He drew the curtain at his side, And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd Something imprison'd in the chest, And, doubtful what, with prudent care Resolv'd it should continue there.
At length a voice which well he knew, A long and melancholy mew, Saluting his poetick ears,
Consol'd him, and dispell'd his fears; He left his bed, he trod the floor,
He 'gan in haste the draw'rs t' explore, The lowest first, and without stop The rest in order to the top.
For 'tis a truth well known to most,
That whatsoever thing is lost,
We seek it, ere it come to light,
In ev'ry cranny but the right.
Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete As erst with airy self-conceit, Nor in her own fond apprehension A theme for all the world's attention, But modest, sober, cur'd of all Her notions hyperbolical, And wishing for a place of rest, Any thing rather than a chest. Then stepp'd the poet into bed With this reflection in his head.
Beware of too sublime a sense
Of your own worth and consequence, The man who dreams himself so great, And his importance of such weight, That all around in all that's done
. Must move and act for Him alone, We learn in school of tribulation
The folly of his expectation.
SURVIVOR Sole, and hardly such, of all, That once liv'd here, thy brethren, at my birth, (Since which I number threescore winters past,) A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relicks of Ages! Could a mind, imbued With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, I might with rev'rence kreel, and worship thee.
It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their oaks Imagin'd sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentick act
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, Lov'd not the light, but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscrib'd, as to a refuge, fled.
Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball,
Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The Auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs,
And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.
But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepar'd The soft receptacle, in which, secure,
Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through VOL. III.
So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasures of short life away!
Thou fell'st mature and in the loamy clod Swelling with vegetative force instinct
Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf,
And, all the elements thy puny growth
Fost'ring propitious, thou becam'st a twig.
Who liv'd when thou wast such? Oh, couldst thou
As in Dodona once thy kindred trees
Oracular, I would not curious, ask
The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past.
By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recov'ring, and misstated setting right— Desp'rate attempt till trees shall speak again!
Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods And Time hath made thee what thou art—a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs
O'erlung the champaign; and the num'rous flocks That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe-shelter'd from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outliv'd
Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth.
While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship-first a seedling, hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and, as cent'ry roll'd Slow after century, a giant-bulk
Of girth enormous, with moss cushion'd root Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose-till at the last The rottenness, which time is charg'd to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee.
What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all
That we account most durable below! Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds- Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life
In all that live, plant, animal, and man,
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain
The force, that agitates, not unimpair'd; But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe.
Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay.
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly
Could shake thee to the root-and time has been
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age
Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents,
That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck
Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber,* many a load! But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd For senatorial honours. Thus to Time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserv'd, Achiev'd a labour, which had far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring.
Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing nought but the scoop'd rind, that seems An huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root. Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'st The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect.
So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulveriz'd of venality, a shell
Stands now, and semblance only of itself!
Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild
* Knee-Timber is found in the crooked arms of oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet.
« AnteriorContinuar » |