Page:Landon in Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Book 1833.pdf/67

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Heaven! whatever shall I do? I must write something for my readers: What has become of my ideas? Now, out upon them for seceders! Of all the places in the world, To fix upon a port in China; Celestial empire, how I wish I had been christened Celestina! The wish however's served for rhyme, But here again invention falters: Had it but been a town in Greece; I might have raved about its altars, And talked of liberty and mass, Of tyrants and Romaic dances, Of Athens with a German king, And fifty thousand other chances: Or had it only been in Spain; A few night-stars the midnight gemming, And a guitar, I might have scribbled The rest from Contarini Flemming: Or Italy, the land of song; Of myrtle, pictures, and of passion— Ah! that was for mine earlier lute, I write now in another fashion: Or France, which, like an invalid, Goes patching up a constitution; Those three most glorious days in June, Might have lain under contribution: Or had it only been Madeira; I might have made a charming fiction, Of some young maiden crossed in love, And dying of the contradiction. I’m like a sailor sent to sea, Sent with "no, nothing" for his sea-hoard; What on earth can I find to say, Of a pagoda, or a tea-board? No love, no murder, no description, Their only "old association" Is with the willow-pattern plates, That on the dresser have their station. I give it up in pure despair; But well the muse may turn refractory, When all her inspiration is— A Chinese Town, and an English Factory.