LEISURE

(1821)

They talk of time, and of time’s galling yoke, That like a mill-stone on man’s mind doth press, Which only works and business can redress:  Of divine Leisure such foul lies are spoke, Wounding her fair gifts with calumnious stroke.  But might I, fed with silent meditation, Assoiled live from that fiend Occupation—­ Improbus Labor, which my spirits hath broke—­ I’d drink of time’s rich cup, and never surfeit:  Fling in more days than went to make the gem, That crown’d the white top of Methusalem:  Yea on my weak neck take, and never forfeit, Like Atlas bearing up the dainty sky, The heaven-sweet burthen of eternity.

DEUS NOBIS HAEC OTIA FECIT.

TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ.

(1829)

Rogers, of all the men that I have known
But slightly, who have died, your Brother’s loss
Touch’d me most sensibly.  There came across
My mind an image of the cordial tone
Of your fraternal meetings, where a guest
I more than once have sat; and grieve to think,
That of that threefold cord one precious link
By Death’s rude hand is sever’d from the rest. 
Of our old Gentry he appear’d a stem—­
A Magistrate who, while the evil-doer
He kept in terror, could respect the Poor,
And not for every trifle harass them,
As some, divine and laic, too oft do. 
This man’s a private loss, and public too.

THE GIPSY’S MALISON

(1829)

“Suck, baby, suck, mothers love grows by giving,
Drain the sweet founts that only thrive by wasting;
Black manhood comes, when riotous guilty living
Hands thee the cup that shall be death in tasting.

“Kiss, baby, kiss, mother’s lips shine by kisses,
Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings;
Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
Tend thee the kiss that poisons ’mid caressings.

        “Hang, baby, hang, mother’s love loves such forces,
        Strain the fond neck that bends still to thy clinging;
        Black manhood comes, when violent lawless courses
        Leave thee a spectacle in rude air swinging.”

So sang a wither’d Beldam energetical,
And bann’d the ungiving door with lips prophetical.

COMMENDATORY VERSES

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS,

Published under the name of Barry Cornwall

(1820)

Let hate, or grosser heats, their foulness mask
Under the vizor of a borrowed name;
Let things eschew the light deserving blame: 
No cause hast thou to blush for thy sweet task. 
“Marcian Colonna” is a dainty book;
And thy “Sicilian Tale” may boldly pass;
Thy “Dream” ’bove all, in which, as in a glass,
On the great world’s antique glories we may look. 
No longer then, as “lowly substitute,
Factor, or PROCTOR, for another’s gains,”
Suffer the admiring world to be deceived;
Lest thou thyself, by self of fame bereaved,
Lament too late the lost prize of thy pains,
And heavenly tunes piped through an alien flute.