CCIV. If ever I should condescend to prose," That went before; in these I shall enrich CCV. Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, Because the first is crazed beyond all hope. The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy; With Crabbe it may be difficult to cope, And Campbell's Hippocrene is somewhat drouthy; Thou shalt not steal from Samuel Rogers, nor Commit flirtation with the muse of Moore. CCVI. Thou shalt not covet Mr.Southey's Muse, Exactly as you please or not, the rod, If any person should presume to assert That this is not a moral tale, though gay; CCVIII. If, after all, there should be some so blind Not to believe my verse and their own eyes, CCIX. The public approbation I expect, And beg they'll take my word about the moral, Which I with their amusement will connect, (So children cutting teeth receive a coral ;) Meantime, they'll doubtless please to recollect My epical pretensions to the laurel ; For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish, I've bribed my grandmother's review the British. CCX. I sent it in a letter to the editor, Who thank'd me duly by return of postI'm for a handsome article his creditor: Yet, if my gentle muse he please to roast, And smear his page with gall instead of honey, CCXI. I think that with this holy new alliance, CCXII. "Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventá "Consule Planco."-Horace said, and so And would not brook at all this sort of thing CCXIII. But now at thirty years my hair is grey(I wonder what it will be like at forty? I thought of a peruke the other day) My heart is not much greener: and, in short, I Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May, And feel no more the spirit to retort: I Have spent my life, both interest and principal, CCXIV. No more-no more-Oh! never more on me Hived in our bosoms, like the bag o' the bee: CCXV. No more-no more-Oh! never more, my heart, Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse: And in thy stead I've got a deal of judgment, CCXVI. My days of love are over: me no more [7] CCXVII. Ambition was my idol, which was broken O'er which reflection may be made at leisure; CCXVIII. What is the end of fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper;' Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour, For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill, And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper," To have, when the original is dust, A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust. CCXIX. What are the hopes of man! old Egypt's King And largest, thinking it was just the thing To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid; But somebody or other rummaging, Burglariously broke his coffin's lid: Let not a monument give you or me hopes CCXX. But I,eing fond of true philosophy, "All things that have been born were born to die, CCXXI. But for the present, gentle reader! and Still gentler purchaser! the bard-that's IMust, with permission, shake you by the hand, And so your humble servant, and good bye! We meet again, if we should understand Each other and if not, I shall not try Your patience further than by this short sample "Twere well if others follow'd my example. CCXXI. "Go, little book, from this my solitude! "The world will find thee after many days." END OF CANTO FIRST. |