 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
101
The Poet's Home.
1828.
Scaped from a Hut, much too poetic,
Where, plying still his art mimctic,
Sir Spider sits, and looking after
His prey, hangs webs from wall to rafter—
Where he and I, with like enjoyment,
Pursued a similar employment,
That is, both lurked, with few to see us,
He to catch flies, and I ideas,
Which, caught, (to bear the semblance further)
From bard and insect suffered murther.
—'Scaped from that House to one much neater,
Much loftier, roomier, and completer,
(Heaven grant my Landlord cent. per cent.
If he will not enlarge my rent!)
I sit—a reeking glass before me—
A family round that half adore me—
And number up, with mind at ease,
The items of my premises.
Where, plying still his art mimctic,
Sir Spider sits, and looking after
His prey, hangs webs from wall to rafter—
Where he and I, with like enjoyment,
Pursued a similar employment,
That is, both lurked, with few to see us,
He to catch flies, and I ideas,
Which, caught, (to bear the semblance further)
From bard and insect suffered murther.
—'Scaped from that House to one much neater,
Much loftier, roomier, and completer,
(Heaven grant my Landlord cent. per cent.
If he will not enlarge my rent!)
I sit—a reeking glass before me—
A family round that half adore me—
And number up, with mind at ease,
The items of my premises.
And, first, I have a house—to hitch in
A rhyme, 'twere better styled a kitchen—
Where in my week-day dress I sit,
Laugh at my wife, and show my wit.
The walls yet sparkle to my lamp—
May heaven protect us from the damp!
But if it must destroy one life,
Suppose, just now, it take my wife.
Well, free again! I chat and rove
With Beauty in the moonlight grove,
Till my heart dances to the tune
Sweet of a second Honey Moon.
'Tis a most pleasant thought!—But stay;
Suppose it just the other way—
Suppose it spares my loving wife,
And takes her loving husband's life,
And, further, that another swain
Assumes the matrimonial rein,
And drives the team I drive at present—
By Jove! this thought is not so pleasant.
A rhyme, 'twere better styled a kitchen—
Where in my week-day dress I sit,
Laugh at my wife, and show my wit.
102
May heaven protect us from the damp!
But if it must destroy one life,
Suppose, just now, it take my wife.
Well, free again! I chat and rove
With Beauty in the moonlight grove,
Till my heart dances to the tune
Sweet of a second Honey Moon.
'Tis a most pleasant thought!—But stay;
Suppose it just the other way—
Suppose it spares my loving wife,
And takes her loving husband's life,
And, further, that another swain
Assumes the matrimonial rein,
And drives the team I drive at present—
By Jove! this thought is not so pleasant.
I have a scullery, where, each Monday
That comes to sweep the dirt of Sunday,
Finds Ellen, not in best of moods,
Plashing among her frothing suds,
While cock or spigot hourly squirts
The water for the Poet's shirts.
That comes to sweep the dirt of Sunday,
Finds Ellen, not in best of moods,
Plashing among her frothing suds,
While cock or spigot hourly squirts
The water for the Poet's shirts.
I have a cellar—not a deep one,
But yet of depth enough to keep one
A cask or two of gin, or whisky,
Which rhymes to what it makes us—frisky.
But yet of depth enough to keep one
A cask or two of gin, or whisky,
Which rhymes to what it makes us—frisky.
My Parlour next the verse demands.
A portrait o'er the chimney stands,
But whose? Why mine—by country artist
Ta'en when the Bard was at the smartest,
That is, when in his wedding dress—
And if these tints his face express,
By Phœbus' head! I cannot think
The bard is any common drink.
There's a calm sparkle in the eye,
That speaks somewhat of dignity;
A musing lip; a whisker tight;
A forehead not amiss for height.
It lacks in breadth—but this is stuff;
For I have witnessed oft enough
A broader and a loftier sconce
O'ertop the eyebrows of a dunce.
But I digress. For one or two,
My parlour, though but small, will do;
Especially when Ellen's hand
Sets on the board the spirit-stand,
Each bright decanter filled with liquor,
To toast my Landlord and the Vicar;
Or, if a loyal mood it bring,
Old England's patriotic King.
A portrait o'er the chimney stands,
But whose? Why mine—by country artist
Ta'en when the Bard was at the smartest,
That is, when in his wedding dress—
And if these tints his face express,
103
The bard is any common drink.
There's a calm sparkle in the eye,
That speaks somewhat of dignity;
A musing lip; a whisker tight;
A forehead not amiss for height.
It lacks in breadth—but this is stuff;
For I have witnessed oft enough
A broader and a loftier sconce
O'ertop the eyebrows of a dunce.
But I digress. For one or two,
My parlour, though but small, will do;
Especially when Ellen's hand
Sets on the board the spirit-stand,
Each bright decanter filled with liquor,
To toast my Landlord and the Vicar;
Or, if a loyal mood it bring,
Old England's patriotic King.
Now, reader, walk up stairs—but hope
Thou not the first-seen door to ope.
The next expand. My girls in this
Dream every night their dreams of bliss,
These snowy curtains round them spread—
Two fairies in a fairy bed!
The third and last, which—half in jest
In earnest half—we style the best,
Serves but the hospitable end,
To lodge a stranger or a friend.
Did Mitchell leave the Tyne's fair side,
Or Gourley from the Wansbeck ride,
Or Hall, with eloquence at will,
Come from the borders of the Till,—
This chamber should receive, and steep
Their senses in delicious sleep!
Thou not the first-seen door to ope.
The next expand. My girls in this
Dream every night their dreams of bliss,
These snowy curtains round them spread—
Two fairies in a fairy bed!
The third and last, which—half in jest
In earnest half—we style the best,
Serves but the hospitable end,
To lodge a stranger or a friend.
Did Mitchell leave the Tyne's fair side,
Or Gourley from the Wansbeck ride,
Or Hall, with eloquence at will,
Come from the borders of the Till,—
104
Their senses in delicious sleep!
I have a garden—'tis but small—
Surrounded by a six-feet wall:
Its walks full trim with box and gravel,
On which the nicest foot might travel.
'Tis dark and bare—but come in Spring,
These elms shall then no shadow fling!
These walls with blossom clothed shall be
By many an autumn-planted tree;
While many a garden flower smiles by,
To lure the bee and butterfly!
Surrounded by a six-feet wall:
Its walks full trim with box and gravel,
On which the nicest foot might travel.
'Tis dark and bare—but come in Spring,
These elms shall then no shadow fling!
These walls with blossom clothed shall be
By many an autumn-planted tree;
While many a garden flower smiles by,
To lure the bee and butterfly!
Such my new Residence; and yet
It was with something like regret
I left the old one!—There, I've been
For years contented and serene;
There bloomed my girls—the damps it shed
Ne'er turned to pale their cherub red;
And there my rapt and musing eye,
Touched by thy glamour, Poesy!
Hath ta'en its rude and ochre'd wall
For one belonging princely hall,
And every cobweb's waving fold
For cloth of silver or of gold!
Yes! it is certain, that the bard
To house or hall pays light regard.
Where'er he dwelleth—be his roof
Pervious to storm or tempest-proof—
There throng the shapes his magic raised,
There bend the forms his songs have praised,
Unseen by all but him, they come,
Brighten his light, or gild his gloom—
And, blest with these, the same his lot,
Whether in Castle or in Cot!
It was with something like regret
I left the old one!—There, I've been
For years contented and serene;
There bloomed my girls—the damps it shed
Ne'er turned to pale their cherub red;
And there my rapt and musing eye,
Touched by thy glamour, Poesy!
Hath ta'en its rude and ochre'd wall
For one belonging princely hall,
And every cobweb's waving fold
For cloth of silver or of gold!
Yes! it is certain, that the bard
To house or hall pays light regard.
Where'er he dwelleth—be his roof
Pervious to storm or tempest-proof—
There throng the shapes his magic raised,
There bend the forms his songs have praised,
Unseen by all but him, they come,
Brighten his light, or gild his gloom—
And, blest with these, the same his lot,
Whether in Castle or in Cot!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |