Classic Poem

[ To Alexander Brome ]

When in this durty corner of the World,
Where all the rubbish of the rest is hurl'd
Both men, and manners; this abandon'd place,
Where scarce the Sun dares shew his radient face,
I met thy lines, they made me wondring stand,
At thy unknown, and yet the friendly hand.
Straight through the Air m' imagination flew
To ev'ry Region I had seen, or knew;
And kindly blest (at her returning home)
My gready ear, with the glad name of Brome .
Then I reproach't my self for my suspence,
And mourn'd my own want of intelligence,
That could not know thy celebrated Muse,
(Though mask't with all the art, that art can use)
At the first sight, which to the dullest eyes,
No names conceal'd, nor habit can disguise.
For who (ingenious friend) but only thee,
(Who art the soul of wit, and courtesie),
Writes in so pure, an unaffected strain,
As shews wits ornament, is to be plain;
Or would caresse a man condemn'd to lie
Buryed from all humane society,
'Mongst brutes and bandogs in a Lernean fen,
Whose Natives have nor souls, nor shape of men?
How could thy Muse, that in her noble flight,
The boading Raven cuff't, and in his height
Of untam'd power, and unbounded place,
Durst meet the haughty Tyrant to his face,
Deigne an inglorious stoop, and from the sky
Fall down to prey on such a worme as I?
Her seeing (sure) my state, made her relent,
And try to charme me from my banishment;
Nor has her charitable purpose faild,
For when I first beheld her face unvail'd,
I kiss't the paper, as an act of grace
Sent to retire me from his wretched place,
And doubted not to go abroad agen
To see the world, and to converse with men:
But when I tast the dainties of the Flood
(Ravish't from Neptunes table for my food)
The Lucrine Lakes plump Oysters I despise,
With all the other Roman luxuries,
And, wanton grown, contemn the famous breed
Of Sheep and Oxen, which these mountains feed.
Then as a Snake, benumn'd and fit t' expire,
If laid before the comfortable fire
Begins to stir, and feels her vitals beat
Their healful motion, at the quickning heat:
So my poor muse, that was half starv'd before
On these bleak clifts, nor thought of writing more,
Warm'd by thy bounty, now can hisse and spring
And ('tis believ'd by some) whill shortly sting,
So warm she's grown, and without things like these
Minerva must, as well as Venus , freeze.
Thus from a High-lander I straight commence
Poet, by vertue of thy influence,
That with one Ray, can clods, and stones inspire,
And make them pant, and breath poetick fire.
And thus I am thy creature prov'd, who name
And fashion take from thy indulgent flame.
What should I send thee then, that may befit
A gratefull heart, for such a benefit;
Or how proclaime, with a poetick grace,
What thou hast made me from the thing I was;
When all I writ is artless, forc't, and dull,
And mine as empty as thy fancy full?
All our conceipts, alas! are flat and stale,
And our inventions muddy, as our Ale.
No friends, no visiters, no company,
But such, as I still pray, I may not see;
Such craggy, rough-hewn rogues, as do not fit,
Sharpen and set, but blunt the edge of wit;
Any of which (and fear has a quick eye)
If through a perspective I chance to spy
Though a mile off, I take th' alarme and run,
As if I saw the Divel, or a Dunne.
And in the Neighbouring rocks take sanctuary,
Praying the Hills to fall and cover me.
So that my solace lies amongst my grounds,
And my best companie's my horse and hounds.
Judge then (my friend) how far I am unfit
To traffick with thee in the trade of Wit:
How Banck-rupt I am grown of all commerce,
Who have all number lost, and air of verse,
But if I could in living song set forth,
Thy Muses glory, and thine own true worth,
I then would sing an Ode, that should not shame
The writers purpose, nor the Subject's name.
Yet what a gratefull heart, and such a one,
As (by thy vertues) thou hast made thine own,
Can poorly pay, accept for what is due,
Which if it be not Rhythme, I'le swear 'tis true.