 | The genius of oblivion ; and Other Original Poems |  |
93
EPISTLE TO E--- H---
E---, I promised you some Rhyme,
When smiled my muse, and serv'd my time;
And this bright sun, like summer's prime,
So warms my fancy,
I could unfold a spell sublime
Of necromancy.
When smiled my muse, and serv'd my time;
And this bright sun, like summer's prime,
So warms my fancy,
I could unfold a spell sublime
Of necromancy.
I trust you feel its influence too,
So may you fairly keep in view
The track my light-wing'd genius flew,
Listening and peering;
Searching a subject, happy, new,
And worth your hearing.
So may you fairly keep in view
The track my light-wing'd genius flew,
Listening and peering;
Searching a subject, happy, new,
And worth your hearing.
Ah! now I've found one; list to me,
“Write, write, write, industriously,
“And Wrifford soon his tame will see
“In ebbing tide;
“And H---'s ascending star shall be
“The goose-quill's guide!”
“Write, write, write, industriously,
“And Wrifford soon his tame will see
“In ebbing tide;
“And H---'s ascending star shall be
“The goose-quill's guide!”
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So sings my muse, and trust her word,
A Sybil true as Delphi heard,
When to Apollo was preferr'd
The doubt or prayer;
And noble, wise, you know, repair'd
For counsel there.
A Sybil true as Delphi heard,
When to Apollo was preferr'd
The doubt or prayer;
And noble, wise, you know, repair'd
For counsel there.
Latin and Greek you highly prize,
But, might I venture to advise,
I'd tell you, E---, men their eyes
Are using ever;
They see what plain before them lies,
Much farther, never.
But, might I venture to advise,
I'd tell you, E---, men their eyes
Are using ever;
They see what plain before them lies,
Much farther, never.
They'll see your penmanship—your Greek
And Latin; could you reason, speak
Like Socrates, that martyr meek,
Or Plato, Tully,
They'd stare, perhaps, but never seek
To know them fully.
And Latin; could you reason, speak
Like Socrates, that martyr meek,
Or Plato, Tully,
They'd stare, perhaps, but never seek
To know them fully.
Pray have you ever Hamlet read?
If not, I'll tell you how he sped;
He often thought the writing trade,
Scarce worth his ken,
Yet, finally, had lost his head,
But for his pen.
If not, I'll tell you how he sped;
He often thought the writing trade,
Scarce worth his ken,
Yet, finally, had lost his head,
But for his pen.
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Then, E---, write, and write to me
A sheet of flowing poetry;
And should your spirits languid be,
Pegasus' wing
Will bear you, in a breath, to see
Pierian spring:
A sheet of flowing poetry;
And should your spirits languid be,
Pegasus' wing
Will bear you, in a breath, to see
Pierian spring:
And Pope, a doctor, very wise
In all a poet's maladies,
There bids you, as your health you prize,
Drink deep and long;
But, lest I need his remedies,
I'll end my song.
In all a poet's maladies,
There bids you, as your health you prize,
Drink deep and long;
But, lest I need his remedies,
I'll end my song.
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