 | Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin |  |
35
THE POET'S ADDRESS TO HIS NEW BOOK.
I've thrown thee, friend, into the stream of fame;
To sink or swim depends all on thyself.
O may'st thou, as th'Orphean lyre of old,
When gliding down th Ismenian river's stream,
Call forth the echoes from their twilight grots,
And make the banks thy melody resound.
May ne'er thy page be injur'd by the flood,
But like the swan's fair breast remain undrench'd,
As rowing down the silver tide he charms
With sweetest ravishment the listening woods.
To sink or swim depends all on thyself.
O may'st thou, as th'Orphean lyre of old,
When gliding down th Ismenian river's stream,
Call forth the echoes from their twilight grots,
And make the banks thy melody resound.
May ne'er thy page be injur'd by the flood,
But like the swan's fair breast remain undrench'd,
As rowing down the silver tide he charms
With sweetest ravishment the listening woods.
36
Still be thy fate as various as thy theme,—
Read by the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
The grave, the gay, the polish'd, and the rude;
One while in hands as fair as was thy leaf
Ere yet my Muse had stain'd it with her scrawl;
Anon soil'd by some sagely-snuffing fool,
Mayhap besprinkled by his boisterous sneeze.
Read by the rich, the poor, the high, the low,
The grave, the gay, the polish'd, and the rude;
One while in hands as fair as was thy leaf
Ere yet my Muse had stain'd it with her scrawl;
Anon soil'd by some sagely-snuffing fool,
Mayhap besprinkled by his boisterous sneeze.
Chiefly to youth and beauty pay thy court,
And competence still willing to be pleased:
And, while I struggle thro' the justling crowd,
Be thou at ease reclin'd with brother bards
In parlour snug, far from the dusty shelf.
And, O! what transport would it be to think,
That, like the song of the Mæonian bard
Beneath the conquering Macedonian's head,
Thou all below th'Elysian pillow lay
Of her, whose eyes more lasting conquests gain
Than did the furious sword of Ammon's son!
Or—may she leaning on some flowery bank,
With sweet approving eye shine on thy page,
And, when she closeth thee, fold 'twixt thy leaves,
The primrose pale or purple violet,
To mark the page reluctant which she left.
And competence still willing to be pleased:
And, while I struggle thro' the justling crowd,
Be thou at ease reclin'd with brother bards
In parlour snug, far from the dusty shelf.
And, O! what transport would it be to think,
That, like the song of the Mæonian bard
Beneath the conquering Macedonian's head,
Thou all below th'Elysian pillow lay
Of her, whose eyes more lasting conquests gain
Than did the furious sword of Ammon's son!
Or—may she leaning on some flowery bank,
37
And, when she closeth thee, fold 'twixt thy leaves,
The primrose pale or purple violet,
To mark the page reluctant which she left.
Ah me! how vain are these aspiring hopes!
Perhaps to servile purposes thou destin'd art;
And 'stead of lighting flames in Delia's breast,
Thou'lt only light her taper when she reads
Some hated rival's more engaging lay:
Perhaps a fate even still more vile awaits,—
To clean the suds from off the razor's edge;
To wad the cruel murderous fowling-piece;
Or damn'd to heaven thou'lt soar a paper kite;
Or blaze a funeral pile for singeing fowls.
If then, the paper, not the verse is priz'd,
Go, happy, twist my Delia's lovely locks,
And in her ringlets bound kiss that sweet neck,
That galaxy of every grace divine.
Perhaps to servile purposes thou destin'd art;
And 'stead of lighting flames in Delia's breast,
Thou'lt only light her taper when she reads
Some hated rival's more engaging lay:
Perhaps a fate even still more vile awaits,—
To clean the suds from off the razor's edge;
To wad the cruel murderous fowling-piece;
Or damn'd to heaven thou'lt soar a paper kite;
Or blaze a funeral pile for singeing fowls.
If then, the paper, not the verse is priz'd,
Go, happy, twist my Delia's lovely locks,
And in her ringlets bound kiss that sweet neck,
That galaxy of every grace divine.
| Poems, in English, Scotch, and Latin | |