 | Collected poems |  |
323
THE POET AND THE CRITICS
If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly—Quis custodiet?
'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.
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.
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!
324
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.
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.
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.
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