,
Furrow the sea with merry wind and weather.
Has raked the ground, by bottom, hill or barrow;
Or, since new path and place new pleasure yield,
We rove by sheep walk wide, and open field,
Where the red poppy and pale wheaten spike
Are mingled, to that ridge miscalled the dyke,
Deemed by our clowns a labour of the devil;
A height whose frowning brow o'erhangs a level,
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And grey smoke curling through the greenwood trees:
Or measures coast which fronts the middle day,
Walled with white cliffs that rise from beach, by bay
And bight indented, with arms opening wide;
As if to woo or welcome back the tide.
Here busy boats are seen: some overhawl
Their loaded nets: some shoot the lightened trawl;
And, while their drags the slimy bottom sweep,
Stealthily o'er the face o' the waters creep:
While some make sail; and, singly or together,
Furrow the sea with merry wind and weather.
I love smooth water and blue sky; vext sea,
Loud wind, and scowling heaven delight not me,
In spite of painter's and of poet's spell;
Yea, his who gilds a selfish thought so well:
Who says that, ‘looking from the land 'tis sweet
‘To view the labouring barque by billows beat;
‘Not that we're pleased by other's pain; but see
‘With pleasure ills from which ourselves are free.’
My gallant friend and I need no such measure
Whereby to guage a doubtful good or pleasure.
Loud wind, and scowling heaven delight not me,
In spite of painter's and of poet's spell;
Yea, his who gilds a selfish thought so well:
Who says that, ‘looking from the land 'tis sweet
‘To view the labouring barque by billows beat;
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‘With pleasure ills from which ourselves are free.’
My gallant friend and I need no such measure
Whereby to guage a doubtful good or pleasure.
Often this ready friend with whom I roam,
—Our morning ramble done—escorts me home;
And sometimes (would I oftener were his host!)
Partakes of my risotto and my roast:
When rambling table-talk, not tuned to one key,
Runs on chace, race, horse, mare, fair, bear, and monkey;
Or shifts from field and pheasant, fens and snipes,
To the wise Samian's world of anti-types:
And, when my friend's in his Platonic lunes,
Although I lose his words, I like his tunes;
And sometimes think I must have ass's ears,
Who cannot learn the music of the spheres.
But oft we pass to Epicurean theme,
Waking from mystic Plato's morning dream;
And, prosing o'er some Greek or Gascon wine,
Praise the rich vintage of the Rhone and Rhine;
Gay Garonne's growth; the liquid ruby, Tavel;
The juice of paler grape which loves the gravel;
Or that which runs in purer stream, which gushed
From clusters richer, riper, and uncrushed;
Or crimson drink that was my beverage, while
I roved through Tenedos' or Lesbos' isle;
Or that wherewith I moistened my pillaw
On Hellespontine shore, termed wine of the law.
Not that which sober Mahomet imposes
On Moslem; but the better law of Moses.
So says the Isräelite who makes and sells
This noted nectar at the Dardanelles,
Vouching that he should sin against divine
Precept, in mixing water with his wine.
And what the Florentine's light flagon fills,
Cheap but choice produce of Etrurian hills;
Which warmed him with the lyric fire of Flaccus,
That tells the praises of the Tuscan Bacchus;
Whose godhead, while the gadding vine shall climb
Those sunny hills, will live in Redi's rhyme;
Whose dithyrambic muse disdains to amble
In measured gait; with a bacchante's gambol,
And grace, she whirls her pine-topt thyrsus round,
And wildly dances to the cymbal's sound.
—Our morning ramble done—escorts me home;
And sometimes (would I oftener were his host!)
Partakes of my risotto and my roast:
When rambling table-talk, not tuned to one key,
Runs on chace, race, horse, mare, fair, bear, and monkey;
Or shifts from field and pheasant, fens and snipes,
To the wise Samian's world of anti-types:
And, when my friend's in his Platonic lunes,
Although I lose his words, I like his tunes;
And sometimes think I must have ass's ears,
Who cannot learn the music of the spheres.
But oft we pass to Epicurean theme,
Waking from mystic Plato's morning dream;
13
Praise the rich vintage of the Rhone and Rhine;
Gay Garonne's growth; the liquid ruby, Tavel;
The juice of paler grape which loves the gravel;
Or that which runs in purer stream, which gushed
From clusters richer, riper, and uncrushed;
Or crimson drink that was my beverage, while
I roved through Tenedos' or Lesbos' isle;
Or that wherewith I moistened my pillaw
On Hellespontine shore, termed wine of the law.
Not that which sober Mahomet imposes
On Moslem; but the better law of Moses.
So says the Isräelite who makes and sells
This noted nectar at the Dardanelles,
Vouching that he should sin against divine
Precept, in mixing water with his wine.
And what the Florentine's light flagon fills,
Cheap but choice produce of Etrurian hills;
Which warmed him with the lyric fire of Flaccus,
That tells the praises of the Tuscan Bacchus;
14
Those sunny hills, will live in Redi's rhyme;
Whose dithyrambic muse disdains to amble
In measured gait; with a bacchante's gambol,
And grace, she whirls her pine-topt thyrsus round,
And wildly dances to the cymbal's sound.
But that old saw, great talkers do the least,
Is verified in me and in my priest,
Who, (though 'tis deemed the exclusive right of vicar,
Or rather rector,) preaches o'er his liquor.
And we, taught by that teacher of times, tenses,
And moods, and manners, ‘wine should please four senses,
‘Eye with its colour, nostril with its savour,
‘Ear with its fame, and palate with its flavour,’
No more soothe palate than ear, nose or eye,
And seldom drain withal the wine-cup dry.
Would you were here! we might fulfil our task:
Faith! we might fathom Plato and the flask,
Or we—would you not help us to unsphere
His spirit to unfold new worlds—might hear
That rampant strain you were the first to raise,
Whereof another bears away the praise,
Who (let me not his better nature wrong)
Confessed you father of his final song;
That rhyme which ranks you with immortal Berni;
Which treats of giant, monk, knight, tilt and tourney;
And tells how Anak's race, detesting bells,
Besieged the men that rang them, in their cells;
With whom they justly warred as deadly foes,
For breaking their sequestered seat's repose.
(Strange siege, unquestioned by misdoubting Bryant!)
And how in that long war, a young sick giant
Was taken, christened, and became a friar;
And how he roared, and what he did, i' the quire.
Or, if like that rare bard who left half-told
Of yore the story of Cambuscan bold,
You will not tell the sequel of your tale
Of cavern, keep, and studious cloister's pale,
Sing (what you verse in veriest English vein)
Some snatches of his merriest, maddest strain,
Who in wild masque upon Athenian stage
Held up to scorn the follies of the sage
Famed for vain wisdom, that in Cecrops' town
Would fain have pulled time-honoured custom down;
Or, sparing the blind guides of Greece and Rome,
Yourself may scourge our blinder guides at home;
You have crushed reptiles. ‘Rise and grasp’ (I say
In your own words) ‘a more reluctant prey.’
Is verified in me and in my priest,
Who, (though 'tis deemed the exclusive right of vicar,
Or rather rector,) preaches o'er his liquor.
And we, taught by that teacher of times, tenses,
And moods, and manners, ‘wine should please four senses,
‘Eye with its colour, nostril with its savour,
‘Ear with its fame, and palate with its flavour,’
No more soothe palate than ear, nose or eye,
And seldom drain withal the wine-cup dry.
Would you were here! we might fulfil our task:
Faith! we might fathom Plato and the flask,
15
His spirit to unfold new worlds—might hear
That rampant strain you were the first to raise,
Whereof another bears away the praise,
Who (let me not his better nature wrong)
Confessed you father of his final song;
That rhyme which ranks you with immortal Berni;
Which treats of giant, monk, knight, tilt and tourney;
And tells how Anak's race, detesting bells,
Besieged the men that rang them, in their cells;
With whom they justly warred as deadly foes,
For breaking their sequestered seat's repose.
(Strange siege, unquestioned by misdoubting Bryant!)
And how in that long war, a young sick giant
Was taken, christened, and became a friar;
And how he roared, and what he did, i' the quire.
Or, if like that rare bard who left half-told
Of yore the story of Cambuscan bold,
You will not tell the sequel of your tale
Of cavern, keep, and studious cloister's pale,
16
Some snatches of his merriest, maddest strain,
Who in wild masque upon Athenian stage
Held up to scorn the follies of the sage
Famed for vain wisdom, that in Cecrops' town
Would fain have pulled time-honoured custom down;
Or, sparing the blind guides of Greece and Rome,
Yourself may scourge our blinder guides at home;
You have crushed reptiles. ‘Rise and grasp’ (I say
In your own words) ‘a more reluctant prey.’
But anxious fear and angry feeling square
Ill with the pleasures I would have you share.
So gladly I return to down and dale,
And sea, though saddened now by wintry gale.
Ill with the pleasures I would have you share.
So gladly I return to down and dale,
And sea, though saddened now by wintry gale.
Speaking of hills and nibbling flocks that graze
Their russet lawns, I spoke of halcyon days;
When the sloop rides without the rocky ledge,
Or safely skims the horizontal edge,
Where, in the farthest distance, to the eye
The ocean melts into the misty sky;
When his quick song the mounting skylark sings,
And marks its merry time with quivering wings.
But even when this music of mid air
Is mute, and inland screaming mews repair,
Who, shrieking pitifully, seem to call
For help, and shelter from the coming squall,
Which overtakes them, wheeling left and right,
And blots heaven, sea and land with sudden night;
—Even when hollow winds are howling, when
Warm city pleases, and the hum of men,
Our streets are sheltered well; and wild and weald
Choice fuel for the cheerful hearthstone yield;
Birch, aspen, ‘sailing pine,’ or ‘builder oak;’
And, flying greasy fog and sea-coal smoke,
We oftentimes may count among our lodgers
A Holland, Ryder, Hallam, or a Rogers.
Their russet lawns, I spoke of halcyon days;
When the sloop rides without the rocky ledge,
Or safely skims the horizontal edge,
17
The ocean melts into the misty sky;
When his quick song the mounting skylark sings,
And marks its merry time with quivering wings.
But even when this music of mid air
Is mute, and inland screaming mews repair,
Who, shrieking pitifully, seem to call
For help, and shelter from the coming squall,
Which overtakes them, wheeling left and right,
And blots heaven, sea and land with sudden night;
—Even when hollow winds are howling, when
Warm city pleases, and the hum of men,
Our streets are sheltered well; and wild and weald
Choice fuel for the cheerful hearthstone yield;
Birch, aspen, ‘sailing pine,’ or ‘builder oak;’
And, flying greasy fog and sea-coal smoke,
We oftentimes may count among our lodgers
A Holland, Ryder, Hallam, or a Rogers.
18
Asses succeed ('tis true) and we've a fresh rush
Of fools in summer; yet they're but a flesh-brush;
And (if I know you well) would do you good;
Would goad your spirits, stir your stagnant blood:
And you and I might groan from dawn to dusk
At mother draped in pink and drugged with musk;
Who thinks that she perfumes herself with that
Which Touchstone calls ‘the uncleanly flux of cat:’
And many a pestilent, perverse anomaly,
Which (if my priest had gall) would point a homily;
As her that for a turban leaves her cap,
And looks like Asia Minor on the map:
At him that gives—priest, layman, saint or sinner—
A chitter-chatter, clitter-clatter, dinner;
And thinks that noise and numbers, port and sherry,
Might glad the sad and make the moody merry;
Whose hireling waiter from hotel or inn
Grazes your shoulder with cod's tail or fin,
Crude and uncrimped, more flaccid than a roach,
And sick with sitting backwards in the coach;
At guests that come to such Amphitryon's call,
Whose talk is not of bullocks, but Bengal:
At non-descripts delivered by steam-packets:
At fools of fifty with white hats and jackets:
At such as whistle, and hail those they follow
Or meet by steyne or street, with whoop and hollo:
Hairy civilians (shame to the police!)
Whose walk and whiskers are a breach of the peace:
At male and female Hottentots that block
The path, to peer at punch, stage-coach, or clock:
Mooncalves, whose thumbs are in their breeches' pockets,
Staring with eye-balls starting from their sockets:
At mounted matron in red toque: M.D.'s
That sip raw shrub and sup on toasted cheese:
At bawling girls that bay the patient moon
To hoarse piano, hammered out of tune;
At lounging men who make a public luncheon;
At shameless men that shuffle cards in sunshine:
At her that love of language yearly carries,
A poster of the sea and land, to Paris,
To catch the latest jargon of the day;
No otherwise than Scrub in Farquhar's play,
Would learn the last new flourish of his knives.
Such men we have; such women; maids and wives!
Of fools in summer; yet they're but a flesh-brush;
And (if I know you well) would do you good;
Would goad your spirits, stir your stagnant blood:
And you and I might groan from dawn to dusk
At mother draped in pink and drugged with musk;
Who thinks that she perfumes herself with that
Which Touchstone calls ‘the uncleanly flux of cat:’
And many a pestilent, perverse anomaly,
Which (if my priest had gall) would point a homily;
As her that for a turban leaves her cap,
And looks like Asia Minor on the map:
At him that gives—priest, layman, saint or sinner—
A chitter-chatter, clitter-clatter, dinner;
And thinks that noise and numbers, port and sherry,
Might glad the sad and make the moody merry;
Whose hireling waiter from hotel or inn
Grazes your shoulder with cod's tail or fin,
Crude and uncrimped, more flaccid than a roach,
And sick with sitting backwards in the coach;
19
Whose talk is not of bullocks, but Bengal:
At non-descripts delivered by steam-packets:
At fools of fifty with white hats and jackets:
At such as whistle, and hail those they follow
Or meet by steyne or street, with whoop and hollo:
Hairy civilians (shame to the police!)
Whose walk and whiskers are a breach of the peace:
At male and female Hottentots that block
The path, to peer at punch, stage-coach, or clock:
Mooncalves, whose thumbs are in their breeches' pockets,
Staring with eye-balls starting from their sockets:
At mounted matron in red toque: M.D.'s
That sip raw shrub and sup on toasted cheese:
At bawling girls that bay the patient moon
To hoarse piano, hammered out of tune;
At lounging men who make a public luncheon;
At shameless men that shuffle cards in sunshine:
At her that love of language yearly carries,
A poster of the sea and land, to Paris,
20
No otherwise than Scrub in Farquhar's play,
Would learn the last new flourish of his knives.
Such men we have; such women; maids and wives!
Sometimes ('tis strange, and I'm at my wits' end
To find the cause) things please us which offend:
And seeking what offends, a devious path
Many have trod. In Cambridgeshire or Bath
To fix his home you would think Ansty loth,
From his Bath-guide; and yet he lived in both.
Gray too took earth at Granta, though a hater
Of the dull studies of his alma mater,
To endure the sober seniors' scorn, and noise
Nonsense and naughty pranks of drunken boys.
And thus, at strife with the retreat he chose,
Here dwells your invalided William Rose;
Who sings the pleasures and the pains, as best
He can, of his selected place of rest.
Nor think it strange if he that home commend
For pains as well as pleasures, to his friend.
A preacher (and he like a saint of old
Deserves the title of the mouth of gold)
Says, that it steads not body more than soul
To infuse some bitter in the festive bowl;
Which makes the cup so seasoned, when 'tis quaffed,
A sounder, and more salutary draught,
Thus I the beverage which I mingle, stir,
Like that brave prelate, with a branch of myrrh.
To find the cause) things please us which offend:
And seeking what offends, a devious path
Many have trod. In Cambridgeshire or Bath
To fix his home you would think Ansty loth,
From his Bath-guide; and yet he lived in both.
Gray too took earth at Granta, though a hater
Of the dull studies of his alma mater,
To endure the sober seniors' scorn, and noise
Nonsense and naughty pranks of drunken boys.
And thus, at strife with the retreat he chose,
Here dwells your invalided William Rose;
Who sings the pleasures and the pains, as best
He can, of his selected place of rest.
21
For pains as well as pleasures, to his friend.
A preacher (and he like a saint of old
Deserves the title of the mouth of gold)
Says, that it steads not body more than soul
To infuse some bitter in the festive bowl;
Which makes the cup so seasoned, when 'tis quaffed,
A sounder, and more salutary draught,
Thus I the beverage which I mingle, stir,
Like that brave prelate, with a branch of myrrh.
Join me, dear Frere, and be, if you can swallow
This wine and wormwood-drink, ‘my great Apollo.”
This wine and wormwood-drink, ‘my great Apollo.”
| Rhymes | |