THE CLAIMS OF THE MUSE.

Too oft we hide our Frailties’ Blame

Beneath some simple-sounding Name!

So Folks, who in gilt Coaches ride,

Will call Display but Proper Pride;

So Spendthrifts, who their Acres lose,

Curse not their Folly but the Jews;

So Madam, when her Roses faint,

Resorts to... anything but Paint.

An honest Uncle, who had plied

His Trade of Mercer in Cheapside,

Until his Name on‘ Change was found

Good for some Thirty Thousand Pound,

Was burdened with an Heir inclined

To thoughts of quite a different Kind.

His Nephew dreamed of Naught but Verse

From Morn to Night, and, what was worse,

He quitted all at length to follow

That “sneaking, whey-faced God, APOLLO.”

In plainer Words, he ran up Bills

At Child's, at Batson's and at Will's;

Discussed the Claims of rival Bards

At Midnight,— with a Pack of Cards;

Or made excuse for “t'other Bottle”

Over a point in ARISTOTLE.

This could not last, and like his Betters

He found, too soon, the Cost of Letters.

Back to his Uncle's House he flew,

Confessing that he'd not a Sou.

‘ Tis true, his Reasons, if sincere,

Were more poetical than clear:

“Alas!” he said, “I name no Names:

The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse has claims.”

His Uncle, who, behind his Till,

Knew less of Pindus than Snow-Hill,

Looked grave, but thinking ( as Men say )

That Youth but once can have its Day,

Equipped anew his Pride and Hope

To frisk it on Parnassus Slope.

In one short Month he sought the Door

More shorn and ragged than before.

This Time he showed but small Contrition,

And gloried in his mean Condition.

“The greatest of our Race,” he said,

“Through Asian Cities begged his Bread.

The Muse — the Muse delights to see

Not Broadcloth but Philosophy!

Who doubts of this her Honour shames,

But ( as you know ) she has her Claims....”

“Friend,” quoth his Uncle then, “I doubt

This scurvy Craft that you're about

Will lead your philosophic Feet

Either to Bedlam or the Fleet.

Still, as I would not have you lack,

Go get some Broadcloth to your Back,

And — if it please this precious Muse —

‘ Twere well to purchase decent Shoes.

Though harkye, Sir....” The Youth was gone,

Before the good Man could go on.

And yet ere long again was seen

That Votary of Hippocrene.

As along Cheap his Way he took,

His Uncle spied him by a Brook,

Not such as Nymphs Castalian pour,—

‘ Twas but the Kennel, nothing more.

His Plight was plain by every Sign

Of Idiot Smile and Stains of Wine.

He strove to rise, and wagged his Head —

“The Muse, dear Sir, the Muse —” he said.

“Muse!” quoth the Other, in a Fury,

“The Muse sha n't serve you, I assure ye.

She's just some wanton, idle Jade

That makes young Fools forget their Trade,—

Who should be whipped, if I'd my Will,

From Charing Cross to Ludgate Hill.

She's just....” But he began to stutter,

So left SIR GRACELESS in the Gutter.