 | Poetical Trifles |  |
55
PALINODE TO THE REVIEWERS.
I who of late, in many a slanderous ditty,
Burlesqued your prose, and parodied your verses,
With tears and trembling supplicate your pity;
Accept my penitence, forgive my curses.
Burlesqued your prose, and parodied your verses,
With tears and trembling supplicate your pity;
Accept my penitence, forgive my curses.
Good, piteous Gentlemen, repress your rigour,
Untwist your bowels of commiseration,
Think on my tender years, and 'till I'm bigger,
Suspend the terrors of your dire damnation.
Untwist your bowels of commiseration,
Think on my tender years, and 'till I'm bigger,
Suspend the terrors of your dire damnation.
Long time with harmless Elegy content,
Pleas'd in that pretty path, I pac'd no further,
Happy to catch some straggling sentiment,
And sing in simple stile of love, and murther.
Pleas'd in that pretty path, I pac'd no further,
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And sing in simple stile of love, and murther.
'Till lur'd by wicked wits, indeed 'tis truth,
In luckless hour listed beneath their banners,
To satire's thorny ways they led my youth,—
Evil communication spoils good manners.
In luckless hour listed beneath their banners,
To satire's thorny ways they led my youth,—
Evil communication spoils good manners.
Dear Doctor Langhorne, you were ever good,
Mild as young Nithisdale, or Lady Ellen,
Can you excuse my frantic, furious mood,
'Gainst wisdom, and your sage decrees rebelling?
Mild as young Nithisdale, or Lady Ellen,
Can you excuse my frantic, furious mood,
'Gainst wisdom, and your sage decrees rebelling?
O soften then your angry colleagues' fury,
My works, I fear, will quickly fall before 'em,
Alas! they'll hang me without judge or jury,
Or tomahawk, and scalp me in terrorem!
My works, I fear, will quickly fall before 'em,
Alas! they'll hang me without judge or jury,
Or tomahawk, and scalp me in terrorem!
And you, great Kenrick, Britain's last sad hope,
Proseman, or Poet, Chymist, Critic, Play'r,
Whether in easy verse you rival Pope,
Or grace with dignity the critic chair,
Proseman, or Poet, Chymist, Critic, Play'r,
Whether in easy verse you rival Pope,
Or grace with dignity the critic chair,
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Or float in speculation's sceptic round,
With Priestly's patent air; or in a trice
Sink to the chaos of the dread profound,
With lies and treason, politicks and Price;
With Priestly's patent air; or in a trice
Sink to the chaos of the dread profound,
With lies and treason, politicks and Price;
Dropping with printer's tears, and author's gore,
See where he comes! (I know his stars, his dashes)
O spare my works, they shall offend no more,—
Behold, I mourn in sack-cloth, and in ashes.
See where he comes! (I know his stars, his dashes)
O spare my works, they shall offend no more,—
Behold, I mourn in sack-cloth, and in ashes.
“Last, though not least in love,” ye learned sages
Hight critical, who vent your secret labours
From nooks and lanes; if in my desperate pages
I've treated you no better than your neighbours,
Hight critical, who vent your secret labours
From nooks and lanes; if in my desperate pages
I've treated you no better than your neighbours,
“List, list, O list!” and hear, while I proclaim
All that in jest, or sober serious sadness,
I e'er devis'd as touching your fair fame,
Was riotous rage, and frantic furious madness.
All that in jest, or sober serious sadness,
I e'er devis'd as touching your fair fame,
Was riotous rage, and frantic furious madness.
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This being granted; to all christian people
The fact is clear, and can appear no other,
But that I shot my arrow o'er the steeple,
And in its fatal flight have hurt my brother:
The fact is clear, and can appear no other,
But that I shot my arrow o'er the steeple,
And in its fatal flight have hurt my brother:
Then seal my pardon, and from every danger
May the kind Muses and Apollo guard ye,
Though to your persons, to your worth no stranger,
Thus prays a bard unequal to reward ye.
May the kind Muses and Apollo guard ye,
Though to your persons, to your worth no stranger,
Thus prays a bard unequal to reward ye.
But O beware of libels: think, O think
What ills await. The pillory's foul disgrace,
The rabble's beastly shoutings, and the stink
Of rotten eggs slow streaming down each learned face.
What ills await. The pillory's foul disgrace,
The rabble's beastly shoutings, and the stink
Of rotten eggs slow streaming down each learned face.
So when the splendor of your dawn is o'er,
When they who took your judgments upon trust
Begin to think, (who never thought before)
Your pockets sunk, your credit in the dust,
When they who took your judgments upon trust
Begin to think, (who never thought before)
Your pockets sunk, your credit in the dust,
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May heaven in pity mitigate the blow,
That gives such merit to th' untimely bier,
And may your works be all forgiven below,
As truly as the world forgets them here.
That gives such merit to th' untimely bier,
And may your works be all forgiven below,
As truly as the world forgets them here.
THE END.
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