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 |
 | I. |
 | II. |
THE TEMPLE OF FAVOUR. |
 | The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd |  |
135
THE TEMPLE OF FAVOUR.
Tho' pilot in the ship no more,
To bring the cargo safe to shore;
Permit, as time and place afford,
A passenger to come aboard.
To bring the cargo safe to shore;
Permit, as time and place afford,
A passenger to come aboard.
The shepherd who survey'd the deep,
When all its tempests were asleep,
Dreamt not of danger; glad was he
To sell his flock, and put to sea.
The consequence has Æsop told,
He lost his venture, sheep and gold.
So fares it with us sons of rhyme,
From doggrel wit, to wit sublime;
On ink's calm ocean all seems clear,
No sands affright, no rocks appear;
No lightnings blast, no thunders roar;
No surges lash the peaceful shore;
Till, all too vent'rous from the land,
The tempests dash us on the strand:
Then the low pirate boards the deck,
And sons of thest enjoy the wreck.
When all its tempests were asleep,
Dreamt not of danger; glad was he
To sell his flock, and put to sea.
The consequence has Æsop told,
He lost his venture, sheep and gold.
So fares it with us sons of rhyme,
From doggrel wit, to wit sublime;
On ink's calm ocean all seems clear,
No sands affright, no rocks appear;
No lightnings blast, no thunders roar;
No surges lash the peaceful shore;
Till, all too vent'rous from the land,
The tempests dash us on the strand:
Then the low pirate boards the deck,
And sons of thest enjoy the wreck.
136
The harlot muse so passing gay,
Bewitches only to betray;
Tho' for a while, with easy air,
She smooths the rugged brow of care,
And laps the mind in flow'ry dreams,
With fancy's transitory gleams.
Fond of the nothings she bestows,
We wake at last to real woes.
Bewitches only to betray;
Tho' for a while, with easy air,
She smooths the rugged brow of care,
And laps the mind in flow'ry dreams,
With fancy's transitory gleams.
Fond of the nothings she bestows,
We wake at last to real woes.
Thro' ev'ry age, in ev'ry place,
Consider well the poet's case;
By turns protected and caress'd,
Defam'd, dependant, and distress'd;
The joke of wits, the bane of slaves,
The curse of fools, the butt of knaves;
Too proud to stoop for servile ends,
To lacquey rogues, or flatter friends;
With prodigality to give,
Too careless of the means to live:
The bubble fame intent to gain,
And yet too lazy to maintain;
He quits the world he never priz'd,
Pitied by few, by more despis'd;
And lost to friends, oppress'd by foes,
Sinks to the nothing whence he rose.
Consider well the poet's case;
By turns protected and caress'd,
Defam'd, dependant, and distress'd;
The joke of wits, the bane of slaves,
The curse of fools, the butt of knaves;
Too proud to stoop for servile ends,
To lacquey rogues, or flatter friends;
With prodigality to give,
Too careless of the means to live:
The bubble fame intent to gain,
And yet too lazy to maintain;
He quits the world he never priz'd,
Pitied by few, by more despis'd;
And lost to friends, oppress'd by foes,
Sinks to the nothing whence he rose.
137
O glorious trade, for wit's a trade,
Where men are ruin'd more than made.
Let crazy Lee neglected Gay,
The shabby Otway, Dryden grey,
Those tuneful servants of the nine,
(Not that I blend their names with mine)
Repeat their lives, their works, their fame,
And teach the world some useful shame.
At first the Poet idly strays
Along the greensward path of praise,
Till on his journies up and down,
To see, and to be seen, in town,
What with ill-natur'd flings and rubs
From flippant bucks, and backney scrubs,
His toils thro' dust, thro' dirt, thro' gravel,
Take off his appetite for travel.
Where men are ruin'd more than made.
Let crazy Lee neglected Gay,
The shabby Otway, Dryden grey,
Those tuneful servants of the nine,
(Not that I blend their names with mine)
Repeat their lives, their works, their fame,
And teach the world some useful shame.
At first the Poet idly strays
Along the greensward path of praise,
Till on his journies up and down,
To see, and to be seen, in town,
What with ill-natur'd flings and rubs
From flippant bucks, and backney scrubs,
His toils thro' dust, thro' dirt, thro' gravel,
Take off his appetite for travel.
Transient is fame's immediate breath,
Thought it blows stronger after death;
Own then, with Martial, after fate
If glory comes, she comes too late.
For who'd his time and labour give
For praise, by which he cannot live?
Thought it blows stronger after death;
Own then, with Martial, after fate
If glory comes, she comes too late.
For who'd his time and labour give
For praise, by which he cannot live?
But in Apollo's court of fame
(In this all courts are much the same)
By Favour folks must make their way,
Favour, which lasts, perhaps, a day,
And when you've twirl'd yourself about
To wriggle in, you're wriggled out.
'Tis from the sunshine of her eyes
Each courtly insect lives or dies;
'Tis she dispenses all the graces
Of prosits, pensions, honours, places;
And in her light capricious fits
Makes wits of fools, and fools of wits,
Gives vices, folly, dullness birth,
Nay stamps the currency on worth;
'Tis she that lends the muse a spur,
And even Kissing goes by Her.
(In this all courts are much the same)
138
Favour, which lasts, perhaps, a day,
And when you've twirl'd yourself about
To wriggle in, you're wriggled out.
'Tis from the sunshine of her eyes
Each courtly insect lives or dies;
'Tis she dispenses all the graces
Of prosits, pensions, honours, places;
And in her light capricious fits
Makes wits of fools, and fools of wits,
Gives vices, folly, dullness birth,
Nay stamps the currency on worth;
'Tis she that lends the muse a spur,
And even Kissing goes by Her.
Far in the sea a temple stands
Built by dame Error's hasty hands,
Where in her dome of lucid shells
The visionary goddess dwells.
Here o'er her subject sons of earth
Regardless or of place, or worth,
She rules triumphant; and supplies
The gaping world with hopes and lies.
Her throne, which weak and tott'ring seems,
Is built upon the wings of dreams;
The fickle winds her altars bear
Which quiver to the shifting air;
Hither hath Reason seldom brought
The child of Virtue or of Thought,
And Justice with her equal face,
Finds this, alas! no throne of Grace.
Built by dame Error's hasty hands,
Where in her dome of lucid shells
The visionary goddess dwells.
Here o'er her subject sons of earth
Regardless or of place, or worth,
She rules triumphant; and supplies
The gaping world with hopes and lies.
Her throne, which weak and tott'ring seems,
Is built upon the wings of dreams;
139
Which quiver to the shifting air;
Hither hath Reason seldom brought
The child of Virtue or of Thought,
And Justice with her equal face,
Finds this, alas! no throne of Grace.
Caprice, Opinion, Fashion wait,
The porters at the temple's gate,
And as the fond adorers press
Pronounce fantastic happiness;
While Favour with a Syren's smile,
Which might Ulysses self beguile,
Presents the sparkling bright libation,
The nectar of intoxication;
And summoning her ev'ry grace
Of winning charms, and chearful face,
Smiles away Reason from his throne,
And makes his votaries her own:
Instant resounds the voice of fame,
Caught with the whistlings of their name,
The fools grow frantic, in their pride
Contemning all the world besinde:
Pleas'd with the gewgaw toys of pow'r,
The noisy pageant of an hour,
Struts forth the statesman, haughty vain,
Amidst a supple servile train,
With shrug, grimace, nod, wink, and stare,
So proud, he almost treads in air;
While levee-fools, who sue for place,
Crouch for employment from his Grace,
And e'en good Bishops, taught to trim,
Forsake their God to bow to him.
The porters at the temple's gate,
And as the fond adorers press
Pronounce fantastic happiness;
While Favour with a Syren's smile,
Which might Ulysses self beguile,
Presents the sparkling bright libation,
The nectar of intoxication;
And summoning her ev'ry grace
Of winning charms, and chearful face,
Smiles away Reason from his throne,
And makes his votaries her own:
Instant resounds the voice of fame,
Caught with the whistlings of their name,
The fools grow frantic, in their pride
Contemning all the world besinde:
Pleas'd with the gewgaw toys of pow'r,
The noisy pageant of an hour,
140
Amidst a supple servile train,
With shrug, grimace, nod, wink, and stare,
So proud, he almost treads in air;
While levee-fools, who sue for place,
Crouch for employment from his Grace,
And e'en good Bishops, taught to trim,
Forsake their God to bow to him.
The Poet in that happy hour,
Imagination in his pow'r,
Walks all abroad, and unconfin'd,
Enjoys the liberty of mind:
Dupe to the smoke of flimsy praise,
He vomits forth sonorous lays;
And, in his fine poetic rage,
Planning, poor soul, a deathless page,
Indulges pride's fantastic whim,
And all the World must wake to him.
Imagination in his pow'r,
Walks all abroad, and unconfin'd,
Enjoys the liberty of mind:
Dupe to the smoke of flimsy praise,
He vomits forth sonorous lays;
And, in his fine poetic rage,
Planning, poor soul, a deathless page,
Indulges pride's fantastic whim,
And all the World must wake to him.
A while from fear, from envy free,
He sleeps on a pacific sea;
Lethargic Error for a while
Deceives him with her specious smile,
And flatt'ring dreams delusive shed
Gay gilded visions round his head.
He sleeps on a pacific sea;
Lethargic Error for a while
Deceives him with her specious smile,
And flatt'ring dreams delusive shed
Gay gilded visions round his head.
141
When, swift as thought, the goddess lewd
Shifts the light gale; and tempests rude,
Such as the northern skies deform,
When fell Destruction guides the storm,
Transport him to some dreary isle
Where Favour never deign'd to smile.
Where waking, helpless, all alone,
'Midst craggy steeps and rocks unknown;
Sad scenes of woe his pride confound,
And Desolation stalks around.
Where the dull months no pleasures bring,
And years roll round without a spring;
Where He all hoeless, lost, undone,
Sees chearless days that know no sun;
Where jibing Scorn her throne maintains
Midst mildews, blights, and blasts, and rains.
Shifts the light gale; and tempests rude,
Such as the northern skies deform,
When fell Destruction guides the storm,
Transport him to some dreary isle
Where Favour never deign'd to smile.
Where waking, helpless, all alone,
'Midst craggy steeps and rocks unknown;
Sad scenes of woe his pride confound,
And Desolation stalks around.
Where the dull months no pleasures bring,
And years roll round without a spring;
Where He all hoeless, lost, undone,
Sees chearless days that know no sun;
Where jibing Scorn her throne maintains
Midst mildews, blights, and blasts, and rains.
Let others, with submissive knee,
Capricious goddess! bow to Thee;
Let them with fixt incessant aim
Court fickle favour, faithless fame;
Let vanity's fastidious slave
Lose the kind moments nature gave,
In invocations to the shrine
Of Phœbus and the fabled Nine,
An author, to his latest days,
From hunger, or from thirst of praise,
Let him thro' every subject roam
To bring the useful morsel home;
Write upon Liberty opprest,
On happiness, when most distrest,
Turn bookseller's obsequious tool,
A monkey's cat, a mere fool's fool;
Let him, unhallow'd wretch! profane
The muse's dignity for gain,
Yield to the dunce his sense contemns,
Cringe to the knave his heart condemns,
And, at a blockhead's bidding, force
Reluctant genius from his course;
Write ode, epistle, essay, libel,
Make notes, or steal them, for the bible;
Or let him, more judicial, sit
The dull Lord Cbief, on culprit wit,
With rancor read, with passion blame,
Talk high, yet fear to put his name,
And from the dark, but useful shade,
(Fit place for murd'rous ambuscade,)
Weak monthly shafts at merit hurl,
The Gildon of some modern Curl.
Capricious goddess! bow to Thee;
Let them with fixt incessant aim
Court fickle favour, faithless fame;
Let vanity's fastidious slave
Lose the kind moments nature gave,
In invocations to the shrine
Of Phœbus and the fabled Nine,
142
From hunger, or from thirst of praise,
Let him thro' every subject roam
To bring the useful morsel home;
Write upon Liberty opprest,
On happiness, when most distrest,
Turn bookseller's obsequious tool,
A monkey's cat, a mere fool's fool;
Let him, unhallow'd wretch! profane
The muse's dignity for gain,
Yield to the dunce his sense contemns,
Cringe to the knave his heart condemns,
And, at a blockhead's bidding, force
Reluctant genius from his course;
Write ode, epistle, essay, libel,
Make notes, or steal them, for the bible;
Or let him, more judicial, sit
The dull Lord Cbief, on culprit wit,
With rancor read, with passion blame,
Talk high, yet fear to put his name,
And from the dark, but useful shade,
(Fit place for murd'rous ambuscade,)
Weak monthly shafts at merit hurl,
The Gildon of some modern Curl.
143
For me, by adverse fortune plac'd
Far from the colleges of taste,
I jostle no poetic name;
I envy none their proper fame;
And if sometimes an easy vein,
With no design, and little pain,
Form'd into verse, hath pleas'd a while,
And caught the reader's transient smile,
My muse hath answer'd all her ends,
Pleasing herself, while pleas'd her friends;
But, fond of liberty, disdains
To bear restraint, or clink her chains;
Nor would, to gain a Monarcb's favour,
Let dulness, or her sons, enslave her.
Far from the colleges of taste,
I jostle no poetic name;
I envy none their proper fame;
And if sometimes an easy vein,
With no design, and little pain,
Form'd into verse, hath pleas'd a while,
And caught the reader's transient smile,
My muse hath answer'd all her ends,
Pleasing herself, while pleas'd her friends;
But, fond of liberty, disdains
To bear restraint, or clink her chains;
Nor would, to gain a Monarcb's favour,
Let dulness, or her sons, enslave her.
| The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd | |