 | The Harp of Erin |  |
84
A RHAPSODIC EPISTLE
TO A FRIEND.
Omnia me tua delectant; sed maximè,
maxima cum fides
in amicitiâ, consilium, gravitas, constantia, tum lepos,
humanitas, literæ.
Cicero. Lib. xi. Ep. 27.
Though some of your old Greekish
fellows
Demurely in dry annals tell us,
That squire Amphion with a ditty,
Sans doute, uprear'd the Theban city;
To capering pebbles gave no quarter,
And rigadoon'd the lime and mortar;
Another, having still'd the motion
Of that confounded scold, the ocean,
On dolphin's back, rode fairly over
Far as from Calais' point to Dover;
Bout saddle, certes, he was idle,
But the tail serv'd him for a bridle;
Then, having got with bumbo merry,
Discharg'd with a droll catch his ferry;
Nay, Orpheus, (keep us all from evil!)
Thus arm'd, went headlong to the devil,
And made the damn'd souls, to his fiddle
Frisk, like a hen on a hot griddle;
Guess, too, the errand for your life?—
Why, truly, to redeem—his wife!
Few mates, I wot, would so have blunder'd
In this blest year of eighteen hundred.
Demurely in dry annals tell us,
That squire Amphion with a ditty,
Sans doute, uprear'd the Theban city;
To capering pebbles gave no quarter,
And rigadoon'd the lime and mortar;
Another, having still'd the motion
Of that confounded scold, the ocean,
On dolphin's back, rode fairly over
Far as from Calais' point to Dover;
Bout saddle, certes, he was idle,
But the tail serv'd him for a bridle;
Then, having got with bumbo merry,
Discharg'd with a droll catch his ferry;
Nay, Orpheus, (keep us all from evil!)
Thus arm'd, went headlong to the devil,
85
Frisk, like a hen on a hot griddle;
Guess, too, the errand for your life?—
Why, truly, to redeem—his wife!
Few mates, I wot, would so have blunder'd
In this blest year of eighteen hundred.
Heav'n help the poor rogues that are witty,
Those times are past;—the more's the pity!
No baker now, say all you can say,
Will tick on couplet, verse, or stanza;
For Alexandrine smooth, or triplet,
No butcher trust a goose's giblet;
Nor landlord, (curse the tasteless throng,)
Be paid his quit-rent—with a song.
Poets, alas! no more have pow'r
To build, with tuneful jigs, a tow'r,
Save, when sublim'd by slender fare,
They conjure castles in the air;
Or, partly feeding like wild asses
Sunff the keen breezcs of Parnassus;
Round the steep hill, like mad curvetting,
Quite careless of that thing called—eating;
“Fat feast that with the dogs doth diet,”
Would never let such blades be quiet.
For magic lines, still current found,
Of sterling weight, and silver sound,
That any wight, with ease may scan,
Sweet Abr'am Newland is your man;
For, damme, I'll maintain it still,
There's music in a good bank-bill;
And though to rhyme not much confin'd,
Music of the most moving kind:
Whoever deems this idle fuss,
By Jove, “is dark as Erebus;”
No fear his pence with mould be rusted,
So, hosts! “let no such man be trusted!”
And yet, dear part'ner of the pen!
Though blockheads jeer us, nine in ten,
We to our trade devoutly clinging,
Still grace the art,—of ballad-singing;
We, when the melting mind's in tune,
True, frolic children of the moon,
Each ev'ning, from our upper windows,
Take a celestial jaunt to Pindus;
There romp, and dance, and snatch soft kisses,
Charm'd with the nine melodious misses;
And then recline the raptur'd head,
With each a muse to deck his bed.
Those times are past;—the more's the pity!
No baker now, say all you can say,
Will tick on couplet, verse, or stanza;
For Alexandrine smooth, or triplet,
No butcher trust a goose's giblet;
Nor landlord, (curse the tasteless throng,)
Be paid his quit-rent—with a song.
Poets, alas! no more have pow'r
To build, with tuneful jigs, a tow'r,
Save, when sublim'd by slender fare,
They conjure castles in the air;
Or, partly feeding like wild asses
Sunff the keen breezcs of Parnassus;
Round the steep hill, like mad curvetting,
Quite careless of that thing called—eating;
“Fat feast that with the dogs doth diet,”
Would never let such blades be quiet.
86
Of sterling weight, and silver sound,
That any wight, with ease may scan,
Sweet Abr'am Newland is your man;
For, damme, I'll maintain it still,
There's music in a good bank-bill;
And though to rhyme not much confin'd,
Music of the most moving kind:
Whoever deems this idle fuss,
By Jove, “is dark as Erebus;”
No fear his pence with mould be rusted,
So, hosts! “let no such man be trusted!”
And yet, dear part'ner of the pen!
Though blockheads jeer us, nine in ten,
We to our trade devoutly clinging,
Still grace the art,—of ballad-singing;
We, when the melting mind's in tune,
True, frolic children of the moon,
Each ev'ning, from our upper windows,
Take a celestial jaunt to Pindus;
There romp, and dance, and snatch soft kisses,
Charm'd with the nine melodious misses;
And then recline the raptur'd head,
With each a muse to deck his bed.
We from our own prolific brain,
Like spiders, spin the lengthen'd strain;
And though, perdye, we do not cope
With that harmonious urchin, Pope,
Congreve facete, or Young sublime,
(Those were tall fellows in their time!)
Still, though no Virgils, 'faith, or Pindars,
We rake not Kotzebue's old cinders,
And hawk his rubbish round the land,
Proud to be dull—at second-hand.
Like spiders, spin the lengthen'd strain;
87
With that harmonious urchin, Pope,
Congreve facete, or Young sublime,
(Those were tall fellows in their time!)
Still, though no Virgils, 'faith, or Pindars,
We rake not Kotzebue's old cinders,
And hawk his rubbish round the land,
Proud to be dull—at second-hand.
While you the comic fair enjoy,
Parent of many a sprightly boy,
Whose arch rebuke, and mimic rage,
May mend the morals of the stage;
Or, in heart-balming laughter steep
The languid lid, that wakes to weep,
I, by more serious beauties caught,
May dress in rhyme the tender thought;
(For I have ever cast an eye
On ancient, prudish poetry,)
To satire's side, indignant, turn,
With the grave tragic vestal mourn;
Or, (should the pow'rs of mirth allow,)
Write doggrel; just as I do now.
Parent of many a sprightly boy,
Whose arch rebuke, and mimic rage,
May mend the morals of the stage;
Or, in heart-balming laughter steep
The languid lid, that wakes to weep,
I, by more serious beauties caught,
May dress in rhyme the tender thought;
(For I have ever cast an eye
On ancient, prudish poetry,)
To satire's side, indignant, turn,
With the grave tragic vestal mourn;
Or, (should the pow'rs of mirth allow,)
Write doggrel; just as I do now.
| The Harp of Erin | |