The Tineum Containing Estianomy, or The Art of Stirring a Fire: The Icead, A Mock-Heroic Poem: An Imitation of Horace, Ep. I. lib. I. Epigrams: A Fragment, &c. By C. V. Le Grice |
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THE ICEAD. |
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 | The Tineum |  |
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THE ICEAD.
Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid.
Surgit amari aliquid.
When Phœbus, verging on th'Antarctic line,
Rolls his red flame from this our British clime
Far distant; when Winter scours high Heaven,
On ebon wing, and from his cavern'd cheek
Blows many a blast of coldest puff; and when
Stern Frost, upon whose shoulders stiffly strait
The hair spreads froz'n in many an icicle,
Sits open mouth'd, to bite of heedless men
The fingers (for some more cunning mortals
At fire of coals oft make his meat too hot
For him to bite); when Nature's face low'rs dull
With thick'ning cloud, and looks nasty, dismal,
As the face of boy with nose unwiped;
When all is sad;—not so the minds of men,
For sport they meditate. On the bosom
Of the lake, frequent they meet. There quick hies
The truant, with sick frame too weak for school;
And there the man who leaves no chearful home,
Because no chearful home he has to leave;
And there the buck, who knows not why he came;
There he who follows Whitfield, he, who Wesley;
The Swedenborgite there, and there the Jew.
On scate of iron keel upborne they ride;
Of iron dug from Sweden's entrails, or
From those of Russia, or Toledo.
With furious speed some hasten to outstrip
The breath of Boreas; some, with wond'rous poise
Self-balanc'd, in airy curve float easy
On their way; nor knew the Gordian knot
A fold so complex as their paths entwine.
The scrap'd edge loudly sounds, but louder still
The cry of those, who delicacies vend
Of mutton-pies, and nuts, and cakes, and gin.
But chief the call of gingerbread most hot
Breaks the dense atmosphere, and foolish men
(Tho' luxury, more powerful than the sword,
Which strews th'ensanguin'd plain with many a corse,
More powerful than the breath of Pestilence
Sends millions yearly to the court of death)
Check the swift scate, and eager catch the sound.
Rolls his red flame from this our British clime
Far distant; when Winter scours high Heaven,
On ebon wing, and from his cavern'd cheek
Blows many a blast of coldest puff; and when
Stern Frost, upon whose shoulders stiffly strait
The hair spreads froz'n in many an icicle,
Sits open mouth'd, to bite of heedless men
The fingers (for some more cunning mortals
At fire of coals oft make his meat too hot
For him to bite); when Nature's face low'rs dull
With thick'ning cloud, and looks nasty, dismal,
As the face of boy with nose unwiped;
When all is sad;—not so the minds of men,
For sport they meditate. On the bosom
25
The truant, with sick frame too weak for school;
And there the man who leaves no chearful home,
Because no chearful home he has to leave;
And there the buck, who knows not why he came;
There he who follows Whitfield, he, who Wesley;
The Swedenborgite there, and there the Jew.
On scate of iron keel upborne they ride;
Of iron dug from Sweden's entrails, or
From those of Russia, or Toledo.
With furious speed some hasten to outstrip
The breath of Boreas; some, with wond'rous poise
Self-balanc'd, in airy curve float easy
On their way; nor knew the Gordian knot
A fold so complex as their paths entwine.
The scrap'd edge loudly sounds, but louder still
The cry of those, who delicacies vend
Of mutton-pies, and nuts, and cakes, and gin.
But chief the call of gingerbread most hot
Breaks the dense atmosphere, and foolish men
(Tho' luxury, more powerful than the sword,
26
More powerful than the breath of Pestilence
Sends millions yearly to the court of death)
Check the swift scate, and eager catch the sound.
'Twas noon; and round a vender of this food
A crowd was met; and happiness was there.
Happy the man who now regal'd first serv'd!
And happy he, who arm'd with halfpence stood
Mix'd with no mass from Cyclopean forge
Of Birmingham! The unpenc'd wight pass'd on.
Here all was mirth. When, lo! sudden, and loud
(Ne'er did the voice of Jove more dreadful sound),
A crack was heard. None stopp'd to look aghast,
But fled wide-circling. Whether the Naiads
Mistook the cakes as offerings at their shrine,
And hungry wish'd to snap them up, my Muse
Sings not; but quick into the lake they fell,
Slice coursing slice; while he, poor man of spice!
While he, his head scarce lifted o'er the flood,
With tears, quick freezing as they fell, counted
Each half-p'worth: and now, struggling to emerge,
For aid he calls; but what can now avail
His eloquence? All stand aloof. 'Tis not
The cry of gingerbread.
A crowd was met; and happiness was there.
Happy the man who now regal'd first serv'd!
And happy he, who arm'd with halfpence stood
Mix'd with no mass from Cyclopean forge
Of Birmingham! The unpenc'd wight pass'd on.
Here all was mirth. When, lo! sudden, and loud
(Ne'er did the voice of Jove more dreadful sound),
A crack was heard. None stopp'd to look aghast,
But fled wide-circling. Whether the Naiads
Mistook the cakes as offerings at their shrine,
And hungry wish'd to snap them up, my Muse
Sings not; but quick into the lake they fell,
Slice coursing slice; while he, poor man of spice!
While he, his head scarce lifted o'er the flood,
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Each half-p'worth: and now, struggling to emerge,
For aid he calls; but what can now avail
His eloquence? All stand aloof. 'Tis not
The cry of gingerbread.
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