Peter Faultless to his brother Simon tales of night, in rhyme, and other poems. By the author of Night [i.e. Ebenezer Elliott] |
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 | Peter Faultless to his brother Simon |  |
5
Thou ablest scribbler in our chaste Review;
Who, darning old thoughts, mak'st them pass for new!
Still lash the imps who try, nor try in vain,
To wake the muses of Eliza's reign;
Call Scott “a croaker,” Southey “an old woman,”
Byron half god, half log, a thing uncommon.
Consistent most in inconsistency,
Be still the bigot's, slave's apology,
The judge, the law, of poets, and of song,
Simon the Faultless, always in the wrong,
Drivel of drivel, vapid in th' excess,
And all pretension, tho' pretensionless.
Behold no heav'n in Shakespeare's fretted sky;
Nor ev'n deplore with blushes, or a sigh,
The fate that gave the gate of bliss to thee,
Made thee Saint Peter, but denied the key!
Who, darning old thoughts, mak'st them pass for new!
Still lash the imps who try, nor try in vain,
To wake the muses of Eliza's reign;
Call Scott “a croaker,” Southey “an old woman,”
Byron half god, half log, a thing uncommon.
Consistent most in inconsistency,
Be still the bigot's, slave's apology,
The judge, the law, of poets, and of song,
Simon the Faultless, always in the wrong,
6
And all pretension, tho' pretensionless.
Behold no heav'n in Shakespeare's fretted sky;
Nor ev'n deplore with blushes, or a sigh,
The fate that gave the gate of bliss to thee,
Made thee Saint Peter, but denied the key!
Oh! much miscall'd the synonime of slander,
And quite as fam'd for genius as for candour!
Thou, on whose forehead sapience, rooted well,
Grows, like the solemn horn, invisible!
Terror of Tyros! here transcrib'd, I send
The little ode which, yesterday, I penn'd.
And quite as fam'd for genius as for candour!
Thou, on whose forehead sapience, rooted well,
Grows, like the solemn horn, invisible!
Terror of Tyros! here transcrib'd, I send
The little ode which, yesterday, I penn'd.
| Peter Faultless to his brother Simon | |