 | Young Arthur |  |
1
INTRODUCTION.
And what is Poetry?—The Muse's Purse;Knit into rhyme, or woven into verse;
For use or fame, alone, the texture fit
When judgment works with genius and with wit.
There is a figure, rhetoricians use,
Yclep'd Synecdoche, from this accrues
Custom of putting, by according art,
For part the whole, and for the whole a part.
Thus then is poetry the Muse's purse;
The thought's the Coin, its covering the Verse.
What various coins through circulation pass!
Gold, silver, copper—time has been that brass
Was the base medium of exchange; 'tis said
Some bards in brass pay now, and some in lead;
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Wit cries “No Assets ,” and the bill's waste paper.
Draw you on wit? the act would show so rank,
They'd try me for a forgery on the Bank.
I draw on Fancy, Hope's indorsement mount—
Why the man's mad, no creature will discount.
But to the Muse's money and the bard's—
T' ensure them money is beyond the cards.
This has been said; is all asserted true?
Bards get their thousands —though the fact is new;—
Bards get their thousands?—'twas not so of yore,
When genius flourished—genius now no more.
Such ever was the cry, I had said cant—
But, taste forbid that manners I should want.
Perhaps it is so; 'tis not mine to say;—
Bards get their thousands! and the thing must pay;
For publishers with thousands rarely sport—
Bards get their thousands, and I love 'em for't,
Go on and prosper; pour out themes on themes,
And “make your hay while Phœbus darts his beams.”—
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“Hope for the best,” has still impell'd my pen;
And Heaven forbid my modesty should set
A bound to public favour, Reader—yet,
When to fame's feast a craving bardling comes
You'll ne'er refuse a modicum of crumbs.—
Bards we have bushels—some like torrents pour
Cat'racts of cantos, with a torrent's roar;
Others, like soft, meandering streamlets, flow,
And, smoothly vapid, on their courses go,
But where or wherefore few affect to know.
Others, like fountains gush; where sprawling forms,
Of ev'ry fancy, spout their streams, like storms
Of equinoctial rain; and flounce, and dash;
Known only by their sputtering and splash:
Others, with winding wanderings, proceed,
Through cress-stor'd ditch; or through the daisied mead;
While humming bees along their margins come,
The stream as drowsy as the bees that hum:
While little fancies on their confines play,
Cull nameless flowers to “make a garland gay,”
To prank them out “in print;” while others prancing
To untun'd pipes, waltz wild, and call it dancing.
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Smooth as its face; abrupt too as its break
When sudden gusts the glassy surface mar,
And little wavelings curl in watery war.
Some bards, on some high hill, they term a mount,
Espy a spring, and this they call a fount,
And dub it Helicon; and by it sit,
Imbibing water to engender wit;
There, mounted on a rocking-horse, they ride
Forward and backward, with triumphant pride;
The toyman's lash, and pointless spur, still plying;
Then call it Pegasus, and think they're flying;
Here, as they rock, the changing clouds they view,
And hence trace forms wild Rosa never drew.
To which of these, Sir Bard, do you belong?
Where is your station in the rank of song?
Is it with names the Muse delights to sing,
Who tune to heavenly harmony the string?
Or others, into Bardic choir who've crept,
And wake the lyre some think had better slept?
Possess you ('tis your boast this question brings)
All Homer's lyre, except—its golden strings?
The Mantuan reed; but crack'd, for tune unfit?
The art of Horace, save his warmth and wit?
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All Martial's shafts, while pointless ev'ry dart?
Is't Ovid's Love-torch unillum'd you claim;
Or, all Anacreon's fire, except the flame?
In short, good Sir—I'd not be rude or wordy—
Play you the fiddle, or the hurdigurdy?
Such as I am, few pages will express;
I ne'er claim'd much, and cannot be much less;
I read, and smile at many a lay I see;
Others, if any read, may smile at me;
Small was the hope which first inspir'd my task,
Thousands I'd take, but only units ask.
| Young Arthur | |