"Hear your sovereign's proclamation, All good subjects, young and old ! I'm the lord of the creation;
I-a water-wagtail bold! All around, and all you see, All the world was made for ME!
"Yonder sun, so proudly shining, Rises-when I leave my nest; And, behind the hills declining, Sets-when I retire to rest: Morn and evening, thus you see, Day and night, were made for ME!
"Vernal gales to love invite me;
Summer sheds, for me, her beams; Autumn's jovial scenes delight me; Winter paves with ice my streams: All the year is mine, you see; Seasons change, like moons, for ME !
"On the heads of giant mountains, Or beneath the shady trees; By the banks of warbling fountains, I enjoy myself at ease: Hills and valleys, thus you see, Groves and rivers, made for ME!
"Boundless are my vast dominions; I can hop, or swim, or fly; When I please, my towering pinions Trace my empire through the sky: Air and elements, you see,
Heaven and earth, were made for ME!
"Birds and insects, beasts and fishes, All their humble distance keep; Man, subservient to my wishes, Sows the harvest, which I reap: Mighty man himself, you see, All that breathe, were made for ME!
"'T was for my accommodation Nature rose when I was born; Should I die-the whole creation Back to nothing would return:
Sun, moon, stars, the world, you see, Sprung-exist-will fall with ME!"
Here the pretty prattler ending, Spread his wings to soar away; But a cruel hawk, descending,
Pounced him up-a helpless prey!- Couldst thou not, poor wagtail! see, That the hawk was made for THEE?
THE PLEASURES OF IMPRISONMENT:
IN TWO EPISTLES TO A FRIEND.
You ask, my friend, and well you may, You ask me how I spend the day; I'll tell you, in unstudied rhyme, How wisely I befool my time: Expect not wit nor fancy, then, In this effusion of my pen;
These idle lines-they might be worse
Are simple prose in simple verse.
Each morning, then, at five o'clock,
The adamantine doors unlock;
Bolts, bars, and portals crash and thunder
The gates of iron burst asunder;
Hinges that creak, and keys that jingle, With clattering chains, in concert mingle: So sweet the din, your dainty ear,
For joy, would break its drum to hear; While my dull organs, at the sound, Rest in tranquillity profound: Fantastic dreams amuse my brain, And waft my spirit home again: Though captive all day long, 'tis true, At night I am as free as you; Not ramparts high, nor dungeons deep, Can hold me when I'm fast asleep!
But everything is good in season: I dream at large-and wake in prison, Yet think not, sir, I lie too late; I rise as early even as eight;
Ten hours of drowsiness are plenty, For any man, in four and twenty. You smile-and yet 't is nobly done; I'm but five hours behind the sun!
When dressed, I to the yard repair, And breakfast on the pure, fresh air; But though this choice Castalian cheer Keeps both the head and stomach clear, For reasons strong enough with me, I mend the meal with toast and tea. Now air and fame, as poets sing, Are both the same, the selfsame thing; Yet bards are not chameleons quite, And heavenly food is very light; Who ever dined or supped on fame, And went to bed upon a name?
Breakfast dispatched, I sometimes read, To clear the vapours from my head; For books are magic charms, I ween, Both for the crotchets and the spleen. When genius, wisdom, wit abound, Where sound is sense, and sense is sound; When art and Nature both combine, And live and breathe in every line; The reader glows along the page With all the author's native rage!
But books there are with nothing fraught,- Ten thousand words, and ne'er a thought; Where periods without period crawl, Like caterpillars on a wall,
That fall to climb, and climb to fall; While still their efforts only tend To keep them from their journey's end. The readers yawn with pure vexation, And nod-but not with approbation. In such a fog of dulness lost,
Poor Patience must give up the ghost; Not Argus' eyes awake could keep- Even Death might read himself to sleep! · At half-past ten, or thereabout,
My eyes are all upon the scout,- To see the lounging postboy come,
With letters or with news from home.
Believe it, on a captive's word, Although the doctrine seem absurd,
The paper-messengers of friends For absence almost make amends; But if you think I jest or lie, Come to York Castle, sir, and try.
Sometimes to Fairyland I rove: Those iron rails become a grove; These stately buildings fall away To moss-grown cottages of clay; Debtors are changed to jolly swains, Who pipe and whistle on the plains; Yon felons grim, with fetters bound, Are satyrs wild, with garlands crowned; Their clanking chains are wreaths of flowers, Their horrid cells ambrosial bowers; The oaths expiring on their tongues Are metamorphosed into songs; While wretched female prisoners, lo! Are Dian's nymphs of virgin snow. Those hideous walls with verdure shoot; These pillars bend with blushing fruit; That dunghill swells into a mountain; The pump becomes a purling fountain; The noisome smoke of yonder mills The circling air with fragrance fills; This horse-pond spreads into a lake, And swans of ducks and geese I make; Sparrows are changed to turtle-doves, That bill and coo their pretty loves; Wagtails, turned thrushes, charm the vales, And tomtits sing like nightingales;
No more the wind through keyholes whistles, But sighs on beds of pinks and thistles; The rattling rain, that beats without,
And gurgles down the leaden spout,
In light, delicious dew distils,
And melts away in amber rills;
Elysium rises on the green,
And health and beauty crown the scene. Then by the enchantress Fancy led,
On violet banks I lay my head; Legions of radiant forms arise In fair array before mine eyes; Poetic visions gild my brain, And melt in liquid air again! As in a magic-lantern clear Fantastic images appear,
That beaming from the spectred glass, In beautiful succession pass,
Yet steal the lustre of their light From the deep shadow of the night: Thus, in the darkness of my head, Ten thousand shining things are bred, That borrow splendour from the gloom, As glow-worms twinkle in a tomb.
But lest these glories should confound me, Kind Dulness draws her curtain round me; The visions vanish in a trice,
And I awake as cold as ice: Nothing remains of all the vapour Save-what I send you-ink and paper. Thus flow my morning hours along, Smooth as the numbers of my song: Yet let me wander as I will, I feel I am a prisoner still.
Thus Robin, with the blushing breast, Is ravished from his little nest
By barbarous boys, who bind his leg, To make him flutter round a peg: See, the glad captive spreads his wings, Mounts, in a moment, mounts and sings, When suddenly the cruel chain Twitches him back to earth again. The clock strikes one-I can't delay, For dinner comes but once a day. At present, worthy friend, farewell; But by to-morrow's post I'll tell How during these half-dozen moons I cheat the lazy afternoons.
IN this sweet place where freedom reigns, Secured by bolts and snug in chains; Where innocence and guilt together Roost like two turtles of a feather; Where debtors safe at anchor lie, From saucy duns and bailiffs sly; Where highwaymen and robbers stout Would, rather than break in, break out;
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