IN CONCLUSION.
A Word for Gifford.
A word for Gifford,[255] ere I close my book;
For only recently I had a look—
As chance would have it[256]—at his wondrous pile,
And then for joy each couplet drew a smile;
But what beside?—regret I had not seen
Before th’ effusions of his fraughtful pen.
* * * * *
A word for Gifford, (“last, but not the least,”)—
Whose rare productions[257] were the surest test
Of his bright mind; then why do I attempt
Panegyric, (and gain, perhaps, contempt
For my poor self,) when such as Byron write—
Expressive of their pleasure and delight—
In praise of him? ’Tis—that I can’t withhold
My little instrument, which seems so bold
As to presume to dictate to my muse—
“It is a duty! therefore daren’t refuse.”
* * * * *
Gifford—the meek, the mighty, honour’d dead!
I blame my breast that I no sooner read
Those noble pages,—each itself a roll,
Confirmatory of thy copious soul.—
Great “Baviad,” “Mæviad,” arrows of satire,
(Than none but epicures can fail t’admire)
Which spread destruction, and set earth[258] on fire,—
And to oblivion hurl’d, like rats and mice,
Those who then dared to pamper forth their vice,
And made a trade by trafficking in rhyme,—
Display’d their trash, and hawk’d it as sublime!
* * * * *
Proud is thy name, O Gifford!—but not I
Am equal to the task to laudify
So great a critic both of gods and men,
Who pounced upon them with thy able pen,—
Thus set them in the rank where each could boast
Of laurels won, or grieve of fortunes lost!
No, no, dear Gifford,—mine is not the task
(And though thou’rt gone—forgiveness I must ask)
To laud so great, so good[259] a man as thou! * * *
Pardon me, friends, and pray accept—my bow.
[255] William Gifford was born at Ashburton, April, 1756, and, as may be inferred from the fact of his being interred at Westminster Abbey, attained a celebrity of no common order.
[256] This may appear singular, and unpardonable, but the Author (of this little work) is obliged to confess that it was only within a few days prior to the publication of these poems he, by accident, (having purchased a small volume in the Strand, London,) for the first time had the pleasure of perusing a portion of the works of this great man.
[257] His satirical poems,—the “Baviad,” and “Mæviad,” and his translation of “Juvenal.”
[258] Those professing poets of the age, whom Gifford lashed with his peculiar wit and humour.
[259] His munificence to the poor of his native town, in the form of an annual gift, will for ever revive the sacredness of his memory, thus:—Mr Gifford bequeathed property sufficient in value to realise the annual sum of £60 a-year; £50 of which is equally divided among twenty poor persons of both sexes, and £10 is distributed in bread to other poor persons on Christmas Eve.
THE END.