Classic Poem

All ye, to whom these presents come,
Take note that Ned has gone to roam
In the wild regions of Apollo,
And dares among the Muses hollow.
No more in sober sense you'll find him,
But pelting with a Muse behind him,
Despising ev'ry earthly steed,
On Pegasus three quarter speed;
Slap dash thro' thick and thin he flew,
With laural crown and bays in view.

 His brain on rhymes was always gadding,
And all his faculties went madding.
On classic ground he constant stood,
And hanker'd for poetic food.
If with a friend he chance'd to sup,
He'd bid fair Hebe fetch the cup;
Talk but of wine, and he anon
Calls for a glass of Helicon;
Treats punch, his fav'rite, with disdain;
And nought can quaff but Hippocrene:
'Till drunk with these poetic streams
His mind on fancy's pillow dreams.

 Now on heroics he would climb,
To sing of France in strains sublime:
Then cant'ring on swift-footed rhymes,
Shews how folks liv'd in former times.
Wou'd fain indite in mournful lays
The matchless worth of Mrs. Hayes.
But cease my pen! the sportive Muse
No more her wonted strain pursues:
She drops the harp, and droops her head,
That such shou'd number with the dead.

 Whilst thus he frolic'd raving mad,
His friends, for some the fellow had,
All strove to check his truant brain,
And bring him to his wits again.
Quoth one, “my honest fellow Ned,
“What brought these tantrums in your head?
“You ne'er before took such a whim,
“Avast my lad! your vessel trim,
“Nor let your skiff, with crazy sail,
“Drive down before the public gate,
“Or, in plain English, give up rhyme,
“Birds seldom sing beyond their prime;
“If you proceed you'll over reach,
“'Tis hard to teach old dogs to fetch.”

 Another says, “my worthy friend
“To what can all these whimsies tend?
“Then do this scribbling rage give o'er,
“And be as you were wont before,
“A plain good fellow who cou'd laugh
“At other's jokes; or take a quaff
“Of home-brew'd ale, or punch quite plain,
“But never dreamt of Hippocrene;
“Cou'd pass whole nights 'till swallows clack,
“With Power the piper at your back;
“Or with your Cannon make a noise,
“And muster all the blackguard boys,
“To whoop and hollow in your ears,
“And waft your folly by their cheers.
“Depend my boy such freaks as these,
“E'en practised in your former days,
“Will damn you, tho' your lines shou'd cope,
“With Gay, with Addison, or Pope.”

 Some join their knowing heads together,
And straight pronounce him light as feather.
“A poet he! a cap and bell
“Wou'd suit his genius full as well;
“He may write ballads for a show-man,
“Or riddles for some silly woman;
“Or with a country pedant's aid,
“Make an enigma or charade;
“Lug down the goddesses and gods,
“To couple them with ends and odds
“Of shrubs and sish, or some such stuff,
“In Katty Finn to cut a puff;
“But if he ventures one step further,
“'Twill surely be poetic murder.”

 Old square-toes next to shew his breeding,
Tho' discount comprehends his reading,
With solemn shrug and phrases trite,
Proclaims poor Ned a bedlamite.
“What signify his paltry rhymes,
“In these hard griping pursy times;
“Had he but just employed his pen,
“To rise per cent from six to ten,
“For more true genius he would pass
“Than all the swindlers of Parnass:
“Respect at change he might command,
“By bill at sight, or note of hand;
“But while he draws upon Apollo,
“Duns must his foot-steps closely follow
“I never knew his godship lend
“One shilling to an hungry friend;
“Nor will the muse, tho' you caress her,
“Rub out one score from off your dresser.”

 Whilst thus some spoke their minds sincere,
And others libel'd with a sneer;
He, still regardless of advice,
Went bouncing from them in a trice;
Once more to mount the bifork'd hill,
And at the fountain take his fill,
At home at night such noise wou'd keep,
That not a wink his wife cou'd sleep;
For e'er she well began to doze,
He'd smartly twitch her by the nose.
“Z——ds light the match! I've hit a thought
“With ev'ry flower of fancy fraught;
“But there alas! again 'tis fled,
“I might as well rouse up the dead;
“You'd sleep, tho' all the tuneful nine
“Wou'd garlands round your temples twine.”

 Then soon as Sol expands his rays,
He pensive o'er the meadows strays;
Or saunters thro' the shady grove,
As swains are wont when cross'd in love,
Reflecting on that dreadful strife,
Attendant on a poet's life,
Whose name hangs wav'ring in suspense
Twixt doggerel and excellence.
Now prais'd for lines he never saw,
Then as a bug-bear held in awe.
Oblig'd to hear what others writ,
Call'd the dull effort of his wit;
Or if he writes an harmless sonnet
Must hear an hundred comments on it;
Each period pointed to some end,
To hit the foibles of a friend,
If round the town a lampoon rings,
Or love-sick boy his passion sings;
His lines sarcastic all discover,
Or set him down the blub'ring lover.

 Whilst thus in doubt what step to take,
A certain friend, in pity's sake,
Who knew the cause of all his evil,
Address'd him thus with accents civil:—
“Whilst thus you skulk behind the screen,
“Your merit's hid and foibles seen,
“For one who gets a scribbling name,
“Of ev'ry libel bears the blame:
“Then plead at once your innocence,
“Avowal is your best defence;
“Bring all your deeds to public view,
“Tho' many faults, yet some are new;
“Then will you stand the brunt alone,
“And cloak no blunders but your own.
“Nor blush if many should 'unite
“To bring the bantling into light,
“For one who makes a first essay
“May call on friends to shew the way:
“Nor heed the shafts by affluence sped,
“They jest at scars who never bled.”

 So far the hint, 'twas just in kind,
Well suited to a willing mind;
If right or wrong, unjust or true,
Must only now be judg'd by you.