A Patent against Oblivion
We struck
into the crypt.
Through
the chancel floor
we set to
find the poet, Milton,
and as
the matter rested a hundred years and more
since his
interment,
we were
obliged to prove the place,
that his
supporters might in time affect
a
monument of worth, and so saying
looked to
our spades
that day
in August, and it tremendous warm,
in the
year of Christ’s Mercy 1790, at St Giles
Cripplegate.
Under
such direction, we came
to a
coffin, lead it was, and hard by it there
another,
older, of wood, that the gentlemen
were
pleased by, in that the parish records of Stuart reign
confirmed,
the poet lain into the same space
afforded
his father, come earlier to his time.
In piety,
that the proof was had, we were
given
leave to close
our
excavations, the gentlemen departing. In truth,
the day
in its condition
continuing
intemperate, and we
in ours
without provision of rest or libation,
agreed −
we would apply us to the King’s Arms
and a
sufficiency of ale.
After a
while at this place
and
particular discussion, we went again into the church,
and
Holmes it was dropped down
into the
depths where lay the coffin, until
with some
effort, he removed it to the edge
of our
morning excavation.
The
others asked Holmes
if he might prise the lid, that they might look upon the corpse,
and with
a chisel and mallet, this was accomplished,
the lead
removed in a manner slantwise,
revealing
the head and breast, bound
in
shroud, and so thought we all that air
of a
deeper time was apprehended.
The ribs
of the body appeared regular
and in
condition perfect, but when touched fell away
to dust
and bony shale.
Mr
Fountain, who assisted, endeavoured
that the
teeth would come, but finding they resisted
his
efforts, loosed them with a stone.
And
others in our party came forward, to claim the jaw
as
trophy, the bones of the leg,
and hair
recovered from the slime
that lay
along the bottom of the coffin.
In their
turn, our number removed themselves
into the
daylight, to better examine these objects.
After
which time, we conferred, and broke
the bones
by size not larger
than a
shilling piece
that we
might have them to market
and test
their worth.
Mrs Grant
it was, stood watch upon the corpse,
then from
the curious who would view it
called
for sixpence, later less
when the
novelty
no longer
held for passers-by.
And Dr
Browne, hearing of our enterprise,
came
forward, and demanded to know our masters,
chiding
us
for this
trade of bones and rotted scalp.
… I
cannot speak for others, but this I have still −
washed
clean of grave-clots
beneath
the cistern cock −
a length
of auburn hair wherein it is said
his
genius lay, that of its keeping
I too
might hope for immortality,
and in it
find a patent against oblivion, a leave
of bone
and ash from dark places, to walk
in this
parish, among these streets,
and speak
of Paradise.
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