EPISTLE TO SYLVIUS

Of all the fools that haunt our coast

The scribbling tribe I pity most:

Their's is a standing scene of woes,

And their's no prospect of repose.

Then, Sylvius, why this eager claim

To light your torch at Clio's flame?

To few she shews sincere regard,

And none, from her, should hope reward.

A garret high, dark dismal room,

Is still the pensive poet's doom:

Hopes raised to heaven must be their lot,

Yet bear the curse, to be forgot.

Hourly they deal with Grecian Jove,

And draw their bills on banks above:

Yet stand abashed, with all their fire,

When brought to face some country‘ squire.

To mend the world, is still their aim:

The world, alas! remains the same,

And so must stand to every age,

Proof to the morals of the page!

The knave that keeps a tippling inn,

The red-nosed boy that deals out gin,

If aided by some paltry skill

May both be statesmen when they will.

The man that mends a beggar's shoes,

The quack that heals your negro's bruise,

The wretch that turns a cutler's stone,

Have wages they can call their own:

The head, that plods in trade's domains,

Gets something to reward its pains;

But Wit — that does the world beguile,

Takes for its pay — an empty smile!

Yet each presumes his works will rise,

And gain a name that never dies;

From earth, and cold oblivion freed,

Immortal, in the poets’ creed!

Can Reason in that bosom reign

Which fondly feeds a hope so vain,

When every age that passes by

Beholds a crowd of poets die!

Poor Sappho's fate shall Milton know —

His scenes of grief and tales of woe

No honours, that all Europe gave,

No merit — shall from ruin save.

To all that write and all that read

Fate shall, with hasty step, succeed!

Even Shakespeare's page, his mirth, his tears

May sink beneath this weight of years.

Old Spenser's doom shall, Pope, be thine

The music of each moving line

Scarce bribes an age or two to stay,

Admire your strain — then flit away.

The people of old Chaucer's times

Were once in raptures with his rhymes,

But Time — that over verse prevails,

To other ears tells other tales.

Why then so sad, dear rhyming friends —

One common fate on both attends,

The bards that sooth the statesman's ear,

And him — who finds no audience there.

Mere structures formed of common earth,

Not they from heaven derive their birth,

Or why through life, like vagrants, pass

To mingle with the mouldering mass?—

Of all the souls, from Jove that came

To animate this mortal frame,

Of all the myriads, on the wing,

How few can taste the Muse's spring!

Sejanus, of mercantile skill,

Without whose aid the world stands still,

And by whose wonder-working play

The sun goes round — ( his flatterers say )

Sejanus has in house declared

“These States, as yet, can boast no bard,

And all the sing-song of our clime

Is merely nonsense, fringed with rhyme.”

With such a bold, conceited air

When such assume the critic's chair,

Low in the dust is genius laid,

The muses with the man in trade.

Then, Sylvius, come — let you and I

On Neptune's aid, once more rely:

Perhaps the muse may still impart

Her balm to ease the aching heart.

Though cold might chill and storms dismay,

Yet Zoilus will be far away:

With us at least, depart and share

No garret — but resentment there.