Then shrink not, old free-mason, from my view,
But quietly like me spin out the line;
Do thou thy work pursue
Weaver of snares, thou emblemest the ways
Of Satan, sire of lies;
Hell's huge black spider for mankind he lays
His toils as thou for flies.
When Betty's busy eye runs round the room
Woe to that nice geometry, if seen!
But where is he whose broom
Spider! of old thy flimsy webs were thought,
And 'twas a likeness true,
To emblem laws in which the weak are caught
But which the strong break through.
And if a victim in thy toils is ta'en,
Like some poor client is that wretched fly-
I'll warrant thee thou'lt drain
And is not thy weak work like human schemes
And care on earth employ'd?
Such are young hopes and love's delightful dreams
So easily destroyed!
So does the statesman, whilst the avengers sleep,
Self-deem'd secure, his wiles in secret lay,
Soon shall destruction sweep
His work away.
Thou busy labourer! one resemblance more
Shall yet the verse prolong,
For spider, thou art like the poet poor,
Whom thou hast help'd in song.
Both busily our needful food to win,
We work, as nature taught, with ceaseless pains,
Thy bowels thou dost spin,
IT is the funeral march. I did not think
That there had been such magic in sweet sounds!
Hark! from the blacken'd cymbal that dead tone-
It awes the very rabble multitude,
They follow silently, their earnest brows
Lifted in solemn thought. "Tis not the pomp
And pageantry of death that with such force
Arrests the sense,-the mute and mourning train,
The white plume nodding o'er the sable hearse
Had past unheeded, or perchance awoke
A serious smile upon the poor man's cheek
At pride's last triumph. Now these measur'd sounds
This universal language, to the heart
Speak instant, and on all these various minds
Compel one feeling.
But such better thoughts
Will pass away, how soon! and these who here
Are following their dead comrade to the grave,
Ere the night fall, will in their revelry
Quench all remembrance. From the ties of life
Unnaturally rent, a man who knew
No resting place, no dear delights of home,
Belike who never saw his children's face,
Whose children knew no father, he is gone,
Dropt from existence, like the withered leaf
That from the summer tree is swept away,
Its loss unseen. She hears not of his death
Who bore him, and already for her son
Her tears of bitterness are shed: when first
He had put on the livery of blood,
She wept him dead to her.
We are indeed
Clay in the potter's hand! one favour'd mind
Scarce lower than the angels, shall explore
The ways of nature, whilst his fellow-man
Fram'd with like miracle the work of God,
Must as the unreasonable beast drag on
A life of labour, like this soldier here,
His wondrous faculties bestow'd in vain
Be moulded by his fate till he becomes
A mere machine of murder.
ELEGY ON A QUID OF TOBACCO.
Ir lay before me on the close-grazed grass,
Beside my path, an old tobacco quid:
And shall I by the mute adviser pass
Without one serious thought? now heaven forbid !
Perhaps some idle drunkard threw thee there,
Some husband, spendthrift of his weekly hire,
One who for wife and children takes no care,
But sits and tipples by the alehouse fire.
Ah! luckless was the day he learnt to chew!
Embryo of ills the quid that pleas'd him first!
Thirsty from that unhappy quid he grew,
Then to the alehouse went to quench his thirst.
So great events from causes small arise,
The forest oak was once an acorn seed:
And many a wretch from drunkenness who dies,
Owes all his evils to the Indian weed.
Let not temptation, mortal, ere come nigh!
Suspect some ambush in the parsley hid!
From the first kiss of love ye maidens fly!
Ye youths avoid the first tobacco quid!
Perhaps I wrong thee, O thou veteran chaw,
And better thoughts my musings should engage;
That thou wert rounded in some toothless jaw,
The joy, perhaps, of solitary age.
One who has suffered fortune's hardest knocks,
Poor, and with none to tend on his grey hairs,
Yet has a friend in his tobacco-box,
And whilst he rolls his quid, forgets his cares.
Even so it is with human happiness,
Each seeks his own according to his whim; One toils for wealth, one fame alone can bless, One asks a quid, a quid is all to him.
O veteran chaw, thy fibres savoury strong,
Whilst ought remain'd to chew thy master chew'd,
Then cast thee here, when all thy juice was gone,
Emblem of selfish man's ingratitude!
A happy man, O cast-off quid, is he
Who, like as thou, has comforted the poor.
Happy his age, who knows himself like thee,
Thou didst thy duty, man can do no more.
TO A FRIEND SETTLED IN THE COUNTRY.
RICHARD, the lot which fate to thee has given,
Almost excites my envy. This green field
Sweet solace to the wearied mind must yield;
And yonder wide circumference of heaven,
At morn or when the day-star rides on high,
Or when the calm and mellowed light of even
Softens the glory of the western sky,
Spreads only varied beauties to thine eye.
And when these scenes, these lovely scenes so fair,
Hill, vale, and wood, are hidden from thy sight,
Still through the deepness of the quiet air,
Canst thou behold the radiant host of night,
And send thy spirit through the infinite,
Till lofty contemplation end in prayer.
Richard, the lot which fate to thee has given,
I not unenvying shall recall to mind,
In that foul town, by other fate confined,
Where never running brook, nor verdant field,
Nor yonder wide circumference of heaven,
Sweet solace to the wearied soul can yield.
COOL REFLECTIONS DURING A
MIDSUMMER WALK.
O spare me spare me, Phoebus! if, indeed,
Thou hast not let another Phaeton
Drive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car;
Mercy! I melt! I melt! no tree-no bush,
No shelter! not a breath of stirring air
East, west, or north, or south! dear god of day,
Put on thy night-cap!-crop thy locks of light,
And be in the fashion! turn thy back upon us,
And let thy beams flow upward! make it night
Instead of noon! one little miracle,
In pity, gentle Phoebus!
What a joy,
Oh, what a joy to be a seal and flounder,
On an ice-island! or to have a den
With the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow!
It were a comfort to shake hands with death-
He has a rare cold hand! to wrap one's self
In the gift shirt Deianeira sent,
Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keep
The sun off,-or toast cheese for Beelzebub,
That were a cool employment to this journey
Along a road whose white intensity
Would now make platina uncongelable,
Like quicksilver.
Were it midnight, I should walk
Self-lanthorn'd, saturate with sun-beams. Jove!
O gentle Jove! have mercy, and once more
Kick that obdurate Phoebus out of heaven,
Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roars
For cardimum, and drinks down peppermint,
Making what's left as precious as Tokay.
Send Mercury to salivate the sky
Till it dissolves in rain. O gentle Jove!
But some such little kindness to a wretch
Who feels his marrow spoiling his best coat-
Who swells with calorique as if a Prester
Had leavened every limb with poison-yeast-
Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings,
And fan me, and I will build temples to thee
And turn true pagan.
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