 | Original poems |  |
104
SIMON SPUNKEY'S EPISTLE EXCUSATORY,
ADDRESSED TO JOSEPH DENNIE, ESQ. EDITOR OF THE PORT FOLIO, AS AN APOLOGY FOR NOT MORE FREQUENTLY WRITING FOR NIPOETICAL DEPARTMENT.
SINCE Simon's muse no longer chatters
Of politicks and other matters,
The anxious publick wish to know
Whether the bard, to shades below,
Has hied with jacobin commission
To raise a mob, in fields Elysian,
Or gone to organize a club
Of demos, under Beelzebub.
Of politicks and other matters,
The anxious publick wish to know
Whether the bard, to shades below,
Has hied with jacobin commission
To raise a mob, in fields Elysian,
Or gone to organize a club
Of demos, under Beelzebub.
Some knowing ones presume to say
The poet towers the other way,
Born high on Fancy's air-balloon,
Soars many a league beyond the moon,
Engag'd in some sublime affair
In building castles, in the air—
Gone where e'en Herachel cannot find him,
And leaves his partisans behind him.
The poet towers the other way,
Born high on Fancy's air-balloon,
Soars many a league beyond the moon,
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In building castles, in the air—
Gone where e'en Herachel cannot find him,
And leaves his partisans behind him.
Thus criticks form conjectures wise,
And Rumour tells a thousand lies;
But, if such tales as we have stated
Should, wantonly, be circulated,
Belknap may err, in our biography,
Or Doctor Morse in his “Geography,”
With less of prudence than temerity,
Mistate the matter to posterity,
And stories tell, about our silence,
To lesson our renown, a while hence.
And Rumour tells a thousand lies;
But, if such tales as we have stated
Should, wantonly, be circulated,
Belknap may err, in our biography,
Or Doctor Morse in his “Geography,”
With less of prudence than temerity,
Mistate the matter to posterity,
And stories tell, about our silence,
To lesson our renown, a while hence.
These may be consequences: therefore,
I will unfold the why and wherefore,
Simon affords no rhyme, nor riddle,
Nor tunes of late, Apollo's fiddle,
No pithy rhymer ever chooses
To build his verse without the muses,
But not a muse, who wears a petticoat,
Will leave the banks of fair Connecticut;
Colon and Spondee, void of reason,
Have hired the lasses, by the season,
Confin'd each little sweet divinity,
By magick spell to their vicinity.
I will unfold the why and wherefore,
Simon affords no rhyme, nor riddle,
Nor tunes of late, Apollo's fiddle,
No pithy rhymer ever chooses
To build his verse without the muses,
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Will leave the banks of fair Connecticut;
Colon and Spondee, void of reason,
Have hired the lasses, by the season,
Confin'd each little sweet divinity,
By magick spell to their vicinity.
'Tis true the nymphs once made excursion,
To visit Vermont, for diversion,
But, when accosted, in these regions,
They sped away, like frighted pigeons.
To visit Vermont, for diversion,
But, when accosted, in these regions,
They sped away, like frighted pigeons.
When May her blue eye roll'd voluptuous
In airy ringlets dancing up to us,
In yonder sable swamp of hickory,
I Simon saw the nymph Terpsichore,
On banks of Otter Creek she blew sharp
On whistle now, and now on jewsharp:
'Twas all perfection, or so near it,
The raptur'd river stopp'd to hear it.
There too were Clio and Melpomene
With Barlow's recipe for hominy,
Set to celestial musick sweeter
Than pious psalm-tune, common metre.
Tall spruces bow'd their heads, so taper,
And hakmataks cut many a caper,
Thy forest, Thebes, show'd less agility,
When Orpheus fif'd with such ability!
In airy ringlets dancing up to us,
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I Simon saw the nymph Terpsichore,
On banks of Otter Creek she blew sharp
On whistle now, and now on jewsharp:
'Twas all perfection, or so near it,
The raptur'd river stopp'd to hear it.
There too were Clio and Melpomene
With Barlow's recipe for hominy,
Set to celestial musick sweeter
Than pious psalm-tune, common metre.
Tall spruces bow'd their heads, so taper,
And hakmataks cut many a caper,
Thy forest, Thebes, show'd less agility,
When Orpheus fif'd with such ability!
Now chang'd the key, a plaintive strain,
Melodious murmurs o'er the plain;
Now sweetly swells the song sonorous,
Nymphs, fauns, and dryads join the chorus;
While nature listens to the lay,
And melts in ecstacy away.
Melodious murmurs o'er the plain;
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Nymphs, fauns, and dryads join the chorus;
While nature listens to the lay,
And melts in ecstacy away.
At length, the heavenly tune completed,
On mossy banks the Muses seated,
Th' adventurous bard, advancing to them,
With modest confidence to woo them;
“Our views,” they cry, “are incompatible:”
“Go wait on lasses more come-at-a-ble.”
Although the bard, you may rely on't,
Pleaded like lawyer, fee'd by client,
No rhetorick could induce their stay,
Each, swift as hum-bird flew away.
On mossy banks the Muses seated,
Th' adventurous bard, advancing to them,
With modest confidence to woo them;
“Our views,” they cry, “are incompatible:”
“Go wait on lasses more come-at-a-ble.”
Although the bard, you may rely on't,
Pleaded like lawyer, fee'd by client,
No rhetorick could induce their stay,
Each, swift as hum-bird flew away.
The bard pursu'd, with might and main,
O'er tufted bill and velvet plain,
Till meeting Prudence, in a hollow,
She cautioned him in words that follow:
O'er tufted bill and velvet plain,
Till meeting Prudence, in a hollow,
She cautioned him in words that follow:
“How simple is the man, who chooses,
To court the coy, and fickle muses,
Though fascinating, still depend on't,
Grim Poverty is their attendant.”
The meagre minstrel of Despair,
With hair erect, and bosom bare,
Exclaims in monitory tone
Of Butler! Otway! Chatterton!
Tells many a sad, disastrous tale,
How poets always die in jail!
To court the coy, and fickle muses,
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Grim Poverty is their attendant.”
The meagre minstrel of Despair,
With hair erect, and bosom bare,
Exclaims in monitory tone
Of Butler! Otway! Chatterton!
Tells many a sad, disastrous tale,
How poets always die in jail!
The bard thus jilted, by the muses,
Can now do nought but scrawl excuses;
Or if he higher raise his theme,
He sees said demon, in a dream,
Who lowers on him with front so haggard,
His line slow creeps, and seems to drag hard!
Can now do nought but scrawl excuses;
Or if he higher raise his theme,
He sees said demon, in a dream,
Who lowers on him with front so haggard,
His line slow creeps, and seems to drag hard!
Then since my verses, grave or funny,
Will not procure me ready money,
And since in time I'd best be heedful,
To gain a little of the needful,
If you should chide me e'er so sharp
On hakmatak I'll hang my harp,
Throw Phebus' fiddle in the fire,
And give to Otter Creek my lyre.
Will not procure me ready money,
And since in time I'd best be heedful,
To gain a little of the needful,
If you should chide me e'er so sharp
On hakmatak I'll hang my harp,
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And give to Otter Creek my lyre.
Colon and Spondee were the signatures assumed by gentlemen who wrote for the publication in which this epistle first appeared.
“Born in yon blaze of orient sky,
“Sweet May, thy radiant charms unfold,
“Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
“And wave thy shadowy locks of gold!”
DARWIN.
“Sweet May, thy radiant charms unfold,
“Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
“And wave thy shadowy locks of gold!”
DARWIN.
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