Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE ANSWER, by CHARLES COTTON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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First Line: When in this dirty corner of the world
Last Line: Which if it be not rhyme, I'll swear 'tis true.
Subject(s): Brome, Alexander (1620-1666)


WHEN in this dirty corner of the world,
Where all the rubbish of the rest is hurl'd,
Both men and manners; this abandon'd place,
Where scarce the sun dares show his radiant face,
I met thy lines, they made me wond'ring stand,
At thy unknown, and yet the friendly hand.
Straight through the air m' imagination flew
To ev'ry region I had seen, or knew;
And kindly bless'd (at her returning home)
My greedy ear, with the glad name of Brome.
Then I reproach'd myself for my suspense
And mourned my own want of intelligence
That could not know thy celebrated muse,
(Though mask'd with all the art that art can use)
At the first sight, which to the dullest eyes,
No names conceal'd, nor habit can disguise.
For who (ingenious Friend) but only thee,
(Who art the soul of wit and courtesy)
Writes in so pure, an unaffected strain,
As shows, wit's ornament is to be plain;
Or would caress a man condemn'd to lie
Buried from all human society,
'Mongst brutes and bandogs in a Lernean fen,
Whose natives have nor souls, nor shape of men?
How could the Muse, that in her noble flight,
The boding raven cuff'd, and, in his height
Of untam'd power, and unbounded place,
Durst mate the haughty tyrant to his face,
Deign an inglorious stoop, and from the sky
Fall down to prey on such a worm as I?
Her seeing (sure) my state made her relent,
And try to charm me from my banishment;
Nor has her charitable purpose fail'd,
For when I first beheld her face unveil'd,
I kiss'd the paper, as an act of grace
Sent to retrieve me from this wretched place,
And doubted not to go abroad again
To see the world, and to converse with men:
But when I taste the dainties of the flood
(Ravish'd from Neptune's table for my food)
The Lucrine lake's plump oysters I despise,
With all the other Roman luxuries,
And, wanton grow, condemn the famous breed
Of sheep and oxen, which these mountains feed.
Then as a snake, benumb'd and fit t' expire,
If laid before the comfortable fire
Begins to stir, and feels her vitals beat
Their healthful motion, at the quick'ning heat,
So my poor muse, that was half starv'd before
On these bleak cliffs, no thought of writing more,
Warm'd by thy bounty, now can hiss and spring
And ('tis believ'd by some) will shortly sting,
So warm she's grown, and without things like these
Minerva, must, as well as Venus, freeze.
Thus from a Highlander I straight commence
Poet, by virtue of thy influence,
That with one ray can clods and stones inspire,
And make them pant and breathe poetic fire.
And thus I am thy creature prov'd, who name
And fashion take from thy indulgent flame.
What should I send thee then, that may befit
A grateful heart, for such a benefit;
Or how proclaim, with a poetic grace,
What thou hast made me from the thing I was,
When all I write is artless, forc'd and dull,
And mine as empty as thy fancy full?
All our conceits, alas! are flat and stale,
And our inventions muddy, as our ale:
No friends, no visitors, no company,
But such, as I still pray I may not see;
Such craggy, rough-hewn rogues as do not fit,
Sharpen and set, but blunt the edge of wit,
Any of which (and fear has a quick eye)
If through a perspective I chance to spy
Though a mile off, I take th' alarm and run
As if I saw a devil, or a dun;
And in the neighbouring rocks take sanctuary,
Praying the hills to fall and cover me.
So that my solace lies amongst my grounds,
And my best company's my horse and hounds.
Judge then (my Friend) how far I am unfit
To traffic with thee in the trade of wit:
How bankrupt I am grown of all commerce,
Who have all number lost, and air of verse,
But if I could in luring song set forth,
Thy muse's glory and thine own true worth,
I then would sing an ode, that should not shame,
The writer's purpose nor the subject's name.
Yet, what a grateful heart and such a one,
As (by thy virtues) thou hast made thine own,
Can poorly pay, accept for what is due,
Which if it be not rhyme, I'll swear 'tis true.





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