THE CHANT OF THE BRAZEN HEAD. "Brazen companion of my solitary hours! do you, while I recline, pronounce a prologue to those sentiments of wisdom and virtue, which are hereafter to be the oracles of statesmen, and the guides of philosophers. Give me to-night a proem of our essay, an opening of our case, a division of our subject. Speak!" -Slow music. The Friar falls asleep. The Head chants as follows.) THE BRAZEN HEAD. "I THINK, whatever mortals crave, A wreath-a rank-a throne-—a grave— I think that life is not too long, And therefore I determine Who will not read a sermon. "I think you've look'd through many hearts, I think the world has lost its wits, "I think the studies of the wise, The poet's cherished laurel; And all that charms or troublesThis bubble is more bright than that, But still they all are bubbles. "I think the thing you call Renown, The unsubstantial vapor For which a soldier burns a town, The sonneteer a taper, Is like the mist which, as he flies, The horseman leaves behind him; He cannot mark its wreaths arise, Or, if he does, they blind him. "I think one nod of Mistress Chance "I think the Tories love to buy 'Your Lordships' and 'Your Graces,' By loathing common honesty, And lauding common places; 66 I think that some are very wise, And some grow rich by telling lies, I think the Whigs are wicked knaves, Who doubt that Britain rules the waves, I think that many fret and fume "I think that friars and their hoods, Their doctrines and their maggots, I think while zealots fast and frown, "I think that, thanks to Paget's lance, I think the Pope is on his back, And, though 'tis fun to shake him, I think the Devil not so black, As many people make him. "I think that Love is like a play Where tears and smiles are blended, Whose shine with shower is ended; "I think the world, though dark it be, Has aye one rapturous pleasure, Conceal'd in life's monotony, 66 66 For those who seek the treasure; One friend not quite a hypocrite— I think poor beggars court St. Giles, Rich beggars court St. Stephen; And Death looks down with nods and smiles, I think some die upon the field, And some are laid beneath a shield, "I think that very few have sigh'd, When Fate at last has found them, Though bitter foes were by their side, And barren moss around thern; |