Classic Poem

BY A BOOKSELLER'S JOURNEYMAN .

Versed by experience in the subtle art,
The mysteries of a title I impart:
Teach the young author how to please the town,
And make the heavy drug of rhyme go down.
Since Curl, immortal never-dying name!
A double pica in the book of fame.
By various arts did various Dunces prop,
And tickled every fancy to his shop,
Who can, like Pottinger, ensure a book?
Who judges with the solid taste of Cooke?
Villains, exalted in the midway sky,
Shall live again to drain your purses dry:
Nor yet unrivalled they; see Baldwin comes,
Rich in inventions, patents, cuts, and hums:
The honourable Boswell writes, 'tis true,
What else can Paoli's supporter do?
The trading wits endeavour to attain,
Like booksellers, the world's first idol — gain.
For this they puff the heavy Goldsmith's line,
And hail his sentiment, though trite, divine;
For this the patriotic bard complains,
And Bingley binds poor liberty in chains:
For this was every reader's faith deceived,
And Edmunds swore what nobody believed:
For this the wits in close disguises fight;
For this the varying politicians write;
For this each month new magazines are sold,
With dullness filled and transcripts of the old.
The " Town and Country " struck a lucky hit,
Was novel, sentimental, full of wit:
Aping her walk the same success to find,
The " Court and City " hobbles far behind.
Sons of Apollo, learn: merit's no more
Than a good frontispiece to grace the door:
The author who invents a title well
Will always find his covered dullness sell:
Flexney and every bookseller will buy —
Bound in neat calf, the work will never die.