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Literary
September 1, 1842
Alexandria Gazette
Alexandria, Alexandria County, District Of Columbia
What is this article about?
A narrative poem mythologizing the origin of musical shells by a god, contrasting with human souls born with music that fades with age under 'tyrant Time,' leaving them empty husks like bleached shells.
Clipping
OCR Quality
95%
Excellent
Full Text
Miscellaneous.
From the Boston Miscellany.
A PAGE OF CONCHOLOGY.
What god it was I cannot say,
But one there was, when Jove was king,
Who, wandering by some Grecian bay,
Picked up a vacant shell that lay
Bleached on the shore, a dry, unsav'ry thing.
Nor is my memory well informed
(No Lempriere's at hand, to blab)
What tenant had this mansion warmed,
Something with which the Ægean swarmed,
Some lobster, I suppose it was, or crab.
But he, the cunning brat of heaven,
Trimmed it according to his wish,
Crossed it with fibres—three or seven,
Or, as Pausanias thinks, eleven.
And gave a language to the poor, dead fish.
At once the house which e'en when filled.
By its old habits, was dumb.
Now as th'immortal artist willed,
A little sea-Odeon trilled.
And trembled low to the celestial thumb.
Enraptured with his new invention,.
Up soared he to the blissful seat,
And having caught even Jove's attention,
And calmed a family dissension,
Went serenading through the starry street.
With us, the story's the reverse—
Our souls are born already strung,
But 'twixt the cradle and the hearse
Creeps a change o'er us—for the worse!
The heart hath music only when 'tis young.
For soon there comes a sordid god,
Who snaps the precious chord of sound.
And leaves the soul an empty pod,
A yellow husk—a dull, hard clod—
A faded shell, in which no voice is found.
Save when some bold, heroic band
That dares to strike the tyrant Time,
Tries its first impulse to command,
And thrilling through the startled land.
Wastes the last ebbings of his youth in rhyme.
From the Boston Miscellany.
A PAGE OF CONCHOLOGY.
What god it was I cannot say,
But one there was, when Jove was king,
Who, wandering by some Grecian bay,
Picked up a vacant shell that lay
Bleached on the shore, a dry, unsav'ry thing.
Nor is my memory well informed
(No Lempriere's at hand, to blab)
What tenant had this mansion warmed,
Something with which the Ægean swarmed,
Some lobster, I suppose it was, or crab.
But he, the cunning brat of heaven,
Trimmed it according to his wish,
Crossed it with fibres—three or seven,
Or, as Pausanias thinks, eleven.
And gave a language to the poor, dead fish.
At once the house which e'en when filled.
By its old habits, was dumb.
Now as th'immortal artist willed,
A little sea-Odeon trilled.
And trembled low to the celestial thumb.
Enraptured with his new invention,.
Up soared he to the blissful seat,
And having caught even Jove's attention,
And calmed a family dissension,
Went serenading through the starry street.
With us, the story's the reverse—
Our souls are born already strung,
But 'twixt the cradle and the hearse
Creeps a change o'er us—for the worse!
The heart hath music only when 'tis young.
For soon there comes a sordid god,
Who snaps the precious chord of sound.
And leaves the soul an empty pod,
A yellow husk—a dull, hard clod—
A faded shell, in which no voice is found.
Save when some bold, heroic band
That dares to strike the tyrant Time,
Tries its first impulse to command,
And thrilling through the startled land.
Wastes the last ebbings of his youth in rhyme.
What sub-type of article is it?
Poem
Allegory
What themes does it cover?
Death Mortality
Moral Virtue
What keywords are associated?
Conchology
Shell
Soul Music
Youth
Tyrant Time
Mortality
Mythology
Literary Details
Title
A Page Of Conchology
Key Lines
Our Souls Are Born Already Strung,
But 'Twixt The Cradle And The Hearse
Creeps A Change O'er Us—For The Worse!
The Heart Hath Music Only When 'Tis Young.
For Soon There Comes A Sordid God,
Who Snaps The Precious Chord Of Sound.
And Leaves The Soul An Empty Pod,
A Yellow Husk—A Dull, Hard Clod—
A Faded Shell, In Which No Voice Is Found.
Save When Some Bold, Heroic Band
That Dares To Strike The Tyrant Time,
Tries Its First Impulse To Command,
And Thrilling Through The Startled Land.
Wastes The Last Ebbings Of His Youth In Rhyme.