Such is the man the poet should rehearse.
As joint exemplar of his life and verse.

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told,
Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold
A longer empire o'er the public mind
Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined.

Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days The muse may celebrate with perfect praise, Whose generous children narrow'd not their hearts

With commerce, given alone to arms and arts. Our boys (save those whom public schools compel To "long and short" before they're taught to spell)

From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, "A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got." Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take The third, how much will the remainder make?— "A groat. "-"Ah, bravo! Dick hath done

the sum !

He'll swell my fifty thousand to a plum."

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes,

'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes;
And Locke will tell you, that the father's right
Who hides all verses from his children's sight;
For poets (says this sage,37 and many more,)
Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore;
And Delphi now, however rich of old,
Discovers little silver, and less gold,
Because Parnassus, though a mount divine,
Is poor as Irus,38 or an Irish mine.39

Two objects always should the poet move, Or one or both,-to please or to improve. Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design For our remembrance your didactic line; Redundance places memory on the rack, For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back.

Fiction does best when taught to look like truth,

And fairy fables bubble none but youth:
Expect no credit for too wondrous tales,
Since Jonas only springs alive from whales !

Young men with aught but elegance dispense;
Maturer years require a little sense.
To end at once:-that bard for all is fit
Who mingles well instruction with his wit;
For him reviews shall smile, for him o'erflow
The patronage of Paternoster-row;

His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pass (Who ne'er despises books that bring him brass); Through three long weeks the taste of London lead,

And cross St George's Channel and the Tweed.

But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, And wayward voices, at their owner's call, With all his best endeavours, only squall; Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark,40 And double-barrels (damn them!) miss their mark. 41

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view,

We must not quarrel for a blot or two;

But pardon equally to books or men,
The slips of human nature, and the pen.

Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, Despises all advice too much to mend, But ever twangs the same discordant string, Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing. Let Havard's 42 fate o'ertake him, who, for once, Produced a play too dashing for a dunce : At first none deem'd it his; but when his name Announced the fact-what then?-it lost its fame. Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose.

As pictures, so shall poems be; some stand The critic eye, and please when near at hand; But others at a distance strike the sight; This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new.

Parnassian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or
choice,

Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice,
Receive this counsel, and be timely wise;
Few reach the summit which before you lies.
Our church and state our courts and camps,
concede

Reward to very moderate heads indeed!

In these plain common sense will travel far;
All are not Erskines who mislead the bar :
But poesy between the best and worst
No medium knows; you must be last or first;
For middling poets' miserable volumes
Are damn'd alike by gods, and men, and
columns. 43

Again, my Jeffrey !-as that sound inspires,
How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires!
Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel

When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, Or mild Eclectics, when some, worse than Turks,

Would rob poor Faith to decorate "good works."

Such are the genial feelings thou canst claim—
My falcon flies not at ignoble game.

Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase!
For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace.
Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen

Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men ;
Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns,
"Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes. "45
Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign

A muse and heart by choice so wholly thine?
Dear d-d contemner of my schoolboy songs,
Hast thou no vengeance for my manhood's
wrongs?

46

If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed,
Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed?
What! not a word!-and am I then so low?
Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe?
Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent?
No wit for nobles, dunces by descent?
No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name,
Nor one facetious paragraph of blame?
Is it for this on Ilion I have stood,
And thought of Homer less than Holyrood?
On shore of Euxine or Ægean sea,
My hate, untravell'd, fondly turn'd to thee.
Ah! let me cease: in vain my bosom burns,
From Corydon unkind Alexis turns :47

Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jeffrey then forego,
Nor woo that anger which he will not show.
What then?-Edina starves some lanker son,
To write an article thou canst not shun;
Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found,
As bold in Billingsgate, though less renown'd.

As if at table some discordant dish

Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish;
As oil in lieu of butter men decry,

And poppies please not in a modern pie;
If all such mixtures then be half a crime,
We must have excellence to relish rhyme.
Mere roast and boil'd no epicure invites ;
Thus poetry disgusts, or else delights.

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun :
Will he who swims not to the river run?
And men unpractised in exchanging knocks
Must go to Jackson* ere they dare to box.
Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil,
None reach expertness without years of toil;
But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease,
Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please.
Why not?-shall I, thus qualified to sit
For rotten boroughs, never show my wit?
Shall I, whose fathers with the quorum sate,
And lived in freedom on a fair estate;
Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs,
To all their income, and to-twice its tax;
Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault,
Shall I, I say, suppress my attic salt?

Thus think "the mob of gentlemen;" but you Besides all this, must have some genius too. * A famous pugilist.