Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, DR. JOHNSON'S GHOST, by ELIZABETH MOODY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

DR. JOHNSON'S GHOST, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Twas at the solemn hour of night
Last Line: And word -- wrote never more.
Alternate Author Name(s): Greenly, Elizabeth
Subject(s): Johnson, Samuel (1709-1784)


On Boswell's Fournal of a Tour to the Hebrides
'TWAS at the solemn hour of night,
When men and spirits meet,
That Johnson, huge majestic sprite,
Repaired to Boswell's feet.

His face was like the full-orbed moon
Wrapped in a threatening cloud,
That bodes the tempest bursting soon,
And winds that bluster loud.

Terrific was his angry look,
His pendent eyebrows frowned;
Thrice in his hand he waved a book,
Then dashed it on the ground.

'Behold,' he cried, 'perfidious man,
This object of my rage:
Bethink thee of the sordid plan
That formed this venal page.

'Was it to make this base record
That you my friendship sought;
Thus to retain each vagrant word,
Each undigested thought?

'Dar'st thou pretend that, meaning praise,
Thou seek'st to raise my name,
When all thy babbling pen betrays
But gives me churlish fame?

'Do readers in these annals trace
The man that's wise and good?
No! -- rather one of savage race,
Illiberal, fierce and rude.

'A traveller, whose discontent
No kindness can appease;
Who finds for spleen perpetual vent
In all he hears and sees.

'One whose ingratitude displays
The most ungracious guest;
Who hospitality repays
With bitter, biting jest.

'Ah! would, as o'er the hills we sped,
And climbed the sterile rocks,
Some vengeful stone had struck thee dead,
Or steeple, spared by Knox!

'Thy adulation now I see,
And all its schemes unfold:
Thy avarice, Boswell, cherished me
To turn me into gold.

'So keepers guard the beasts they show,
And for their wants provide;
Attend their steps where'er they go,
And travel by their side.

'O! were it not that, deep and low,
Beyond thy reach I'm laid,
Rapacious Boswell had ere now
Johnson a mummy made.'

He ceased, and stalked from Boswell's sight
With fierce indignant mien,
Scornful as Ajax' sullen sprite
By sage Ulysses seen.

Dead paleness Boswell's cheek o'erspread,
His limbs with horror shook;
With trembling haste he left his bed,
And burnt his fatal book.

And thrice he called on Johnson's name.
Forgiveness to implore!
Then thrice repeated -- 'injured fame!'
And word -- wrote never more.





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