IF those who wield the Rod forget, 'Tis truly-Quis custodiet?
A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER.
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac ;-
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,-in fine,
A neat and "classical" Design.
But the in-Side ?-Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory,-more Imitation ;—
Some Accidents of Inspiration ;-
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;-
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.
In the less-crowded Age of ANNE,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to GARTH or TICKELL;—
He might have even dared to hope
A Line's Malignity from POPE!
But now, when Folks are hard to please,
And Poets are as thick as-Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend . . . . No Matter.
The Book, then, had a minor Credit:
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A.-These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,—
A Promise. They will do no Harm.
'Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B.-The Author may, in Time,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.
Sorely discomfited, our Bard
Worked for another ten Years-hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came
His Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know.
Each Laureate in embryo!
They tried and tested him, no less,-
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A.-The Author may, in Time
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B.-These little Songs display
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.
There is no MORAL to this Tale.
WITH Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?
Hereon men waste their Eloquence.
"Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.
How can you lend your Theme its Force?
How can you be direct and clear,
Concise, and (best of all) sincere,
If you must pen your Strain sublime
In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?
Who ever heard true Grief relate
Its artless Woes in 'six' and 'eight'?
Or felt his manly Bosom swell
Beneath a French-made Villanelle?
How can your Mens divinior sing
Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring,
Where she must chant her Orphic Tale
In just so many Lines, or fail?..."
"Form is the first (the Others bawl);
If not, why write in Verse at all?
Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose
(If Verse be such Restraint) in Prose?
For surely if you speak your Soul
Most freely where there's least Control,
It follows you must speak it best
By Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.
Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,
When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;
And barred no more by Lack of Skill,
The Mob may crowd Parnassus Hill!
Just at this Point-for you must know,
All this was but the To-and-fro
Of MATT and DICK who played with Thought,
And lingered longer than they ought
(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's Box
And trifle round a Paradox!)—
There came-but I forgot to say,
'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May-
There came a Fellow where they sat,
His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,
Who bore a Basket. Straight his Load
He set upon the Ground, and showed
His newest Toy-a Card with Strings.
On this side was a Bird with Wings,
On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!
The Twain were one.
Said MATT," E'en so
Here's the Solution in a Word:
Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.
The Poet twirls them in his Mind,
And wins the Trick with both combined."
WHEN Fate presents us with the Bays,
We prize the Praiser, not the Praise. We scarcely think our Fame eternal If vouched for by the Farthing Journal; But when the Craftsman's self has spoken We take it for a certain Token. This an Example best will show, Derived from DENNIS DIDErot.
A hackney Author, who'd essayed
All Hazards of the scribbling Trade;
And failed to live by every Mode,
From Persian Tale to Birthday Ode;
Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,
In Theologic Speculation.
'Tis commonly affirmed his Pen
Had been most orthodox till then;
But oft, as SOCRATES has said,
The Stomach's stronger than the Head;
And, for a sudden Change of Creed,
There is no Jesuit like Need.
Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,
By force of Habit, from the Gaul.
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