Classic Poem

INTRODUCTION

 There is a mood of mind we all have known
 On drowsy eve or dark and lowering day,
 When the tired spirits lose their sprightly tone
 And nought can chase the lingering hours away.
 Dull on our soul falls Fancy's dazzling ray,
 And Wisdom holds his steadier torch in vain,
 Obscured the painting seems, mistuned the lay,
 Nor dare we of our listless load complain,
For who for sympathy may seek that cannot tell of pain?

 The jolly sportsman knows such drearihood
 When bursts in deluge the autumnal rain,
 Clouding that morn which threats the heath-cock's brood;
 Of such in summer's drought the anglers plain,
 Who hope the soft mild southern shower in vain;
 But more than all the discontented fair,
 Whom father stern and sterner aunt restrain
 From county-ball or race occurring rare,
While all her friends around their vestments gay prepare.

 Ennui!—or, as our mothers called thee, Spleen!
 To thee we owe full many a rare device;—
 Thine is the sheaf of painted cards, I ween,
 The rolling billiard-ball, the rattling dice,
 The turning lathe for framing gimcrack nice;
 The amateur's blotched pallet thou mayst claim,
 Retort, and air-pump, threatening frogs and mice—
 Murders disguised by philosophic name—
And much of trifling grave and much of buxom game.

 Then of the books to catch thy drowsy glance
 Compiled, what bard the catalogue may quote!
 Plays, poems, novels, never read but once;—
 But not of such the tale fair Edgeworth wrote,
 That bears thy name and is thine antidote;
 And not of such the strain my Thomson sung,
 Delicious dreams inspiring by his note,
 What time to Indolence his harp he strung;—
O, might my lay be ranked that happier list among!

 Each hath his refuge whom thy cares assail.
 For me, I love my study-fire to trim,
 And con right vacantly some idle tale,
 Displaying on the couch each listless limb,
 Till on the drowsy page the lights grow dim
 And doubtful slumber half supplies the theme;
 While antique shapes of knight and giant grim,
 Damsel and dwarf, in long procession gleam,
And the romancer's tale becomes the reader's dream.

 'T is thus my malady I well may bear,
 Albeit outstretched, like Pope's own Paridel,
 Upon the rack of a too-easy chair;
 And find to cheat the time a powerful spell
 In old romaunts of errantry that tell,
 Or later legends of the Fairy-folk,
 Or Oriental tale of Afrite fell,
 Of Genii, Talisman, and broad-winged Roc,
Though taste may blush and frown, and sober reason mock.

 Oft at such season too will rhymes unsought
 Arrange themselves in some romantic lay,
 The which, as things unfitting graver thought,
 Are burnt or blotted on some wiser day.—
 These few survive—and, proudly let me say,
 Court not the critic's smile nor dread his frown;
 They well may serve to while an hour away,
 Nor does the volume ask for more renown
Than Ennui's yawning smile, what time she drops it down.