XII.

But you you must be perfectly aware

That you've been long neglecting sacred powers,
And playing tricks with genius rich and rare,
In its true worth as far transcending ours
As the best China the worst crockery-ware.
Now, by Parnassus, and its laurel bowers,
Could I but half your inspiration borrow,
I'd try my hand at Eschylus to-morrow.

XIII.

*

I've done-now where's Sir Lanval? who's the borePlague-torment-burthen-bane of my existence; A tertian fever, a perpetual sore,

A fool who can't be taught to keep his distance, But raps, most importunely, at my door

Ten times a day, to ask for my assistance,
(Such at it is) to serve his private ends,
When I'm for chatting with my public friends.
XIV.

The puppy!-It was I that got him knighted,
Ruin'd him--found a mistress for him-fill'd her
With love too great to bear--and when he slighted
That love, against my inclination, kill'd her.
All this I did--and thus am I requited;

I can't lie down in peace, but must bewilder My bashful muse in an affaire de cœur Between his knightship and queen Tryamour.

XV.

Reader--I hope you've read the Fairy Queen-
If not, don't stop to ask me why or wherefore,

But shut at once this peerless magazine,

Though it should be the only book you care for,

And not to be resign'd without chagrin-

The fact is that I'm press'd for time, and, therefore,

Must e'en refer you, without more apology,

To the said poem for my own mythology.

*See a translation from the Persæ in the last number
of this Magazine.

XVI.

I can't point out the very place, nor will I
At threading Spenser's mazes try my skill;
As if a man should walk from Piccadilly,

To find a sovereign dropt on Ludgate-Hill;
Which project would, at best, be worse than silly;
But if you've time which you're inclined to kill,
Read the whole poem, my dear Sir, and I'll
Engage you'll find it fully worth your while.

XVII.

Well, but suppose you won't,-which I dare say
Is not unlikely; for what soul will pore
On bards like Spenser at this time of day,

When Clare's alive, and Rogers, and Tom Moore?
Why then I must, as briefly as I may,
Concenter all I know of fairy lore
In a few stanzas, just to let you see
My heroine's noble birth and pedigree.

XVIII.

Once on a time there lived a certain man,

By name Prometheus, who was shrewd and clever,

Indeed, so much so, that he soon began

To fancy it would cost him small endeavour

To beat Apollo, Jupiter, or Pan

At their own trades (take notice, if you've never

Heard of these names, and don't know who they were, You'll find their histories in Lemprière.)

XIX.

Well, what d'you think he did to show his wit?

He made a human figure, all of clay, Proportion'd and arranged it, bit by bit,

And gave it life and motion, with a ray

Filch'd from the sun--when all was right and fit,
Up jump'd this hopeful imp and ran away;
Leaving Prometheus in desponding attitude,
Shock'd and astonish'd at such gross ingratitude.

XX.

I think it served him right, I must confess,
For following so absurd an occupation;
Whereas it was his duty to repress

The geometric growth of population
By all due means-I can't pretend to guess

Why he devised new modes of propagation ;
When 'tis well known the earth yields far too little
E'en to supply her natural stock with victual.

XXI.

The course that he pursued was clearly wrong;
He might as well have studied to invent
Some means to make men's appetites more strong,
Or cause a general dearth of nutriment :
However, as such topics don't belong
To verse by right, it is not my intent
To speculate at present-only I

Don't think man wants new means to multiply.

XXII.

In spite of all Leigh Hunt may chuse to say,
In spite of all that Godwin e'er has written,
I'm strongly for the old establish'd sway

Of Hymen in the kingdom of Great Britain,
As the laws fix it at the present day—

So till some new economist shall hit on
A likelier plan to make the nation thrive,
A fig for Malthus-let good subjects wive.

XXIII.

I'm very far from wishing to improve

Our marriage code, like some wise friends of mine;

I'm quite against the reign of lawless love,

Though all that sort of thing's extremely fine;

But since such speculations are above
An understanding so confined as mine,
I hope I may declare, without impiety,
I'm for the present system of society.

XXIV.

I've dipp'd into some writers on equality-
Condorcet, Wallace, Godwin, and Rousseau;
And trust there's no extrème illiberality

In owning that conviction comes but slow:
I'd not subvert court, crown, and principality,
Nor quash all penal statutes at a blow;
Because, in spite of Human Nature's purity,
I think they'd always add to my security.

XXV.

Indeed, I never liked that state of things

Which puling poets call the age of gold; I don't think Saturn was the best of kings;

Nor George the Third the worst—and I'll make bold To say, in spite of all that Hesiod sings,

That if mankind's opinions should be poll'd,

A vast majority of votes would be

In favour of the nineteenth century.

XXVI.

Books-parties-educated women-scandal-

Theatres--winter-evenings--coffee--tea

Piano-fortes-cards-Mozart and Handel-

The fire-side laugh-the weekly coterie--
Though unattractive to a Goth or Vandal,
Are things as indispensable to me
As meat and drink-of these, without exception,
The blessed golden age had no conception.

XXVII.

Folks hadn't then a notion of good breeding,
Were quite unfashion'd, both in words and looks,

And never dreamt of writing or of reading,

Because, in fact, they'd neither pens nor books;

Were absolute barbarians in their feeding

Had no French wines, French dishes, or French cooks,

French plays, or French philosophy, in which

Old England has of late become so rich.

XXVIII,

I wonder what they did for conversation-
Or whether people then conversed at all;
Since, from their mode of life and occupation,

Their range of subjects must have been but small. How to transact the business of flirtation,

If e'er the golden age produced a ball, Must have perplex'd young partners altogether, When once they'd talk'd about the crops and weather.

And found it inexpressibly detestable. Fresh water from the spring (I can't deny it)

Is most salubrious--yet 'tis incontestable That most men find it tasteless to a fault, Unless impregnated with hops and malt.

XXX.

No doubt, it's very pleasant, after dining,

(As poets seldom dine) on fish, fowl, flesh, Before a blazing fire and wine reclining,

To dream of fruits and streamlets fine and freshFeasts of the golden age--and thus refining

On fancy and repletion, weave a mesh Of most convincing argument, to prove How men might thrive on lettuces and love.

XXXI.

Again I say such theories are fine,

But when one comes to practice, I confess

I'd still continue on roast beef to dine,
Nor drink one single glass of port the less,-
No, not an oyster nor a shrimp resign;-
I'm not at all particular in dress;
But the deuce take me if I ever try
The golden age's plan of nudity.