The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

Once, but thank heaven, those days are o'er,
And persecution reigns no more,
One man, one hardy man alone,
Usurp'd the critic's vacant throne,
And thence with neither taste nor wit,
By powerful catcall from the pit,
Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down.
Who pass'd the sentence then?—the Town.
So now each upstart puny elf
Talks of the world, and means himself.

Yet in the circle there are those
Who hurt e'en more than open foes:
Whose friendship serves the talking turn,
Just simmers to a kind concern,
And with a wond'rous soft expression
Expatiates upon indiscretion;
Flies from the Poems to the Man,
And gratifies the favourite plan
To pull down other's reputation,
And build their own on that foundation.

The scholar grave, of taste discerning,
Who lives on credit for his learning,
And has no better claim to wit
Than carping at what others writ,
With pitying kindness, friendly fear,
Whispers conjectures in your ear.
“I'm sorry—and he's much to blame—
“He might have publish'd—but his name!
“The thing might please a few, no doubt,
“As handed privately about—
“It might amuse a friend or two,
“Some partial friend like me and you;
“But when it comes to press and print
“You'll find, I fear, but little in't.

“He stands upon a dangerous brink
“Who totters o'er the sea of ink,
“Where reputation runs aground,
“The author cast away, and drown'd.

“And then—'twas wilful and absurd,
“(So well approv'd, so well preferr'd,)
“Abruptly thus a place to quit
“A place which most his genius hit,
“The theatre for Latin wit!
“With critics round him chaste and terse,
“To give a plaudit to his verse!

Latin, I grant, shews college breeding,
And some school-common-place of reading.
But has in Moderns small pretension
To real wit or strong invention.
The excellence you critics praise
Hangs on a curious choice of phrase;
Which pick'd and chosen here and there,
From prose or verse no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,
Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You set the classic hodge-podge on
For pedant wits to feed upon.

Your wou'd-be Genii vainly seek
Fame from their Latin verse, or Greek;
Who would for that be most admir'd
Which blockheads may, and have acquir'd,
A mere mechanical connection
Of favourite words,—a bare collection
Of phrases,—where the labour'd cento
Presents you with a dull memento,
How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join,
And club together half a line.
These only strain their motly wits
In gathering patches, shreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a classic Harlequin.

—Were I at once impower'd to shew
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremest rigour,
I could inflict no penance bigger
Than using him as learning's tool
To make him Usher of a school.
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren soil,
And lab'ring with incessant pains
To cultivate a blockhead's brains,

The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit.
For whosoe'er, tho' slightly, sips,
Their grateful flavour with his lips,
Will find it leave a smatch behind,
Shall sink so deeply in the mind,
It never thence can be eras'd—
But, rising up, you call it Taste.

'Twere foolish for a drudge to chuse
A gusto which he cannot use.
Better discard the idle whim,
What's He to Taste? or Taste to Him?
For me, it hurts me to the soul
To brook confinement or controul;
Still to be pinion'd down to teach
The syntax and the parts of speech;
Or, what perhaps is drudging worse,
The links, and joints, and rules of verse;
To deal out authors by retale,
Like penny pots of Oxford ale;
—Oh! 'Tis a service irksome more
Than tugging at the slavish oar.

Yet such his task, a dismal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth;

And while, a paltry stipend earning,
He sows the richest seeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And sees them their due produce bear,
No joys, alas! his toil beguile,
His own lies fallow all the while.

“Yet still he's in the road, you say,
“Of learning.”—Why, perhaps he may.
But turns like horses in a mill,
Nor getting on, nor standing still:
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teaches.

“Yet you can send advent'rous youth,
“In search of letters, taste, and truth,
“Who ride the highway road to knowledge
“Through the plain turnpikes of a college,”
True.—Like way-posts, we serve to shew
The road which travellers shou'd go;
Who jog along in easy pace,
Secure of coming to the place,
Yet find, return whene'er they will,
The Post, and its direction still:
Which stands an useful unthank'd guide,
To many a passenger beside.

'Tis hard to carve for others meat,
And not have time one's self to eat.
Tho', be it always understood,
Our appetites are full as good.

“But there have been, and proofs appear,
“Who bore this load from year to year;
“Whose claim to letters, parts, and wit,
“The world has ne'er disputed yet.
“Whether the flowing mirth prevail
“In Wesley's song, or humorous tale;
“Or happier Bourne's expression please
“With graceful turns of classic ease;
“Or Oxford's well-read poet sings
“Pathetic to the ear of kings:
“These have indulg'd the muses' flight,
“Nor lost their time or credit by't;
“Nor suffer'd fancy's dreams to prey
“On the due business of the day.
“Verse was to them a recreation
“Us'd but by way of relaxation.”

Your instances are fair and true,
And genius I respect with you.
I envy none their honest praise;
I seek to blast no scholar's bays:

Still let the graceful foliage spread
Its greenest honours round their head,
Blest, if the Muses' hand entwine
A sprig at least to circle mine!

Come,—I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of sight,
And you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indiscreet.
Yet tell me, while you censure me,
Are you from error sound and free?
Say, does your breast no bias hide,
Whose influence draws the mind aside?

All have their hobby-horse, you see,
From Tristram down to you and me.
Ambition, splendour, may be thine;
Ease, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May wish our weaknesses to hide,
And set their hedges up before 'em,
Some Sprouts will branch, and straggle o'er 'em.
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress still,
And though you curb with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools shall cackle out reproof,
The very ass shall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his possession,
The single virtue of discretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whose want of passions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgment flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and seem wise.