Odes and Addresses to Great People By John Hamilton Reynolds: 3rd ed. |
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ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE, EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE. |
 | Odes and Addresses to Great People |  |
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ADDRESS TO SYLVANUS URBAN, ESQUIRE, EDITOR OF THE GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE.
“Dost thou not suspect my years?”
Much Ado About Nothing.
1
Oh! Mr. Urban! never must thou lurchA sober age made serious drunk by thee;
Hop in thy pleasant way from church to church,
And nurse thy little bald Biography.
2
Oh, my Sylvanus! what a heart is thine!And what a page attends thee! Long may I
Hang in demure confusion o'er each line
That asks thy little questions with a sigh!
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3
Old tottering years have nodded to their falls,Like pensioners that creep about and die;—
But thou, Old Parr of periodicals,
Livest in monthly immortality!
4
How sweet!—as Byron of his infant said,—“Knowledge of objects” in thine eye to trace;
To see the mild no-meanings of thy head,
Taking a quiet nap upon thy face!
5
How dear through thy Obituary to roam,And not a name of any name to catch!
To meet thy Criticism walking home,
Averse from rows, and never calling “Watch!”
6
Rich is thy page in soporific things,—Composing compositions,—lulling men,—
Faded old posies of unburied rings,—
Confessions dozing from an opiate pen:—
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7
Lives of Right Reverends that have never liv'd—Deaths of good people that have really died,—
Parishioners,—hatch'd,—husbanded,—and wiv'd,
Bankrupts and Abbots breaking side by side!
8
The sacred query,—the remote response,—The march of serious minds, extremely slow,—
The graver's cut at some right aged sconce,
Famous for nothing many years ago!
9
B. asks of C. if Milton e'er did write“Comus,” obscured beneath some Ludlow lid;—
And C., next month, an answer doth indite,
Informing B. that Mr. Milton did!
10
X. sends the portrait of a genuine flea,Caught upon Martin Luther years agone;—
And Mr. Parkes, of Shrewsbury, draws a bee,
Long dead, that gather'd honey for King John.
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11
There is no end of thee,—there is no end,Sylvanus, of thy A, B, C, D-merits!
Thou dost, with alphabets, old walls attend,
And poke the letters into holes, like ferrets.
12
Go on, Sylvanus!—Bear a wary eye,The churches cannot yet be quite run out!
Some parishes must yet have been pass'd by,—
There's Bullock-Smithy has a church no doubt!
13
Go on—and close the eyes of distant ages!Nourish the names of the undoubted dead!
So Epicures shall pick thy lobster-pages,
Heavy and lively, though but seldom red.
14
Go on! and thrive! Demurest of odd fellows!Bottling up dullness in an ancient binn!
Still live! still prose! continue still to tell us
Old truths! no strangers, though we take them in!
| Odes and Addresses to Great People | |