DOI Page / Citation link:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.2056#0267
THE DISTRESS'!) POET. 113
which they have neither seen, felt, heard, nor un-
derstood, this our Distress'd Poet is now spinning
a Poem upon Riches. Of their use he probably
knoweth little; and of their abuse, — if judgment
can be formed from externals,—certes, he knoweth
less.
Seated upon the side of his bed, without a shirt,
but wrapped in an old night-gown,—enchanted,
impressed, inspired with his subject, he is dis-
turbed by a nymph of the Lactarium. Her
shrill-sounding voice awakes one of the little
loves, whose cries disturb his meditations. A
link of the golden chain is broken! — a thought
is lost! — to recover it, his hand becomes a
substitute for the barber's comb:—enraged at
the noise, he tortures his head for the fleeting
idea;
But ah! no thought is there!
Proudly conscious that the lines already written
are sterling, he possesses by anticipation the mines
of Peru, a view of which hang over his head.
Upon the table we see Bysbe's Art of Poetry ;*
for, like the packhorse, who cannot travel without
* When I was very young, I once paid a morning visit to
a poet. Upon his table was Byshe's Art of Pobtby. I
naturally observed, " Your manager of a puppet-show is
" more prudent than yo» are; he keeps his wires out of
" sight." So tremblingly alive are these valets to tbe Muses,
that this good-natured hint, which had its source in a wish
to serve him, was never forgiven.
vol.i. I
which they have neither seen, felt, heard, nor un-
derstood, this our Distress'd Poet is now spinning
a Poem upon Riches. Of their use he probably
knoweth little; and of their abuse, — if judgment
can be formed from externals,—certes, he knoweth
less.
Seated upon the side of his bed, without a shirt,
but wrapped in an old night-gown,—enchanted,
impressed, inspired with his subject, he is dis-
turbed by a nymph of the Lactarium. Her
shrill-sounding voice awakes one of the little
loves, whose cries disturb his meditations. A
link of the golden chain is broken! — a thought
is lost! — to recover it, his hand becomes a
substitute for the barber's comb:—enraged at
the noise, he tortures his head for the fleeting
idea;
But ah! no thought is there!
Proudly conscious that the lines already written
are sterling, he possesses by anticipation the mines
of Peru, a view of which hang over his head.
Upon the table we see Bysbe's Art of Poetry ;*
for, like the packhorse, who cannot travel without
* When I was very young, I once paid a morning visit to
a poet. Upon his table was Byshe's Art of Pobtby. I
naturally observed, " Your manager of a puppet-show is
" more prudent than yo» are; he keeps his wires out of
" sight." So tremblingly alive are these valets to tbe Muses,
that this good-natured hint, which had its source in a wish
to serve him, was never forgiven.
vol.i. I