There was a joy
In these lone meals, shared by my faithful dog,
Which I remind with pleasure, and has given
A verdure to my spirit's age. Then think
Of such a man, beside a guzzler set;
And how his stomach nauseates the repast.
"When he thinks of days he shall never more see.
Of his cake and his cheese, and his lair on the lea,
His laverock that hung on the heaven's ee-bree,
His prayer and his clear mountain rill."
I cannot eat one morsel. There is that,
Somewhere within, that balks each bold attempt;
A loathing--a disgust--a something worse:
I know not what it is. A strong desire
To drink, but not for thirst. 'Tis from a wish
To wash down that enormous eater's food--
A sympathetic feeling. Not of love!
And be there ale, or wine, or potent draught
Superior to them both, to that I fly,
And glory in the certainty that mine
Is the ethereal soul of food, while his
Is but the rank corporeal--the vile husks
Best suited to his crude voracity.
And far as the bright spirit may transcend
Its mortal frame, my food transcendeth his.
A CREDITOR! Good heaven, is there beneath
Thy glorious concave of cerulean blue,
A being formed so thoroughly for dislike,
As is a creditor? No, he's supreme,
The devil's a joke to him! Whoe'er has seen
An adder's head upraised, with gleaming eyes,
About to make a spring, may form a shade
Of mild resemblance to a creditor.
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