Classic Poem

What now avails, to gain a woman's heart,
The sage's wisdom, or the poet's art!
Pox on the times! the genius of old
Would whip you off a girl in spite of gold;
In spite of liv'ries, equipage, and lace,
And all the Gothic grandeur of a race.
But now the mill'ner's 'prentice, with a sneer,
Blessing herself, cries, Heav'ns! what have we here?
A man of rhime, worth — fifty lines a-year.

O UR wit still pleases; but 'tis dev'lish hard,
What saves the elegy should damn the bard;
That gains access to dressing, drawing-rooms,
A wish'd-for, welcome guest where'er it comes;
But me , the luckless author, scorn'd and poor,
Each surly porter drives from ev'ry door.

C ONSCIOUS of secret worth, I hurry home,
And now the master damn, and now the dome;
Early resolv'd, whatever shall betide,
No more to ask what has been once deny'd:
Resolv'd, indeed! but ev'ry pow'r above
Laughs at our weak resolves, and chiefly Love.
" Brush the brown hat, and darn the breeches knee;
" The wealthy, pride may suit, but suits not thee:
" Papa, I own, look'd mighty sour and grim;
" But if the daughter smile, a fig for him!
" Mark'd you the secret motions of her eye?
" How kind yon glance had been, had none been by!
" Yon proud reserve, yon shyness, I could swear,
" Is prudence all, and pure pretence with her:
" 'Tis right — old fellows that can thousands give,
" May claim, at least, some rev'rence while they live;
" A few, few years lays F USCUS in his grave,
" And M IRA 's yours, perhaps, and all he gave! "

I NTENT on future harm, thus said the god
Who bends the stubborn purpose with a nod;
Constrains the stiffest gladly to obey,
Makes the gay gloomy, and the gloomy gay.
Resist who will, too well I knew his pow'r,
In vain resisted, to resist it more!
My hands instinctive, at the forceful call,
At once seize gloves, and hat, and staff, and all;
Then forth I walk, and ever, as I go,
Con o'er my manners, and practise a bow;
Spread, careful spread, the cravat on my breast,
As prim and formal as a parish priest.

T HE knocker clacks. — " Who's there? " — " Is Miss " within? "
" Confound the booby, what a monstrous din!
" She has no time, she says, to speak with you;
" For Mr. F LORIMEL came here just now. "
My heart beat thick, and ev'ry word he said
Distain'd my hollow cheeks with foreign red;
O, brutish times! and is that thing of silk,
That sapless sipper of an ass's milk;
That tea-nurs'd grinner, whose consumptive cough,
Should he but mint a laugh, would take him off;
Prefer'd to me! in whose athletic grasp
Ten thousand buzzing beaux were but a wasp.
Sure wit and learning greater honour claim;
No wit, no learning, ever smil'd on him:
I'll lay my Lexicon, for all his airs,
That fellow cannot read the arms he bears;
Nor, kneeling, M IRA ! on his trembling knee,
Explain one half of all he says to thee.
" No matter, he has gold; whose precious hue
" Is beauty, virtue, wit, and learning too:
" O, blind to worth! what lovelier than a chaise,
" Two bowing footmen, and a pair of bays?
" What virtue like an handsome country-seat,
" A good per'annum , and a course of plate?
" And then for wit — a clever library;
" He cannot read a book; but he can buy:
" A fig for learning! Learning does he lack,
" Whose factor both can write and sign — a tack?
" Besides, you know, for ten or less per ann .
" Ev'n you, or any scholar, is his man. "

B EAR me, ye gods! O, bear me where you please!
To unknown regions, over unknown seas;
Place me where dews refreshing never drop,
On N IGER 's banks, a swarthy Æ THIOP ;
Or melt me to the fashionable size,
Below the scorching heat of Indian skies:
No; there, ev'n there, the lust of gold prevails,
Each river groans with ships, each breeze with fails;
The land abounds, nay ocean's farthest creeks,
With dirt that's sought for, or with dirt that seeks.
Fix me an icen statue at the pole,
Where winds can't carry, and where waves can't roll;
To man, to greedy man, your bard prefers,
White foxes, sables, ermines, cats, and bears,
And all the surry monsters G REENLAND can call hers.

O R is the boon too great for gods to give?
Recal the mighty word that bade me live:
So, in the dust forever shall I shun
That worst of evils that affronts the sun,
A fool whose crimes, or father's, have made great,
Spurning true genius prostrate at his feet.