The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

In all professionary skill,
There never was, nor ever will
Be excellence, or exhibition,
But fools are up in opposition;
Each letter'd, grave, pedantic dunce
Wakes from his lethargy at once,
Shrugs, shakes his head, and rubs his eyes,
And, being dull, looks wond'rous wise,
With solemn phiz, and critic scowl,
The wisdom of his brother owl.

Moderns! He hates the very name;
Your Antients have prescriptive claim:—
But let a century be past,
And We have taste and wit at last;
For at that period Moderns too
Just turn the corner of Virtu.

But merit now has little claim
To any meed of present fame,
For 'tis not worth that gets you friends,
'Tis excellence that most offends.
If, Proteus-like, a Garrick's art,
Shews taste and skill in every part;
If, ever just to nature's plan,
He is in all the very man,
E'en here shall Envy take her aim,
------ write, and ------ blame.
The Jealous Wife, tho' chastly writ,
With no parade of frippery wit,
Shall set a scribbling, all at once,
Both giant wit, and pigmy dunce;
While Critical Reviewers write,
Who shew their teeth before they bite,
And sacrifice each reputation,
From wanton false imagination.
These observations, rather stale,
May borrow spirit from a tale.

Genius, a bustling lad of parts,
Who all things did by fits and starts,
Nothing above him or below him,
Who'd make a riot, or a poem,

From excentricity of thought,
Not always do the thing he ought;
But was it once his own election,
Would bring all matters to perfection;
Would act, design, engrave, write, paint,
But neither from the least constraint,
Who hated all pedantic schools,
And scorn'd the gloss of knowing fools,
That hold perfection all in all,
Yet treat it as mechanical,
And give the same sufficient rule
To make a poem, as a stool—
From the first spring-time of his youth,
Was downright worshipper of truth;
And with a free and liberal spirit,
His courtship paid to lady Merit.

Envy, a squint-ey'd, mere old maid,
Well known among the scribbling trade;
A hag, so very, very thin,
Her bones peep'd through her bladder-skin;
Who could not for her soul abide
That folks shou'd praise, where she must chide,
Follow'd the Youth where'er he went,
To mar each good and brave intent;

Would lies, and plots, and mischief hatch,
To ruin him and spoil the match.
Honour she held at bold defiance,
Talk'd much of Faction, Gang, Alliance,
As if the real sons of taste
Had clubb'd to lay a Desart waste.

In short, wherever Genius came,
You'd find this Antiquated Dame;
Whate'er he did, where'er he went,
She follow'd only to torment;
Call'd Merit by a thousand names,
Which decency or truth disclaims,
While all her business, toil, and care,
Was to depreciate, lye, compare,
To pull the Modest Maiden down,
And blast her fame to all the town.

The Youth, inflam'd with conscious pride,
To Prince Posterity apply'd,
Who gave his answer thus in rhyme,
By his chief minister, Old Time.

“Repine not at what pedants fay,
“We'll bring thee forward on the way;

“If wither'd Envy strive to hurt
“With lies, with impudence and dirt,
“You only pay a common tax
“Which fool, and knave, and dunce exacts.
“Be this thy comfort, this thy joy,
“Thy strength is in its prime, my boy,
“And ev'ry year thy vigour grows,
“Impairs the credit of my foes.
“Envy shall sink, and be no more
“Than what her Naiads were before;
“Mere excremental maggots, bred
“In poet's topsy-turvy head,
“Born like a momentary fly,
“To flutter, buzz about, and die.

“Yet, Genius, mark what I presage,
“Who look through every distant age:
“Merit shall bless thee with her charms,
“Fame lift thy offspring in her arms,
“And stamp eternity of grace
“On all thy numerous various race.
“Roubilliac, Wilton, names as high
“As Phidias of antiquity,
“Shall strength, expression, manner give,
“And make e'en marble breathe and live;

“While Sigismunda's deep distress,
“Which looks the soul of wretchedness,
“When I, with slow and soft'ning pen,
“Have gone o'er all the tints agen,
“Shall urge a bold and proper claim
“To level half the antient fame;
“While future ages yet unknown
“With critic air shall proudly own
“Thy Hogarth first of every clime,
“For humour keen, or strong sublime,
“And hail him from his fire and spirit,
“The child of Genius and of Merit.”