London lyrics by Frederick Locker Lampson: With introduction and notes by Austin Dobson |
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ADVICE TO A POET |
 | London lyrics |  |
155
ADVICE TO A POET
Dear Poet, do not rhyme at all!
But if you must, don't tell your neighbours,
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you “donkey” for your labours.
This epithet may seem unjust
To you, or any Verse-begetter:—
Must we admit, I fear we must,
That nine in ten deserve no better?
But if you must, don't tell your neighbours,
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you “donkey” for your labours.
This epithet may seem unjust
To you, or any Verse-begetter:—
Must we admit, I fear we must,
That nine in ten deserve no better?
Then let them bray with leathern lungs,
And match you with the beast that grazes;
Or wag their heads and hold their tongues,
Or damn you with the faintest praises.
Be patient, for be sure you won't
Win vogue without extreme vexation:
And hope for sympathy,—but don't
Expect it from a near relation.
And match you with the beast that grazes;
Or wag their heads and hold their tongues,
Or damn you with the faintest praises.
Be patient, for be sure you won't
Win vogue without extreme vexation:
And hope for sympathy,—but don't
Expect it from a near relation.
156
When strangers first approved my books,
My kindred marvell'd what the praise meant;
They now wear more respectful looks,
But can't get over their amazement.
Indeed, they've power to wound beyond
That wielded by the fiercest hater,
For all the time they are so fond—
Which makes the aggravation greater.
My kindred marvell'd what the praise meant;
They now wear more respectful looks,
But can't get over their amazement.
Indeed, they've power to wound beyond
That wielded by the fiercest hater,
For all the time they are so fond—
Which makes the aggravation greater.
Most warblers only half express
The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:
Now if they tried for something less,
They might not sink, and gasp, and flutter.
Fly low at first,—then mount and win
The niche for which the town's contesting;
And never mind your kith and kin,—
But never give them cause for jesting.
The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:
Now if they tried for something less,
They might not sink, and gasp, and flutter.
Fly low at first,—then mount and win
The niche for which the town's contesting;
And never mind your kith and kin,—
But never give them cause for jesting.
Hold Pegasus in hand, control
A taste for ornament ensnaring:
Simplicity is yet the soul
Of all that Time deems worth the sparing.
Long lays are not a lively sport,
So clip your own to half a quarter;
If readers now don't think them short,
Posterity will cut them shorter.
A taste for ornament ensnaring:
Simplicity is yet the soul
Of all that Time deems worth the sparing.
157
So clip your own to half a quarter;
If readers now don't think them short,
Posterity will cut them shorter.
I look on bards who whine for praise
With feelings of profoundest pity:
They hunger for the Poet's bays,
And swear one's waspish when one's witty.
The Critic's lot is passing hard,—
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When call'd to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
With feelings of profoundest pity:
They hunger for the Poet's bays,
And swear one's waspish when one's witty.
The Critic's lot is passing hard,—
Between ourselves, I think reviewers,
When call'd to truss a crowing bard,
Should not be sparing of the skewers.
We all, the foolish and the wise,
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine-paternal eyes,
And hues of Fancy's own creation;
Prythee, then, check that passing sneer
At any self-deluded rhymer
Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!)
Has all the gust of alt Hochheimer.
Regard our verse with fascination,
Through asinine-paternal eyes,
And hues of Fancy's own creation;
Prythee, then, check that passing sneer
At any self-deluded rhymer
Who thinks his beer (the smallest beer!)
Has all the gust of alt Hochheimer.
158
Oh, for the Poet-Voice that swells
To lofty truths, or noble curses—
I only wear the cap and bells,
And yet some Tears are in my verses.
I softly trill my sparrow reed,
Pleased if but One should like the twitter;
Humbly I lay it down to heed
A music or a minstrel fitter.
To lofty truths, or noble curses—
I only wear the cap and bells,
And yet some Tears are in my verses.
I softly trill my sparrow reed,
Pleased if but One should like the twitter;
Humbly I lay it down to heed
A music or a minstrel fitter.
| London lyrics | |