 | The Distressed Poet |  |
The Muses to their patron God
Wink'd with a sly, familiar nod,
As each would say, this Lady's ready
In our just cause to prove most steady.
Apollo twitch'd his wig about,
His nobler mind had yet some doubt,
He knew the ties which held Mankind
Half were slip-knots, tho' half might bind.
'Twas not for nothing he had travell'd,
Man's artful tricks he had unravell'd,
Had seen enough to make him certain,
Things oft' were mov'd behind a Curtain,
So that sharp Eyes, and wisest Notions,
Could not discern what caus'd their motions:
Hence his Reflections show'd him clear,
Law was compos'd of Hope and Fear,
So nicely pois'd th' alternate scale,
Jove only knew which would prevail,
'Twas a Toss-up, as mortals say,
The Luck, or Cunning of the day.
Pond'ring these matters deep, quoth he,
Justice and Law should still agree;
And what so much excites our wonder,
Is, they so oft stand wide asunder;
Crimes were by Reason ever meant
To feel proportion'd punishment,
But think you that a roving spirit
A sentence so severe can merit?
Or have we, Madam, any right,
To crush his rising Temple quite?
Besides, should you employ a Friend,
His treacherous Art with yours to blend,
Tho' I once lik'd the plan, I fear
'Twould shock and wound the public ear.
The world with just abhorrent eye
Beholds each act of Perfidy,
Still prompt with curses to upbraid
Ingratitude—or Trust betray'd—
This very deed will blast us all,
And We shall with the building fall.
By milder methods we may tame him,
And from his truant fit reclaim him.
Wink'd with a sly, familiar nod,
64
In our just cause to prove most steady.
Apollo twitch'd his wig about,
His nobler mind had yet some doubt,
He knew the ties which held Mankind
Half were slip-knots, tho' half might bind.
'Twas not for nothing he had travell'd,
Man's artful tricks he had unravell'd,
Had seen enough to make him certain,
Things oft' were mov'd behind a Curtain,
So that sharp Eyes, and wisest Notions,
Could not discern what caus'd their motions:
Hence his Reflections show'd him clear,
Law was compos'd of Hope and Fear,
So nicely pois'd th' alternate scale,
Jove only knew which would prevail,
'Twas a Toss-up, as mortals say,
The Luck, or Cunning of the day.
65
Justice and Law should still agree;
And what so much excites our wonder,
Is, they so oft stand wide asunder;
Crimes were by Reason ever meant
To feel proportion'd punishment,
But think you that a roving spirit
A sentence so severe can merit?
Or have we, Madam, any right,
To crush his rising Temple quite?
Besides, should you employ a Friend,
His treacherous Art with yours to blend,
Tho' I once lik'd the plan, I fear
'Twould shock and wound the public ear.
The world with just abhorrent eye
Beholds each act of Perfidy,
Still prompt with curses to upbraid
Ingratitude—or Trust betray'd—
66
And We shall with the building fall.
By milder methods we may tame him,
And from his truant fit reclaim him.
| The Distressed Poet | |