Classic Poem

Dragon! since lyrics are the mode,
To thee I dedicate my Ode,
And reason good I plead:
Are those who cannot write, to blame
To draw their hopes of future fame,
From those who cannot read?

O could I, like that nameless wight,
Find the choice minute when to write,
The mollia tempora fandi!
Like his, my muse should learn to whistle
A true Heroical Epistle ,
In strains which never can die.

Father of lyrics, tuneful Horace!
Can thy great shade do nothing for us
To mend the British lyre?
Our luckless bards have broke the strings,
Seiz'd the scar'd muses, pluck'd their wings,
And put out all their fire.

Dragon! thou tyrant of the yard,
Great namesake of that furious guard
That watch'd the fruits Hesperian!
Thy choicer treasures safely keep,
Nor snatch one moment's guilty sleep,
Fidelity's criterion.

O Dragon! change with me thy fate,
To me give up thy place and state,
And I will give thee mine:
I, left to think, and thou to feed!
My mind enlarg'd, thy body freed,
How blest my lot and thine!

Then shalt thou scent the rich regale
Of turtle and diluting ale,
Nay, share the sav'ry bit;
And see, what thou hast never seen,
For thou hast but at Hampton been,
A feast devoid of wit.

Oft shalt thou snuff the smoking venison,
Devour'd, alone , by hungry denizen,
So fresh, thou'lt long to tear it;
Though Flaccus tells a diff'rent tale
Of social souls who chose it stale,
Because their friends should share it.

And then on me what joys would wait,
Were I the guardian of thy gate
How useless bolt and latch!
How vain were locks, and bars how vain,
To shield from harm the household train
Whom I, from love, would watch!

Not that 'twould crown with joy my life,
That Bowden, or that Bowden's wife
Brought me my daily pickings;
Though she, accelerating fate,
Decrees the scanty mortal date
Of turkeys and of chickens?

Though fir'd with innocent ambition,
Bowden, great nature's rhetorician,
More flowers than Burke produces;
And though he's skilled more roots to find,
Than ever stock'd an Hebrew's mind,
And knows their various uses.

I'd get my master's ways by rote,
Ne'er would I bark at ragged coat,
Nor tear the tatter'd sinner;
Like him, I'd love the dog of merit,
Caress the cur of broken spirit,
And give them all a dinner.

Nor let me pair his blue-ey'd dame
With Venus' or Minerva's name,
One warrior, one coquet;
No; Pallas and the queen of beauty
Shunn'd, or betray'd that nuptial duty,
Which she so high has set.

Whene'er I heard the rattling coach
Proclaim their long-desir'd approach,
How would I haste to greet 'em!
Nor ever feel I wore a chain,
Till, starting, I perceiv'd with pain
I could not fly to meet 'em.

The master loves his sylvan shades,
Here, with the nine melodious maids,
His choicest hours are spent;
Yet I shall hear some witling cry,
(Such witling from my presence fly!)
" Garrick will soon repent:

" Again you'll see him, never fear;
" Some half a dozen times a year
" He still will charm the age;
" Accustom'd long to be admir'd,
" Of shades and streams he'll soon be tir'd,
" And languish for the stage. "

Peace! — To his solitude he bears
The full-blown fame of thirty yours;
He bears a nation's praise:
He bears his lib'ral, polish'd mind,
His worth, his wit, his sense refin'd;
He bears his well-earn'd bays.

When warm admirers drop a tear
Because this sun has left his sphere,
And set before his time;
I who have felt and lov'd his rays,
What they condemn will loudly praise,
And call the deed sublime.

How wise! long pamper'd with applause,
To make a voluntary pause
And lay his laurels down!
Boldly repelling each strong claim,
To dare assert to wealth and fame,
" Enough of both I've known. "

How wise! a short retreat to steal,
The vanity of life to feel,
And from its cares to fly;
To act one calm, domestic scene,
Earth's bustle and the grave between,
Retire, and learn to die!