THE PARNASSIAD. A VISIONARY VIEW. ___ COME fancy, thou hast ever been, In
life’s low vale, my ready frien’, To cheer the Tho’
unfledg’d with scholastic law, Some
visionary picture draw, With all thy magic pow’r; Now
to the intellectual eye The glowing prospects rise, Parnassus’ lofty summits high, Far tow’ring mid the skies, Where vernally, eternally,
Rich leafy laurels grow, With bloomy bays, thro’ endless days,
To crown the Poet’s
brow. Sure
bold is he who dares to climb Yon
awful jutting rock sublime, Who dares Pegassus sit, For
should brain-ballast prove too light, He’ll
spurn him from his airy height, Down to oblivion’s pit; There,
to disgrace forever doom’d, To mourn his sick’ning woes, And
weep that ever he presum’d, Above the vale of Prose; Then, O beware!
with prudent care,
Nor ’tempt the steeps of fame, And leave behind thy To gain a sounding name.* *The career of genius is rarely that of fortune; and often
that of contempt, even in its most flattering aspect, what is it but plucking a
few brilliant flowers from precipices, while the reward terminates in the
honour. D'Israeli. Behold!
— yon ready-rhyming
carl, With
flatt’ry fir’d, attracts the warl, By canker’d, pers’nal satire; He
takes th’ unthinking croud’s acclaim, For
sterling proofs of lasting fame, And deals his inky spatter; Now,
see he on Pegassus
flies, With bluff, important straddle! He bears him midway up
the skies, See, see he’s off
the saddle! He headlong tumbles, growls and
grumbles,
Down the dark abyss: The noisy core that prais’d before,
Now joins the gen’ral hiss. Now
see another vent’rer rise; Deep-fraught
with fulsome Eulogies, To win his patron’s favour, One
of those adulating things, That
dangling in the train of k—s, Give guilt a splendid cover; He
mounts, well-prefac’d by my Lord, Inflicts the spur’s sharp wound; Pegassus spurns the great man’s word, And won't move from the ground; Now mark his face flush’d with
disgrace,
Thro’ future life to grieve on, His wishes crost, his hopes all lost,
He sinks into oblivion. Yon city-scribbler
thinks to scale, The
cliffs of fame, with Pastoral, In worth thinks none e’er richer, Yet
never climb’d the upland steep, Nor
e’er beheld a flock of sheep, Save those, driv’n by the butcher; Nor
ever mark’d the gurgling stream, Except the common sew’r, On
rainy days, when dirt and slime Pour’d turbid past his door; Choice epithets in store he gets
From Virgil, Shenstone, Pope, With taylor-art tacks part to part,
And makes his Past’ral up. But
see, rich-clad in native worth, Yon
Bard of nature ventures forth, In simple modest tale, Applauding
millions catch the song, The raptur’d rocks the notes prolong, And hand them to the gale; Pegassus kneels—he takes his
seat-- Now see, aloft he tow’rs, To
place him, ’bove the reach of fate, In Fame’s ambrosial bow’rs: To be enroll’d with Bards of old,
In ever-honour’d station,-- The gods well-pleas’d, see mortals
rais’d
Worthy of their creation! Now
mark what crowds of hackney-scribblers, Imitators,
rhyming dabblers, Follow in the rear! Pegassus spurns us one by
one, Yet
still fame-struck we follow on, And tempt our fate severe: In
many a dogg’rel Epitaph, And short-lin’d mournful Ditty, Our
“AHS!—ALASES!”
raise
the laugh, Revert the tide of
pity, Yet still we write in nature’s
spite,
Our last piece ay the best; Arraigning still, complaining still, The world for want of taste!* *
“ With
dreams of wealth, and friends, and laurels won, On ruin’s
brink we sleep, and wake undone.” Observe
yon poor deluded man, With
thread-bare coat and visage wan, Ambitious of a name; The
nat’ral claims of meat and cleading, He
reckons these not worth the heeding, But presses on for fame! The
public voice, touch-stone of worth, Anonymous he tries, But
draws his critic’s vengeance forth-- His fancied glory dies; Neglected now, dejected now,
He gives his spleen full scope, In solitude he chews his cude,
A downright misanthrope. Then
Brother-rhymsters, O beware! Nor
tempt unscar’d the specious snare, Which self-love
often weaves; Nor
doat with a fond father’s pains, Upon
the offspring of your brains, For fancy oft deceives; To
lighten life, a wee bit sang Is sure a sweet illusion! But
ne’er provoke the critics stang, By premature intrusion: Lock up your peace, let fondness
cease,
Till mem’ry fail to bear it, With critic-lore then read it o'er,
Yourself may judge its merit. |