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1
TO A FRIEND
The Bard who well deserves success,
Yet honestly obtains it,
Is apt to treat with tenderness
The merit that explains it:
Yet honestly obtains it,
Is apt to treat with tenderness
The merit that explains it:
He feels, on his exalted seat,
Like some smart hansom cabby,
Who flashes through a crowded street
'Mid crawlers old and shabby.
Like some smart hansom cabby,
Who flashes through a crowded street
'Mid crawlers old and shabby.
He has no time to stop and smile
On those who lag behind him,
Nor is it ever worth his while
To go where they might find him:
On those who lag behind him,
Nor is it ever worth his while
To go where they might find him:
His cab is never on the rank:
Through week days and through Sundays
'Tis always driving to the Bank,
Or else to Mrs. Grundy's.
Through week days and through Sundays
'Tis always driving to the Bank,
Or else to Mrs. Grundy's.
Small blame to him; for merit's rare,
And its success is rarer;
His is the hansom, his the fare;
So nothing could be fairer!
And its success is rarer;
His is the hansom, his the fare;
So nothing could be fairer!
Yet there are some successful bards
Who like to think in what way
They can divide their just rewards
With bards as poor as Otway.
Who like to think in what way
They can divide their just rewards
With bards as poor as Otway.
2
These don't refuse to be the guest
Of undistinguish'd poets,
Who have no hope within the breast
To stimulate their slow wits;
Of undistinguish'd poets,
Who have no hope within the breast
To stimulate their slow wits;
These give a drink of something nice
To every thirsty gaper,
Whose poems only fetch the price
Of just so much waste paper;
To every thirsty gaper,
Whose poems only fetch the price
Of just so much waste paper;
These speak their minds: “Why, bless your heart!
Old man, e'en do as we did,
And polish up your works of art
As if you had succeeded.
Old man, e'en do as we did,
And polish up your works of art
As if you had succeeded.
“Thus shall you keep your self-respect,
And not (which is a blessing)
Be too much weaken'd by neglect
To give your foes a dressing
And not (which is a blessing)
Be too much weaken'd by neglect
To give your foes a dressing
“Ah then,” says Bavius with a sigh
“Since you are pleased to say so
I'll sing, though sadly, till I die
Like poor Ovidius Naso
“Since you are pleased to say so
I'll sing, though sadly, till I die
Like poor Ovidius Naso
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