 | Narrative Poems |  |
AN ODE.
THE POET TO HIS FAVOURITE CRITIC.
Critic! whatever be thy school,
Of Malice, or of Ridicule;
Or if in Metaphysics lost,
Thy loves with Fancy still are crost;
Or whether with a ponderous head,
The heart's light verses still are read;
Or thick with classic pedantries,
Quotation on Quotation lies;
As beauty, prim old maids assume,
And lay on wrinkled cheeks, their bloom;
Or if thy wanton Youth is bit
By the mad cur of barking wit;
Or like a playful Bear will dance
Uncouthly, if some lyre enchants;
O young or old! each month ye fly
(Or modest, only quarterly)
Thro' England, Scotland, Ireland bear,
A Poet's blush, a Poet's tear!
Of Malice, or of Ridicule;
Or if in Metaphysics lost,
Thy loves with Fancy still are crost;
Or whether with a ponderous head,
The heart's light verses still are read;
Or thick with classic pedantries,
Quotation on Quotation lies;
As beauty, prim old maids assume,
And lay on wrinkled cheeks, their bloom;
Or if thy wanton Youth is bit
By the mad cur of barking wit;
Or like a playful Bear will dance
Uncouthly, if some lyre enchants;
O young or old! each month ye fly
(Or modest, only quarterly)
Thro' England, Scotland, Ireland bear,
A Poet's blush, a Poet's tear!
There are among ye, some whose soul
The spells of Fancy can control;
And in whose eye's phœbéan ray
The Muses and the Graces play.
How fresh, how green they weave their crown!
The hand unseen, the face unknown!
The spells of Fancy can control;
The Muses and the Graces play.
How fresh, how green they weave their crown!
The hand unseen, the face unknown!
But on “the mighty Mother” I
With reverence fix a wondering eye;
Her Curule Dunce, no matter who,
(Not to the Man, the Chair I bow,)
So grave, so gay, so sad, so sage,
I dose with him from page to page—
Ingenious Dunce! lo! loves like these,
Thine Owl, as butterflies shall seize.
Here drop thy gall! here dart thine eyes!
I write—to yield thee Victories!
O in some gay Critique long drawn
Triumph!—and make Three Kingdoms yawn!
With reverence fix a wondering eye;
Her Curule Dunce, no matter who,
(Not to the Man, the Chair I bow,)
So grave, so gay, so sad, so sage,
I dose with him from page to page—
Ingenious Dunce! lo! loves like these,
Thine Owl, as butterflies shall seize.
Here drop thy gall! here dart thine eyes!
I write—to yield thee Victories!
O in some gay Critique long drawn
Triumph!—and make Three Kingdoms yawn!
| Narrative Poems | |