ENGLISH BARDS AND SCOTCH REVIEWERS. A SATIRE. STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse Fitzgerald bawl His creaking couplets in a tavern hall, And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my muse? Prepare for rhyme — I'll publish, right or wrong: Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. Oh! nature's noblest gift my gray goose-quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men! The pen foredoomed to aid the mental throes Of brains that labor, big with verse or prose, Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride, The lover's solace, and the author's pride. What wits! what poets dost thou daily raise! How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise! Condemned at length to be forgotten quite, Inspires our path, though full of thorns is plain; Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain. When Vice triumphant holds her sov'reign sway, Obeyed by all who naught beside obey; When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime, Bedecks her cap with bells of every clime; When knaves and fools combined o'er all prevail, And weigh their justice in a golden scale; E'en then the boldest start from public sneers, Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears, More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe, And shrink from ridicule, though not from law. Such is the force of wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satiric song; The royal vices of our age demand A keener weapon, and a mightier hand. Still there are follies, e'en for me to chase, And yield at least amusement in the race: Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame; The cry is up, and scribblers are my game. Speed, Pegasus!-ye strains of great and small; Ode, epic, elegy, have at you all! |