Thomas Oldham

Why must Poets, when they sing,
Drink of the Castalian spring?
Sure 'tis chilling to the brain;
Witness many a modern strain:
Poets! would ye sing with fire,
Wine, not water, must inspire.
Come, then, pour thy purple stream,
Lovely Bottle! thou'rt my theme.
How within thy crystal frame
Does the rosy nectar flame!
Not so beauteous on the vine
Did the clustering rubies shine,
When the potent God of day
Fill'd them with his ripening ray;
When with proudness and delight
Bacchus view'd the charming sight.
Still it keeps Apollo's fires;
Still the vintage-God admires.
Hail sweet antidote of wo!
Chiefest blessing mortals know!
Nay, the mighty powers divine
Own the magic force of wine.
Wearied with the world's affairs,
Jove himself, t...

Let us, my Friends, our mirth forbear,
While yonder Censor mounts the chair:
His form erect, his stately pace,
His huge, white wig, his solemn face,
His scowling brows, his ken severe,
His haughty pleasure-chiding sneer,
Some high Philosopher declare:
Hush! let us hear him from the chair:

'Ye giddy youths! I hate your mirth;
How ill-beseeming sons of earth!
Know ye not well the fate of man?
That death is certain, life a span?
That merriment soon sinks in sorrow,
Sunshine to-day, and clouds to-morrow?
Hearken then, fools! to Reason's voice,
That bids ye mourn, and not rejoice?'

Such gloomy thoughts, grave Sage! are thine,
Now, gentle Friends! attend to mine.
        Since mortals must die,
        Since life's but a span,
       ...

Still, as the fleeting seasons change,
From joy to joy poor mortals range,
And as the year pursues its round,
One pleasure's lost, another found;
Time, urging on his envious course,
Still drives them from their last resource.
So butterflies, when children chase
The gaudy prize with eager pace,
On each fresh flower but just alight,
And, ere they taste, renew their flight.

Thanks to kind Fortune! I possess
A constant source of happiness,
And am not poorly forced to live
On what the seasons please to give.
Let clouds or sunshine vest the pole,
What care I, while I quaff the bowl?
In that secure, I can defy
The changeful temper of the sky.
No weatherglass, or if I be,
Thou, Bacchus! art my Mercury.

'Tis night: the busy, ceaseless noise of day
No more is heard; the now-deserted-streets
Lie dark and silent; London's weary swarms
Rest in profound repose. Hark! a loud cry
Frightens the silence; 'tis the cry of fire!
I hear the dissonance of rattling wheels,
The tread of hasty feet, the doleful sigh
Of sympathy, and terror's thrilling shriek:
O mercy heaven!

            Behold the fiery Pest!
See, how the flames climb up the lofty walls,
Involve their prey, and greedily devour:
The crowd exert their efforts to controul
The spreading bane; some labour to supply
The numerous engines; others bear aloft
The pliant tubes, guiding their watery store
Amid the fiercer fire; on ladders some
Ascending, scale the walls, and undeterr'd,
Their dangerous of...

In depth of loneliest wood, amid the din
Of midnight storm and thunder, spoke Despair,
While Horror, shuddering, heard that voice alone.
Oh! load of guilt! relentless misery!
Still, ever still the same where'er I fly;
No peace, no hope, not one poor moment's glimpse
Through all the blackness of eternity!
Monster of direst guilt! this mother's hand
Murder'd my babe, my new-born innocent.
I seek not mercy, no! long sought in vain
While conscience prey'd upon my secret heart,
Wasting its life in agonizing groans,
And floods of scalding tears, but now no more;
Those pangs are past, this heart is wither'd, dead!
Changed all to crime, all rottenness and stench;
'Twould taint creation were it not confined.
Parch'd are these eyes, their sorrows turn'd to ice,
A m...

SPRING.

Muse of the pastoral reed and sylvan reign,
Divine inspirer of each tuneful swain,
Who taught the Doric Shepherd to portray
Primeval nature in his simple lay;
And him of Mantua, in a nicer age,
To form the graces of his artful page;
O, come! where crystal Avon winds serene,
And with thy presence bless the brightening scene;
Now, while I rove his willowy banks along,
With fond intent to wake the rural song,
Inspire me, Goddess! to my strains impart
The force of nature, and the grace of art.

Now has the Night her dusky veil withdrawn,
And, softly blushing, peeps the smiling Dawn;
The lark, on quivering wings, amid the skies
Pours his shrill song, inviting her to rise;
The breathing Zephyrs just begin to play,
Waking the flowers to s...

    DAVID.

My task is done; no further will I mow;
I faint with hunger, and with heat I glow.
Well, Giles, what cheer? how far behind you lag!
Badly your practice answers to your brag.

    GILES.

Deuce take the scythe! no wonder I am last;
The wonder is I work'd my way so fast;
Sure such another never yet was made;
It's maker must have been a duller blade;
The bungling fool, might I his fault chastise,
Should use it for a razor till he dies.

    DAVID.

Ha, ha, well said, young jester; though bereft
Of strength and patience, yet your wit is left.
But come, good friend, to dinner let us go;
Tired are my limbs, my wasted spirits low.

    GILES.

Poor David! age is weak, soon jaded out;
I feel, as when beginn...

When to the region of the tuneful Nine,
Rapt in poetic vision, I retire,
Listening intent to catch the strain divine
What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!

Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes,
Stray the fair daughters of immortal song;
Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries,
And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.

O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo?
Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar?
A solemn pause ensues: then falters low
The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'

'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour
Saw each poetic star indulgent shine;
E'en Phoebus' self o'erruled with kindliest power,
And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."

'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring;<...

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?
And must I hear thy notes no more?
Then will I make thy funeral bed;
Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.

Beneath the turf in yonder bower,
Where oft I've listened to thy lay,
Forgetting care, while many an hour
In music sweetly stole away;

There will I bid thy relics rest;
Then sadly sigh my last farewell;
But long, oh! long within my breast
Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.

Still to that spot, now more endear'd,
Shall thy fond mistress oft return,
And haply feel her sorrows cheer'd,
To deck with verse thy simple urn.

'Here lies a bird, once famed to be
Peerless in plumage and in lay;
This was the soul of melody,
And that the golden blush of day.'

'Soon as the Morn began...

Cease, daubers! profane not the theme, I implore ye!
But leave him, O leave him alone with his glory!

    *        *        *        *        *

Man's owl-eyed reason Popish Priests assert
Can't safely bear the gospel's heavenly light;
Therefore, with kindest zeal, they do their best
To keep their flocks in unillumined night.

    *        *        *        *        *

'The brokers of the Stock-Exchange
Are nicknamed bears and bulls; how strange!
What reason, Sir, to call them so?'
Ma'am, see their manners, you will know.

'Should you e'er be unwell, send directly for me;
To cure you I'll haste with all possible speed,
Prescribe and find medicine without any fee.'
Oh! Doctor! your offer's most generous indeed;
I'd accept but for something the vast obligation.
'But for what, pray?' The instinct of self-preservation.

    *        *        *        *        *

If, as Swift says, in the most delicate mind
Nastiest ideas we are sure to find,
Then equal to his humour and his wit
Swift's delicacy we must all admit.

Still, still his bell-like voice rings through my head;
Yet not one bright thought cheers my mental view;
O! would that I were deaf, asleep, or dead!
Ye marble statues! how I envy you!

    *        *        *        *        *

To hear him preach the Methodistic creed,
What eager crowds to Ranter's chapel speed!
His eloquence the harden'd sinner frightens;
Like heaven itself says Fame, he thunders, lightens.
I go to hear him; Fame has made a blunder;
I see no lightning, though I hear the thunder.

For flowery sermons Doctor Drudge
    Of preachers at the top is;
If from their influence we may judge,
    His flowers are only poppies.

    *        *        *        *        *

Sir! you're both fool and knave! to Frank, Blunt cries

Words upon words impetuous rush along,
And tread each other's brains out as they throng.

    *        *        *        *        *

'Admire my wife! did ever mortal eyes'
Cornuto, in a rapture, boasting cries
'Such a fine set of teeth of ivory view?
And such a fine complexion's ivory hue?
Fool! hide thy head! both her and thee we scorn:
Oft the wife's ivory makes the husband's horn.

    *        *        *        *        *

I'm told Sir Pigmy mimics me; what then?
Don't we all know that monkies mimic men?
'I cannot say your poem I admire;
It wants originality and fire;
Besides, I find it, by no means, correct;
You've written it in haste, I should suspect,'
"What! do you think me then a jackass, pray?"
'I shall think so if you so lou...

That sermon, reverend Sir, which you have bought,
To save your idle brain the toil of thought,
You read in such a dull, lethargic tone,
It seems almost as stupid as your own.

    *        *        *        *        *

Pursefull's a stickler for the law's abuse:
To him, 'tis clear, it was of sterling use.

    *        *        *        *        *

Pursefull still advocates the law's abuse.
What moralist can gratitude condemn?
They, formerly, have done so much for him;
Ought he not, now, to do his best for them?

Thou able, boaster! Virgil to translate!
Can'st thou, then, be so vain, so shallow-pated?
To a far higher intellectual state,
Coxcomb! thou must, thyself, be first translated.

*    *    *    *    *

A lady had a sickly son;
A skeleton but for his skin:
Her pretty maid he woo'd, and won;
The mother chid him for his sin.
'Her charms were not to be withstood,
Too tempting for frail flesh and blood!
As you, dear Ma'am, must fairly own.'
"That's no excuse for skin and bone."

    May European Liberty
In Moscow's flames her torch relume!
    And Gallic Tyranny
In Moscow's ruins find a tomb!

    *    *    *    *    *

Locke says the soul may slumber;
Lavater says the soul is seen
    Reflected in the mien;
    The last assertion true,
    Proofs of the first we view
    In faces without number.

Henceforth at miracles who'll dare to mock?
No wonder Orpheus' lyre could move the brutes,
Or Moses' rod strike water from the rock;
Lo! Shakspeare's genius melts the heart of Nutes,
Draws tears of pity from a barber's block!

        *        *        *        *        *

    A quack, a mere anatomy,
    Wanting to buy a nag,
    Questions his friend, a wag,
    What colour it shall be:
'White,' he replies, 'let it be white, of course,
For then you'll look like Death on the pale horse.'

Satan, says scripture, like a roaring lion,
Goes about, seeking whom he may devour.
What should a priest, then, chiefly keep his eye on?
To guard his flock against the tempter's power.
Pshaw! what he chiefly looks at is to fleece 'em:
To seize his prey, the tithes, and still increase 'em:
Like a devouring lion is the priest;
Or give the devil his due you'll own, at least,
He has the marks about him of the beast.

    *        *        *        *        *

Why, Sir, so proud to sign your name M.D.?
'It means I'm member of the Faculty.'
Hum! from your practice else one might infer
It meant mock-doctor, or death's minister.