Metrical Tales and Other Poems/Cool Reflections during a Midsummer walk
COOL REFLECTIONS
DURING A
MIDSUMMER WALK.
O spare me . . spare me, Phœbus! if indeedThou hast not let another PhaetonDrive earthward thy fierce steeds and fiery car;Mercy! I melt! I melt! no tree, no bush,No shelter not a breath of stirring airEast, West, or North, or South! dear God of day,Put on thy night-cap! crop thy locks of light,And be in the fashion! turn thy back upon us,And let thy beams flow upward! make it nightInstead of noon! one little miracle,In pity, gentle Phœbus!What a joy,Oh what a joy to be a Seal and flounderOn an ice-island! or to have a denWith the white bear, cavern'd in polar snow!It were a comfort to shake hands with Death, . .He has a rare cold hand! to wrap one's self In the gift shirt Deianeira sent,Dipt in the blood of Nessus, just to keepThe sun off; or toast cheese for Beelzebub,That were a cool employment to this journeyAlong a road whose white intensityWould now make platina uncongelableLike quicksilver.Were it midnight, I should walkSelf-lanthorn'd, saturate with sun-beams. Jove!O gentle Jove! have mercy, and once moreKick that obdurate Phœbus out of heaven!Give Boreas the wind-cholic, till he roarsFor cardamum, and drinks down peppermint,Making what's left as precious as Tokay.Send Mercury to salivate the skyTill it dissolves in rain. O gentle Jove!But some such little kindness to a wretchWho feels his marrow spoiling his best coat, . .Who swells with calorique as if a PresterHad leavened every limb with poison-yeast, . .Lend me thine eagle just to flap his wings,And fan me, and I will build temples to thee,And turn true Pagan. Not a cloud nor breeze, . .O you most heathen Deities! if everMy bones reach home (for, for the flesh upon them,That hath resolved itself into a dew),I shall have learnt owl-wisdom. Thou vile Phœbus,Set me a Persian sun-idolaterUpon this turnpike road, and I'll convert himWith no inquisitorial argumentBut thy own fires. Now woe be to me wretch,That I was in a heretic country born!Else might some mass for the poor souls that bleach,And burn away the calx of their offencesIn that great Purgatory crucible,Help me. O Jupiter! my poor complexion!I am made a copper-Indian of already,And if no kindly cloud will parasol me,My very cellular membrane will be changed, . .I shall be negrofied.A brook! a brook!Oh what a sweet cool sound!'Tis very nectar!It runs like life thro' every strengthen'd limb!Nymph of the stream, now take a grateful prayer.