Classic Poem

When Pallas issued from the brain of Jove,
Momus, the Mimic of the Gods above,
In his mock mood impertinently spoke,
About the birth, some low, ridiculous joke:
Jove, sternly frowning, glow'd with vengeful ire,
And thus indignant said th' Almighty Sire,
" Loquacious Slave, that laugh'st without a cause,
Thou shalt conceive, and bring forth at thy jaws. "
He spoke — stretch'd in the hall the Mimic lies,
Supinely dull, thick vapours dim his eyes:
And as his jaws a horrid chasm disclose,
It seem'd he made a trumpet of his nose;
Tho' harsh the strain, and horrible to hear,
Like German jargon grating on the ear.

At length was Polychasmia brought to light,
Worthy her sire, a monster of a sight,
Resembling her great grandmother, Old Night.
Her eyes to open oft in vain she try'd,
Lock'd were the lids, her mouth distended wide
Her when Prometheus happen'd to survey
(Rival of Jove, that made mankind of clay)
He form'd without the aid of heav'nly ray.
To three Lethaean cups he learnt to mix
Deep sighs of virgins, with three blasts from Styx,
The bray of asses, with the fat of brawn,
The sleep-preceding groan, and hideous yawn
Thus Polychasmia took her wond'rous birth,
A Goddess helpful to the sons of earth.

Lo! how the rustic multitude from far
Haste to the town, and crowd the clam'rous bar.
The prest bench groans with many a squire and knight,
Who weigh out justice, and distribute right:
Severe they seem, and formidably big,
With front important, and huge periwig.
The little villains skulk aloof dismay'd,
And panic terrors seize the pregnant maid
But soon friend Polychasm', who always near,
Herself had mingled with their morning beer,
Steals to the judges brain, and centers there
Then in the court the horrid yawn began,
And Hum, profound and solemn, went from man to man:
Silent they nod, and with prodigious strain
Stretch out their arms, then listless yawn again:
For all the flow'rs of rhetoric they can boast,
Amidst their wranglings, is to gape the most:
Ambiguous quirks, and friendly wrath they vent,
And give and take the leaden argument

Ye too, Fanaticks, never shall escape
The faithful muse; for who so greatly gape?
Mounted on high, with serious care perplext,
The miserable preacher takes his text;
Then into parts minute, with wondrous pain,
Divides, connects, and then divides again,
And does with grave obscurity explain:
While from his lips lean periods lingring creep,
And not one meaning interrupts their sleep,
The drowsy hearers stretch their weary jaws
With lamentable groan, and yawning gape applause.

The Quacks of Physic next provoke my ire,
Who falsely boast Hippocrates their sire:
Goddess! thy sons I ken — verbose and loud,
They puff their windy bubbles on the crowd:
With look important, critical, and vain,
Each to his nose applies the gilded cane;
And as he nods, and ponders o'er the case,
Gravely collects himself into his face,
Explains his med'cines — which the rustic buys,
Drinks the dire draught, and of the doctor dies;
No pills, no potions can to life restore;
A BRACADABRA , necromantic pow'r
Can charm, and conjure up from death no more.

But more than aught that's marvellous and rare,
The studious Soph makes Polychasm' his care;
Explores what secret spring, what hidden cause,
Distends with hideous chasm th' unwilling jaws,
What latent ducts the dewy moisture pour
With sound tremendous, like a thunder-show'r:
How subtile matter, exquisitely thin,
Pervades the curious net-work of the skin,
Affects th' accordant nerve — all eyes are drown'd
In drowsy vapours, and the yawn goes round.
When Phaebus thus his flying fingers flings
Across the chords, and sweeps the trembling strings;
If e'er a lyre at unison there be,
It swells with emulating harmony,
Like Memnon's harp, in ancient times renown'd,
Breathing, untouch'd, sweet-modulated sound.

But oh! ungrateful! to thy own true bard,
Oh! Polychasm', is this my just reward?
Thy drowsy dews upon my head distill,
Just at the entrance of th' Aonian hill;
Listless I gape, unactive, and supine,
And at vast distance view the sacred Nine:
Wistful I view — the streams increase my thirst,
In vain — like Tantalus, with plenty curst,
No draughts nectareous to my portion fall,
These godlike Pope exhausts, and greatly claims them all.

Thus the lean Sizar views, with gaze agast,
The hungry Tutor at his noon's repast;
In vain he grinds his teeth — his grudging eye,
And visage sharp, keen appetite imply;
Of the attempts, officious, to convey
The lessening relicks of the meal away —
In vain — no morsel 'scapes the greedy jaw,
All, all is gorg'd in magisterial maw;
Till at the last, observant of his word,
The lamentable waiter clears the board,
And inly-murmuring miserably groans,
To see the empty dish, and hear the sounding bones.