Behold! for scandal you have made a feast, One fat sirloin possesses more sublime Beats all the streams the Muses' fount can boast. Thus spoke the Judge; then, leaping from the chair, He left, in consternation lost, the pair:- ; Shocked at the little manners of the knight, A POETICAL, SUPPLICATING, MODEST, AND AFFECTING "Carmine Di Superi placantur, carmine Manes." FATHERS of wisdom, a poor wight befriend! And of your worships ask a little praise. I am no cormorant for fame, d'ye see; In sonnet, ode, and legendary tale, Soon will the press my tuneful works display; My labours damned, the Muse with grief will groan- I never said, like murderers in their dens, You secret met in cloud-capped garret high, Nor said, in your Reviews, together strung, I ne'er declared that, frightful as the Blacks, Or coat or breeches to keep out the weather. Heaven knows I'm innocent of all transgression I ne'er abused your critical profession, Whose dictum saves at once or damns a name. I never questioned your profound of head, Nor vulgar called your wit, your manners coarse; Nor swore on butchered authors that you fed Like carrion crows upon a poor dead horse. I never said that pedlar-like you sold Praise by the ounce or pound, like snuff or cheese; Too well I knew you silver scorned, and goldSuch dross a sage Reviewer seldom sees! I never hinted that with half a crown Books have been sent you by the scribbling tribe; Which fee hath purchased pages of renown: No, for I knew you'd spurn the paltry bribe. I ne'er averred you critics, to a man, For pence would swear an owl excelled the lark; Nor called a coward gang your grave Divan, That stabbed, like base assassins, in the dark. I never praised, or blamed, an author's book, With you I praised, or blamed, so help me God! The famed Longinus all the world must know; As well as Alexander's tutor, lo! All, all great critics, gentlemen, like you. Did any ask me, "Pray, Sir, your opinion Quick have I answered, in a rage, "Odsblood! E'er poured more sterling oracle than they.” Did others cry, "Whate'er their brains indite With io pæans ushered to the light, And praised to folly in the next Review." This was my answer to each snarling elf (My eyeballs filled with fire, my mouth with foam): "Zounds! is not justice due to one's dear self? And should not charity begin at home?" Full often I've been questioned with a sneer- "A beef-steak, with a pot or two of beer, Might save a little volume from damnation." Furious I've answered: "Lo! my Lord Carlisle Hath begged in vain a seat in Fame's old temple ; Though you applaud, their wisdoms will not smile; And what they disapprove is cursed simple. "Could gold succeed, enough the peer might raise, Whose wealth would buy the critics o'er and o'er : 'Tis merit only can command their praise, Witness the volumes of Miss Hannah More ; "The Search for Happiness, that beauteous song, Hail, Bristol town! Boeotia now no more, Since Garrick's Sappho sings, though rather slowly! All hail, Miss Hannah! worth at least a score, Ay, twenty score, of Chatterton and Rowley Men of prodigious parts are mostly shy; Great Newton's self this failing did inherit; Thus, frequent, you avoid the public eye, And hide in lurking-holes a world of merit. Yet oft your cautious modesties I see, When from your bower with bats you wing the dark : And Sundays, when no catchpoles prowl for prey, On ether dining in St. James's Park. Meek Sirs! in frays you choose not to appear,-— The world's loud plaudit, lo! you don't desire, But first at every coffee-house enquire There Wisdom often with a critic wig, The face demure, knit brows, and forehead scowling, I've seen o'er pamphlets, with importance big, Mousing for faults, or, if you'll have it, owling. Herculean gentlemen! I dread your drubs; Strung with new strength beneath your massy clubs, Lo, like an elephant along the ground, Great Caliban, the giant Johnson stretched! Whose fame the farthest of the stars hath reached. If such so easy sink beneath your might, If, awful Sirs, you grant me my petition, With brother pamphlets shall my pamphlet shine; And, should it chance to pass a first edition, In capitals shall stare your praise divine. Quote from my work as much as e'er you please ; Nor fill a hungry lawyer's fist with fees, To trounce a bookseller, like furious Mason.1 Sage Sirs! if favour in your sight I find, If fame you grant, I'll bless each generous giver; Wish you sound coats, good stomachs, masters kind,2 Gallons of broth, and pounds of bullock's liver. A LYRIC ODE. THE mean, the rancorous jealousies, that swell You strive to pick out one the other's eyes. To be a painter was Correggio's glory: His speech should flame in gold—“Sono pittore." But what, if truth were spoke, would be your speeches? Without a blush the poorest scandal speaking Like cocks, for ever at each other beaking; I do presume that one of you in ten Hath kept a dog or two; and hath remarked That, when you have been comfortably feeding, 1 The contest between Mr. Mason and a bookseller is generally known. 2 The booksellers. |