Classic Poem

Of all the various kinds of woe
The Gods on wretched mortals throw,
How great his curse, how great his crime,
Who's blasted with the itch of rhyme,
Struck with the muse's various lore,
The Grecian and the Roman store,
Young Stanza, eager for a name,
And emulous to gain their fame,
Now threw aside the civil laws,
And only tryed the muse's cause.

Shall I, the youth enraptur'd cry'd,
Shall I such paltry trash abide?
Pleas, declarations, hence adieu
Eternally — I've done with you.
A nobler theme my soul's possest;
I feel it warm my tuneful breast;
The charming Goddesses of song
Have raised me from the vulgar throng.

Come then, ye virgins, heavenly fair,
With flowing vests, and graceful air,
Come, with your ever tuneful lyres,
And warm me with poetic fires:
My soul is yours — assist my lays:
To you I dedicate my days.
O lead me to your fragrant bow'rs,
O'er arch'd with never dying flow'rs.
Attentive let me hear with thee
The brooks soft lulling harmony;
Or trace with you the landskips gay,
Where fawns and lambkins sport and play.
O come, ye sweet Parnassion throng,
And ravish with sublimest song.

Whether the muses might regard
This invocation of the bard,
Remains a doubt; but this is plain —
He dropt the law-directing pen.

Ventris and Coke no more are read;
But Pope, or Dryden in their stead.
And odes on Chloe's lips and eyes
His friends with wonder much surprize:
Partial, or blind, they all would praise
The youthful bard's poetic lays.
But ah! his little substance spent,
As soon those friends grew discontent,
Nor song, nor ode could calm their ire,
But all was fury, rage and fire.

They talk'd of prudence, men of parts,
What were the money-getting arts;
That wit and poetry forsooth
Had ruined many a hopeful youth,
Discarded by those loving friends
That used to serve his needful ends.
His cloaths and all that he could spare
Soon took their flight — the Lord knows where,
And now his dress began to shew
A bard indeed! in statu quo ;
Not like the antients so renown'd,
His head with laurels wreath'd around,
With flowing gown and sandal'd feet —
The fancied dress for poets meet:
But rags that slutter'd in the wind,
The gift of Fortune most unkind.
Sage sung the bard, in language sweet,
" Our first great passion is to eat. "

For hunger now first promps his brain
To try the bibliopolian train;
And with a poem, fairly wrought,
In haste the much-fam'd Quarto sought —
Quarto, a second Curl in town,
Whose modest puffing well was known;
Talk'd much of sciences and arts,
Encouragement to men of parts;
Told him he'd read his poem o'er,
And none, if good, should give him more,
Bid him to call on Monday, then
He'd tell him when to call again.
Stanza took leave, full-well content,
And ponder'd on the great event,
When praise and fortune should repay
Unkind and sickle fortune's sway.

At length, behold the ruddy dawn
Brings on the jocund long-wish'd morn,
But oh the dire accident! the muse
With sorrow tells the dismal news:
Unlucky business had decreed
His poem to remain unread.

O Providence, thou source divine,
What praises and what thanks are thine!
No friends nor money Stanza had,
But all depended on thy aid;
And surely thou must be his friend,
Who could a fortnight round attend,
Or else, cameleon-like, declare
He liv'd that time upon the air.

Quarto at length gave him this answer,
I've been considering all I can, fir —
Poems at present a'nt the thing,
Tho' fine as Homer you could sing:
Had it but been a little smart,
I'd been your chap with all my heart.
Against the doctrine of the land,
Or government , I'd had a hand.
Those are the things at present sell;
They suit the people's humour well.