"But thou, Memorial of monastic gall! What fancy sad or lightsome hast _thou_ given? Thy vision-scaring sounds alone recall The prayer that _trembles_ on a _yawn_ to Heaven, And _this_ Dean's gape, and _that_ Dean's nasal tone."
Would not this be a fine subject for a wild ode?
St. Withold footed thrice the Oulds, He met the nightmare and her nine foals; He bade her alight and her troth plight, And, "Aroynt thee, Witch!" he said.
I shall set about one when I am in a humour to abandon myself to all the diableries that ever met the eye of a Fuseli!
Le Grice has jumbled together all the quaint stupidity he ever wrote, amounting to about thirty pages, and published it in a book about the size and dimensions of children's twopenny books. The dedication is pretty. He calls the publication "Tineum;"[87] for what reason or with what meaning would give Madame Sphinx a complete victory over Oedipus.
A wag has handed about, I hear, an obtuse angle of wit, under the name of "An Epigram." 'Tis almost as bad as the subject.
"A tiny man of tiny wit A tiny book has published. But not alas! one tiny bit His tiny fame established."
My heart has thank'd thee, Bowles! for those soft strains, That, on the still air floating, tremblingly Woke in me Fancy, Love, and Sympathy! For hence, not callous to a Brother's pains Thro' Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went; And when the _darker_ day of life began, And I did roam, a thought-bewildered man! Thy kindred Lays an healing solace lent, Each lonely pang with dreamy joys combin'd, And stole from vain REGRET her scorpion stings; While shadowy PLEASURE, with mysterious wings, Brooded the wavy and tumultuous mind, Like that great Spirit, who with plastic sweep Mov'd on the darkness of the formless Deep!
Of the following sonnet, the four _last_ lines were written by Lamb, a man of uncommon genius. Have you seen his divine sonnet of "O! I could _laugh_ to hear the winter winds," etc.?
O gentle look, that didst my soul beguile, Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream Revisit my sad heart, auspicious smile! As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam; What time in sickly mood, at parting day I lay me down and think of happier years; Of joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. O pleasant days of Hope--for ever flown! Could I recall one!--But that thought is vain. Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone To lure the fleet-winged travellers back again: Anon, they haste to everlasting night, Nor can a giant's arm arrest them in their flight.