The modern poet's advocate replies:
"For is there that man breathing, who denies
"His love of fame? is there who can refuse
"The proffer'd praises that await his muse?—
"Who scorns to rescue from the book-worm's rage
"Strains that might live to charm a distant age,
"And, deaf to glory's voice, can leave his books
"A prey to fishmongers and pastry-cooks?"
Know, brother disputant! (whoe'er thou art
Whom I have made to bear the' opponent's part)
If aught by chance of happier vein appear—
In me a chance indeed !-but yet, if e'er
Some brighter thought be by the muse inspired,
I am not one that scorns to be admired:
To well-earn'd praise I am not callous grown,"
Nor is my heart philosophiz'd to stone.
But that your bravo and bravissimo
Should be the end and aim of all we do,-
That flimsy compliment should form the test
And touch-stone of all merit-'tis a jest!
Naribus indulges. An erit qui velle recuset
Os populi meruisse, et, cedro digna locutus,
Linquere nec scombros metuentia carmina nec thus ?
¶ Quisquis es, o modo quem ex adverso dicere feci!
Non ego, cum scribo, si forte quid aptius exit—
Quando hæc rara avis est-si quid tamen aptius exit,
Laudari metuam: neque enim mihi cornea fibra est.
Sed recti finemque extremumque esse recuso
Euge tuum et Belle: nam Belle hoc excute totum ;
Quid non intus habet? non hic est Ilias Attî
For view these compliments with reason's eye,
And mark how weak they err-how bold they lie! 100 Say, are not these your critics that adore
Iliads inspir'd by juice of Hellebore?
Should some crude Lordling dictate some poor sonnet,
Say, are not these the praises pour'd upon it?
And these the fulsome flatteries that attend
Whatever on a Citron couch is penn'd?
On tatter'd backs you fling your thread-bare cloaks ; For hungry parasites your pudding smokes : Then, "Tell me truth," you say, "for truth is dear "To me, my friends."-Fool, to expect it here.! You'ld hear the truth: Well then, to tell you true, The world despises both your books and you: Would you, with that bald pate of yours, aspire To build the lofty rhyme and sweep the lyre?First draw that goodly 'tun of belly' in, That swags full half an ell beyond your chin.
Blest Janus! thee, with double sight endued, Such treach'rous mockeries never could elude:
Ebria veratro? non si qua elegidia crudi
Dictârunt proceres? non quicquid denique lectis
Scribitur in citreis ?-Calidum scis ponere sumen ;
Scis comitem horridulum trita donare lacerna :
Et verum, inquis, amo; verum mihi dicite de me.
Qui pote? vis dicam? nugaris, cum tibi, calve!
Pinguis aqualiculus propenso sesquipede extet.
O Jane! a tergo quem nulla ciconia pinsit,
Nec manus auriculas imitata est mobilis albas,
Behind thy back no stork's-bill ever peck'd,
No quivering finger aped the ear erect,
Nor scoffer, while the secret taunt he flung,
Low as Apulian hound loll'd out the tongue.
But you, ye Great, who boast within your veins
Patrician blood, since cruel fate ordains
That ye must ever live with postern blind,
Beware the bitter gibe that bites behind!
"What says the Town ?"-What should it say, but vow That numbers never sweetly flow'd till now?
So smooth the verse, so true to nature's law,
The critic's gliding nail can find no flaw;
No joiner's work more exquisitely fine,
That strikes with one eye closed the unerring line!
He, whether public luxury he chastise,
Or catch the manners living as they rise,'
Or whether in a loftier vein he sings
Of bloody banquets and the pride of kings,
Still says the sweetest, the sublimest things!
Behold, the stripling bard, whose feeble pen
Can scarce do justice to a grove or glen,
Nec linguæ quantum sitiat canis Appula tantum.
Vos, o patricius sanguis, quos vivere fas est
Occipiti cœco, posticæ occurrite sannæ !
Quis populi sermo est ?—quis enim nisi carmina molli Nunc demum numero fluere, ut per lêve severos
Effundat junctura ungues? scit tendere versum
Non secus ac si oculo rubricam dirigat uno :
Sive opus in mores, in luxum, in prandia regum,
Dicere res grandes nostro dat Musa poëtæ !
Ecce, modo heroas sensus afferre videmus
Just taught to wield declamatory Greek,
Assays of heroes and of kings to speak;
Steps forth with bold effrontery, and presumes
To imp his Epic and Pindaric plumes.
Yet this advent'rer shall attempt in vain
To paint the pleasures of the rustic swain;-
The crackling faggot's blaze, the lowing kine,
The wicker panniers, and the grunting swine,
With Pales' smoky rites, when free from law
The peasants frisk it o'er the kindling straw ;
Whence Remus rose, and Quinctius! thou, whose hand 150
Drove the bright coulter through the furrow'd land,
What time the ploughman's frock aside was thrown,
And by thy trembling spouse the gorgeous gown
Wus placed on thee, Rome's high Dictator now,
And thine own Lictors carried home thy plough.
Go on, sweet songster of the fields, and tell
How warriors conquer'd and how chieftains fell!
There are who love old Accius' sinewy lays,-
Who harsh Pacuvius' rugged diction praise,-
And o'er his coarse Antiope can doze,
Whose doleful heart was sore beset with woes.
Nugari solitos Græce, nec ponere lucum
Artifices, neque rus saturum laudare, ubi corbes,
Et focus, et porci, et fumosa Palilia fæno:
Unde Remus, sulcoque terens dentalia, Quinctí!
Quem trepida ante boves Dictatorem induit uxor,
Et tua aratra domum Lictor tulit.—Euge, poëta !
Est nunc Briseis quem venosus liber Accî,
Sunt quos Pacuviusque et verrucosa moretur
Antiopa, arumnis cor luctificabile fuita.
Such are the strains which every purblind sire
Admires, and bids his blockhead brats admire!
And can we wonde, while such critics teach,
At that strange medley which infects our speech,—
Or that vile rant, at which the coxcomb Knight
Springs from his bench half-frantic with delight ?
Is the grey culprit to his trial led, ·
The sword of justice trembling o'er his head?-
His care is not to gain, but grace the cause,-
Not his acquittal, but the court's applause.
Pedius, thou art a Thief-the' accuser cries;
Now hearken, pray, what Pedius replies:
Opposing this to that-and that to this,
He balances some neat antithesis ;
With flowers of fancy garnishes the strife,
And rounds his periods to redeem his life:
His hearers view him with admiring eye;
How fine is this! how charming that! they cry:
And are ye not ashamed, degenerate spawn
Of Romulus! to wriggle thus and fawn?"
Hos pueris monitus patres infundere lippos
Cum videas, quærisne unde hæc sartago loquendi
Venerit in linguas,-unde istud dedecus, in quo
Trossulus exultat tibi per subsellia lêvis?
Nilne pudet capiti non posse pericula cano
Pellere, quin tepidum hoc optes audire Decenter ?
Fur es,
ait Pedio: Pedius quid? crimina rasis Librat in antithetis, doctus posuisse figuras.
Laudatur, bellum hoc! hoc bellum! An, Romule, ceves?
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