And more in his we feel our own decay
Than if a Wellington were snatched away.
'T is not lost genius we lament the most,
No; but the man, the old companion lost:
Who'd not give more to bring back Gilbert Gurney,
Or Smith or Matthews from their nether journey,
Than all your Miltons or your Bacons dead,
Or all the Bonapartes that ever bled?
So, were the blue rotundity of heaven
By some muck-running, outlawed comet riven,
Should any orb, say yonder blazing Mars,
Be blotted from the muster-roll of stars,
Herschel might groan, or Somerville might sigh,
But what would London care?—or you, or I?
Far more we vulgar mortals might lament,
Should some starved earthquake gulp a slice of Kent.
Now let no pigmy poet, in his pride,
The humble mem'ry of our friend deride:
More than he dreams, his little species owe
Those good allies, the Patrons of the Row:
They, only they, of all the friends who praise,
All who forgive, and all who love your lays,
Of all that flatter, all that wish you well,
Sincerely care to have your volume sell.
How oft, when Quarterlies are most severe,
And every critic aims a ready sneer,
And young Ambition just begins to cool,
And Genius half suspects himself a fool,
The placid publisher, the more they rail,
Forebodes the triumph of a speedy sale,
And gently lays the soul sustaining balm
Of twenty sovereigns in your trembling palm;
While more than speech his manner seems to say,
As bland he whispers, 'Dine with me to-day.'
Or when some doubtful bantling of your brain,
Conceived in pleasure but achieved with pain,
A bit of satire, or a play perchance,
A fresh, warm epic, or new-laid romance,
Receives from all to whom your work you show
Civil endurance, or a faint 'so so;'
When men of taste, men always made of ice,
Cool your gay fancies with a friend's advice,
And prudent fathers, yawning as you read,
Knit the sage lips, and wag the pregnant head,
And bid you stick to your molasses tierces,
And leave sweet ladies to concoct sweet verses:
How oft your Murray, with a keener eye,
Detects the gems that mid your rubbish lie;
Instructs you where to alter, where to blot,
And how to darn and patch your faulty plot;
Then bravely buys, and gives you to the town
In duodecimo, for half a crown.
And oh! how oft when some dyspeptic swain
Pours forth his agonies in sickly strain,
Mistaking, in the pangs that through him dart,
A wretched liver for a breaking heart;
And prates of passions that he never felt,
And sweats away in vain attempts to melt;
Or takes to brandy, and converts his verse,
From sad to savage, nay, begins to curse,
And raves of Nemesis and hate and hell,
And smothered woes that in his bosom swell;
When Newstead is the name his fancy gives
The snug dominion where he cheaply lives,
And aping still th' aristocratic bard,
With 'Crede Jenkins' graved upon his card,
When with his trash he hurries to the press,
Crying 'O print me! print me!' in distress,
Some bookseller, perhaps, most kindly cruel,
Uses the dainty manuscript for fuel.
Ah! Ned, hadst thou, when once with rhyme opprest,
Found such a friend, (pray pardon me the jest,)
Hadst thou but been as friendly to thyself,
Thy Poems never had adorned thy shelf.
But all is ended now! John's work is o'er;
He praises, pays, and publishes no more.
Henceforth no volume, save the Book of fate,
Shall bear for him an interest small or great:
And if in heaven his literary soul
Walk the pure pavement where the planets roll,
Few old acquaintances will greet him there,
Amid the radiant light and balmy air;
Since few of all who wrote or sang for him
Shall join the anthem of the seraphim.
Yet there might Fancy, in a mood profane,
Behold him listening each celestial strain,
Catching the cadences that sweetly fall,
Wond'ring if such would sell, below, at all,
And calculating, as they say on earth,
How much those heavenly hymns would there be worth.
Or if in Proserpine's more sultry sky
For his misdeeds the Publisher must sigh,
Though much good company about him stand,
And many an author take him by the hand,
And swarms of novelists around him press,
And many a bard return his warm caress,
Though there on all the sinners he shall gaze
Who ever wrote, or planned, or acted plays;
On all the wits, from Anna's time to ours,
Who strewed perdition's pleasant way with flowers;
On Burns, consumed with more substantial fire
Than ever love or whisky could inspire;
On Shelley, seething in a lake of lead,
And Byron stretched upon a lava bed;
Little shall he, or they, or any there,
Of magazines or morning journals care;
Little shall there be whispered or be thought,
About the last new book and what it brought;
Little of copyright and Yankee thieves,
Or any wrong that Charlie's bosom grieves;
But side by side reviewer and reviewed,
Critic and criticised must all be—stewed;
Alas! they groan—alas! compared with this,
Ev'n Blackwood's drunken surgery was bliss.
How less than little were the direst blows
Dealt by brute Gifford on his baby foes!
How light, compared with hell's eternal pain,
The small damnation was of Drury Lane!
Down! down! thou impious, dark Imagination,
Forbear the foul, the blasphemous creation;
Whate'er John's doom, in whatsoever sphere,
Wretched or blest, 't is not for us to hear.
Not many such have dignified his trade,
So boldly bargained and so nobly paid.
Oh may his own Divine Paymaster prove
As kind and righteous in the realms above!