The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd ... To Which is Prefixed an Account of the Life and Writings of the Author. By W. Kenrick ... In Two Volumes |
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 | II. |
THE POET.
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 | The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd |  |
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THE POET.
ANEPISTLE TO C. CHURCHILL.
Well—shall I wish you joy of fame,
That loudly echoes Churchill's name,
And sets you on the Muses' throne,
Which right of conquest made your own?
Or shall I (knowing how unfit
The world esteems a man of wit,
That wheresoever he appears,
They wonder if the knave has ears)
Address with joy and lamentation,
Condolance and Congratulation,
As colleges, who duly bring
Their mess of verse to every king,
Too œconomical in taste,
Their sorrow or their joy to waste;
Mix both together, sweet and sow'r;
And bind the thorn up with the flow'r?
That loudly echoes Churchill's name,
And sets you on the Muses' throne,
Which right of conquest made your own?
Or shall I (knowing how unfit
The world esteems a man of wit,
That wheresoever he appears,
They wonder if the knave has ears)
Address with joy and lamentation,
Condolance and Congratulation,
As colleges, who duly bring
Their mess of verse to every king,
Too œconomical in taste,
Their sorrow or their joy to waste;
Mix both together, sweet and sow'r;
And bind the thorn up with the flow'r?
Sometimes 'tis Elegy, or Ode.
Epistle now's your only mode.
Whether that style more glibly hits,
The fancies of our rambling wits,
Who wince and kick at all oppression,
But love to straggle in digression;
Or, that by writing to the Great
In letters, honours, or estate,
We slip more easy into fame,
By clinging to another's name,
And with their strength our weakness yoke,
As ivy climbs about an oak;
As Tuft-Hunters will buzz and purr
About a Fellow-Commoner,
Or Crows will wing a higher flight,
When sailing round the floating kite.
Epistle now's your only mode.
Whether that style more glibly hits,
The fancies of our rambling wits,
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But love to straggle in digression;
Or, that by writing to the Great
In letters, honours, or estate,
We slip more easy into fame,
By clinging to another's name,
And with their strength our weakness yoke,
As ivy climbs about an oak;
As Tuft-Hunters will buzz and purr
About a Fellow-Commoner,
Or Crows will wing a higher flight,
When sailing round the floating kite.
Whate'er the motive, 'tis the mode,
And I will travel in the road.
The fashionable track pursue,
And write my simple thoughts to You,
Just as they rise from head or heart,
Not marshall'd by the herald Art.
And I will travel in the road.
The fashionable track pursue,
And write my simple thoughts to You,
Just as they rise from head or heart,
Not marshall'd by the herald Art.
By vanity or pleasure led,
From thirst of fame, or want of bread,
Shall any start up sons of rhime
Pathetic, Easy, or Sublime?
—You'd think, to hear what Critics say,
Their labour was no more than play:
And that, but such a paultry station
Reflects disgrace on education,
(As if we could at once forsake
What education helps to make)
Each reader has superior skill,
And can write better when he will.
From thirst of fame, or want of bread,
Shall any start up sons of rhime
Pathetic, Easy, or Sublime?
—You'd think, to hear what Critics say,
Their labour was no more than play:
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Reflects disgrace on education,
(As if we could at once forsake
What education helps to make)
Each reader has superior skill,
And can write better when he will.
In short, howe'er you toil and drudge,
The world, the mighty world, is judge,
And nice and fanciful opinion
Sways all the world with strange dominion;
Opinion! which on crutches walks,
And sounds the words another talks.
The world, the mighty world, is judge,
And nice and fanciful opinion
Sways all the world with strange dominion;
Opinion! which on crutches walks,
And sounds the words another talks.
Bring me eleven Critics grown,
Ten have no judgment of their own:
But, like the Cyclops watch the nod
Of some informing master god.
Or as, when near his latest breath,
The patient fain would juggle death,
When Doctors sit in Consultation
(Which means no more than conversation,
A kind of comfortable chat
'Mongst social friends, on This and That,
As whether stocks get up or down,
And tittle-tattle of the town;
Books, pictures, politics, and news,
Who lies with whom, and who got whose)
Opinions never disagree,
One doctor writes, all take the see.
Ten have no judgment of their own:
But, like the Cyclops watch the nod
Of some informing master god.
Or as, when near his latest breath,
The patient fain would juggle death,
When Doctors sit in Consultation
(Which means no more than conversation,
A kind of comfortable chat
'Mongst social friends, on This and That,
As whether stocks get up or down,
And tittle-tattle of the town;
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Who lies with whom, and who got whose)
Opinions never disagree,
One doctor writes, all take the see.
But eminence offends at once
The owlish eye of critic dunce.
Dullness alarm'd, collects her Force,
And Folly screams till she is hoarse.
Then far abroad the Libel flies
From all th' artillery of lies,
Malice, delighted, flaps her wing,
And Epigram prepares her sting.
Around the frequent pellets whistle
From Satire, Ode, and pert Epistle;
While every blockhead strives to throw
His share of vengeance on his foe:
As if it were a Shrove-tide game,
And cocks and poets were the same.
The owlish eye of critic dunce.
Dullness alarm'd, collects her Force,
And Folly screams till she is hoarse.
Then far abroad the Libel flies
From all th' artillery of lies,
Malice, delighted, flaps her wing,
And Epigram prepares her sting.
Around the frequent pellets whistle
From Satire, Ode, and pert Epistle;
While every blockhead strives to throw
His share of vengeance on his foe:
As if it were a Shrove-tide game,
And cocks and poets were the same.
Thus should a wooden collar deck
Some woe-full 'squire's embarrass'd neck,
When high above the croud he stands
With equi-distant sprawling hands,
And without hat, politely bare,
Pops out his head to take the air;
The mob his kind acceptance begs
Of dirt, and stones, and addle-eggs.
Some woe-full 'squire's embarrass'd neck,
When high above the croud he stands
With equi-distant sprawling hands,
And without hat, politely bare,
Pops out his head to take the air;
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Of dirt, and stones, and addle-eggs.
O Genius! tho' thy noble skill
Can guide thy Pegasus at will,
Fleet let him bear thee as the wind—
Dullness mounts up and clings behind,
In vain you spur, and whip, and smack,
You cannot shake her from your back.
Can guide thy Pegasus at will,
Fleet let him bear thee as the wind—
Dullness mounts up and clings behind,
In vain you spur, and whip, and smack,
You cannot shake her from your back.
Ill-nature springs as merit grows,
Close as the thorn is to the rose.
Could Herculaneum's friendly earth
Give Mævius' works a second birth,
Malevolence, with lifted eyes,
Would sanctify the noble prize.
While modern critics should behold
Their near relation to the old,
And wondring gape at one another,
To see the likeness of a brother.
Close as the thorn is to the rose.
Could Herculaneum's friendly earth
Give Mævius' works a second birth,
Malevolence, with lifted eyes,
Would sanctify the noble prize.
While modern critics should behold
Their near relation to the old,
And wondring gape at one another,
To see the likeness of a brother.
But with us rhiming moderns here,
Critics are not the only fear;
The poet's bark meets sharper shocks
From other sands, and other rocks.
Critics are not the only fear;
The poet's bark meets sharper shocks
From other sands, and other rocks.
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Not such alone who understand,
Whose book and memory are at hand,
Who scientific skill profess,
And are great adepts—more or less;
(Whether distinguish'd by degree,
They write A. M. or sign M. D.
Or make advances somewhat higher
And take a new degree of 'Squire.)
Who read your authors, Greek and Latin,
And bring you strange quotations pat in,
As if each sentence grew more terse,
From odds and ends, and scraps of verse;
Who with true poetry dispense,
So social sound suits simple sense,
And load one Letter with the labours,
Which should be shar'd among its neighbours.
Who know that thought produces pain,
And deep reflection mads the brain,
And therefore, wise and prudent grown,
Have no ideas of their own.
But if the man of Nature speak,
Advance their Bayonets of Greek,
And keep plain sense at such a distance,
She cannot give a friend assistance.
Not these alone in judgment rise,
And shoot at genius as it flies,
But those who cannot spell, will Talk,
As women scold, who cannot walk.
Whose book and memory are at hand,
Who scientific skill profess,
And are great adepts—more or less;
(Whether distinguish'd by degree,
They write A. M. or sign M. D.
Or make advances somewhat higher
And take a new degree of 'Squire.)
Who read your authors, Greek and Latin,
And bring you strange quotations pat in,
As if each sentence grew more terse,
From odds and ends, and scraps of verse;
Who with true poetry dispense,
So social sound suits simple sense,
And load one Letter with the labours,
Which should be shar'd among its neighbours.
Who know that thought produces pain,
And deep reflection mads the brain,
And therefore, wise and prudent grown,
Have no ideas of their own.
But if the man of Nature speak,
Advance their Bayonets of Greek,
And keep plain sense at such a distance,
She cannot give a friend assistance.
Not these alone in judgment rise,
And shoot at genius as it flies,
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As women scold, who cannot walk.
Your man of habit, who's wound up
To eat and drink, and dine and sup,
But has not either will or pow'r
To break out of his formal hour;
Who lives by rule, and ne'er outgoes it;
Moves like a clock, and hardly knows it;
Who is a kind of breathing being,
Which has but half the pow'r of seeing;
Who stands for ever on the brink,
Yet dare not plunge enough to think,
Nor has one reason to supply
Wherefore he does a thing, or why,
But what he does proceeds so right,
You'd think him always guided by't;
Joins poetry and vice together
Like sun and rain in April weather,
Holds rake and wit as things the same,
And all the difference but a Name.
To eat and drink, and dine and sup,
But has not either will or pow'r
To break out of his formal hour;
Who lives by rule, and ne'er outgoes it;
Moves like a clock, and hardly knows it;
Who is a kind of breathing being,
Which has but half the pow'r of seeing;
Who stands for ever on the brink,
Yet dare not plunge enough to think,
Nor has one reason to supply
Wherefore he does a thing, or why,
But what he does proceeds so right,
You'd think him always guided by't;
Joins poetry and vice together
Like sun and rain in April weather,
Holds rake and wit as things the same,
And all the difference but a Name.
A Rake! Alas! how many wear
The brow of mirth, with heart of care!
The desperate wretch reslection flies,
And shuns the way where madness lies,
Dreads each increasing pang of grief,
And runs to Folly for relief.
There, 'midst the momentary joys
Of giddy mirth and frantic noise,
Forgetfulness, her eldest born,
Smooths the World's hate, and blockhead's scorn,
Then Pleasure wins upon the mind,
Ye Cares, go whistle to the wind;
Then welcome frolic, welcome whim!
The world is all alike to him.
The brow of mirth, with heart of care!
The desperate wretch reslection flies,
And shuns the way where madness lies,
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And runs to Folly for relief.
There, 'midst the momentary joys
Of giddy mirth and frantic noise,
Forgetfulness, her eldest born,
Smooths the World's hate, and blockhead's scorn,
Then Pleasure wins upon the mind,
Ye Cares, go whistle to the wind;
Then welcome frolic, welcome whim!
The world is all alike to him.
Distress is all in apprehension;
It ceases when 'tis past prevention:
And happiness then presses near,
When not a hope's left, nor a fear.
—But you've enough, nor want my preaching,
And I was never form'd for teaching.
It ceases when 'tis past prevention:
And happiness then presses near,
When not a hope's left, nor a fear.
—But you've enough, nor want my preaching,
And I was never form'd for teaching.
Male prudes we know, (those driv'ling things)
Will have their gibes, and taunts, and flings.
How will the sober Cit abuse,
The sallies of the Culprit muse;
To her and Poet shut the door—
And whip the beggar, with his whore?
Will have their gibes, and taunts, and flings.
How will the sober Cit abuse,
The sallies of the Culprit muse;
To her and Poet shut the door—
And whip the beggar, with his whore?
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Poet!—a Fool! a Wretch! a Knave!
A mere mechanic dirty slave!
What is his verse, but cooping sense
Within an arbitrary fence?
At best, but ringing that in rhime,
Which prose would say in half the time?
Measure and numbers! what are those
But artificial chains for prose?
Which mechanism quaintly joins
In parallels of see-saw lines.
And when the frisky wanton writes
In Pindar's (what d'ye call 'em)—flights
Th' uneven measure, short and tall,
Now rhiming twice, now not at all,
In curves and angles twirls about,
Like chinese railing, in and out.
A mere mechanic dirty slave!
What is his verse, but cooping sense
Within an arbitrary fence?
At best, but ringing that in rhime,
Which prose would say in half the time?
Measure and numbers! what are those
But artificial chains for prose?
Which mechanism quaintly joins
In parallels of see-saw lines.
And when the frisky wanton writes
In Pindar's (what d'ye call 'em)—flights
Th' uneven measure, short and tall,
Now rhiming twice, now not at all,
In curves and angles twirls about,
Like chinese railing, in and out.
Thus when you've labour'd hours on hours,
Cull'd all the sweets, cull'd all the flow'rs,
The churl, whose dull imagination
Is dead to every fine sensation,
Too gross to relish nature's bloom,
Or taste her simple rich perfume,
Shall cast them by as useless stuff,
And fly with keeness to his—snuff.
Cull'd all the sweets, cull'd all the flow'rs,
The churl, whose dull imagination
Is dead to every fine sensation,
Too gross to relish nature's bloom,
Or taste her simple rich perfume,
Shall cast them by as useless stuff,
And fly with keeness to his—snuff.
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Look round the world, not one in ten
Thinks Poets good, or honest men.
Thinks Poets good, or honest men.
'Tis true their conduct, not o'er nice,
Sits often loose to easy vice.
Perhaps their Temperance will not pass
The due rotation of the glass;
And gravity denies 'em pow'r
T' unpeg their hats at such an hour.
Sits often loose to easy vice.
Perhaps their Temperance will not pass
The due rotation of the glass;
And gravity denies 'em pow'r
T' unpeg their hats at such an hour.
Some vices must to all appear
As constitutional as Fear;
And every Moralist will find
A ruling passion in the mind:
Which, tho' pent up and barricado'd
Like winds, where Æolus bravado'd;
Like them, will sally from their den,
And raise a tempest now and then;
Unhinge dame Prudence from her plan,
And ruffle all the world of man.
As constitutional as Fear;
And every Moralist will find
A ruling passion in the mind:
Which, tho' pent up and barricado'd
Like winds, where Æolus bravado'd;
Like them, will sally from their den,
And raise a tempest now and then;
Unhinge dame Prudence from her plan,
And ruffle all the world of man.
Can authors then exemption draw
From nature's, or the common law?
They err alike with all mankind,
Yet not the same indulgence find.
Their lives are more conspicuous grown,
More talk'd of, pointed at, and shewn,
Till every error seems to rise
To Sins of most gigantic size.
From nature's, or the common law?
They err alike with all mankind,
Yet not the same indulgence find.
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More talk'd of, pointed at, and shewn,
Till every error seems to rise
To Sins of most gigantic size.
Thus fares it still, however hard,
With every wit, and ev'ry bard.
His publick writings, private life,
Nay more, his mistress, or his wife,
And ev'ry social, dear connection,
Must bear a critical dissection;
While friends connive, and rivals hate,
Scoundrels traduce, and blockheads bait.
Perhaps you'll readily admit
There's danger from the trading wit,
And dunce and fool, and such as those,
Must be of course the poet's foes:
But sure no sober man alive,
Can think that friends would e'er connive.
With every wit, and ev'ry bard.
His publick writings, private life,
Nay more, his mistress, or his wife,
And ev'ry social, dear connection,
Must bear a critical dissection;
While friends connive, and rivals hate,
Scoundrels traduce, and blockheads bait.
Perhaps you'll readily admit
There's danger from the trading wit,
And dunce and fool, and such as those,
Must be of course the poet's foes:
But sure no sober man alive,
Can think that friends would e'er connive.
From just remarks on carliest time,
In the first infancy of rhime,
It may be fairly understood
There were two sects—the Bad, the Good.
Both fell together by the ears,
And both beat up for volunteers.
By interest, or by birth allied,
Numbers flock'd in on either side.
Wit to his weapons ran at once,
While all the cry was “down with Dunce!”
Onward he led his social bands,
The common cause had join'd their hands.
Yet even while their zeal they show,
And war against the gen'ral foe,
Howe'er their rage flam'd fierce and cruel,
They'd stop it all to fight a duel.
And each cool wit would meet his brother,
To pink and tilt at one another.
In the first infancy of rhime,
It may be fairly understood
There were two sects—the Bad, the Good.
Both fell together by the ears,
And both beat up for volunteers.
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Numbers flock'd in on either side.
Wit to his weapons ran at once,
While all the cry was “down with Dunce!”
Onward he led his social bands,
The common cause had join'd their hands.
Yet even while their zeal they show,
And war against the gen'ral foe,
Howe'er their rage flam'd fierce and cruel,
They'd stop it all to fight a duel.
And each cool wit would meet his brother,
To pink and tilt at one another.
Jealous of every puff of fame,
The idle whist'ling of a name,
The property of half a line,
Whether a comma's yours or mine,
Shall make a Bard a Bard engage,
And shake the friendship of an age.
But diffident and modest wit
Is always ready to submit;
Fearful of press and publication,
Consults a brother's observation,
Talks of the maggot of his brains,
As hardly worth the critic pains;
“If ought disgusts the sense or ear,
“You cannot, sir, be too severe.
“Expunge, correct, do what you will,
“I leave it to superior skill;
“Exert the office of a friend,
“You may oblige, but can't offend.”
The idle whist'ling of a name,
The property of half a line,
Whether a comma's yours or mine,
Shall make a Bard a Bard engage,
And shake the friendship of an age.
But diffident and modest wit
Is always ready to submit;
Fearful of press and publication,
Consults a brother's observation,
Talks of the maggot of his brains,
As hardly worth the critic pains;
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“You cannot, sir, be too severe.
“Expunge, correct, do what you will,
“I leave it to superior skill;
“Exert the office of a friend,
“You may oblige, but can't offend.”
This Bard too has his private clan,
Where He's the great, the only man.
Here, while the bottle and the bowl
Promote the joyous flow of soul,
(And sense of mind, no doubt, grows stronger
When failing legs can stand no longer)
Emphatic judgment takes the chair,
And damns about her with an air.
Then each, self-puff'd, and hero grown,
Able to cope with hosts alone,
Drawcansir like, his murders blends,
First slays his foes, and then his friends.
Where He's the great, the only man.
Here, while the bottle and the bowl
Promote the joyous flow of soul,
(And sense of mind, no doubt, grows stronger
When failing legs can stand no longer)
Emphatic judgment takes the chair,
And damns about her with an air.
Then each, self-puff'd, and hero grown,
Able to cope with hosts alone,
Drawcansir like, his murders blends,
First slays his foes, and then his friends.
While your good word, or conversation,
Can lend a brother reputation;
While verse or preface quaintly penn'd,
Can raise the consequence of friend,
How visible the kind affection!
How close the partial fond connection!
Then He is quick, and I'm discerning,
And I have wit, and He has learning,
My judgment's strong, and His is chaste,
And Both—ay Both, are men of taste.
Can lend a brother reputation;
While verse or preface quaintly penn'd,
Can raise the consequence of friend,
How visible the kind affection!
How close the partial fond connection!
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And I have wit, and He has learning,
My judgment's strong, and His is chaste,
And Both—ay Both, are men of taste.
Should you nor steal nor borrow aid,
And set up for yourself in trade,
Resolv'd imprudently to show
That 'tis not always Wit and Co.
Feelings, before unknown, arise,
And Genius looks with jealous eyes.
Tho' thousands may arrive at fame,
Yet never take one path the same.
An Author's vanity or pride
Can't bear a neighbour by his side,
Altho' he but delighted goes
Along the track which nature shows,
Nor ever madly runs astray,
To cross his brother in his way.
And some there are, whose narrow minds,
Center'd in self, self always blinds,
Who, at a friends re-echoed praise,
Which their own voice conspir'd to raise,
Shall be more deep and inly hurt,
Than from a foe's insulting dirt.
And set up for yourself in trade,
Resolv'd imprudently to show
That 'tis not always Wit and Co.
Feelings, before unknown, arise,
And Genius looks with jealous eyes.
Tho' thousands may arrive at fame,
Yet never take one path the same.
An Author's vanity or pride
Can't bear a neighbour by his side,
Altho' he but delighted goes
Along the track which nature shows,
Nor ever madly runs astray,
To cross his brother in his way.
And some there are, whose narrow minds,
Center'd in self, self always blinds,
Who, at a friends re-echoed praise,
Which their own voice conspir'd to raise,
Shall be more deep and inly hurt,
Than from a foe's insulting dirt.
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And some, too timid to reveal
That glow of heart, and forward zeal,
Which words are scanty to express,
But friends must feel from friends' success,
When full of hopes and fears, the Muse,
Which every breath of praise pursues,
Wou'd open to their free embrace,
Meet her with such a blasting face,
That all the brave imagination,
Which seeks the sun of approbation,
No more its early blossoms tries,
But curls its tender leaves, and dies.
That glow of heart, and forward zeal,
Which words are scanty to express,
But friends must feel from friends' success,
When full of hopes and fears, the Muse,
Which every breath of praise pursues,
Wou'd open to their free embrace,
Meet her with such a blasting face,
That all the brave imagination,
Which seeks the sun of approbation,
No more its early blossoms tries,
But curls its tender leaves, and dies.
Is there a man, whose genius strong,
Rolls like a rapid stream along,
Whose Muse, long hid in chearless night,
Pours on us like a flood of light,
Whose acting comprehensive mind
Walks Fancy's regions, unconfin'd;
Whom, nor the surly sense of pride,
Nor affectation, warps aside;
Who drags no author from his shelf,
To talk on with an eye to self;
Careless alike, in conversation,
Of censure, or of approbation;
Who freely thinks, and freely speaks,
And meets the Wit he never seeks;
Whose reason calm, and judgment cool,
Can pity, but not hate a fool;
Who can a hearty praise bestow,
If merit sparkles in a foe;
Who bold and open, firm and true,
Flatters no friends—yet loves them too:
Churchill will be the last to know
His is the portrait, I would show.
Rolls like a rapid stream along,
Whose Muse, long hid in chearless night,
Pours on us like a flood of light,
Whose acting comprehensive mind
Walks Fancy's regions, unconfin'd;
Whom, nor the surly sense of pride,
Nor affectation, warps aside;
Who drags no author from his shelf,
To talk on with an eye to self;
Careless alike, in conversation,
Of censure, or of approbation;
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And meets the Wit he never seeks;
Whose reason calm, and judgment cool,
Can pity, but not hate a fool;
Who can a hearty praise bestow,
If merit sparkles in a foe;
Who bold and open, firm and true,
Flatters no friends—yet loves them too:
Churchill will be the last to know
His is the portrait, I would show.
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