Horace in London Consisting of imitations of the first two books of the odes of Horace. By the authors of the rejected addresses, or the new theatrum poetarum [Horace and James Smith] |
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| XVI. | ODE XVI. WIT ON THE WING.
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 | Horace in London |  |
156
ODE XVI. WIT ON THE WING.
Otium Divos rogat in patenti.
To George Colman the Younger.
The youth, from his indentures freed,
Who mounts as ride the winged steed,
The muses' hunt to follow;
With terror eyes the yawning pit,
And for a modicum of wit
Petitions great Apollo.
Who mounts as ride the winged steed,
The muses' hunt to follow;
With terror eyes the yawning pit,
And for a modicum of wit
Petitions great Apollo.
For wit the quarto-building wight
Invokes the Gods; the jilt in spite
Eludes the man of letters.
Wit thro' the wire-wove margin glides,
And all the gilded pomp derides
Of red morocco fetters.
Invokes the Gods; the jilt in spite
Eludes the man of letters.
Wit thro' the wire-wove margin glides,
And all the gilded pomp derides
Of red morocco fetters.
157
Vain is the smart port-folio set,
The costly inkstand, black as jet,
The desk of polish'd level;
The well-shorn pens to use at will:—
'Tis no great task to cut a quill—
To cut a joke's the devil!
The costly inkstand, black as jet,
The desk of polish'd level;
The well-shorn pens to use at will:—
'Tis no great task to cut a quill—
To cut a joke's the devil!
Happy, for rural business fit,
Who merely tills his mother wit,
In humble life he settles;
Unskill'd in repartee to shine,
He ne'er exclaims, “descend, ye nine!”
But when he plays at skittles.
Who merely tills his mother wit,
In humble life he settles;
Unskill'd in repartee to shine,
He ne'er exclaims, “descend, ye nine!”
But when he plays at skittles.
They who neglect their proper home
To dig for ore in Greece or Rome,
Are poor Quixotic Vandals;
'Twas well enough in needy Goths,
But why should we, like foolish moths,
Buzz round the Roman candles?
To dig for ore in Greece or Rome,
Are poor Quixotic Vandals;
'Twas well enough in needy Goths,
But why should we, like foolish moths,
Buzz round the Roman candles?
158
Care swarms in rivers, roads, and bogs,
It's plagues spring up like Pharaoh's frogs,
Too numerous to bury;
It roams through London streets at large,
And now bestrides a Lord Mayor's barge,
And now a Vauxhall wherry.
It's plagues spring up like Pharaoh's frogs,
Too numerous to bury;
It roams through London streets at large,
And now bestrides a Lord Mayor's barge,
And now a Vauxhall wherry.
The man who no vertigo feels,
When borne aloft on Fortune's wheels,
But at their motion titters;
Pitying the sons of care and strife,
Enjoys the present sweets of life,
Nor heeds its future bitters.
When borne aloft on Fortune's wheels,
But at their motion titters;
Pitying the sons of care and strife,
Enjoys the present sweets of life,
Nor heeds its future bitters.
Poor Tobin died, alas! too soon,
Ere with chaste ray his Honey Moon
Had shone to glad the nation:
Others, I will not mention who,
For many a year may (entre nous)
Outlive their own damnation.
Ere with chaste ray his Honey Moon
Had shone to glad the nation:
Others, I will not mention who,
For many a year may (entre nous)
Outlive their own damnation.
159
Who creep in prose, or soar in rhyme,
Alike must bow the knee to Time,
From Massinger to Murphy;
And all who flit on Lethe's brink,
Too weak to swim, alas! must sink,
From Davenant to Durfey.
Alike must bow the knee to Time,
From Massinger to Murphy;
And all who flit on Lethe's brink,
Too weak to swim, alas! must sink,
From Davenant to Durfey.
Your rival muses, like two wives,
Assail your pate, and while each strives
To win you to her quarrel,
Like Garrick painted by Sir Jos,
You stand between them, at a loss
On which to weave the laurel.
Assail your pate, and while each strives
To win you to her quarrel,
Like Garrick painted by Sir Jos,
You stand between them, at a loss
On which to weave the laurel.
My Muse is of the ostrich sort,
Her eggs of fortune's gale the sport,
She in the sand conceals 'em:
By no intrusive wanderer found,
'Till watchman Phœbus walks his round,
And with his lamp reveals 'em.
Her eggs of fortune's gale the sport,
She in the sand conceals 'em:
By no intrusive wanderer found,
'Till watchman Phœbus walks his round,
And with his lamp reveals 'em.
160
But should the god's revealing ray
Destroy her fragile web to-day,
She'll spin again to morrow;
These trifles ne'er her mind annoy,
Who never knew a parent's joy,
Ne'er felt a parent's sorrow.
Destroy her fragile web to-day,
She'll spin again to morrow;
These trifles ne'er her mind annoy,
Who never knew a parent's joy,
Ne'er felt a parent's sorrow.
| Horace in London | |