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holds her sov’reign sway,
Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
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Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime;
When knaves and fools combined oer all prevail,
And weigh their justice in a golden scale;
E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
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More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
Such is the force of wit! but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
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A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame;
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game.
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Speed, Pegasus! – ye strains of great and small,
Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all!
I too can scrawl, and once upon a time
I pour’d along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
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I printed – older children do the same.
‘Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
A book’s a book, although there’s nothing in’t.
Not that a title’s sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
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This Lambe must own, since his patrician name
Fail’d to preserve the spurious farce from shame. 1
No matter, Geore continues still to write, 2
Though now the name is veil’d from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
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The self-same road, but make my own review
Not seek great Jeffrey’s, yet, like him, will be
Self-constituted judge of poesy.
A man must serve his time to ev’ry trade
Save censure – critics all are ready made.
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Take hackney’d jokes from Miller got by rote
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skill’d to find or forge a fault;
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To Jeffrey go, be silent and discreet,
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His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, ’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling – pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic, hated yet caress’d.
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And shall we own such judgment? no – as soon
Seek roses in December – ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
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You trust in critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By Jeffrey’s heart, or Lambe’s Boeotian head. 1
To these young tyrants, 2 by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the throne of taste;
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To these when authors bend in humble awe
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law -
While these are censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
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’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our bards and censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, 1 why I venture o’er
The path which Pope and Gifford trod before;
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If not yet sicken’d, you can still proceed:
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
‘But hold!’ exclaims a friend, – ‘here’s some neglect:
This – that – and t’ other line seem incorrect.’
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
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And careless Dryden – ‘Ay, but Pye has not:’ –
Indeed! – ’tis granted, faith! – but what care I?
Better to err with Pope, than shine with Pye.
Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtain’d mistaken praise,
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When sense and wit with poesy allied,
No fabled graces, flourish’d side by side;
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And rear’d by taste, bloom’d fairer as they grew.
Then in this happy isle a Pope’s pure strain
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Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;
A polish’d nation’s praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.
Like him great Dryden pour’d the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed,