Classic Poem

When Damon, an intensely modern swain,
To Phyllida declar'd his am'rous pain,
Th' emancipated nymph, unblushing, scann'd
The trembling boy; nor scorn'd his proffer'd hand.
His person pleas'd her analytic eye,
And “Ask the Doctor” was her soft reply.
“By his decision I must needs abide:
If he permit it, I'm your promis'd bride.
If he forbid, why then your duty's plain:
Of course, you'll never care for life again.
The noble mind a natural death disdains:
This pistol take: nor spare your cultur'd brains.
With studied grace the fateful trigger press:
Pray do it tidily: I hate a mess.”

She said, and yawn'd: the acquiescent male
Straight sought the leech, and told him all the tale.
The leech impatient heard, and shook his head:
“It must not be! Rash youth, forbear to wed.
Your sire at sixty-seven is yet alive,
But, ah! your uncle died at forty-five.
Besides, your grandsire fought at Waterloo—
Fought, and the savage taint descends to you!”

From the consulting-room in black despair
Young Damon flies, and, flying, rends his hair.
He loads the pistol, and prepares to bleed:
But, ere his hand essay'd the Stoic deed,
He sang some quite imperishable verse,
Moral as Truth and mournful as a hearse.
In these smooth strains he wail'd his woful state,
And curs'd his ancestors, and curs'd his fate.

“Observe, ye Zephyrs, my romantic doom,
And see a Modern perish in his bloom!
Such victims our unhappy age requires,
Feeding with human flesh its wasted fires:
Black as the pit is life, the life I spurn;
All, all is black,—a positive nocturne!

“Regard, ye rocks, my dire decease, I pray!
How ill we fare, we creatures of to-day!
Yet, tho' we take our own predestin'd lives,
Or love (so fate commands) our neighbours' wives,
Let none apply to us an unkind name:
Not ours the guilt: our fathers were to blame!
“Remark, ye woodlands, my romantic fate—
Romantic, tho' romance is out of date.
About his neck the Turk a bowstring ties:
Bit by an asp, the Egyptian empress dies:
Upon their swords the Romans us'd to fall—
Ugh! that would never do for me at all.
In his own pigtail hangs the cheap Chinee;
A curious mode, but not the mode for me.

Nor asp, nor sword, nor strangling string I chose:
Such barb'rous methods I with scorn refuse.
No antiquated weapon shall destroy
My modern life, but see, this tragic toy!
A perfect work of nineteenth cent'ry skill,
Pretty to look upon, and quick to kill.
Well up to date my dreadful doom shall be:
Dying, I'll quake with actuality!

“Pause purling streams, and view my shocking end!
To distant times my fame may chance t'extend!
Stern fictionists, on serious art intent,
May find my lightest word a document:
Neurotic shepherds oft shall gape to hear
My startling tale, and Fabian dames let fall the thoughtful tear!

“Stand still, celestial orbs ('tis worth your while):
Observe me quitting this existence vile.
A loud report: far fly the scatter'd brains,
While crimson splashes variegate the plains!
Of Modern Thought behold the fearful cost!
How sad! a precious life thus early lost!
How pitiful the scene!” (he heav'd a sigh),
“How very brave” (he wept outright) “Am I!”
He ceas'd, and ey'd awhile with doubtful stare
The deadly tube, then fired it in the air.