Here he pines, and grows dyspeptic,
Losing heart he loses pith—
Hints that Bishop Tait's a sceptic—
Swears that Moses was a myth.
Sees no evidence in Paley—
Takes to drinking ratifia:
Shies the muffins at Miss Bailey
While she's pouring out the tea.
One day, knocking up his quarters,
Poor Miss Bailey found him dead,
Hanging in his knotted garters,
Which she knitted ere they wed.
ADVICE TO A POET.
Dear Poet, never rhyme at all!—
But if you must, don't tell your neighbours;
Or five in six, who cannot scrawl,
Will dub you donkey for your labours.
This epithet may seem unjust
To you—or any verse-begetter:
Oh, must we own—I fear we must!—
That nine in ten deserve no better.
Then let them bray with leathern lungs,
And match you with the beast that grazes,—
Or wag their heads, and hold their tongues,
Or damn you with the faintest praises.
Be patient—you will get your due
Of honours, or humiliations:
So look for sympathy—but do
Not look to find it from relations.
When strangers first approved my books
My kindred marvelled what the praise meant,
They now wear more respectful looks,
But can't get over their amazement.
Indeed, they've power to wound, beyond
That wielded by the fiercest hater,
For all the time they are so fond—
Which makes the aggravation greater.
Most warblers now but half express
The threadbare thoughts they feebly utter:
If they attempted nought—or less!
They would not sink, and gasp, and flutter.
Fly low, my friend, then mount, and win
The niche, for which the town's contesting;
And never mind your kith and kin—
But never give them cause for jesting.
A bard on entering the lists
Should form his plan, and, having conn'd it,
Should know wherein his strength consists,
And never, never go beyond it.
Great Dryden all pretence discards,
Does Cowper ever strain his tether?
And Praed—(Watteau of English Bards)—
How well he keeps his team together!