The Powers of the Pen A poem addressed to John Curre ... By E. Lloyd ... The second edition, with large additions |
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 | The Powers of the Pen |  |
“East of the Pile, whose flaming Head
“Was rais'd the horrid Tale to spread,
“How in old Time this righteous Nation
“Suffer'd a partial Conflagration,
(For Men inscribe on Brass and Steel,
The Evils which they chance to feel;
While all the Blessings to them sent,
May die without a Monument)
“There lies a Spot of blasted Ground,
“For Fish, nor less for Tongue renown'd,
“For Fish becarrion'd with Fumette
“And Words more highly season'd yet;
“So foul the Words here us'd to sell,
“They give the Fish a tainted Smell.
“HERE Catachresis keeps a School,
“And teaches to abuse by Rule;
“Sarcasmus, is the Usher here,
“And lectures on the Art to Sneer;
“Here those are complimenting Names,
“Which wou'd breed Duels at St. James',
“With D---g and B---h the Welkin rings,
“And Whore and Rogue are civil things;
“Hither, his native Turn the same,
“The Bird of Malediction came,
“Nycticorax—'tis hard to tell
“What most allur'd—the fœtid smell
“Of fishy Entrails—or the sound
“Of Oaths and Curses eccho'd round.
“It matters not—he croak'd an Oath,
“He wou'd be Scavenger of both:
“With Garbage now and Guts begirt,
“He struts, Lord Paramount of Dirt.
“In his dark Wing this Feather sprung,
“And well can croak, but never sung.
“The Bird convey'd to ev'ry Part
“Its Nourishment with so much Art,
“That all its Feathers are replete,
“With what it heard and what it eat;
“And, such the Bent which Nature gives,
“In this Quill all the Raven lives!
“Fill it with any Kind of Juice,
“It trickles out in coarse Abuse.
“Shou'd it attempt a tuneful Note,
“The harshest Discord fills its Throat.
“But if a Practice fair you hold,
“For want of Argument to scold,
“To measure Wit with brazen Rule,
“And call each Genius—Blockhead—Fool—
“To Spatter with all Grubstreet's Dirt
“The Wits, by whom your Envy's hurt;
“To kick and fling the Mud about,
“Lest People shou'd not find you out;
“To act the Flea, in spite of Scorn,
“And prove, by biting, that you're born;
“Or shou'd your Humour more incline,
“To conjure Verse, without the Nine,
“Heigh! Presto! Pass!—the Poem's done
“Ere others cou'd have well begun—
“Say—wou'd you chuse to sketch at leisure
“Encyclopœdia's for your Pleasure;
“Or on a dull November Day,
“Scribble an Iliad, or a Play,
“A Gross of Comedies or two,
“For want of something else to do—
“If aught like this your humour be,
“This Pen will suit you to a T.
“Some of the qualities I've named
“Might make some nicer folks asham'd;
“Yet in an Age corrupt as this,
“Pens of this Sort are not amiss,
“For Gain thro' Quills like this may flow,
“(And Gain's the only thing you know)
“As Scavengers thro' Dirt grow rich,
“And Doctors thrive by P---x and Itch,
“So this foul Pen some Profit gives,
“We need no Proof while Kenrick lives.”
“Was rais'd the horrid Tale to spread,
“How in old Time this righteous Nation
“Suffer'd a partial Conflagration,
(For Men inscribe on Brass and Steel,
The Evils which they chance to feel;
While all the Blessings to them sent,
May die without a Monument)
“There lies a Spot of blasted Ground,
“For Fish, nor less for Tongue renown'd,
34
“And Words more highly season'd yet;
“So foul the Words here us'd to sell,
“They give the Fish a tainted Smell.
“HERE Catachresis keeps a School,
“And teaches to abuse by Rule;
“Sarcasmus, is the Usher here,
“And lectures on the Art to Sneer;
“Here those are complimenting Names,
“Which wou'd breed Duels at St. James',
“With D---g and B---h the Welkin rings,
“And Whore and Rogue are civil things;
“Hither, his native Turn the same,
“The Bird of Malediction came,
“Nycticorax—'tis hard to tell
“What most allur'd—the fœtid smell
“Of fishy Entrails—or the sound
“Of Oaths and Curses eccho'd round.
“It matters not—he croak'd an Oath,
“He wou'd be Scavenger of both:
35
“He struts, Lord Paramount of Dirt.
“In his dark Wing this Feather sprung,
“And well can croak, but never sung.
“The Bird convey'd to ev'ry Part
“Its Nourishment with so much Art,
“That all its Feathers are replete,
“With what it heard and what it eat;
“And, such the Bent which Nature gives,
“In this Quill all the Raven lives!
“Fill it with any Kind of Juice,
“It trickles out in coarse Abuse.
“Shou'd it attempt a tuneful Note,
“The harshest Discord fills its Throat.
“But if a Practice fair you hold,
“For want of Argument to scold,
“To measure Wit with brazen Rule,
“And call each Genius—Blockhead—Fool—
“To Spatter with all Grubstreet's Dirt
“The Wits, by whom your Envy's hurt;
36
“Lest People shou'd not find you out;
“To act the Flea, in spite of Scorn,
“And prove, by biting, that you're born;
“Or shou'd your Humour more incline,
“To conjure Verse, without the Nine,
“Heigh! Presto! Pass!—the Poem's done
“Ere others cou'd have well begun—
“Say—wou'd you chuse to sketch at leisure
“Encyclopœdia's for your Pleasure;
“Or on a dull November Day,
“Scribble an Iliad, or a Play,
“A Gross of Comedies or two,
“For want of something else to do—
“If aught like this your humour be,
“This Pen will suit you to a T.
“Some of the qualities I've named
“Might make some nicer folks asham'd;
“Yet in an Age corrupt as this,
“Pens of this Sort are not amiss,
37
“(And Gain's the only thing you know)
“As Scavengers thro' Dirt grow rich,
“And Doctors thrive by P---x and Itch,
“So this foul Pen some Profit gives,
“We need no Proof while Kenrick lives.”
| The Powers of the Pen | |