 | The Harp of Erin |  |
255
ODE TO NECESSITY.
Why persecutest thou me, Saul?
“Necessity, thou mother of
Invention,
(Which proverb comes, I own, quite smooth in rhime,)
Firing full many a rogue to claim a pension,
And o'er the rugged alps of Satire climb,
Forcing with goose-quill stabs, and tuneful curses,
The mighty men to stand, and lend their purses;
Why stick thus bur-like to the minstrel-crew,
So harmless, meek, and such damn'd bankrupts too?
All worth in this here place below is us'd
Worse than a pickpocket, knock'd down, abus'd
By every strutting blackguard Major Sturgeon,
And thou attendest him by way of surgeon.
(Which proverb comes, I own, quite smooth in rhime,)
Firing full many a rogue to claim a pension,
And o'er the rugged alps of Satire climb,
Forcing with goose-quill stabs, and tuneful curses,
The mighty men to stand, and lend their purses;
Why stick thus bur-like to the minstrel-crew,
So harmless, meek, and such damn'd bankrupts too?
All worth in this here place below is us'd
Worse than a pickpocket, knock'd down, abus'd
By every strutting blackguard Major Sturgeon,
And thou attendest him by way of surgeon.
Folly, dull dog, is fat, and sprucely drest,
And holds of surly Wealth the golden keys;
While Wit, poor, merry fellow, nought surveys,
But mice and mangled lyrics in his chest:
Of Fate's dark law so cruel is the letter!
Yet Conscience whispers, “all is for the better.”
And holds of surly Wealth the golden keys;
While Wit, poor, merry fellow, nought surveys,
But mice and mangled lyrics in his chest:
256
Yet Conscience whispers, “all is for the better.”
Insensibility, eye-frozen knave,
Who grins and roars at tragedies so grave,
Who never knew the gentle pang of pity,
Has several times been lord-may'r of the city;
While Feeling, whose sad tears for ever thawing,
Wept on pale bleeding forms of his own drawing,
Fell to those exquisite sensations martyr,
Found one cold morning dangling in his garter!
Who grins and roars at tragedies so grave,
Who never knew the gentle pang of pity,
Has several times been lord-may'r of the city;
While Feeling, whose sad tears for ever thawing,
Wept on pale bleeding forms of his own drawing,
Fell to those exquisite sensations martyr,
Found one cold morning dangling in his garter!
This, dame, is curs'd provoking; all the toil
Of Genius, or of Virtue, can't provide
Faggots to make the pot of Plenty boil;
While that ungracious bravo, swagg'ring Pride,
Turns up the nose of scorn, and full of whim,
Swears “the whole little world was made for him.”
This management would set old Plato mad,
Now, by my soul, 'tis really too bad.
Of Genius, or of Virtue, can't provide
Faggots to make the pot of Plenty boil;
While that ungracious bravo, swagg'ring Pride,
Turns up the nose of scorn, and full of whim,
Swears “the whole little world was made for him.”
This management would set old Plato mad,
Now, by my soul, 'tis really too bad.
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