Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Journey of Truth

The Journey of Truth.

Accursed be the hour I ventured to roamFrom the cool recess of my moss-clad home;I will back to my mouldering walls and hideThese tears of despair and wounded pride.

I sought the enchantress Fashion's hall—The many were bound in her iron thrall;They turned from my simple prayer away,As I told them how vain and capricious her sway.

A bard I met, with glorious eye,And song, whose thrilling melodyWon its unchecked way to the human breast;A flattering throng around him pressed.I told him how fickle and fleeting the loudUnmeaning praise of the worthless crowd;Of the aching brow, the hollow eye,The wearing fears, the despondency;The sleepless night, the vigil late,The uncertain fame, and the certain hate;But the poet frowned, and, turning to me,"Begone from sight, stern Truth," said he,"Can you hush the proud and lofty toneOf my gloomy hope? Begone! begone! Expect from frail woman unchanging smiles,Or win the bird from the serpent's wiles,Or lure yon moth from that glittering flame,Sooner than sully my dream of fame."

 I entered the cell of the plodding sage,And threw a gleam o'er his mystic page;But he closed his pained eyeballs, and said that ICould never have seen his new theory.

 A fair young maiden, with open brow,Was listening to her first-love's vow;I whispered her, that one day sheWould weep her fond credulity;That her idol was cold and vain, and would clingTo Ambition's shrine, and the offeringOf her changeless love would forget, and leaveHer youth over cold neglect to grieve.She said my voice was harsh, and that IWas governed by hate and by jealousy;Her cheek was flushed with indignant pride,As she clung more firm to her lover's side.

 Wherever I went I spread dismay,Friendship and Feeling I frightened away;And Love shook his saucy finger at me,And declared me his mortal enemy.

 I entered the church, and what did I there?I drove from the pulpit the minister.Poor priest! he turned paler than marble—but ICould not win to my shrine one votary.

 I knocked at the dying man's desolate gate—Death looked from the window, and begged me to wait,For a doctor had entered the moment before,And, seeing me coming, had bolted the door.I entered his study to wait for him there,And sat down to read in his easy-chair;But his books fell to pieces, and during my stayTwo-thirds of his physic had melted away.

 I dared not visit the lawyer's den,For I knew I should never return again;The rarest sport 'twould have been for himTo murder and tear me limb from limb.

 But it grieved me more than allThe very children afraid of me;The innocent creatures were at their play.And if I came near them they'd scamper away.Good heavens! to have seen those urchins run,You'd have thought I'd been the unholy one.'Twas the height of folly for me to roamFrom the cool recess of my moss-clad home;I will back to'my stony well, and hideThese tears of despair and wounded pride.