University of Virginia Library

To G. H. S---Esq.

I'm quite sick of commentators,
And of hungry critic praters;
Who have not else to feed our sense,
Except it be their impudence—
They think themselves quite learned sure
By rendering what is plain obscure,
And tagging on to every line
Whate'er their empty brains combine.
Each pigmy now with “doctæ quæ
Dam” starving poor noticulœ,
Rends each small author big in size,
(Sad ruin to poor student's eyes!)
And crams in words of vast import
To which the reader may resort,
And after racking his poor brains,
Well curse the critic for his pains.
Of all this vile cajoling art,
I've had enough—and more than part:
Since, alas! my sweet profession
Wills me make this true confession;
When others sleep the midnight hour
While Morpheus sheds his balmy pow'r,
I oft am doom'd to ponder o'er
Some volume rare that weighs a score,
That erudite I may dispute,
'Bout mighty grave, and smart acute:
To prove my genius has expansion,
I taste the niceties of scansion;
Of the sense, 'tis little matter,
Give me critic's gab and chatter;
My ears are full of accents' tick,
Of spondee long, or tribrac quick;
If e'er I wish'd to prove severe
And make scholastic rules appear,
I'd give out some lengthy chorus
With all the notes of those before us!
Be sure my friend, you nicely scan;
Peruse Dunbar, and then Hermann;
Alas! high buskin'd Sophocles,
Torn so rudely now in pieces;
Let me in deepest mire be sunk
E'er I again read Master Brunek,
Although he be deep read in lore
Of all the classic bards of yore.
And would you wish to be sublime
To take a flight once on a time?
Be true game, and soar with Pindar,
Never let his metres hinder;
With raptures read his Carmina,
Nor pass o'er his own Fragmenta,
That you may be quite skill'd d'ye see
To pass at University;
Next tumble o'er with learned ease
Those trite varias lectiones;
To be quite grand with classic fuss,
Read th' Annotationibus;
The best edition, to be plain,
Is that of puzzling Gottel Heyne.
Oh! had I but the power to cite
The ancient spirits into light,
Great Homer, and Euripides,
With fulsome Aristophanes;
Some wise professors then would see,
Although they write so learnedly,
The essence of the book they spoil,
And wisdom with their comments foil.
Believe me tir'd of Grecian books;
You know how much they pale my looks;
And soon I mean to visit thee
And cheat an hour with jollity;
For thou art warm'd with friendship's flame.
A friend in deed, and not in name;
Thy mind deep intellect can span,
Thy manners show the gentleman.
With thee I love in social hour,
To taste the sweets of freedom's power;
No rank disguise with selfish art
Can blight the goodness of thy heart;
No cynic feelings cloud thy mind,
Absorbing all that's soft and kind;
No envy does thy passions cloy,
Nor would'st thou crush an honest joy;
Thy manly beaming eye proclaims
What native virtue inward flames—
Forgive me this, nor deem it praise
Such as flattery's self would raise;
No words can speak my thanks to thee,
The rest my heart must tell to me.
While with wine our table's crown'd
And friendly chit and chat goes round,
We'll drink to love, and friendship's health.
To freedom, and our country's wealth.
And since we both are often vain,
To mingle with the muse's train,
We wo'n't forget the poet's score;
Our first shall be to noble Moore,
The crowned pride of poesy,
That charms with sweetest minstrelsy:
I'm sure he liv'd on Helicon,
Or else he is Apollo's son,
And such a magic key has got,
(A present from the Muse I wot),
That he unlocks each finer sense
And shows the soul's omnipotence;
Then maddens with the poet's fires
Bewitching as his strain inspires.
My infant muse can ill relate,
The praises due to one so great;
But may my heart be carrion food
Before it feel ingratitude!
Moore is not warped with feelings hard,
But deigns to help a youthful bard,
These honest lines cannot disclose
The gratitude my heart well knows—
Warm thanks to others I should give,
In mem'ry's bosom they must live;
But stop, my friend, 'tis getting late,
I'm sure you're weary of this prate;
Until thy presence joy impart
Accept the greetings of my heart:
'Till death shall chill this hand of mine,
Believe me S--- I'm truly thine.