Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies including The Chessiad, a Mock-Heroic, in Five Cantos; and The Wreath of Love, in Four Cantos. By C. Dibdin, the Younger |
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IRREGULAR ODES;
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 | Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies |  |
68
IRREGULAR ODES;
OR, THE POET AND THE PUBLISHER.
“How hard is the fate to which genius is born—
The mark of neglect, and the victim of scorn!”
Cried a poet enraged, who, on fame when he counted,
By mistake, some poor hack, for a Pegasus, mounted;
And, your hacks having often more devil than fire,
Is it wonderful his left his man in the mire?
Yet, surely, your poets of grief have their share;
But others have theirs; so, content, all must bear:
Tho' none more than poets are cut up and cross'd,
Till patience, o'erbaited, in frenzy is lost;
Yet patience, or stoical calmness, ye bards,
Are the teachers to copy when playing your cards.
One cavils at this style, another at that;
This sense isn't pointed; that rhyme isn't pat;
One measure wants harmony, t'other i'n't terse;
This rhyme's measured prose, and that prose broken verse;
The sense is involved, or the rhythm don't blend;
The theme wants beginning, a middle, and end:
Hence he who begins one—ere play'd on, like fiddle—
Had better, for peace, make an end in the middle.
A pun!—there's no pardon; so cavillers rake 'em!
But they hate puns most who're least able to make 'em.
Puns, when in right places, are things that may pass;
When misplaced, they're like senna, for wine, in your glass;
In trifles who scout 'em are classical Huns;
“Nunc ridendum” the motto, allow a few puns.
The mark of neglect, and the victim of scorn!”
Cried a poet enraged, who, on fame when he counted,
By mistake, some poor hack, for a Pegasus, mounted;
And, your hacks having often more devil than fire,
Is it wonderful his left his man in the mire?
Yet, surely, your poets of grief have their share;
But others have theirs; so, content, all must bear:
Tho' none more than poets are cut up and cross'd,
Till patience, o'erbaited, in frenzy is lost;
Yet patience, or stoical calmness, ye bards,
Are the teachers to copy when playing your cards.
One cavils at this style, another at that;
This sense isn't pointed; that rhyme isn't pat;
69
This rhyme's measured prose, and that prose broken verse;
The sense is involved, or the rhythm don't blend;
The theme wants beginning, a middle, and end:
Hence he who begins one—ere play'd on, like fiddle—
Had better, for peace, make an end in the middle.
A pun!—there's no pardon; so cavillers rake 'em!
But they hate puns most who're least able to make 'em.
Puns, when in right places, are things that may pass;
When misplaced, they're like senna, for wine, in your glass;
In trifles who scout 'em are classical Huns;
“Nunc ridendum” the motto, allow a few puns.
A Poet, whose lyre might be rustily strung;
Whose voice might be crack'd, though he'd finger and tongue;
As well as these let him, he play'd and he sung:
Or, metaphor dropping, of rhyming he'd knack,
But could boast no more muses than coats to his back;
Not so many, perhaps; for he'd one coat's adorning,
Which once had been black, but had gone out of mourning;
And the critics they stuck in the skirts of the elf;
Which proved they'd bad habits as well as himself.
This Poet, hard fagging, completed an ode,
And, in hope of a dinner, triumphantly strode
To a publisher's shop; a Mecænas, whose spirit
Was far more excited by money than merit:
Whose head on good bargains for ever was running;
Whose folly was folio; quarto his cunning;
Octavo his blund'ring; his modesty twelves;
And he'd more bound in calf than the books on his shelves.
To him went the bard; and 'twas fix'd he should touch
For his verses, at so much per line—but not much.
The money paid down the bard hasten'd to seize on:
The money was short, and the bard ask'd the reason;
“The reason?” cried Vampem; “at so much per line,
To so much it comes; and, good master of mine,
If I pay by the line, 'twould be foolish, or funny,
Not to get the full length of a line for my money.
Your lines a'n't all even; and tell me, good brother,
Could you walk firm if one leg was shorter than t'other?
You'd go lame, like your ode, where your lines are uneven;
And of those that are short there's at least three in seven;
For these I deducted; my reasons are strong ones;
And you'll find I have paid you full price for the long ones.”
The Poet, in sad tribulation, then show'd
'Twas what critics had term'd an Irregular Ode;
Cried Vampem, “Irregular? sir, let me say,
My business I do in a regular way;
And I'll have rhyme or reason, or else I won't pay.
So, in odes, when per line is o'th' bargain the strength,
I insist on the lines being all of one length.”
Whose voice might be crack'd, though he'd finger and tongue;
As well as these let him, he play'd and he sung:
Or, metaphor dropping, of rhyming he'd knack,
But could boast no more muses than coats to his back;
70
Which once had been black, but had gone out of mourning;
And the critics they stuck in the skirts of the elf;
Which proved they'd bad habits as well as himself.
This Poet, hard fagging, completed an ode,
And, in hope of a dinner, triumphantly strode
To a publisher's shop; a Mecænas, whose spirit
Was far more excited by money than merit:
Whose head on good bargains for ever was running;
Whose folly was folio; quarto his cunning;
Octavo his blund'ring; his modesty twelves;
And he'd more bound in calf than the books on his shelves.
To him went the bard; and 'twas fix'd he should touch
For his verses, at so much per line—but not much.
The money paid down the bard hasten'd to seize on:
The money was short, and the bard ask'd the reason;
“The reason?” cried Vampem; “at so much per line,
To so much it comes; and, good master of mine,
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Not to get the full length of a line for my money.
Your lines a'n't all even; and tell me, good brother,
Could you walk firm if one leg was shorter than t'other?
You'd go lame, like your ode, where your lines are uneven;
And of those that are short there's at least three in seven;
For these I deducted; my reasons are strong ones;
And you'll find I have paid you full price for the long ones.”
The Poet, in sad tribulation, then show'd
'Twas what critics had term'd an Irregular Ode;
Cried Vampem, “Irregular? sir, let me say,
My business I do in a regular way;
And I'll have rhyme or reason, or else I won't pay.
So, in odes, when per line is o'th' bargain the strength,
I insist on the lines being all of one length.”
| Comic Tales and Lyrical Fancies | |