 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
TO Sir Richard Steel.
A bard, who ne'er his Fortune wish'd to raise,
By servile Bows, and mercenary Praise;
Who, but to Merit, never bent a Knee,
Unhoping, sends his Mite of Praise to Thee;
To Thee, whose Approbation is Reward!
Whose Favour wou'd procure his Muse Regard!
Born, where the Sway imperious Kirk-Craft bears,
And where a Muse scarce, in an Age, appears,
To Gospel-Notes were tun'd my early Years.
The Sage, my Sire, design'd me for a Priest,
And I was forc'd, to carry on the Jest.
Twice twelve Months spent I, in scholastic Grace,
Studied the Sounds, and learn'd the queer Grimace.
Full orthodox my Principles were deem'd;
And what more blameless, than my Practice, seem'd?
Against my Life the Kirk had no Complaint,
And I, my self, believ'd my self a Saint.
So much I por'd, so serious was my Look,
I cheated others, and my self mistook.
By servile Bows, and mercenary Praise;
314
Unhoping, sends his Mite of Praise to Thee;
To Thee, whose Approbation is Reward!
Whose Favour wou'd procure his Muse Regard!
Born, where the Sway imperious Kirk-Craft bears,
And where a Muse scarce, in an Age, appears,
To Gospel-Notes were tun'd my early Years.
The Sage, my Sire, design'd me for a Priest,
And I was forc'd, to carry on the Jest.
Twice twelve Months spent I, in scholastic Grace,
Studied the Sounds, and learn'd the queer Grimace.
Full orthodox my Principles were deem'd;
And what more blameless, than my Practice, seem'd?
Against my Life the Kirk had no Complaint,
And I, my self, believ'd my self a Saint.
So much I por'd, so serious was my Look,
I cheated others, and my self mistook.
315
'Tis strange how Books, and Company, conspire,
To change the very Bent of one's Desire.
My inbred Genius Conversation dull'd,
And Nature's Purpose, in my Make, was null'd.
By Custom's Influence, from a sprightly Wit,
I sunk below the Zenith of a Cit.
And, had I not, with fond Ambition fir'd,
Travel'd to see what blindly I admir'd,
Still at Edina, with religious Qualms,
I Texts had snivel'd, and Sol-fa-a'd the Psalms.
In that wild Season, when Mankind gave Scope
To Madness, in Adventures big with Hope!
When Store, long treasur'd, or improv'd in Trade,
The Lottery of Avarice was made!
Just as Delusion reach'd the utmost Height,
I came, in Time, to mark the Publick Bite.
I saw, and suffer'd, in the common Fate—
—But vain is Sorrow, and Relief is late!
To change the very Bent of one's Desire.
My inbred Genius Conversation dull'd,
And Nature's Purpose, in my Make, was null'd.
By Custom's Influence, from a sprightly Wit,
I sunk below the Zenith of a Cit.
And, had I not, with fond Ambition fir'd,
Travel'd to see what blindly I admir'd,
Still at Edina, with religious Qualms,
I Texts had snivel'd, and Sol-fa-a'd the Psalms.
In that wild Season, when Mankind gave Scope
To Madness, in Adventures big with Hope!
When Store, long treasur'd, or improv'd in Trade,
The Lottery of Avarice was made!
Just as Delusion reach'd the utmost Height,
I came, in Time, to mark the Publick Bite.
316
—But vain is Sorrow, and Relief is late!
Desp'rate, I herded with the tuneful Throng,
That grace the fair Augusta with their Song:
By them infected, with Poetick Itch,
I further stray'd from Roads of being rich.
Long have I Payment stopt; and some complain,
That I'm ne'er like to open Purse again.
I summon all the Muses to my Aid;
The Muses fly, as if they were afraid.
No generous Patrons weigh my claimant Case;
They promise, but ne'er put me in a Place!
Dismal Condition! O why did I quit
The Kirk, in Hopes of rising by my Wit?
How better 'twere, to beat a Pulpit Throne,
Than mount Parnassus' Top, and be undone!
That grace the fair Augusta with their Song:
By them infected, with Poetick Itch,
I further stray'd from Roads of being rich.
Long have I Payment stopt; and some complain,
That I'm ne'er like to open Purse again.
I summon all the Muses to my Aid;
The Muses fly, as if they were afraid.
No generous Patrons weigh my claimant Case;
They promise, but ne'er put me in a Place!
Dismal Condition! O why did I quit
The Kirk, in Hopes of rising by my Wit?
How better 'twere, to beat a Pulpit Throne,
Than mount Parnassus' Top, and be undone!
317
Hence, Syren Sisters; hence, thou God of Verse—
No more entice, nor aid me, to rehearse.
Money and Credit, Place, or Pension, now,
Is all the Shrine to which I humbly bow.
Help me to these, and, with my latest Pow'rs,
I'll sing your Praise, and show how much I'm yours.
No more entice, nor aid me, to rehearse.
Money and Credit, Place, or Pension, now,
Is all the Shrine to which I humbly bow.
Help me to these, and, with my latest Pow'rs,
I'll sing your Praise, and show how much I'm yours.
And Thou, O Steel, who want'st not Walpole's Ear,
An honest Poet's rude Petition hear;
Hear, and forgive—for 'tis a crying Crime
To dun your Nature with uncourtly Rhime—
And, if a lucky Minute chance to rise,
Seize it for me, and give me sweet Surprize.
'Twill cost you but a Word, to send me North,
T'inspect Tobacco, Brandy—and so forth.
An honest Poet's rude Petition hear;
Hear, and forgive—for 'tis a crying Crime
To dun your Nature with uncourtly Rhime—
And, if a lucky Minute chance to rise,
Seize it for me, and give me sweet Surprize.
'Twill cost you but a Word, to send me North,
T'inspect Tobacco, Brandy—and so forth.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |