 | The Harp of Erin |  |
199
THE POET'S PETITION TO APOLLO.
Scarce fourteen summers crown my age,And yet on life's oft-varied stage
(Such are the hapless poet's losses)
I've met with fourteen thousand crosses.
Debts; duns; proud patrons all so squeamish,
Who damn one for a single blemish;
Malice, with blinking eye and shrug,
Rooting the grave fond Pity dug;
Suspence, on courtier's promise waiting,
“Like Patience on a monument;”
Envy, that darling imp of Satan;
Poetic pique, and discontent:
Full many a bitter pinch ye gave me;
From which, O god Apollo, save me!
No more beneath some guardian wing
I tune my little pipe, and sing;
No more tied by the leg I flutter,
Hop but in sight, nor dare to mutter;
O'er the wild fields of ether free,
I now cry Vive la liberté!
And though my nest I have not feather'd,
I have at least experience gather'd:
That rudder of good conduct, guiding
To a calm port where Age may ride in;
Till call'd aloft at cherubs' whistle,
To try if he has wisely mist ill;
And, without boast or flourish pompous
Kept honour as his star and compass.
I tune my little pipe, and sing;
No more tied by the leg I flutter,
Hop but in sight, nor dare to mutter;
200
I now cry Vive la liberté!
And though my nest I have not feather'd,
I have at least experience gather'd:
That rudder of good conduct, guiding
To a calm port where Age may ride in;
Till call'd aloft at cherubs' whistle,
To try if he has wisely mist ill;
And, without boast or flourish pompous
Kept honour as his star and compass.
That I have never seen the child
Of injur'd merit weep, and smil'd;
That I have never heard the poor
Sigh out their plaints, and clos'd the door;
That I have never wish'd to wrong
The good man in satiric song;
Bear witness Heav'n, that know'st my heart,
And now, oh! take thy minstrel's part.
Of injur'd merit weep, and smil'd;
That I have never heard the poor
Sigh out their plaints, and clos'd the door;
That I have never wish'd to wrong
The good man in satiric song;
Bear witness Heav'n, that know'st my heart,
And now, oh! take thy minstrel's part.
Like sad Darius, bruis'd and beaten
'Mong those by whom his goods were eaten;
Like Belisarius (poor fellow!)
Drest up in rags black, blue, and yellow;
Like grave Cervantes in a jail;
Like Butler, without soothing ale;
Like Tasso praying, in the night,
His cat's clear eyes to lend him light;
Like Chatterton, who sung so sweet;
Like princely The'dore in the Fleet;
Like Tippoo Saib by strangers plunder'd;
Like—like—ah me, sirs! like a hundred;
Behold Tom Dermody quite humbled,
From Fortune's wheel (the gipsey) tumbled:
Petitioning, in paltry verses,
Great George's head-piece from long purses.
For he, unlike disloyal brothers,
Loves his king's head above all others.
'Mong those by whom his goods were eaten;
Like Belisarius (poor fellow!)
Drest up in rags black, blue, and yellow;
Like grave Cervantes in a jail;
Like Butler, without soothing ale;
Like Tasso praying, in the night,
His cat's clear eyes to lend him light;
201
Like princely The'dore in the Fleet;
Like Tippoo Saib by strangers plunder'd;
Like—like—ah me, sirs! like a hundred;
Behold Tom Dermody quite humbled,
From Fortune's wheel (the gipsey) tumbled:
Petitioning, in paltry verses,
Great George's head-piece from long purses.
For he, unlike disloyal brothers,
Loves his king's head above all others.
And shall I now with formal scrape,
The muse low-curt'seying like an ape,
Your pardon for this trifle beg,
Dash off some lies and make a leg?
By Phœbus, no! Consult your breast,
Where all the soft-ey'd feelings rest,
Each tender passion search with care,
My best apology is there.
The muse low-curt'seying like an ape,
Your pardon for this trifle beg,
Dash off some lies and make a leg?
By Phœbus, no! Consult your breast,
Where all the soft-ey'd feelings rest,
Each tender passion search with care,
My best apology is there.
| The Harp of Erin | |