Classic Poem

The Power of Spleen

 O'er me, alas! thou dost too much prevail:
 I feel thy force whilst I against thee rail;
I feel my verse decay, and my cramped numbers fail.
Through thy black jaundice I all objects see
 As dark, as terrible as thee,
My lines decried, and my employment thought
An useless folly, or presumptuous fault:
 Whilst in the Muses' paths I stray,
Whilst in their groves, and by their secret springs,
My hand delights to trace unusual things,
And deviates from the known and common way;
 Nor will in fading silks compose
 Faintly th' inimitable rose,
Fill up an ill-drawn bird, or paint on glass
The Sovereign's blurred and undistinguished face,
The threatening angel and the speaking ass.

Patron thou art to every gross abuse,
 The sullen husband's feigned excuse
When the ill-humour with his wife he spends,
And bears recruited wit and spirits to his friends.
 The son of Bacchus pleads thy power,
 As to the glass he still repairs,
 Pretends but to remove thy cares,
Snatch from thy shades one gay and smiling hour,
And drown thy kingdom in a purple shower.
When the coquette, whom every fool admires,
 Would in variety be fair,
 And changing hastily the scene
 From light, impertinent and vain,
Assumes a soft, a melancholy air,
And of her eyes rebates the wandering fires,
The careless posture, and the head reclined,
 The thoughtful and composèd face,
Proclaiming the withdrawn, the absent mind,
Allows the fop more liberty to gaze,
Who gently for the tender cause inquires.
The cause, indeed, is a defect in sense,
Yet is the spleen alleged and still the dull pretence.

 But these are thy fantastic harms,
 The tricks of thy pernicious stage,
Which do the weaker sort engage;
Worse are the dire effects of thy more powerful charms.
 By thee Religion, all we know
 That should enlighten here below,
 Is veiled in darkness, and perplexed
With anxious doubts, with endless scruples vexed,
And some restraint implied from each perverted text;
 Whilst Touch not, Taste not what is freely given
Is but thy niggard voice, disgracing bounteous heaven.
 From speech restrained, by thy deceits abused,
 To deserts banished or in cells reclused,
 Mistaken votaries to the Powers Divine,
 Whilst they a purer sacrifice design,
Do but the spleen obey, and worship at thy shrine.
 In vain to chase thee every art we try,
 In vain all remedies apply,
 In vain the Indian leaf infuse,
 Or the parched Eastern berry bruise;
Some pass in vain these bounds and nobler liquors use.
 Now harmony in vain we bring,
 Inspire the flute and touch the string.
 From harmony no help is had;
Music but soothes thee, if too sweetly sad,
And if too light, but turns thee gaily mad.