The poetical works of James Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

You ask, my friend, and well you may,
You ask me how I spend the day.
I'll tell you, in unstudied rhyme,
How wisely I befool my time:
Expect not wit nor fancy, then,
In this effusion of my pen;
These idle lines—they might be worse—
Are simple prose, in simple verse.

Each morning, then, at five o'clock,
The adamantine doors unlock;
Bolts, bars, and portals, crash and thunder;
The gates of iron burst asunder:
Hinges that creak, and keys that jingle,
With clattering chains in concert mingle;
So sweet the din, your dainty ear
For joy would break its drum to hear;
While my dull organs, at the sound,
Rest in tranquillity profound:
Fantastic dreams amuse my brain,
And waft my spirit home again.
Though captive all day long, 'tis true,
At night I am as free as you;
Not ramparts high, nor dungeons deep,
Can hold me when I'm fast asleep.

But every thing is good in season;
I dream at large—and wake in prison.
Yet think not, sir, I lie too late;
I rise as early even as eight:
Ten hours of drowsiness are plenty,
For any man, in four-and-twenty.
You smile—and yet 'tis nobly done,
I'm but five hours behind the sun!

When dress'd, I to the yard repair,
And breakfast on the pure fresh air;
But though this choice Castalian cheer
Keeps both the head and stomach clear,
For reasons strong enough with me,
I mend the meal with toast and tea.
Now air and fame, as poets sing,
Are both the same, the self-same thing.
Yet bards are not chameleons quite,
And heavenly food is very light:
Whoever dined or supp'd on fame,
And went to bed upon a name?

Breakfast despatched, I sometimes read,
To clear the vapours from my head;
For books are magic charms, I ween,
Both for the crotchets and the spleen.
When genius, wisdom, wit abound,
Where sound is sense, and sense is sound;
When art and nature both combine,
And live and breathe in every line;
The reader glows along the page
With all the author's native rage!
But books there are with nothing fraught,—
Ten thousand words, and ne'er a thought;
Where periods without period crawl,
Like caterpillars on a wall,
That fall to climb, and climb to fall;
While still their efforts only tend
To keep them from their journey's end.
The readers yawn with pure vexation,
And nod—but not with approbation.
In such a fog of dulness lost,
Poor patience must give up the ghost:
Not Argus' eyes awake could keep;
Even Death might read himself to sleep.

At half-past ten, or thereabout,
My eyes are all upon the scout,
To see the lounging post-boy come
With letters or with news from home.
Believe it, on a captive's word,
Although the doctrine seem absurd,
The paper messengers of friends
For absence almost make amends;—
But if you think I jest or lie,
Come to York Castle, sir, and try.

Sometimes to fairy-land I rove:—
Those iron rails become a grove;
These stately buildings fall away
To moss-grown cottages of clay;

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Debtors are changed to jolly swains,
Who pipe and whistle on the plains;
Yon felons grim, with fetters bound,
Are satyrs wild with garlands crown'd;
Their clanking chains are wreaths of flowers;
Their horrid cells ambrosial bowers;
The oaths, expiring on their tongues,
Are metamorphosed into songs:
While wretched female prisoners, lo!
Are Dian's nymphs of virgin snow.
Those hideous walls with verdure shoot;
These pillars bend with blushing fruit;
That dunghill swells into a mountain:
The pump becomes a purling fountain;
The noisome smoke of yonder mills,
The circling air with fragrance fills;
This horse-pond spreads into a lake,
And swans of ducks and geese I make;
Sparrows are changed to turtle-doves,
That bill and coo their pretty loves;
Wagtails, turn'd thrushes, charm the vales,
And tomtits sing like nightingales.
No more the wind through key-holes whistles,
But sighs on beds of pinks and thistles;
The rattling rain that beats without,
And gurgles down the leaden spout,
In light delicious dew distils,
And melts away in amber rills;—
Elysium rises on the green,
And health and beauty crown the scene.

Then, by the enchantress Fancy led,
On violet-banks I lay my head;
Legions of radiant forms arise,
In fair array, before mine eyes;
Poetic visions gild my brain,
And melt in liquid air again;
As in a magic-lantern clear,
Fantastic images appear,
That, beaming from the spectred glass,
In beautiful succession pass,
Yet steal the lustre of their light
From the deep shadow of the night:
Thus, in the darkness of my head,
Ten thousand shining things are bred,
That borrow splendour from the gloom,
As glow-worms twinkle in a tomb.

But lest these glories should confound me,
Kind Dulness draws her curtain round me;
The visions vanish in a trice,
And I awake as cold as ice:
Nothing remains of all the vapour,
Save—what I send you—ink and paper.

Thus flow my morning hours along,
Smooth as the numbers of my song:
Yet, let me wander as I will,
I feel I am a prisoner still.
Thus Robin, with the blushing breast,
Is ravish'd from his little nest
By barbarous boys, who bind his leg
To make him flutter round a peg:
See, the glad captive spreads his wings,
Mounts, in a moment mounts and sings,
When suddenly the cruel chain
Twitches him back to earth again!
—The clock strikes one—I can't delay,
For dinner comes but once a day:
At present, worthy friend, farewell;
But by to-morrow's post I'll tell
How, during these half-dozen moons,
I cheat the lazy afternoons.

June 13. 1796.

Epistle II.

In this sweet place, where freedom reigns,
Secured by bolts, and snug in chains;
Where innocence and guilt together
Roost like two turtles of a feather;
Where debtors safe at anchor lie
From saucy duns and bailiffs sly;
Where highwaymen and robbers stout
Would, rather than break in, break out;
Where all's so guarded and recluse,
That none his liberty can lose;—
Here each may, as his means afford,
Dine like a pauper or a lord,
And those who can't the cost defray
May live to dine another day.

Now let us ramble o'er the green,
To see and hear what's heard and seen;
To breathe the air, enjoy the light,
And hail yon sun, who shines as bright
Upon the dungeon and the gallows
As on York Minster or Kew Palace.
And here let us the scene review:—
That's the old castle,—this the new;

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Yonder the felons walk,—and there
The lady-prisoners take the air;
Behind are solitary cells,
Where hermits live like snails in shells;
There stands the chapel for good people;
That black balcony is the steeple;
How gaily spins the weather-cock!
How proudly shines the crazy clock
A clock whose wheels eccentric run
More like my head than like the sun:
And yet it shows us, right or wrong,
The days are only twelve hours long;
Though captives often reckon here
Each day a month, each month a year.
There honest William stands in state,
The porter, at the horrid gate:
Yet no ill-natured soul is he,—
Entrance to all the world is free;
One thing, indeed, is rather hard,
Egress is frequently debarr'd:
Of all the joys within that reign,
There's none like—getting out again!
Across the green, behold the court,
Where jargon reigns and wigs resort;
Where bloody tongues fight bloodless battles,
For life and death, for straws and rattles;
Where juries yawn their patience out,
And judges dream in spite of gout.
There, on the outside of the door
(As sang a wicked wag of yore),
Stands Mother Justice, tall and thin,
Who never yet hath ventured in:
The cause, my friend, may soon be shown,
The lady was a stepping-stone,
Till—though the metamorphose odd is—
A chisel made the block a goddess:
—“Odd!” did I say?—I'm wrongt his time;
But I was hamper'd for a rhyme:
Justice at—I could tell you where—
Is just the same as justice there.

But lo! my frisking dog attends,
The kindest of four-footed friends;
Brim-full of giddiness and mirth,
He is the prettiest fool on earth.
The rogue is twice a squirrel's size,
With short snub nose and big black eyes;
A cloud of brown adorns his tail,
That curls and serves him for a sail;
The same deep auburn dyes his ears,
That never were abridged by shears:
While white around, as Lapland snows,
His hair in soft profusion flows;
Waves on his breast, and plumes his feet
With glossy fringe, like feathers fleet.
A thousand antic tricks he plays,
And looks at one a thousand ways;
His wit, if he has any, lies
Somewhere between his tail and eyes;
Sooner the light those eyes will fail,
Than Billy cease to wag that tail.

And yet the fellow ne'er is safe
From the tremendous beak of Ralph,—
A raven grim, in black and blue,
As arch a knave as e'er you knew;
Who hops about with broken pinions,
And thinks these walls his own dominions.
This wag a mortal foe to Bill is;
They fight like Hector and Achilles:
Bold Billy runs with all his might,
And conquers, Parthian-like, in flight;
While Ralph his own importance feels,
And wages endless war with heels:
Horses and dogs, and geese and deer,
He slily pinches in the rear;
They start, surprised with sudden pain,
While honest Ralph sheers off again.

A melancholy stag appears,
With rueful look and flagging ears;
A feeble, lean, consumptive elf,
The very picture of myself!
My ghost-like form, and new-moon phiz,
Are just the counterparts of his:
Blasted like me by fortune's frown;
Like me, twice hunted, twice run down!
Like me pursued, almost to death,
He's come to gaol to save his breath!
Still, on his painful limbs, are seen
The scars where worrying dogs have been;
Still, on his woe-imprinted face,
I weep a broken heart to trace.
Daily the mournful wretch I feed
With crumbs of comfort and of bread;
But man, false man! so well he knows,
He deems the species all his foes:
In vain I smile to soothe his fear,
He will not, dare not, come too near;

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He lingers—looks—and fain he would—
Then strains his neck to reach the food.
Oft as his plaintive looks I see,
A brother's bowels yearn in me.
What rocks and tempests yet await
Both him and me, we leave to fate:
We know, by past experience taught,
That innocence availeth nought:
I feel, and 'tis my proudest boast,
That conscience is itself a host:
While this inspires my swelling breast,
Let all forsake me—I'm at rest;
Ten thousand deaths, in every nerve,
I'd rather suffer than deserve.

But yonder comes the victim's wife,
A dappled doe, all fire and life:
She trips along with gallant pace,
Her limbs alert, her motion grace:
Soft as the moonlight fairies bound,
Her footsteps scarcely kiss the ground;
Gently she lifts her fair brown head,
And licks my hand, and begs for bread:
I pat her forehead, stroke her neck,
She starts and gives a timid squeak;
Then, while her eye with brilliance burns,
The fawning animal returns;
Pricks her bob-tail, and waves her ears,
And happier than a queen appears:
—Poor beast! from fell ambition free,
And all the woes of liberty;
Born in a gaol, a prisoner bred,
No dreams of hunting rack thine head;
Ah! mayst thou never pass these bounds
To see the world—and feel the hounds!
Still all her beauty, all her art,
Have fail'd to win her husband's heart:
Her lambent eyes, and lovely chest;
Her swan-white neck, and ermine breast;
Her taper legs, and spotty hide,
So softly, delicately pied,
In vain their fond allurements spread,—
To love and joy her spouse is dead.

But lo! the evening shadows fall
Broader and browner from the wall;
A warning voice, like curfew-bell,
Commands each captive to his cell;
My faithful dog and I retire,
To play and chatter by the fire:
Soon comes a turnkey with “Good night, sir!”
And bolts the door with all his might, sir:
Then leisurely to bed I creep,
And sometimes wake—and sometimes sleep.

These are the joys that reign in prison;
And if I'm happy, 'tis with reason:
Yet still this prospect o'er the rest
Makes every blessing doubly blest,—
That soon these pleasures will be vanish'd,
And I from all these comforts banish'd!

June 14. 1796.