| |
| THOU, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; | |
| Of thy caprice maternal I complain. | |
| The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, | |
| The hornèd bull, tremendous, spurns the ground; | |
| The lordly lion has enough and more, | 5 |
| The forest trembles at his very roar; | |
| Thou giv’st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, | |
| The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell. | |
| Thy minions, kings defend, controul devour, | |
| In all th’ omnipotence of rule and power: | 10 |
| Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure; | |
| The cit and polecat stink, and are secure: | |
| Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, | |
| The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug: | |
| E’en silly women have defensive arts, | 15 |
| Their eyes, their tongues—and nameless other parts. | |
| But O thou cruel stepmother and hard, | |
| To thy poor fenceless, naked child, the Bard! | |
| A thing unteachable in worldly skill, | |
| And half an idiot too, more helpless still: | 20 |
| No heels to bear him from the op’ning dun, | |
| No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun: | |
| No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, | |
| And those, alas! not Amalthea’s horn: | |
| No nerves olfact’ry, true to Mammon’s foot, | 25 |
| Or grunting, grub sagacious, evil’s root: | |
| The silly sheep that wanders wild astray, | |
| Is not more friendless, is not more a prey; | |
| Vampyre-booksellers drain him to the heart, | |
| And viper-critics cureless venom dart. | 30 |
| Critics! appll’d I venture on the name, | |
| Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, | |
| Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes, | |
| He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: | |
| By blockhead’s daring into madness stung, | 35 |
| His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung, | |
| His well-won ways-than life itself more dear— | |
| By miscreants torn who ne’er one sprig must wear; | |
| Foil’d, bleeding, tortur’d in th’ unequal strife, | |
| The hapless Poet flounces on through life, | 40 |
| Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired, | |
| And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir’d, | |
| Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age, | |
| Dead even resentment for his injur’d page, | |
| He heeds no more the ruthless critics’ rage. | 45 |
| So by some hedge the generous steed deceas’d, | |
| For half-starv’d, snarling curs a dainty feast; | |
| By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, | |
| Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch’s son. | |
· · · · · ·
A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, | 50 |
| And still his precious self his dear delight; | |
| Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, | |
| Better than e’er the fairest she he meets; | |
| Much specious lore, but little understood, | |
| (Veneering oft outshines the solid wood), | 55 |
| His solid sense, by inches you must tell, | |
| But mete his cunning by the Scottish ell! | |
| A man of fashion too, he made his tour, | |
| Learn’d “vive la bagatelle et vive l’amour;” | |
| So travell’d monkeys their grimace improve, | 60 |
| Polish their grin-nay, sigh for ladies’ love! | |
| His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, | |
| Still making work his selfish craft must mend. | |
· · · · · ·
· · · · · ·
· · · Crochallan came, | |
| The old cock’d hat, the brown surtout—the same; | 65 |
| His grisly beard just bristling in its might— | |
| ’Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night; | |
| His uncomb’d, hoary locks, wild-staring, thatch’d | |
| A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatch’d; | |
| Yet, tho’ his caustic wit was biting-rude, | 70 |
| His heart was warm, benevolent and good. | |
· · · · · ·
O Dulness, portion of the truly blest! | |
| Calm, shelter’d haven of eternal rest! | |
| Thy sons ne’er madden in the fierce extremes | |
| Of Fortune’s polar frost, or torrid beams; | 75 |
| If mantling high she fills the golden cup, | |
| With sober, selfish ease they sip it up; | |
| Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, | |
| They only wonder “some folks” do not starve! | |
| The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, | 80 |
| And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. | |
| When disappointment snaps the thread of Hope, | |
| When, thro’ disastrous night, they darkling grope, | |
| With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, | |
| And just conclude that “fools are Fortune’s care:” | 85 |
| So, heavy, passive to the tempest’s shocks, | |
| Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. | |
| Not so the idle Muses’ mad-cap train, | |
| Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; | |
| In equanimity they never dwell, | 90 |
| By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell! | |
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