Here you will find the Long Poem The Poet of poet Mark Akenside
?A Rhapsody Of all the various lots around the ball, Which fate to man distributes, absolute; Avert, ye gods! that of the Muse's son, Curs'd with dire poverty! poor hungry wretch! What shall he do for life? he cannot work With manual labour: shall those sacred hands, That brought the counsels of the gods to light; Shall that inspired tongue, which every Muse Has touch'd divine, to charm the sons of men: These hallow'd organs! these! be prostitute To the vile service of some fool in power, All his behests submissive to perform, Howe'er to him ingrateful? Oh! he scorns The ignoble thought; with generous disdain, More eligible deeming it to starve, Like his fam'd ancestors renown'd in verse, Than poorly bend to be another's slave,? Than feed and fatten in obscurity. ?These are his firm resolves, which fate, nor time, Nor poverty can shake. Exalted high In garret vile he lives; with remnants hung Of tapestry. But oh! precarious state Of this vain transient world! all powerful time, What dost thou not subdue? See what a chasm Gapes wide, tremendous! see where Saul, enrag'd, High on his throne, encompass'd by his guards, With levell'd spear, and arm extended, sits, Ready to pierce old Jesse's valiant son, Spoil'd of his nose!?around in tottering ranks, On shelves pulverulent, majestic stands His library; in ragged plight, and old; Replete with many a load of criticism, Elaborate products of the midnight toil Of Belgian brains; snatch'd from the deadly hands Of murderous grocer, or the careful wight, Who vends the plant, that clads the happy shore Of Indian Patomack; which citizens In balmy fumes exhale, when, o'er a pot Of sage-inspiring coffee, they dispose Of kings and crowns, and settle Europe's fate. Elsewhere the dome is fill'd with various heaps Of old domestic lumber: that huge chair Has seen six monarchs fill the British throne: Here a broad massy table stands, o'erspread With ink and pens, and scrolls replete with rhyme: Chests, stools, old razors, fractur'd jars, half full Of muddy Zythum, sour and spiritless: Fragments of verse, hose, sandals, utensils Of various fashion, and of various use, With friendly influence hide the sable floor. This is the bard's museum, this the fane To Ph?bus sacred, and the Aonian maids: But oh! it stabs his heart, that niggard fate To him in such small measure should dispense Her better gifts: to him! whose generous soul Could relish, with as fine an elegance, The golden joys of grandeur, and of wealth; He who could tyrannize o'er menial slaves, Or swell beneath a coronet of state, Or grace a gilded chariot with a mien, Grand as the haughtiest Timon of them all. But 'tis in vain to rave at destiny, Here he must rest, and brook the best he can, To live remote from grandeur, learning, wit: Immur'd amongst th' 'ignoble, vulgar herd, Of lowest intellect; whose stupid souls But half inform their bodies; brains of lead And tongues of thunder; whose insensate breasts Ne'er felt the rapturous, soul-entrancing fire Of the celestial Muse; whose savage ears Ne'er heard the sacred rules, nor even the names Of the Venusian bard, or critic sage Full-fam'd of Stagyra: whose clamorous tongues Stun the tormented ear with colloquy, Vociferate, trivial, or impertinent; Replete with boorish scandal; yet, alas! This, this! he must endure, or muse alone, Pensive and moping o'er the stubborn rhyme, Or line imperfect?No! the door is free, And calls him to evade their deafening clang, By private ambulation;?'tis resolved: Off from his waist he throws the tatter'd gown, Beheld with indignation; and unloads His pericranium of the weighty cap, With sweat and grease discolour'd: then explores The spacious chest, and from its hollow womb Draws his best robe, yet not from tincture free Of age's reverend russet, scant and bare; Then down his meagre visage waving flows The shadowy peruke; crown'd with gummy hat, Clean brush'd; a cane supports him. Thus equipp'd He sallies forth; swift traverses the streets, And seeks the lonely walk. ?Hail sylvan scenes! Ye groves, ye valleys, ye meand'ring brooks, Admit me to your joys,? in rapturous phrase, Loud he exclaims; while with the inspiring Muse His bosom labours; and all other thoughts, Pleasure and wealth, and poverty itself, Before her influence vanish. Rapt in thought, Fancy presents before his ravished eyes Distant posterity, upon his page With transport dwelling; while bright Learning's sons, That ages hence must tread this earthly ball, Indignant, seem to curse the thankless age, That starv'd such merit. Meantime, swallow'd up In meditation deep, he wanders on, Unweeting of his way.?But ah! he starts! With sudden fr