XIX.

But poets' days roll on as swift as others,-
Time will not tarry till their works appear;
Nay, in his progress he too often smothers

The hopes they felt in many a by-gone year:
He realised not Harry's, nor his mother's;
But when his one-and-twentieth spring drew near,
He hail'd with pleasure his defunct indentures,
That left him free for literary adventures.

XX.

And then he launched upon the world, a bark
Without a rudder, and without a guide;
And, though the winds were out, and ocean dark,
And dangers threatening him on every side,
With only his poetic star to mark

His way across the wild and wayward tide,
He dreamed of sailing to a world of glory,
Where every spot would echo with his story.

XXI.

He had long scribbled for the magazines;

He gave them verses, and they gave And many reading misses in their teens,

him-space;

Found H-H- always in his monthly place: But now he burned for more auspicious scenes, And larger, longer, loftier works to trace,Thus builders, who begin with fourth-rate houses, Grow proud-build squares-and ruin selves and spouses.

XXII.

But now he thought, as he had rhymed so long,

'Twas time he should be known,-he therefore made

A small collection from his heaps of song,

Only four volumes just to tempt the trade,

With these he tried the publishers among,
But none of all the craft could he persuade
To buy them,-blind, infatuated men!
You ne'er may meet with such a chance again,
XXIII.

On one proud epic now his hopes he placed, —
He scorned to write, as once he did, in brief;
The mighty plan, the characters, he traced,—

His hero, Gallia's great, though fallen, chief:
Inspired beyond control, he wrote in haste,
And filled, enthusiastic, leaf on leaf;
He hid himself in an obscure abode,
Deemed, by us bards, to fame the surest road.

XXIV.

Ye Goldsmiths, Falconers, Collinses, and Grays,
Who built for fame on some few hundred lines,
Hide your diminished heads; and with amaze
See how my hero in the contrast shines!
He could have filled some folios with his lays-
What was your scanty ore to all his mines?
He had already written more than you,

With all your love of verse, would e'er read through.

XXV.

Behold him now in all a poet's glory;

No wife, no children, to disturb one thought; Th' enthusiast tenant of an attic story

Ambitious floor! with loftiest visions fraught? The more he drew upon his mind, the more he Found the poetic treasures that he sought. Sleep, he did now and then indulge a wink of; But food, or dress, he hardly deigned to think of.

XXVI.

Ye who knew nothing of the etherial joy

Sweet Poesy bestows, may deem him mad;

But 'tis the most inspiriting employ,

That in this vale of labour can be had:

Of all pursuits it leaves the least alloy

To mar its pleasures;-Poets may be sad-
But in their very sadness there is bliss-
Can law or physic say as much as this?

XXVII.

Of every occupation, Harry deemed

It was the most important-war or peace,

Politics, commerce, agriculture, seemed

Not worth a thought, might rhyming but increase,So that the press with its o'erflowing teemed;

The very government itself might cease

He thought the people, would they only try it,
Might all be fed, lodged, clothed, and governed by it.

XXVIII.

I would they thought so! then the world would be
A place indeed worth living in-fine times
For bards of middling, low, and high degree!
It would not then be kings, but men of rhymes
Would sway the sceptre of authority;

And rule like despots the poetic climes;
Strange, that the people should so little heed it,
That not one hundredth part believe they need it.

XXIX.

In four short months he had his epic done,
By writing several hundred lines a day;
To eight-and-forty books the strain had run
Battles and sieges shone in long array;
And most of these we know his hero won-

!

Heroes must win, or who would read the layThe Greeks and Trojans, though the men weie bigger, Beside his warriors cut a sorry figure.

Like Crusoe with his boat, while he was writing,
A doubt of launching it ne'er damped his mind;
He never deemed the world would grudge requiting
His muse with praise and pay, nor fail to find
The beauties of his scenery and fighting:

They would not-could not-should not be so blind'Twould form an era in the world of letters,

And make ev'n unborn myriads his debtors.

XXXI.

The only doubt he had, was, whom to chuse,
To usher his great epic into day;
Such an unmatched production of the muse,
Four quarto vols.-must not be thrown away-
Five he could name, to whom he'd not refuse
The publishing, could they arrange the pay.
He reckoned it would bring him just enough
To live upon, go fortune smooth or rough.

XXXII.

Ye who have been at th' opening of a will,
When not a sous was left to any there—
May judge how looked our hero of the quill-
What utter blankness-what supreme despair,
Appeared his falling countenance to fill,

When none would buy, nor even take a share :
He thought some demon must possess the trade,
Who would not let them have their fortunes made.

XXXIII.

Some were amazed at his temerity,

In writing such an awful mass of verse;

Some gave advice without severity-
Others gave poetry a hearty curse;

And spoke-(the traitors!) with asperity

Against the Nine, and called them jilts, or worse; And some, as if the youth had brought the plague, Turned pale with terrors undefined and vague.

XXXIV.

Print it himself, for want of funds, he could not,
Or else it would have
gone to press that hour;
And they who had the means to do it would not
He had the will-but others had the power:
'Twas strange that publishers and poet should not
For once ute to catch the golden shower-

It hath been so ever since poets wrote-
The two could never row in the same boat.

XXXV.

One volume he got printed just for trial;
His mother was obliged to help to do it-
Alas! the reading public were so shy all,

That only in the windows would they view it;
And though he thought that they would quickly buy all
Th' edition up--he ne'er got tenth part through it!
'Twas a return ungrateful beyond measure,

To one who wrote entirely for their pleasure.

XXXVI.

Shame on mankind-to buy bread, beef, and muttonYet not to think upon the last new poem!

They buy coats too-yet do not care a button

Whether the bard's so bare that none will know him, Or hath the Laureate's court-dress to put on: It proves a taste most abject not to show him The preference-oh! why is man, so blind? If he is hungry-let him feast his mind?

XXXVII.

Homeward in mighty wrath the bard returned,
With little money, and as little hope;
With indignation high his bosom burned;
He gave his overflowing passion scope,

And all the temptings of the muse he spurned:

With the world's frowns he knew not how to cope At last, he thought the grandest way to spite it, Would be, never to let his works delight it.

"

XXXVIII.

'Ungrateful world!"—the bard exclaimed, with ire"I'll have a glorious, great revenge! this hand Shall here devote these treasures to the fire,

Which would have shed delight o'er all the land:

See, and despair! behold your bliss expire

In one devouring flame-the great-the grandThe beauteous and sublime--shall perish all! Torn from your hopes for ever, past recall.

XXXIX.

What you had one day pondered with delight,
I'll wrest from you for ever-other strain
This hand shall never pen to bless your sight:

Get epics where you can, and weep in vain;

And wish that you had done the poet right;

While he, triumphant then, shall mock your pain;

And you repentant at his feet deplore

い

His cruel-stern resolve-to write no more!

XL.

The deed shall gain me an immortal name,
Like his who burnt Diana's temple down:
Ages, with wonder shall repeat his name,
Whose self-devotion thus could gain a crown
Who gave another Iliad to the flame;

And left the world to sorrow or to frown,
Just as it might and mocked at its despair;
And scorned alike its praise or wealth to share.”

XLI.

And now the pile was heaped-the papers lay
Ready to blaze-unnumbered odes unread,
Beside the epic; and a long array

Of sonnets; elegies upon the dead;

Epistles to the living; lines to day,

And night-sun, moon, and every star that shed Its light-tales and didactics without number;Upon the brink of ruin seemed to slumber.

XLII.

'Ah! headstrong youth, thy ruthless hand withhold,
Nor do the world so great-so dire a wrong!
It might, perhaps, yet give thee fame and gold,
And do full justice to thy powers of song;
Forbear, till hope is quenched, and thou art old -'
He did forbear-the destined pile among

A fragment caught his eye-he strove to spurn it
But 'twas so fine-he really could not burn it.

XLIII.

Burn it! a poet thus destroy his lays-
Yes, when the civic chief shall set on fire
The Mansion-House-a bishop light a blaze
To burn down Lambeth palace in his ire-
When landlords burn their title-deeds, and gaze
With joy upon the parchments that expire-
Then hope to see a bard consume his papers,
The offspring of so many midnight tapers.