His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.
On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippins' russet peel,
And, when his juicy salads fail'd,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.
A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing his rump around.
His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.
Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.
I kept him for his humour's sake;
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.
But now beneath his walnut shade
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.
AN EPISTLE TO THE REV. W. BULL.
He, still more aged, feels the shocks,
From which no care can save, And, partner once of Tiney's box, Must soon partake his grave.
EPISTLE TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.
IF reading verse be your delight,
"Tis mine as much, or more, to write;
But what we would, so weak is man,
Lies oft remote from what we can.
For instance, at this very time,
I feel a wish, by cheerful rhyme,
To sooth my friend, and had I power
To cheat him of an anxious hour,
Not meaning (for I must confess
What 'twere but folly to suppress)
His pleasure or his good alone,
But squinting partly at my own.
But though the sun is flaming high
I'the centre of yon arch, the sky,
And he had once, and who but he?
The name for setting genius free;
Yet whether poets of past days
Yielded him undeserved praise,
And he, by no uncommon lot,
Was famed for virtues he had not;
Or whether, which is like enough,
His highness may have taken huff;
286 AN EPISTLE TO THE REV. W. BULL.
So seldom sought by invocation,
Since it has been the reigning fashion
To disregard his inspiration,
I seem no brighter in my wits,
For all the radiance he emits,
Than if I saw through midnight vapour
The glimmering of a farthing taper.
Oh, for a succedaneum then
To' accelerate a creeping pen;
Oh, for a ready succedaneum,
Quod caput, cerebrum et cranium
Pondere liberet exoso,
Et morbo jam caliginoso!
'Tis here; this oval box' well fill'd
With best tobacco, finely mill'd,
Beats all Antycira's pretences
To disengage the' encumber'd senses.
Oh Nymph of Transatlantic fame,
Where'er thine haunt, whate'er thy name,
Whether reposing on the side
Of Oroonoko's spacious tide,
Or listening with delight not small
To Niagara's distant fall,
'Tis thine to cherish and to feed
The pungent nose-refreshing weed:
Which, whether pulverized it gain
A speedy passage to the brain,
Or whether touch'd with fire, it rise
In circling eddies to the skies,
Does thought more quicken and refine
Than all the breath of all the Nine-
Forgive the bard, if bard he be,
Who once too wantonly made free
1 On one of his visits to the poet, Mr. Bull had accidentally left his box behind him, filled with Oroonoko tobacco.
THE ENCHANTMENT DISSOLVED.
To touch with a satiric wipe
That symbol of thy power, the pipe.
So may no blight infect thy plains,
And no unseasonable rains;
And so may smiling peace once more
Visit America's sad shore.
And then secure from all alarms
Of thundering drums and glittering arms,
Rove unconfined beneath the shade
Thy wide expanded leaves have made.
So may thy votaries increase
And fumigation never cease;
May Newton with renew'd delights
Perform thine odoriferous rites :
While clouds of incense, half divine,
Involve thy disappearing shrine;
And so may smoke-inhaling Bull
Be always filling, never full.
THE ENCHANTMENT DISSOLVED.
BLINDED in youth by Satan's arts,
The world to our unpractised hearts
A flattering prospect shows;
Our fancy forms a thousand schemes
Of gay delights, and golden dreams,
And undisturb'd repose.
2 Rev. J. Newton, late of Saint Mary's Woolgoth, London, but then of Olney.
THE ENCHANTMENT DISSOLVED.
So in the desert's dreary waste,
By magic power produced in haste
(As ancient fables say),
Castles, and groves, and music sweet,
The senses of the traveller meet,
And stop him in his way.
But while he listens with surprise,
The charm dissolves, the vision dies,
"Twas but enchanted ground:
Thus if the Lord our spirit touch,
The world, which promised us so much,
A wilderness is found.
At first we start and feel distress'd,
Convinced we never can have rest
In such a wretched place;
But He whose mercy breaks the charm
Reveals his own almighty arm,
And bids us seek his face.
Then we begin to live indeed,
When from our sin and bondage freed
By this beloved Friend;
We follow him from day to day,
Assured of grace through all the way,
And glory at the end.
C. Whittingham, College House, Chiswick.
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