 | Rhapsodies |  |
11
TO THE READER.
As on thy title page, poor little book!
Full oft I cast a sad and pensive look,
I shake my head, and pity thee;
For I, alas! no brazen front possess,
Nor do I ev'ry potent art profess
To send thee forth from censure free.
Full oft I cast a sad and pensive look,
I shake my head, and pity thee;
For I, alas! no brazen front possess,
Nor do I ev'ry potent art profess
To send thee forth from censure free.
Methinks I see the eye of pedant sage
Dart forth an angry gleam upon thy page,
And scornful cast thee from his hand:
Methinks full many seek to blast thy fame—
Poems! they cry; O, horrid, shameful name!
Such shocking trash should ne'er be scann'd.
Dart forth an angry gleam upon thy page,
And scornful cast thee from his hand:
Methinks full many seek to blast thy fame—
Poems! they cry; O, horrid, shameful name!
Such shocking trash should ne'er be scann'd.
Perhaps to chandler's shop thou wilt be ta'en,
And for each customer be rent in twain,
To fold the double Gloucester's slice;
Perhaps when in the cupboard lying,
Toward the cheese some wand'rers straying,
Will nibble thee—I mean the mice.
And for each customer be rent in twain,
To fold the double Gloucester's slice;
Perhaps when in the cupboard lying,
Toward the cheese some wand'rers straying,
Will nibble thee—I mean the mice.
12
Authors will spurn thee from their sight;
Critics will damn thee with delight:
Or some, more cruel,
May fling thee on the blazing fire,
So leaf by leaf thou wilt expire,
And serve for fuel.
Critics will damn thee with delight:
Or some, more cruel,
May fling thee on the blazing fire,
So leaf by leaf thou wilt expire,
And serve for fuel.
Yet some there are, I trust, that will not spurn,
Nor in the fire thy leaves to ashes burn,
But grant thee one calm reading:
To such, poor little book! I prithee go,
That thou their sentiments mayst quickly know,
The others little heeding.
Nor in the fire thy leaves to ashes burn,
But grant thee one calm reading:
To such, poor little book! I prithee go,
That thou their sentiments mayst quickly know,
The others little heeding.
Tell these kind souls, I have full oft beguil'd
A tedious hour in framing thee, my child!
Ah! could I hear thee but commended,
I then should feel the bosom's grateful glow;
From me love's purest sentiments would flow
For such as generously befriended.
A tedious hour in framing thee, my child!
Ah! could I hear thee but commended,
I then should feel the bosom's grateful glow;
From me love's purest sentiments would flow
For such as generously befriended.
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