Classic Poem

O, THOU ! whose visionary bills unpaid,
Long as thy measure, o'er my slumber stream,
Whose Goose, hot-hissing thro' the midnight shade,
Disturbs the transport of each softer dream,

Why do imaginary needles wound,
Why do thy sheers clip short my fleeting joys,
Ah! why, emerging from thy hell profound,
The “Ghost of Shreds and Patches,” aweful rise?

Once more look up, nor droop thy hanging head,
The liberal linings of that breast unfold,
Be smiles, far brighter than thy buttons, spread,
And nobly scorn the vulgar lust of gold!

Tho' doom'd by fortune, since remotest time,
No meaner coin of modern date to use,
Lo! I can well reward with sterling rhime,
Stamp'd by the sacred mintage of the Muse.

Why mourn thy folly, why deplore thy fate,
Why call on every pow'r in sore dismay,
Thy warmest oraisons, alas! are late;
Reflect:—did'st thou e'er know a Poet pay?

Vain from thy shopboard the eternal figh,
Vain thy devotions from that sable shrine,
Can guineas from the vacant pocket fly,
Can sorrow fill this empty purse of mine?

Ah, me! so long with dire consumption pin'd,
When shall that purse ill-omen'd, proudly swell
Full as the sail that holds the sav'ring wind:
Mysterious ministers of money, tell!

Fond man! while pausing o'er that gloomy page,
That tells thee what thou art, in terms too plain,
O'er the capacious Ledger lose thy rage,
Nor, of unsettled debts again be vain;

There lords and dukes and mighty princes lie,
Nor on them can'st thou for prompt payment call,
Why starts the big drop in thine anguish'd eye?
One honest, genuine Bard is worth them all!

A common garment, such as mortals wear,
(Dull sons of clay, the ready price who give,)
Thou mad'st, and lo! it lasted one short year;
But, in my garment thou shalt ever live:

Time ne'er shall rip one consecrated seam
Of cloth, from Fancy's loom all superfine,
Nor, shall I, cruel, haunt thy softer dream,
E'en when I dress thee in a suit divine;

Let sage philosophy thy soul inform,
With strength heroic every ill to bear,
Not better broad-cloth braves the angry storm,
And constant patience is delightful wear;

Be patient, then, and wise, nor meanly shrink,
Beneath Despondency's tumultuous blast,
The reck'ning-day may come, when least you think,
A joyful day,—tho' miracles are past!