The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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PRŒMIUM. |
 | The Harp of Erin |  |
PRŒMIUM.
Marv'ling, with most becoming stare,
I view'd
Of blue-bound quartos, what a motley brood,
Red-hot, and flaming from the devil's hand,
As o'er the window's glassy arches, peering,
Keen as a cat, I pored a-pamphleteering,
And spied such heaps, that with emphatic eye,
Loud did I cry,
“Good lack! have Stockdale, Hatchard, time to stand
In such rare attitudes, so striking fine?”
I gaz'd upon the bibliopolist's gay shrine,
With such anxiety—as would amaze ye,
Like one stark crazy.
Crazy, that word my judgment spurns,
With loftier simile my bosom burns.
So have I seen in Gill'ry's shop,
Hector, of Priam's house the prop;
Hector, (as Homer says) so famed for grinning,
With one hand, Styanax's bottom pinning,
And th' other, stretch'd in agony of prayers,
As if to beckon Jove down stairs.
Of blue-bound quartos, what a motley brood,
Red-hot, and flaming from the devil's hand,
As o'er the window's glassy arches, peering,
Keen as a cat, I pored a-pamphleteering,
And spied such heaps, that with emphatic eye,
Loud did I cry,
“Good lack! have Stockdale, Hatchard, time to stand
In such rare attitudes, so striking fine?”
I gaz'd upon the bibliopolist's gay shrine,
With such anxiety—as would amaze ye,
Like one stark crazy.
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With loftier simile my bosom burns.
So have I seen in Gill'ry's shop,
Hector, of Priam's house the prop;
Hector, (as Homer says) so famed for grinning,
With one hand, Styanax's bottom pinning,
And th' other, stretch'd in agony of prayers,
As if to beckon Jove down stairs.
The influence of religion, catches
All folk, like cur-dogs, by the breeches;
All brothers of the quill in prose sublime,
Without or reason, write, or rhime;
In civet, the pope's magnific toe,
Ne'er kick'd up such a dust before,
Nor did that venerable beau,
Suffer his rosy cherubim to snore,
But bade the itch of authorship to bite 'em
Ad infinitum.
All folk, like cur-dogs, by the breeches;
All brothers of the quill in prose sublime,
Without or reason, write, or rhime;
In civet, the pope's magnific toe,
Ne'er kick'd up such a dust before,
Nor did that venerable beau,
Suffer his rosy cherubim to snore,
But bade the itch of authorship to bite 'em
Ad infinitum.
Then, shall not I in bold poetic fury,
Outface this venerable jury,
And say, “My noble, and approv'd good masters,”
When mother-church is sick,
Even I, in the nick,
Can patch the good old dame with plasters;
Therefore, in pompous sounding lay,
I dash away.
Outface this venerable jury,
And say, “My noble, and approv'd good masters,”
When mother-church is sick,
Even I, in the nick,
Can patch the good old dame with plasters;
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I dash away.
| The Harp of Erin | |