Richard Crawley Poems

Shall clamorous youth alone our lyres engage ?
Go, look at Brice and learn the charms of age !
What though thy vigour slumbers in thy years ?
What though thy brow a trace of ruin wears ?
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Goodness, Friendship, Wit, and Mirth,
All lie buried in this earth.
Sussex bore him, Cambridge bred,
Steeple Ashton holds him dead.
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SOME countries are famed for their wines or their women,
And some for what has been, and some for what's coming ;
But old Ireland's a place that can boast, I'm a thinking,
Of things even finer than lasses or drinking ;
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A hungry eagle, wishing to be fed,
Let fall a tortoise on a poet's head,
And Athens mourned her noblest singer dead.
Oh had the bird our bald tormentor known,
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A jail-bird's our member, 'tis true ;
Good folk, you've no reason to rail :
'Tis a comfort for me and for you
To know that our member's in jail.
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'Pluto, that dog confound!' a donkey brayed,
He's got the manger that for me was made.
I cannot lift my nose to smell the feast,
All for that snarling and unwholesome beast.
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The slave that found the noble Gracchus' head,
To gain more gold replaced the brains with lead;
Should B 's ever in such scales be thrown,
Finder, be wise, and leave the brains alone.
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Mortals, whosoe'er ye be,
Know the consecrated tree :
Tender virgins, bow before it;
Wanton bachelors, adore it.
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The bloom is fading from the heather,
The gorse has scattered half its gold,
And, presaging a ruder weather,
September's winds blow keen and cold.
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Oh come not to my grave when I am dead ;
The soul you loved was never buried there :
It did not linger till the prayers were said ;
It tarried not in the material air.
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