The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd ... To Which is Prefixed an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By W. Kenrick ... In Two Volumes |
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THE CANDLE AND SNUFFERS.
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 | The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd |  |
132
THE CANDLE AND SNUFFERS.
A FABLE.
No author ever spar'd a brother:
“Wits are game cocks to one another.”
But no antipathy so strong,
Which acts so fiercely, lasts so long
As that which rages in the breast
Of critic, and of wit profest:
When, eager for some bold emprize,
Wit, Titan-like, affects the skies,
When, full of energy divine,
The mighty dupe of all the nine,
Bids his kite soar on paper wing,
The critic comes, and cuts the string;
Hence dire contention often grows
'Twixt man of verse, and man of prose;
While prose-man deems the verse-man fool,
And measures wit by line and rule,
And, as he lops off fancy's limb,
Turns executioner of whim;
While genius, which too oft disdains
To bear e'en honourable chains;
(Such as a sheriff's self might wear,
Or grace the wisdom of a may'r)
Turns rebel to dame reason's throne
And holds no judgment like his own.
“Wits are game cocks to one another.”
But no antipathy so strong,
Which acts so fiercely, lasts so long
As that which rages in the breast
Of critic, and of wit profest:
When, eager for some bold emprize,
Wit, Titan-like, affects the skies,
When, full of energy divine,
The mighty dupe of all the nine,
Bids his kite soar on paper wing,
The critic comes, and cuts the string;
Hence dire contention often grows
'Twixt man of verse, and man of prose;
While prose-man deems the verse-man fool,
And measures wit by line and rule,
And, as he lops off fancy's limb,
Turns executioner of whim;
While genius, which too oft disdains
To bear e'en honourable chains;
133
Or grace the wisdom of a may'r)
Turns rebel to dame reason's throne
And holds no judgment like his own.
Yet while they spatter mutual dirt,
In idle threats that cannot hurt,
Methinks they waste a deal of time,
Both fool in prose, and fool in rhyme.
And when the angry bard exclaims,
And calls a thousand paltry names,
He doth his critic mighty wrong,
And hurts the dignity of song.
In idle threats that cannot hurt,
Methinks they waste a deal of time,
Both fool in prose, and fool in rhyme.
And when the angry bard exclaims,
And calls a thousand paltry names,
He doth his critic mighty wrong,
And hurts the dignity of song.
The prefatory matter past
The tale, or story comes at last.
The tale, or story comes at last.
A candle stuck in flaring state
Within the nozel of French plate,
Tow'ring aloft with smoaky light,
The snuff and flame of wondrous height,
(For, virgin yet of amputation,
No force had check'd its inclination)
Sullen address'd with conscious pride,
The dormant snuffers at its side.
“Mcan vulgar tools, whose envious aim
“Strikes at the vitals of my flame,
“Your rude assaults shall hurt no more,
“See how my beams triumphant soar!
“See how I gayly blaze alone
“With strength, with lustre all my own.
Within the nozel of French plate,
Tow'ring aloft with smoaky light,
The snuff and flame of wondrous height,
(For, virgin yet of amputation,
No force had check'd its inclination)
Sullen address'd with conscious pride,
The dormant snuffers at its side.
134
“Strikes at the vitals of my flame,
“Your rude assaults shall hurt no more,
“See how my beams triumphant soar!
“See how I gayly blaze alone
“With strength, with lustre all my own.
“Lustre, good sir!” the snuffers cried,
“Alas! how ignorant is pride!
“Thy light which wavers round the room,
“Shews as the counterfeit of gloom,
“Thy snuff which idly tow'rs so high
“Will waste thy essence by and by,
“Which, as I prize thy lustre dear
“I fain would lop to make thee clear.
“Boast not, old friend, thy random rays,
“Thy wasting strength, and quiv'ring blaze,
“You shine but as a beggar's link,
“To burn away, and die in stink,
“No merit waits unsteady light,
“You must burn true as well as brigbt.
“Alas! how ignorant is pride!
“Thy light which wavers round the room,
“Shews as the counterfeit of gloom,
“Thy snuff which idly tow'rs so high
“Will waste thy essence by and by,
“Which, as I prize thy lustre dear
“I fain would lop to make thee clear.
“Boast not, old friend, thy random rays,
“Thy wasting strength, and quiv'ring blaze,
“You shine but as a beggar's link,
“To burn away, and die in stink,
“No merit waits unsteady light,
“You must burn true as well as brigbt.
Poets like candles all are puffers,
And critics are the candle snuffers.
And critics are the candle snuffers.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd | |