Classic Poem

Thus feverish fancies floated in my brain.
Longing, yet forced my purpose to restrain,
Upon the brink of infamy I staid,
Now half resolved to plunge, now half afraid.
But fate, that turns the eddy of our lives,
And, at its will, like straws our fortune drives,
Saved me, ere yet the desperate chance was run;
For death deprived me of my Eddleston.
I pass the useless hours in college spent—
The morning's lounge, the evening's merriment,
The tutor's lecture flippantly disdained,
The bottle emptied and the punchbowl drained,
The restless slumber and the spewy bed,
And all the horrors of an aching head;
Some of our proud aristocratic joys;
Youth's vision that reality destroys;
The course pursued to people, church, and state.
And rear up senators for grave debate.
These classic pastimes had no charms for me;
They filled my breast with languor and ennui.
The daily round of dull scholastic rules
Amused me not.—“I'll quit these wordy fools,”
Cried I, “who pass unprofitable days
“To square a circle or collate a phrase.
“Be mine a wider field to till the mind,
“I'll ramble, and investigate mankind.”
Launched on the main to distant climes I sailed,
And mental freedom's pure Aurora hailed
With all the glow that ardent youth inspires,
Borne on the tempest of its own desires,
What splendid cities and what navied ports,
What feasts, what revels, and what princely courts
I saw, were matter foreign to my theme:
Love, love, clandestine love, was still my dream.
Methought there must be yet some people found,
Where Cupid's wings were free, his hands unbound
Where law had no erotic statutes framed,
Nor gibbets stood to fright the unreclaimed.
I'll seek the Turk—there undisputed reigns
The little god, and still his rights maintains.
There none can trespass on forbidden ground:
There venal youths in every stew are found
And with their blandishments inveigle man,
As does in Christian lands the courtezan.
Lo! to the winds the sail its bosom heaves,
Bland zephyrs waft us and the port receives,
Where sable Euxine past is seen to glide,
To join his waters with a fairer bride.
'Tis there Byzantium's minarets arise
Tipt with their golden crescents to the skies:
And trees and palaces from height to height
With vivid hues enrich the novel sight.
Here much I saw—and much I mused to see
The loosened garb of Eastern luxury.
I sought the brothel, where, in maiden guise,
The black-eyed boy his trade unblushing plies;
Where in lewd dance he acts the scenic show—
His supple haunches wriggling to and fro:
With looks voluptuous the thought excites,
Whilst gazing sit the hoary sybarites:
Whilst gentle lute and drowsy tambourine
Add to the langour of the monstrous scene.
Yes, call it monstrous! but not monstrous, where
Close latticed harems hide the timid fair:
With mien gallant where paederasty smirks,
And whoredom, felon like, in covert lurks.
All this I saw—but saw it not alone—
A friend was with me; and I dared not own
How much the sight had touched some inward sense,
Too much for e'en the closest confidence.
Deep in the dark recesses of my mind
I hid my thoughts, nor told what they designed.
Quit we (I cried) these prostituted walls
A second Sodom here my heart appals.
Spare us good Lord! like patriarchial Lot!
If fire and brimstone falls, oh, burn us not!
This mask of horror served my purpose well—
Resolved to do what yet I feared to tell.
I found no kind leaning in the breast
Of those around me, and I felt opprest.
We bent again our topsails to the breeze,
And reached unharmed those smooth cerulean seas,
Whose surface, studded with a hundred isles,
Heaves like the nurse that hugs her babes, and smiles.
“Shipmates, farewell! and thou, John Cam, adieu!”
The nimble sailors up the mainsail clew:
“Starboard the helm”—the topsails fall aback,
And the ship's course seems suddenly to slack.
Down from the davits swiftly glides the boat—
The boatswain whistles, and away we float,
“Now pull together, lads!” We reach the land,
And Zea's rock receives me on the strand.
Hail, freedom, hail! For though the soil I trod,
Still groaning lay beneath the Moslem's rod,
Here first to me her benisons were known,
For mental freedom is to think alone.
Ah! little wots the friend I quitted here,
What strange adventures marked the coming year.
He sought his native shores; and ever brave
In danger's hour the freeman's rights to save,
Stood in the senate by a people's choice,
And, not unheeded, raised his patriot voice.
I, wicked Childe, pursued a different course:
A demon urged, and with Satanic force
Still goaded on. Retrieve the moment lost,
(He whispered)—Haste, and pleasure's cup exhaust.
Go, lay thee down beneath the shady plain,
Where Phaedrus heard grave Plato's voice complain.
Another Phaedrus may perchance go by,
And thy fond dreams become reality.