The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell ... Now first collected and edited, with memoir, by Robert Howie Smith |
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EPISTLE
TO THE
Edinburgh Reviewers.
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 | The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell |  |
125
EPISTLE
TO THE
Edinburgh Reviewers.
127
127
EPISTLE FIRST.
Ye young Reviewers! listen to my strain!
Pardon my maxims, if they give you pain.
Accept the mild effusions of my pen;—
Ye are the ducklings, I the guardian hen.
I cannot follow—poor old anxious fool,—
But tremble, while you dabble in the pool.
Your early talents promise very fair,
Use them with prudence, cultivate with care.
Blast not my hopes, nor ridicule my fears;
Nor slight the wisdom of a length of years.
Pardon my maxims, if they give you pain.
Accept the mild effusions of my pen;—
Ye are the ducklings, I the guardian hen.
I cannot follow—poor old anxious fool,—
But tremble, while you dabble in the pool.
Your early talents promise very fair,
Use them with prudence, cultivate with care.
Blast not my hopes, nor ridicule my fears;
Nor slight the wisdom of a length of years.
A knack at words you have, some fancy too;
But have you judgment, think you, to review?—
You read I find,—then, like true men of spirit,
You needs must write, that folks may know your merit.
You pace the room, in fancy dealing terror,—
(There, I must hint, you're rather in an error).
All are not d—d you happen to dislike;
All turn not marble whom your glances strike.—
But have you judgment, think you, to review?—
You read I find,—then, like true men of spirit,
You needs must write, that folks may know your merit.
128
(There, I must hint, you're rather in an error).
All are not d—d you happen to dislike;
All turn not marble whom your glances strike.—
When the fierce tyger rages o'er the land,
Then to the chase, ye hunters, in a band!
Or when the crocodile, with treacherous tears,
Seeks to decoy and lead us by the ears,
Then to your task, these ravening foes destroy,
We'll shout your praises with tumultuous joy.
But where's the honour, where the mighty feat,
To seize a victim that can only bleat?
Why tinge with red the unassuming cheek,
Or tear a linnet with a vulture's beak?
Come, prythee do not vaunt, and puff, and swell,
That you can see what others see as well.
Toss not your heads about with happy grin,
Proud when you catch a straw, or find a pin.
Is he a lion who can gorge a rat?
Is he Goliath who can crush a gnat?
Then to the chase, ye hunters, in a band!
Or when the crocodile, with treacherous tears,
Seeks to decoy and lead us by the ears,
Then to your task, these ravening foes destroy,
We'll shout your praises with tumultuous joy.
But where's the honour, where the mighty feat,
To seize a victim that can only bleat?
Why tinge with red the unassuming cheek,
Or tear a linnet with a vulture's beak?
Come, prythee do not vaunt, and puff, and swell,
That you can see what others see as well.
Toss not your heads about with happy grin,
Proud when you catch a straw, or find a pin.
Is he a lion who can gorge a rat?
Is he Goliath who can crush a gnat?
Treasure this maxim in your thoughts for ever:
“A Critic must be just, as well as clever.”
Cloud not another's light, that you may shine,
And some politeness with your wit combine.
You must not be so rude, nor so conceited;
A woman surely should be gently treated.
Her poems, like her form, may catch your eye;
She seeks to please, but claims no ardent sigh.
If dress'd with taste, approach her and admire;
If tawdry, pray be silent and retire.
Don't snatch her cap, and kick it in the air;
Don't tear her gown, or thrust her from her chair;
Don't, arms a-kimbo, labour to affront her,
Nor use her as you use poor Mrs. H—r.
“A Critic must be just, as well as clever.”
Cloud not another's light, that you may shine,
And some politeness with your wit combine.
You must not be so rude, nor so conceited;
A woman surely should be gently treated.
129
She seeks to please, but claims no ardent sigh.
If dress'd with taste, approach her and admire;
If tawdry, pray be silent and retire.
Don't snatch her cap, and kick it in the air;
Don't tear her gown, or thrust her from her chair;
Don't, arms a-kimbo, labour to affront her,
Nor use her as you use poor Mrs. H—r.
Let not a doctor's wig your satire aid;
So poor an ally must your cause degrade.
Patterns you are of style, no doubt, of grace;
Then prythee, let us have each critic face;
To each essay prefix the learned head,
That lines and features may at once be read.
Thus he, whom now we deem or black or yellow,
May prove, if colour'd well, a pretty fellow.
If more than usual sharp his phiz, or fuller,
More clever we shall rate his works or duller.
So poor an ally must your cause degrade.
Patterns you are of style, no doubt, of grace;
Then prythee, let us have each critic face;
To each essay prefix the learned head,
That lines and features may at once be read.
Thus he, whom now we deem or black or yellow,
May prove, if colour'd well, a pretty fellow.
If more than usual sharp his phiz, or fuller,
More clever we shall rate his works or duller.
Mild Doctor Langford,
little did'st thou ween,
When with a fair round face, and placid mein,
Amidst the kind restorers of the drown'd
You preach'd humanity to all around.
Ah! little thought you that each trope and figure
Should pass the ordeal with so much rigour;
That what made Doctors Hawes and Lettsome weep
Should lull a critic, in the north, to sleep;
Who, though by nostrums and gay friends beset,
Upon my life, seems somewhat sleepy yet.
When with a fair round face, and placid mein,
Amidst the kind restorers of the drown'd
You preach'd humanity to all around.
130
Should pass the ordeal with so much rigour;
That what made Doctors Hawes and Lettsome weep
Should lull a critic, in the north, to sleep;
Who, though by nostrums and gay friends beset,
Upon my life, seems somewhat sleepy yet.
When the tir'd seaman in his hammock swings,
And dreams of rare fresh beef—ecstatic things!
With vacant grasp he snatches at a bit:
So our reviewer at a piece of wit:
Old jests of Joe his college letch provoke,
And, while he doses, struggles for a joke.
And dreams of rare fresh beef—ecstatic things!
With vacant grasp he snatches at a bit:
So our reviewer at a piece of wit:
Old jests of Joe his college letch provoke,
And, while he doses, struggles for a joke.
We love not petulance—it sickens quite—
'Tis nauseous—and although you may be right,
More to our feelings than our judgment trusting,
We fain would have you wrong,—'tis so disgusting.
'Tis nauseous—and although you may be right,
More to our feelings than our judgment trusting,
We fain would have you wrong,—'tis so disgusting.
Touch not on topics you can't understand:—
Why lug his Lordship forward sword in hand—
You read the title and a line or two,
And tell us so—Is this then to review?
Why ev'ry trifle to our notice bring,
Merely that you may say a clever thing?
Why lug his Lordship forward sword in hand—
You read the title and a line or two,
And tell us so—Is this then to review?
Why ev'ry trifle to our notice bring,
Merely that you may say a clever thing?
131
Your Pegasus, we find, is but a colt:
We see him start, dash headlong on, and bolt
He kicks, o'erleaps all bounds, and scorns all check,
The reins of reason loose upon his neck.
We see him start, dash headlong on, and bolt
He kicks, o'erleaps all bounds, and scorns all check,
The reins of reason loose upon his neck.
Some plants of vigour deck your work, I own,
But flowering weeds are very thickly sown.
If each contributor had equal powers,
I should not grudge the many tedious hours,
Torn from the pastimes that become your age,
To plod for jests, and blot a heavy page.
To Mounier's candid critic praise is due;
Make him your leader, keep him in your view.
Learn to be modest, in your wit be chaste,
Ye are not, yet, all Chesterfields in taste.
But flowering weeds are very thickly sown.
If each contributor had equal powers,
I should not grudge the many tedious hours,
Torn from the pastimes that become your age,
To plod for jests, and blot a heavy page.
To Mounier's candid critic praise is due;
Make him your leader, keep him in your view.
Learn to be modest, in your wit be chaste,
Ye are not, yet, all Chesterfields in taste.
I move not forward, with Herculean tread
And iron-mace, to break each Hydra head;
An humble friend, I offer hints in season,
Watching with fervent hope your dawning reason.
Prosper your youthful efforts to be known!
Whose swelling fame is dearer than my own.
And iron-mace, to break each Hydra head;
An humble friend, I offer hints in season,
Watching with fervent hope your dawning reason.
Prosper your youthful efforts to be known!
Whose swelling fame is dearer than my own.
| The poetical works of Sir Alexander Boswell | |