 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
23
THE English PINDARICK.
Dear
Thomas! hast thou never stood
Within th' Enclosure of a Wood?
There, Thomas, didst thou never mind
Th' Employment of some lab'ring Hind?
With how much Care, and Art Profound,
He piles his Sticks upon the Ground:
First lays beneath some of the longest,
Perhaps, because he thinks 'em strongest;
Then heaps some short Ones these upon,
So long and short, 'till All is done,
Which, when a With has bound up all,
The Country-Folk a Faggot call.
Within th' Enclosure of a Wood?
There, Thomas, didst thou never mind
Th' Employment of some lab'ring Hind?
With how much Care, and Art Profound,
He piles his Sticks upon the Ground:
First lays beneath some of the longest,
Perhaps, because he thinks 'em strongest;
Then heaps some short Ones these upon,
So long and short, 'till All is done,
Which, when a With has bound up all,
The Country-Folk a Faggot call.
24
So fares it with those Publick-Biters,
Which we miscall Pindarick-Writers;
With Pen and Ink, and wondrous Pains,
They bind together various Strains,
First Lines as long, as any Arm,
With Rumbling Stuff the Vulgar charm:
Earth, Heav'n, and Hell must all conspire
To sett the noisy Bard on Fire.
Next comes a Line not half a span,
Like Dwarf behind a Giant-Man,
Trembling and slow, it scarce can speak,
But must in softer Accents squeak;
Then comes the Long-Tail'd Thing again,
Thund'ring on in frantick strain,
Wide it swells, and foames with Rage,
And leaps beyond the scanty Page.
Thus on they run in long-breath'd Chace,
Each other striving for the Race,
'Till having many Pages spent
In proud Bombast, and noisy Rant,
The long Verse drags his Length along
To full Extent; so ends the Song.
This Monstrous Thing, unknown to Fame,
Our modern Bards Pindarick name.
Which we miscall Pindarick-Writers;
With Pen and Ink, and wondrous Pains,
They bind together various Strains,
First Lines as long, as any Arm,
With Rumbling Stuff the Vulgar charm:
Earth, Heav'n, and Hell must all conspire
To sett the noisy Bard on Fire.
Next comes a Line not half a span,
Like Dwarf behind a Giant-Man,
Trembling and slow, it scarce can speak,
But must in softer Accents squeak;
Then comes the Long-Tail'd Thing again,
Thund'ring on in frantick strain,
Wide it swells, and foames with Rage,
And leaps beyond the scanty Page.
Thus on they run in long-breath'd Chace,
Each other striving for the Race,
25
In proud Bombast, and noisy Rant,
The long Verse drags his Length along
To full Extent; so ends the Song.
This Monstrous Thing, unknown to Fame,
Our modern Bards Pindarick name.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |