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THOU, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; | |
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. | |
The peopled fold thy kindly care have found, | |
The hornèd bull, tremendous, spurns the ground; | |
The lordly lion has enough and more, | 5 |
The forest trembles at his very roar; | |
Thou givst the ass his hide, the snail his shell, | |
The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell. | |
Thy minions, kings defend, controul devour, | |
In all th omnipotence of rule and power: | 10 |
Foxes and statesmen subtle wiles ensure; | |
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure: | |
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, | |
The priest and hedgehog, in their robes, are snug: | |
Een silly women have defensive arts, | 15 |
Their eyes, their tonguesand nameless other parts. | |
But O thou cruel stepmother and hard, | |
To thy poor fenceless, naked child, the Bard! | |
A thing unteachable in worldly skill, | |
And half an idiot too, more helpless still: | 20 |
No heels to bear him from the opning dun, | |
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun: | |
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, | |
And those, alas! not Amaltheas horn: | |
No nerves olfactry, true to Mammons foot, | 25 |
Or grunting, grub sagacious, evils root: | |
The silly sheep that wanders wild astray, | |
Is not more friendless, is not more a prey; | |
Vampyre-booksellers drain him to the heart, | |
And viper-critics cureless venom dart. | 30 |
Critics! applld I venture on the name, | |
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame, | |
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes, | |
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose: | |
By blockheads daring into madness stung, | 35 |
His heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung, | |
His well-won ways-than life itself more dear | |
By miscreants torn who neer one sprig must wear; | |
Foild, bleeding, torturd in th unequal strife, | |
The hapless Poet flounces on through life, | 40 |
Till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired, | |
And fled each Muse that glorious once inspird, | |
Low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age, | |
Dead even resentment for his injurd page, | |
He heeds no more the ruthless critics rage. | 45 |
So by some hedge the generous steed deceasd, | |
For half-starvd, snarling curs a dainty feast; | |
By toil and famine worn to skin and bone, | |
Lies, senseless of each tugging bitchs son. | |
· · · · · · A little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, | 50 |
And still his precious self his dear delight; | |
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets, | |
Better than eer the fairest she he meets; | |
Much specious lore, but little understood, | |
(Veneering oft outshines the solid wood), | 55 |
His solid sense, by inches you must tell, | |
But mete his cunning by the Scottish ell! | |
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, | |
Learnd vive la bagatelle et vive lamour; | |
So travelld monkeys their grimace improve, | 60 |
Polish their grin-nay, sigh for ladies love! | |
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, | |
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. | |
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · Crochallan came, | |
The old cockd hat, the brown surtoutthe same; | 65 |
His grisly beard just bristling in its might | |
Twas four long nights and days from shaving-night; | |
His uncombd, hoary locks, wild-staring, thatchd | |
A head, for thought profound and clear, unmatchd; | |
Yet, tho his caustic wit was biting-rude, | 70 |
His heart was warm, benevolent and good. | |
· · · · · · O Dulness, portion of the truly blest! | |
Calm, shelterd haven of eternal rest! | |
Thy sons neer madden in the fierce extremes | |
Of Fortunes polar frost, or torrid beams; | 75 |
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, | |
With sober, selfish ease they sip it up; | |
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserve, | |
They only wonder some folks do not starve! | |
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, | 80 |
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. | |
When disappointment snaps the thread of Hope, | |
When, thro disastrous night, they darkling grope, | |
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, | |
And just conclude that fools are Fortunes care: | 85 |
So, heavy, passive to the tempests shocks, | |
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. | |
Not so the idle Muses mad-cap train, | |
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; | |
In equanimity they never dwell, | 90 |
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell! | |
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