COOL REFLECTIONS DURING À
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 Phœbus!
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.
Not a cloud nor breeze
O you most heathen deities! if ever
My bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them That hath resolved itself into a dew),
I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Most vile Phoebus,
Set me a Persian sun-idolater
Upon this turnpike road, and I'll convert him
With no inquisitorial argument
But thy own fires. Now woe be to me, wretch,
That I was in a heretic country born!
Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach, And burn away the calx of their offences
In that great purgatory crucible,
Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion!
I am made a copper-Indian of already.
And if no kindly cloud will parasol me,
My very cellular membrane will be changed-
I shall be negrofied.
Oh what a sweet cool sound!
It runs like life through every strengthen'd limb— Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer.
A DELICATE pinch! oh how it tingles up
The titillated nose, and fills the eyes
And breast, till in one comfortable sneeze
The full collected pleasure bursts at last!
Most rare Columbus! thou shalt be for this
The only Christopher in my kalendar.
Why, but for thee, the uses of the nose
Were half unknown, and its capacity
Of joy. The summer gale that from the heath,
At midnoon glittering with the golden furze,
Bears its balsamic odours, but provokes,
Not satisfies the sense; and all the flowers,
That with their unsubstantial fragrance tempt
And disappoint, bloom for so short a space,
TO A FRIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO TRAVEL. 363
That half the year the nostrils would keep lent,
But that the kind tobacconist admits
No winter in his work; when nature sleeps
His wheels roll on, and still administer
A plenitude of joy, a tangible smell.
What is Peru and those Brazilian mines
To thee, Virginia? miserable realms,
They furnish gold for knaves and gems for fools'
But thine are common comforts! to omit
Pipe-panegyric and tobacco praise,
Think what the general joy the snuff-box gives,
Europe, and far above Pizarro's name
Write Raleigh in thy records of renown!
Him let the school-boy bless if he behold
His master's box produced, for when he sees
The thumb and finger of authority
Stuff'd up the nostrils, when hat, head, and wig
Shake all; when on the waistcoat black the dust
Or drop falls brown, soon shall the brow severe
Relax, and from vituperative lips
Words that of birch remind not, sounds of praise,
And jokes that must be laugh'd at shall proceed.
TO A FRIEND EXPRESSING A WISH TO
TRAVEL.
Dost thou, then, listening to the traveller's tale
Of mountainous wilds, and towns of ancient fame, And spacious bays, and streams renown'd of name That roll their plenty through the freshen'd vale; Dost thou then long to voyage far
And visit other lands, that thou mayest view
These varied scenes so beautiful and new?
Thou dost not know how sad it is to stray
Amid a foreign land, thyself unknown,
And when o'erwearied with the toilsome day,
To rest at eve and feel thyself alone.
Delightful sure it is at early morning
To see the sun-beam shine on scenes so fair, And when the eve the mountain heights adorning Sinks slow, empurpling the luxurious air. Pleasant it is at times like these to roam,
But wouldst thou not at night, confined within Thy foul and comfortless and lonely inn, Remember with a sigh the joys of home?
Joy, joy in London now!
He goes, the rebel Wallace goes to death,
At length the traitor meets the traitor's doom,
Joy, joy in London now!
He on a sledge is drawn,
His strong right arm unweapon'd and in chains,
And garlanded around his helmless head
The laurel wreath of scorn.
They throng to view him now
Who in the field had fled before his sword,
Who at the name of Wallace once grew pale
And faltered out a prayer.
Yes, they can meet his eye,
That only beams with patient courage now;
Yes, they can gaze upon those manly limbs
Defenceless now and bound.
And that eye did not shrink
As he beheld the pomp of infamy,
Nor did one rebel feeling shake those limbs
When the last moment came.
What though suspended sense
Was by their danıned cruelty revived;
What though ingenious vengeance lengthened life
To fell protracted death-
What though the hangman's hand
Graspt in his living breast the heaving heart,
In the last agony, the last sick pang,
Wallace had comfort still.
He called to mind his deeds
Done for his country in the embattled field;
He thought of that good cause for which he died,
And it was joy in death!
Go, Edward, triumph now!
Cambria is fallen, and Scotland's strength is crush'd;
On Wallace, on Llewellyn's mangled limbs
The fowls of heaven have fed.
Unrivalled, unopposed,
Go, Edward, full of glory, to thy grave!
The weight of patriot blood upon thy soul,
Go, Edward, to thy God!
INQUIRING IF I WOULD LIVE OVER MY YOUTH AGAIN.
Do I regret the past?
Would I again live o'er
The morning hours of life?
Nay, William, nay, not so!
In the warm joyaunce of the summer sun
I do not wish again
The changeful April day.
Nay, William, nay, not so!
Safe haven'd from the sea
I would not tempt again
The uncertain ocean's wrath.
Praise be to him who made me what I am,
Other I would not be.
Why is it pleasant then to sit and talk
Of days that are no more?
When in his own dear home
The traveller rests at last,
And tells how often in his wanderings
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