 | Poems of Freneau |  |
TO SYLVIUS:
On the Folly of Writing Poetry.
OF all the fools that haunt our coast
The scribbling tribe I pity most:
Their's is a standing scene of woes,
And their's no prospect of repose.
The scribbling tribe I pity most:
Their's is a standing scene of woes,
And their's no prospect of repose.
338
Then, SYLVIUS, why this eager claim
To light your torch at Clio's flame?
To few she shews sincere regard,
And none, from her, should hope reward.
To light your torch at Clio's flame?
To few she shews sincere regard,
And none, from her, should hope reward.
A garret high, dark dismal room,
Is still the pensive poet's doom:
Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot,
Yet bear the curse, to be forgot.
Is still the pensive poet's doom:
Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot,
Yet bear the curse, to be forgot.
Hourly they deal with Grecian Jove,
And draw their bills on banks above:
Yet stand abashed, with all their fire,
When brought to face some country 'squire.
And draw their bills on banks above:
Yet stand abashed, with all their fire,
When brought to face some country 'squire.
To mend the world, is still their aim:
The world, alas! remains the same,
And so must stand to every age,
Proof to the morals of the page!
The world, alas! remains the same,
And so must stand to every age,
Proof to the morals of the page!
The knave that keeps a tippling inn,
The red-nosed boy that deals out gin,
If aided by some paltry skill
May both be statesmen when they will.
The red-nosed boy that deals out gin,
If aided by some paltry skill
May both be statesmen when they will.
The man that mends a beggar's shoes,
The quack that heals your negro's bruise,
The wretch that turns a cutler's stone,
Have wages they can call their own:
The quack that heals your negro's bruise,
The wretch that turns a cutler's stone,
Have wages they can call their own:
The head, that plods in trade's domains,
Gets something to reward its pains;
But Wit—that does the world beguile,
Takes for its pay—an empty smile!
Gets something to reward its pains;
But Wit—that does the world beguile,
Takes for its pay—an empty smile!
Yet each presumes his works will rise,
And gain a name that never dies;
From earth, and cold oblivion freed,
Immortal, in the poet's creed!
And gain a name that never dies;
From earth, and cold oblivion freed,
Immortal, in the poet's creed!
339
Can Reason in that bosom reign
Which fondly feeds a hope so vain,
When every age that passes by
Beholds a crowd of poets die!
Which fondly feeds a hope so vain,
When every age that passes by
Beholds a crowd of poets die!
Poor Sappho's fate shall Milton know—
His scenes of grief and tales of woe
No honours, that all Europe gave,
No merit—shall from ruin save.—
His scenes of grief and tales of woe
No honours, that all Europe gave,
No merit—shall from ruin save.—
To all that write and all that read
Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed!
Even SHAKESPEARE'S page, his mirth, his tears
May sink beneath this weight of years.
Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed!
Even SHAKESPEARE'S page, his mirth, his tears
May sink beneath this weight of years.
Old SPENSER'S doom shall, POPE, be thine
The music of each moving line
Scarce bribes an age or two to stay,
Admire your strain—then flit away.
The music of each moving line
Scarce bribes an age or two to stay,
Admire your strain—then flit away.
The people of old Chaucer's times
Were once in raptures with his rhymes,
But Time—that over verse prevails,
To other ears tells other tales.
Were once in raptures with his rhymes,
But Time—that over verse prevails,
To other ears tells other tales.
Why then so sad, dear rhyming friends—
One common fate on both attends,
The bards that sooth the statesman's ear,
And him—who finds no audience there.
One common fate on both attends,
The bards that sooth the statesman's ear,
And him—who finds no audience there.
Mere structures formed of common earth,
Not they from heaven derive their birth,
Or why through life, like vagrants, pass
To mingle with the mouldering mass?—
Not they from heaven derive their birth,
Or why through life, like vagrants, pass
To mingle with the mouldering mass?—
Of all the souls, from Jove that came
To animate this mortal frame,
Of all the myriads, on the wing,
How few can taste the Muse's spring!
To animate this mortal frame,
Of all the myriads, on the wing,
How few can taste the Muse's spring!
340
Sejanus, of mercantile skill,
Without whose aid the world stands still,
And by whose wonder-working play
The sun goes round—(his flatterers say)
Without whose aid the world stands still,
And by whose wonder-working play
The sun goes round—(his flatterers say)
Sejanus has in house declared
“These States, as yet, can boast no bard,
And all the sing-song of our clime
Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme.”
“These States, as yet, can boast no bard,
And all the sing-song of our clime
Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme.”
With such a bold, conceited air
When such assume the critic's chair,
Low in the dust is genius laid,
The muses with the man in trade.
When such assume the critic's chair,
Low in the dust is genius laid,
The muses with the man in trade.
Then, Sylvius, come—let you and I
On Neptune's aid, once more rely:
Perhaps the muse may still impart
Her balm to ease the aching heart.
On Neptune's aid, once more rely:
Perhaps the muse may still impart
Her balm to ease the aching heart.
Though cold might chill and storms dismay,
Yet Zoilus will be far away:
With us at least, depart and share
No garret—but resentment there.
Yet Zoilus will be far away:
With us at least, depart and share
No garret—but resentment there.
1788
| Poems of Freneau | |