Classic Poem

TO MISSE — — S — — , ON HER REPEATING THE PRECEDING LINES

I

A P OET o'er his tea and toast
— Composed a page of verse last winter,
Transcribed it on the best Bath post,
— And sent the treasure to a printer.
He thought it an enchanting thing;
— And, fancying no one else could doubt it,
Went out, as happy as a king,
— To hear what people said about it.

II

Queen Fame was driving out that day;
— And, though she scarcely seemed to know him,
He bustled up, and tried to say
— Something about his little poem;
But ere from his unhappy lip
— Three timid trembling words could falter,
The goddess cracked her noisy whip,
— And went to call upon Sir Walter!

III

Old Criticism, whose glance observed
— The minstrel's blushes and confusion,
Came up and told him he deserved
— The rack at least for his intrusion:
The poor youth stared and strove to speak;
— His tyrant laughed to see him wincing,
And grumbled out a line of Greek,
— Which Dullness said was quite convincing.

IV

Then stepped a gaunt and wrinkled witch,
— Hight Avarice, from her filthy hovel;
And " Rhyme," quoth she, " won't make you rich;
— Go home, good youth, and write a novel!
Cut up the follies of the age;
— Sauce them with puns and disquisitions;
Let Colburn cook your title-page,
— And I'll ensure you six editions."

V

Ambition met him next; — he sighed
— To see those once-loved wreaths of laurel,
And crept into a bower to hide,
— For he and she had had a quarrel.
The goddess of the cumbrous crown
— Called after him, in tones of pity,
" My son, you've dropped your wig and gown!
— And, bless me, how you've torn your Chitty!"

VI

'Twas all unheeded or unheard,
— For now he knocked at Beauty's portal;
One word from her, one golden word,
— He knew, would make his lays immortal.
Alas! he elbowed through a throng
— Of danglers, dancers, catgut scrapers,
And found her twisting up his song
— Into the sweetest candlepapers.

VII

He turned away with sullen looks
— From Beauty, and from Beauty's scorning.
" To-night," he said, " I'll burn my books;
— I'll break my harpstrings in the morning." —
When lo, a laughing Fay drew near;
— And with soft voice, more soft than Circe's,
She whispered in the poet's ear
— The sounds the poet loved — his verses!

VIII

He looked, and listened; and it seemed
— In Childhood's lips the lines grew sweeter:
Good lack! till now he had not dreamed
— How bright the thought, how smooth the metre.
Ere the last stanza was begun,
— He managed all his wrath to smother;
And when the little Nymph had done,
— Said " Thank you, Love; — I'll write another!"