My gentle Reader, I perceive O Reader! had you in your mind What more I have to say is short, It is no tale; but, should you think, One summer-day I chanced to see A stump of rotten wood. The mattock tottered in his hand; So vain was his endeavor, That at the root of the old tree He might have worked for ever. "You 're overtasked, good Simon Lee, I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old Man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, - I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning; Alas! the gratitude of men Hath oftener left me mourning. 1798. VII. WRITTEN IN GERMANY, ON ONE OF THE COLDEST DAYS OF THE CENTURY. The Reader must be apprised, that the stoves in North Germany generally have the impression of a galloping horse upon them, this being part of the Brunswick Arms. A PLAGUE on your languages, German and Norse! And the tongs and the poker, instead of that horse See that Fly, a disconsolate creature! perhaps A child of the field or the grove; And, sorry for him! the dull, treacherous heat Has seduced the poor fool from his winter retreat, And he creeps to the edge of my stove. Alas! how he fumbles about the domains He cannot find out in what track he must crawl, Stock-still there he stands, like a traveller bemazed! The best of his skill he has tried; His feelers, methinks, I can see him put forth north, But he finds neither guide-post nor guide. His spindles sink under him, foot, leg, and thigh! His eyesight and hearing are lost; Between life and death his blood freezes and thaws; And his two pretty pinions of blue dusky gauze Are glued to his sides by the frost. No brother, no mate has he near him, while Can draw warmth from the cheek of my Love; As blest and as glad, in this desolate gloom, As if green summer grass were the floor of my room, And woodbines were hanging above. Yet, God is my witness, thou small, helpless Thing! Thy life I would gladly sustain Till summer come up from the south, and, with crowds Of thy brethren, a march thou shouldst sound through the clouds, And back to the forests again! VIII. A POET'S EPITAPH. ART thou a Statist, in the van A Lawyer art thou? - draw not nigh! Art thou a Man of purple cheer? 1799. Or art thou one of gallant pride, Physician art thou? one all eyes, Wrapt closely in thy sensual fleece, That he below may rest in peace, A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: One to whose smooth-rubbed soul can cling Nor form, nor feeling, great or small; An intellectual All-in-all! Shut close the door; press down the latch; Sleep in thy intellectual crust; Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch Near this unprofitable dust. |