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 | A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes |  |
VERSES to a Writer of RIDDLES.
Ah! boast not those obscuring lays,
Nor think it sure and certain
That every one can draw a face,
Who can produce a curtain.
Nor think it sure and certain
That every one can draw a face,
Who can produce a curtain.
59
Pope does the flourish'd truth no hurt,
While graceful flowers disguise it;
Thou daub'st it so with mud and dirt,
That not a soul espies it.
While graceful flowers disguise it;
Thou daub'st it so with mud and dirt,
That not a soul espies it.
His fancy decks, thy fancy shrowds;
What likeness is between 'em?
'Twixt one who soars above the clouds,
And one entangled in 'em?
What likeness is between 'em?
'Twixt one who soars above the clouds,
And one entangled in 'em?
But let my candour not upbraid
Thy strains, which flow so purely;
It is thy secret, 'tis thy trade,
Thy craft—to write obscurely.
Thy strains, which flow so purely;
It is thy secret, 'tis thy trade,
Thy craft—to write obscurely.
Obscurity in thee to blame
I've not the least pretence;
'Tis that alone can guard thy fame,
The style that suits thy sense.
I've not the least pretence;
'Tis that alone can guard thy fame,
The style that suits thy sense.
When Nature forms an horrid mien
Less fit for vulgar sight;
The creature, fearful to be seen,
Spontaneous shuns the light.
Less fit for vulgar sight;
The creature, fearful to be seen,
Spontaneous shuns the light.
The bat uncouth thro' instinct fears
The prying eyes of day;
Yet when the sun no more appears,
Securely wings away.
The prying eyes of day;
Yet when the sun no more appears,
Securely wings away.
'Tis instinct bids the frightful owl
To devious glooms repair;
And points out Riddles to a fool,
To wrap his genius there.
To devious glooms repair;
And points out Riddles to a fool,
To wrap his genius there.
| A Collection of Poems in Six Volumes | |