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 |  |
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All feather like the Fops of France!
Between them this small Diff'rence stands,
Those plume their Hats, but these their Hands.
The Phrase of Peace they speak 'tis true,
But nothing have with Peace to do.
Good Humour in their Face they bear,
But tho' they smile, and smile, beware—
Beware, my artless Muse, nor deem
All are thy Friends, that friendly seem.
Suspect them while they smoothly greet,
—They murder ev'ry Muse they meet;
Tho' sweet as Phœbus' Lute her Lay,
The pretty innocent they slay.
To form a Shade their Plumes combine
Lest Summer's Sun, with Ray benign,
Shou'd warm young Genius into Bloom,
And scent the Valley with Perfume.
It is not that they hate a Rose,
—But the poor Souls have lost their Nose—
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Those Blessings which she cannot share.
Each Moon their Trump they blow, and sit
High Arbiters of Sense and Wit;
And in the Name of “Candour scrawl,
“With desp'rate Hands, and Hearts of Gall.”
Poison'd the Ink within their Stand,
Deadly the Feathers in their Hand;
On the Stymphalides they grew,
And butcher in each Month's Review.
Sunk twenty Fathom under Ground,
Paper'd with Title-pages round,
A Dungeon lies; and plac'd before
Stand Printer's Dev'ls to guard the Door;
To this these envious Fiends resort,
To hold their Inquisition-Court.
Fix'd in the Middle of the Room,
A glimmering Lamp reflects a Gloom;
Clust'ring above hang Scalping Knives,
By Dulness edg'd 'gainst Poets' Lives.
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Victims that at their Altars bled,
Dangle in Parcels at the Top,
Like dry'd Leaves in a Druggist's Shop.
Curious the Signs by which they know,
Whether a Work is good, or no.
For these all-judging Critic Elves
Form no Opinion from themselves;
Mechanic Judges of the Brain,
As Weatherglasses are of Rain.
Perch'd on a Column of Reviews,
Sits a grave Owl, and seems to muse;
And when they bring home Works of Wit,
She's taken with a hooting-fit.
An ideot Ass gives Evidence,
By braying, of the Approach of Sense.
And oft as from a Morning's Roam
They bring a Work of Genius home,
The Scalps with Sympathy will shake,
Rustling like Serpents in a Brake;
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And tremble at the Scalper's Steel.
The slouching Ears, which Midas wore
(Infamous Mark!) in time of Yore,
Are nail'd unto their Speaker's Chair;
And when a Grub-street Piece draws near,
Erect and lively they appear,
And give each Sign of Joy they can,
To ev'ry modern piping Pan.
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