"But, led by twilight lantern's twinkling pow'rs, / To guard such godlike Creatures' dozing hours, / For crumbs scrap'ed up, and dealt in scanty doles, / Just soldering Bodies, and cementing Souls!"
— Woodhouse, James (bap. 1735, d. 1820)
Work Title
Date
1814, 1816, 1896
Metaphor
"But, led by twilight lantern's twinkling pow'rs, / To guard such godlike Creatures' dozing hours, / For crumbs scrap'ed up, and dealt in scanty doles, / Just soldering Bodies, and cementing Souls!"
Metaphor in Context
Should stronger turpitude consist in crimes,
Which thwarted Pow'r by penning righteous Rhymes,
No ray should light him o'er the trackless heath,
But blazing lightnings blast his rustic wreath--
No breeze but Wealth's contaminated breath,
Should e'er, one Day, retard the stroke of Death--
No drink, but drips from Fashion's fulsome rooms
His thirst should gratify in dungeon glooms,
Till tears extinguish'd every spark of Spleen,
Blurr'd all bold truths, and blunted sharp and keen--
Till torment metamorphos'd libell'd lays,
And turn'd each peccant couplet round to praise--
While he whose luke-warm spirit, prone to faults,
Between full freedom and submission halts
Be press'd with weights till Greatness hears his cries
To give some gleanings of the Earth and Skies;
While with incessant sighs, and griefs, and groans,
His deep repentance for each fault atones!
But still each pain and grief to aggravate,
And add fresh curses to the Culprit's fate,
Inflicting all the force of scoff and scorn,
To prove the Bard of humble Parent born,
A crowd of crimes! a base, ignoble, Boor!
And, what's far worse, unpardonably poor!
These form a mass of shame--a gulph of guilt--
Rubbish--on which no merit can be built!
The lack of lustrous Wealth, or badge of Birth,
Precludes all moral, and religious, Worth!
Had he an Adam's Make, an Angel's Mind,
Court Churls could, there, no charms, nor Virtues, find!
Nor must he hope the pure and peaceful right,
Of solar beam, by day, or bed, by night;
But, led by twilight lantern's twinkling pow'rs,
To guard such godlike Creatures' dozing hours,
For crumbs scrap'ed up, and dealt in scanty doles,
Just soldering Bodies, and cementing Souls!
To keep the mere machinery's parts compact,
When call'd, like true automatons, to act--
To move the frame, or head, eyes, hands, and feet,
Or speak, when, what, how, Mistress thinks most meet--
To stand--sit--lie--to walk, to run, to rest,
As such sublime Commanders deem it best!
Which thwarted Pow'r by penning righteous Rhymes,
No ray should light him o'er the trackless heath,
But blazing lightnings blast his rustic wreath--
No breeze but Wealth's contaminated breath,
Should e'er, one Day, retard the stroke of Death--
No drink, but drips from Fashion's fulsome rooms
His thirst should gratify in dungeon glooms,
Till tears extinguish'd every spark of Spleen,
Blurr'd all bold truths, and blunted sharp and keen--
Till torment metamorphos'd libell'd lays,
And turn'd each peccant couplet round to praise--
While he whose luke-warm spirit, prone to faults,
Between full freedom and submission halts
Be press'd with weights till Greatness hears his cries
To give some gleanings of the Earth and Skies;
While with incessant sighs, and griefs, and groans,
His deep repentance for each fault atones!
But still each pain and grief to aggravate,
And add fresh curses to the Culprit's fate,
Inflicting all the force of scoff and scorn,
To prove the Bard of humble Parent born,
A crowd of crimes! a base, ignoble, Boor!
And, what's far worse, unpardonably poor!
These form a mass of shame--a gulph of guilt--
Rubbish--on which no merit can be built!
The lack of lustrous Wealth, or badge of Birth,
Precludes all moral, and religious, Worth!
Had he an Adam's Make, an Angel's Mind,
Court Churls could, there, no charms, nor Virtues, find!
Nor must he hope the pure and peaceful right,
Of solar beam, by day, or bed, by night;
But, led by twilight lantern's twinkling pow'rs,
To guard such godlike Creatures' dozing hours,
For crumbs scrap'ed up, and dealt in scanty doles,
Just soldering Bodies, and cementing Souls!
To keep the mere machinery's parts compact,
When call'd, like true automatons, to act--
To move the frame, or head, eyes, hands, and feet,
Or speak, when, what, how, Mistress thinks most meet--
To stand--sit--lie--to walk, to run, to rest,
As such sublime Commanders deem it best!
Categories
Provenance
Searching in HDIS (Poetry)
Citation
Poem first published in its entirety in 1896. The 1814 first edition receives notice in The New Monthly Magazine (March 1815); the poem was written "in the last century" (w. 1795-1820?).
Text from The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse, ed. R. I. Woodhouse, 2 vols. (London: The Leadenhall Press, 1896). <Link to Hathi Trust> <Link to LION>
Text from The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse, ed. R. I. Woodhouse, 2 vols. (London: The Leadenhall Press, 1896). <Link to Hathi Trust> <Link to LION>
Theme
Mind's Eye
Date of Entry
11/21/2006
