Classic Poem

FROM A BROTHER SKELETON .

A loft to high Parnassus' hill,
I heard thy pray'r ascending swift;
And are the Nine propitious still
To grant thy wish, and send the Gift?
Has kind Apollo made a shift,
To roll down from his kitchen high
A sirloin huge — a smoking lift,
To feed thy keen devouring eye?

If so, O much respected Swain!
Thou'rt surely Phaebus, fav'rite Bard;
Thy glitt ring blade in fatness stain,
No more complain thy lot is hard,
And while the juice besmears thy beard,
And plumps thy meagre corse again,
Think what's their case who ne'er have shar'd
Such bliss, but pray and yawn in vain.

Yet, if regardless of thy strains,
The Strumpets scorn to lend an ear —
Bestow upon thy caput brains,
But stern refuse thy belly chear;
If through thy hollow trunk thou hear,
Oft as the steam of Dinner soars,
Remurm'ring sounds of croaking fear,
And melancholy quer'lous roars.

If oft on chearless Winter's morn,
Thou spends, with thought, the shiv'ring hour,
In solitary state forlorn;
Like Cruickston, or the Stanley Tow'r,
While, from thy half-clad sides, the show'r
Of lashing rain, or hail rebound,
And free thy issuing toes explore
Each miry creek, and kiss the ground —

If ills like these, for these are mine,
Attend thee like thy shadow close,
Know, E — n, that the nymphs divine,
From whom our song continual flows,
We call them blushing as the Rose,
Endearing sweet, enrapt'ring fair;
They scorn, for nought, to take the dose,
So pay us back in Sterling air.

If thou must eat, ferocious Bard!
Elsewhere importune for a dinner;
Long thou may pray here, nor be heard,
And praying make thee but the thinner.
Do like the lank, lean, ghostly sinner,
That here presumes to give advice,
Ne'er court the Muse for meat — to win her,
E'en starve, and glory in the price.

Apollo knows that three long weeks,
And pale the prospect yet appears,
On crusts of hard brown bread and leeks,
I've liv'd, and may for rolling years;
Yet still the muse most kindly chears
Each craving day, and yawning night,
Soft whisp'ring ever in my ears,
" Be Fame thy belly's chief delight. "

Through future ages, then thy name,
Th' immortal Goddess shall preserve;
Be this thy dear, thy envy'd claim,
For this extend thy ev'ry nerve;
And should that World thou strains to serve,
A ling'ring carcase food refuse,
Contemn their baseness, boldly starve,
And die a martyr for the Muse.

More consolation I might pour,
But, hark! the tempest, how it blows!
Th' inconstant blast, with thund'ring roar
O'er chimney tops more furious grows.
The wintry drop, prone from my nose,
Hangs glist'ring in the candle's beam,
And Want and Sleep's uniting throes,
Here force me to forsake my theme.