A collection of poems on various subjects including the theatre, a didactic essay; in the course of which are pointed out, the rocks and shoals to which deluded adventurers are inevitably exposed. Ornamented with cuts and illustrated with notes, original letters and curious incidental anecdotes [by Samuel Whyte] |
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| IV. | EPISTLE IV. TO A LADY SOLICITING SUBSCRIPTIONS TO HER POEMS, |
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 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
158
EPISTLE IV. TO A LADY SOLICITING SUBSCRIPTIONS TO HER POEMS,
IN ANSWER TO A COPY OF VERSES ON THE OCCASION.
OCTOBER XXIIID, MDCCXC.
Fair sufferer! charm'd, I read thy partial lines,
Where bright the ray of native genius shines,
And from thy lips delighted more have heard,
Which beggar praise, and soar beyond reward;
But tho' thy slowing strains my pen invite,
Why should'st thou 'tempt the press? ah! wherefore write?
If gilded laurels lure thy venturous muse,
A slippery path and dangerous she pursues.
From critic rancour and the fangs of spleen
Thy gentle spirit, what, alas! shall screen?
When Milton fail'd, what merit can engage
A loose, luxurious, vain and trifling age?
The muse for Andre, hapless victim! fir'd,
With affluence bless'd, even by the foe admir'd;
What could they less, when in such charming lays,
She wreathes his urn with never-fading bays?
Siward, whose various strains the age surprise,
And show her wit as piercing as her eyes,
But envy with desert admits no truce,
Where most applause was due incurr'd abuse,
And, as if taste were from the nation fled,
Barbauld and Moore lie in the shops unread.
Where bright the ray of native genius shines,
And from thy lips delighted more have heard,
Which beggar praise, and soar beyond reward;
But tho' thy slowing strains my pen invite,
Why should'st thou 'tempt the press? ah! wherefore write?
If gilded laurels lure thy venturous muse,
A slippery path and dangerous she pursues.
From critic rancour and the fangs of spleen
Thy gentle spirit, what, alas! shall screen?
When Milton fail'd, what merit can engage
A loose, luxurious, vain and trifling age?
The muse for Andre, hapless victim! fir'd,
With affluence bless'd, even by the foe admir'd;
What could they less, when in such charming lays,
She wreathes his urn with never-fading bays?
Siward, whose various strains the age surprise,
And show her wit as piercing as her eyes,
159
Where most applause was due incurr'd abuse,
And, as if taste were from the nation fled,
Barbauld and Moore lie in the shops unread.
Would'st thou, humane the wish, improve mankind,
Restrain the froward and direct the blind,
And bid the muse, her grateful lore of old,
Bright honour's paths and virtue's charms unfold;
Arduous the task is, and, the event will prove,
Secures not friendship, nor conciliates love.
And then the sex! ye Gods! on what pretence
Can they presume to knowlege, wit or sense?
Flat usurpation! such a stumbling block
Must all the lords of the creation shock:
Not greater was his crime, who durst aspire
To steal from Heaven great Jove's authentic fire.
Are there not calls more suited to their parts,
Domestic cares and culinary arts?
And if no boys and girls you have to teaze ye,
Will nothing, cry the Dons, but scribbling please ye?
Then your kind friends, the female tribe I mean,
O lud! an authoress! almost die with spleen.
In fly-traps to catch beaux your skill exert,
For fops knit purses, or with puppies flirt;
Shine at the ball, the opera, park and play,
Revel all night, and lie in bed all day;
Those precious sciences to women known,
And in your quarrel they'll defend their own.
Superior parts obtain but cold respect,
Excite detraction and provoke neglect;
Fear shuns their walk, and hate's a-kin to fear;
A common case adduced will make it clear.
Restrain the froward and direct the blind,
And bid the muse, her grateful lore of old,
Bright honour's paths and virtue's charms unfold;
Arduous the task is, and, the event will prove,
Secures not friendship, nor conciliates love.
And then the sex! ye Gods! on what pretence
Can they presume to knowlege, wit or sense?
Flat usurpation! such a stumbling block
Must all the lords of the creation shock:
Not greater was his crime, who durst aspire
To steal from Heaven great Jove's authentic fire.
Are there not calls more suited to their parts,
Domestic cares and culinary arts?
And if no boys and girls you have to teaze ye,
Will nothing, cry the Dons, but scribbling please ye?
Then your kind friends, the female tribe I mean,
O lud! an authoress! almost die with spleen.
In fly-traps to catch beaux your skill exert,
For fops knit purses, or with puppies flirt;
Shine at the ball, the opera, park and play,
Revel all night, and lie in bed all day;
160
And in your quarrel they'll defend their own.
Superior parts obtain but cold respect,
Excite detraction and provoke neglect;
Fear shuns their walk, and hate's a-kin to fear;
A common case adduced will make it clear.
An author once, it might be you or I,
Must needs the pulse of old acquaintance try;
They met, and, as is usual among friends,
His hand the bard,—a finger he extends;—
Perchance, a tribute to the taylor due,
He forc'd a civil grin and put forth two;
Nature, howe'er the lips may play their part,
Will somewhere out, and leave unveil'd the heart.
The bard his hand, I should say finger, took,
And blithely ask'd him, how he lik'd his book?
The book! and round a vacant stare he flings,—
O yes!—your book contains some pretty things;
But with new works such trouble one receives!
It took me a full hour to cut the leaves.
The humbled author startles at the sound,
And scarce articulates, 'twas neatly bound.
I, whose quick feelings more are on the stretch,
Had turn'd upon my heel and damn'd the wretch.
Thus dunces, their own consequence to feed,
Disparage works they have not sense to read.
Must needs the pulse of old acquaintance try;
They met, and, as is usual among friends,
His hand the bard,—a finger he extends;—
Perchance, a tribute to the taylor due,
He forc'd a civil grin and put forth two;
Nature, howe'er the lips may play their part,
Will somewhere out, and leave unveil'd the heart.
The bard his hand, I should say finger, took,
And blithely ask'd him, how he lik'd his book?
The book! and round a vacant stare he flings,—
O yes!—your book contains some pretty things;
But with new works such trouble one receives!
It took me a full hour to cut the leaves.
The humbled author startles at the sound,
And scarce articulates, 'twas neatly bound.
I, whose quick feelings more are on the stretch,
Had turn'd upon my heel and damn'd the wretch.
Thus dunces, their own consequence to feed,
Disparage works they have not sense to read.
161
If thou must write and would'st thy works disperse,
Write novels, sermons, any thing but verse;
Tho' beaten paths, there's chance thou may'st succeed;
For matrons sermons, misses novels read;
And those, when sermons tire, if decent print,
A novel take, so nought immoral's in't.
The curious virgin, blooming smart sixteen,
Obtains the treasure and attacks it keen;
Each page she turns some fertile scene displays,
To fan her hopes, her vanity to raise,
And when the heroine's thrown upon the shelf,
She gives a new edition in herself.
Proof after proof imagination warms;
Young Rakehell comes dress'd in ideal charms,
And half unask'd she leaps into his arms.
But, oh! the sad reverse—perhaps a wife—
Illusion's fled and she a wretch for life.
Yet, while corruption's tide I strive to stem,
Let me not rashly in the gross condemn.
Some claim regard, and I might name a few,
By Burney written, or suppose by you:
Scarcely a reader but with interest finds
Time well employ'd with Burrowes and with Hindes,
And would'st thou with the pleasing mingle pith,
Read the Recess and draw from Charlotte Smith.
The pay of authors, not on griefs to dwell,
Their staple friends, the booksellers can tell.
Thy Johnson early was their bounty taught,
His Abyssinia bare five guineas brought!
Write novels, sermons, any thing but verse;
Tho' beaten paths, there's chance thou may'st succeed;
For matrons sermons, misses novels read;
And those, when sermons tire, if decent print,
A novel take, so nought immoral's in't.
The curious virgin, blooming smart sixteen,
Obtains the treasure and attacks it keen;
Each page she turns some fertile scene displays,
To fan her hopes, her vanity to raise,
And when the heroine's thrown upon the shelf,
She gives a new edition in herself.
Proof after proof imagination warms;
Young Rakehell comes dress'd in ideal charms,
And half unask'd she leaps into his arms.
But, oh! the sad reverse—perhaps a wife—
Illusion's fled and she a wretch for life.
Yet, while corruption's tide I strive to stem,
Let me not rashly in the gross condemn.
Some claim regard, and I might name a few,
By Burney written, or suppose by you:
Scarcely a reader but with interest finds
Time well employ'd with Burrowes and with Hindes,
And would'st thou with the pleasing mingle pith,
Read the Recess and draw from Charlotte Smith.
The pay of authors, not on griefs to dwell,
Their staple friends, the booksellers can tell.
162
His Abyssinia bare five guineas brought!
Rhyme is at best an unproductive trade,
By speedier means are princely fortunes made.
Subscriptions mammon for his favourites meant,
No poem ever yet brought cent per cent:—
There is a kind of authorship, in which
Adepts start up and instantly grow rich.
To trim thy little lamp and furnish oil,
Make use of lottery ink and study Hoyle:
Whoever in that onward track aspires,
No fund of taste, no classic lore requires,
If well he know that two and three make five,
The less his genius the more sure to thrive.
Nor rests the truth on theory alone,
Examples numerous might with ease be shown;
Friend Pope, if living, would himself allow
For one Sir Balaam there's a hundred now.
Muckworm to base usurious arts inur'd,
Bilks his frail handmaid from reproach ensur'd;
And as new claims new consequence inspires,
The Isle of Saints is now the Isle of 'Squires.
Amid the glare should worth superior shine,
Peers rank with peers, that marks a strain divine.—
The great themselves, if thou to greatness look,
Encourage Hoyle and con the lottery book.
By speedier means are princely fortunes made.
Subscriptions mammon for his favourites meant,
No poem ever yet brought cent per cent:—
There is a kind of authorship, in which
Adepts start up and instantly grow rich.
To trim thy little lamp and furnish oil,
Make use of lottery ink and study Hoyle:
Whoever in that onward track aspires,
No fund of taste, no classic lore requires,
If well he know that two and three make five,
The less his genius the more sure to thrive.
Nor rests the truth on theory alone,
Examples numerous might with ease be shown;
Friend Pope, if living, would himself allow
For one Sir Balaam there's a hundred now.
Muckworm to base usurious arts inur'd,
Bilks his frail handmaid from reproach ensur'd;
And as new claims new consequence inspires,
The Isle of Saints is now the Isle of 'Squires.
Amid the glare should worth superior shine,
Peers rank with peers, that marks a strain divine.—
The great themselves, if thou to greatness look,
Encourage Hoyle and con the lottery book.
163
But if subscriptions still be thy resource,
Think not unruffl'd thou shalt run the course:
Try high and low, through court and country range,
Friendship with times, with fortunes manners change;
They, who thy warm prosperity would grace,
Touch but their purse, will curse thee to thy face.
Let those who would disarm reflection's sting
A writ of error in their conduct bring.
Think not unruffl'd thou shalt run the course:
Try high and low, through court and country range,
Friendship with times, with fortunes manners change;
They, who thy warm prosperity would grace,
Touch but their purse, will curse thee to thy face.
Let those who would disarm reflection's sting
A writ of error in their conduct bring.
Parnassus flowery haunts and Pindus' shades
Lie all deserted by the Aönian maids;
Along the banks of clear meandring stream
No favour'd poets of elysium dream;
The powers of song, that charm'd the world of yore,
Save by a few like thee, are felt no more;
Even love, inspirer of the tuneful breast,
Is lost in avarice and become a jest.
Lie all deserted by the Aönian maids;
Along the banks of clear meandring stream
No favour'd poets of elysium dream;
The powers of song, that charm'd the world of yore,
Save by a few like thee, are felt no more;
Even love, inspirer of the tuneful breast,
Is lost in avarice and become a jest.
Time was when wealth and honour crown'd the verse,
To rocks and deserts modern bards rehearse;
They might as well impress the bounding deer,
As gain attention from a modish ear.
These halcyon times Mæcenas sees more wit
In one fat haunch, than all e'er Virgil writ:
More to his gust, tho' it might task his skill,
To scan the heroics of a tavern bill;
Or quaint conceits, oft coin'd before, to coin,
A needless passport to the bumper'd wine,
Or snack a catch,—Oh! how divine they sing!
For Bourdeaux now's the Heliconian spring:
While wondering bards, who seldom get a taste,
See purse-proud vintners with their laurels grac'd.
To rocks and deserts modern bards rehearse;
They might as well impress the bounding deer,
As gain attention from a modish ear.
These halcyon times Mæcenas sees more wit
In one fat haunch, than all e'er Virgil writ:
More to his gust, tho' it might task his skill,
To scan the heroics of a tavern bill;
Or quaint conceits, oft coin'd before, to coin,
A needless passport to the bumper'd wine,
164
For Bourdeaux now's the Heliconian spring:
While wondering bards, who seldom get a taste,
See purse-proud vintners with their laurels grac'd.
Wide is the difference, to experience plain,
'Twixt talents in the pocket and the brain,
And those profusely with the first supplied
Their slender quota of the latter hide.
Full thirty suns, heaven knows! with ceaseless toil,
I have cultivated an ungrateful soil,
And my best pains to fill a leaky pate
Have been for worship oft repaid with hate:
So are the master's care and wholesome rule
Spelt and misconstru'd by the golden fool.
'Twixt talents in the pocket and the brain,
And those profusely with the first supplied
Their slender quota of the latter hide.
Full thirty suns, heaven knows! with ceaseless toil,
I have cultivated an ungrateful soil,
And my best pains to fill a leaky pate
Have been for worship oft repaid with hate:
So are the master's care and wholesome rule
Spelt and misconstru'd by the golden fool.
The muse I courted answered every end
To sooth a vacant hour and please a friend;
No interest expectation did inflame,
I lost in labour what I gain'd in fame.
My lot allows for few amusements time,
Perhaps the most excusable is rhyme.
In Bacchus orgies I can bear no part,
Nor scarcely know a diamond from a heart,
And if ambition aught on earth can raise,
'Tis to be prais'd by those deserving praise.
Hope's brightest prospects realiz'd be thine,
As every wish for thy success is mine.
To sooth a vacant hour and please a friend;
No interest expectation did inflame,
I lost in labour what I gain'd in fame.
My lot allows for few amusements time,
Perhaps the most excusable is rhyme.
In Bacchus orgies I can bear no part,
Nor scarcely know a diamond from a heart,
And if ambition aught on earth can raise,
'Tis to be prais'd by those deserving praise.
Hope's brightest prospects realiz'd be thine,
As every wish for thy success is mine.
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |