The Poems of John Byrom | ||
215
LINES TO STEPHEN DUCK.
218
This comes to wish thee joy of thy good luck,
Thy yearly pension and thy country-seat,
So well bestowed upon thee by the great.
Thy verses, which have come to Lancashire,
We read, and we commend, and we admire
In heart a thousand and a thousand times.
We thank thee, Stephen, for thy honest rhymes,
Wherein thou shew'st a native genius bright,
And poetry upon its legs set right,
Which others with their vicious works and scurvy
Mostly endeavour to turn topsy-turvey:
Rare poets, truly! who in Christian times
Can sanctify the foulest pagan crimes;
Can from a Cæsar's or a Cato's tomb
Revive the old rascalities of Rome;
Preposterous Wits! that labour to set forth
A vain ambitious rebel Tyrant's worth,
Or canonise a sour self-murd'rer's pride,
And make a hero of a suicide!
Stephen, I vow it were a better thing
For such as them to thresh, and such as thee to sing!
The Poems of John Byrom | ||