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But, sure, 'tis pleasant, as we walk, to see The pointed finger, hear the loud _That's he_, On every side:--and seems it, in your sight, So poor a trifle, that whate'er we write Is introduced to every school of note, 55 And taught the youth of quality by rote? --Nay, more! Our nobles, gorged, and swilled with wine, Call, o'er the banquet, for a lay divine. Here one, on whom the princely purple glows, Snuffles some musty legend through his nose; 60 Slowly distills Hypsipyle's sad fate, And love-lorn Phillis, dying for her mate, With what of woeful else is said or sung; And trips up every word, with lisping tongue. The maudlin audience, from the couches round, 65 Hum their assent, responsive to the sound.-- And are not now the poet's ashes blest! Now lies the turf not lightly on his breast! They pause a moment--and again, the room Rings with his praise: now will not roses bloom, 70 Now, from his relics, will not violets spring, And o'er his hallowed urn their fragrance fling! You laugh ('tis answered), and too freely here Indulge that vile propensity to sneer. Lives there, who would not at applause rejoice, 75 And merit, if he could, the public voice? Who would not leave posterity such rhymes, As cedar oil might keep to latest times; Rhymes, which should fear no desperate grocer's hand, Nor fly with fish and spices through the land! 80 Thou, my kind monitor, whoe'er thou art, Whom I suppose to play the opponent's part, Know--when I write, if chance some happier strain (And chance it needs must be) rewards my pain, Know, I can relish praise with genuine zest; 85 Not mine the torpid, mine the unfeeling breast: But that I merely toil for this acclaim, And make these eulogies my end and aim, I must not, can not grant: for--sift them all, Mark well their value, and on what they fall: 90 Are they not showered (to pass these trifles o'er) On Labeo's Iliad, drunk with hellebore? On princely love-lays driveled without thought, And the crude trash on citron couches wrought? You spread the table--'tis a master-stroke, 95 And give the shivering guest a threadbare cloak, Then, while his heart with gratitude dilates At the glad vest and the delicious cates, Tell me, you cry--for truth is my delight, What says the Town of me, and what I write? 100 He can not:--he has neither ears nor eyes. But shall I tell you, who your bribes despise? --Bald trifler! cease at once your thriftless trade; That mountain paunch for verse was never made. O Janus, happiest of thy happy kind!-- 105 No waggish stork can peck at thee behind: No tongue thrust forth, expose to passing jeers; No twinkling fingers, perked like ass's ears, Point to the vulgar mirth:--but you, ye Great, To a blind occiput condemned by fate, 110 Prevent, while yet you may, the rabble's glee, And tremble at the scoff you can not see!--
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What says the Town --precisely what it ought: All you produce, sir, with such skill is wrought, That o'er the polished surface, far and wide, 115 The critic nail without a jar must glide; Since every verse is drawn as straight and fine As if one eye had fixed the ruddled line. --Whate'er the subject of his varied rhymes, The humors, passions, vices of the times; 120 The pomp of nobles, barbarous pride of kings, All, all is great, and all inspired he sings! Lo! striplings, scarcely from the ferule freed, And smarting yet from Greek, with headlong speed Rush on heroics; though devoid of skill 125 To paint the rustling grove, or purling rill; Or praise the country, robed in cheerful green, Where hogs, and hearths, and osier frails are seen, And happy hinds, who leap o'er smouldering hay, In honor, Pales, of thy sacred day. 130 _--Scenes of delight!--there Remus lived, and there,_ _In grassy furrows Quinctius tired his share;_ _Quinctius, on whom his wife, with trembling haste,_ _The dictatorial robes, exulting, placed,_ _Before his team; while homeward, with his plow, 135_ _The lictors hurried_--Good! a Homer, thou! There are, who hunt out antiquated lore; And never, but on musty authors, pore; These, Accius' jagged and knotty lines engage, And those, Pacuvius' hard and horny page; 140 Where, in quaint tropes, Antiopa is seen To--_prop her dolorific heart with teen_! O, when you mark the sire, to judgment blind, Commend such models to the infant mind, Forbear to wonder whence this olio sprung, 145 This sputtering jargon which infests our tongue; This scandal of the times, which shocks my ear, And which our knights bound from their seats to hear! How monstrous seems it, that we can not plead, When called to answer for some felon deed, 150 Nor danger from the trembling head repel, Without a wish for--_Bravo! Vastly well!_ This Pedius is a thief, the accusers cry. You hear them, Pedius; now, for your reply? In terse antitheses he weighs the crime, 155 Equals the pause, and balances the chime; And with such skill his flowery tropes employs, That the rapt audience scarce contain their joys. _O charming! charming! he must sure prevail._ THIS, _charming_! Can a Roman wag the tail? 160 Were the wrecked mariner to chant his woe, Should I or sympathy or alms bestow? Sing you, when, in that tablet on your breast, I see your story to the life exprest; A shattered bark, dashed madly on the shore, 165 And you, scarce floating, on a broken oar!-- No, he must feel that would my pity share, And drop a natural, not a studied tear. But yet our numbers boast a grace unknown To our rough sires, a smoothness all our own. 170 True: the spruce metre in sweet cadence flows, And answering sounds a tuneful chime compose: Blue Nereus here, the Dolphin swift divides; And Idè there, sees Attin climb her sides: Nor this alone--for, in some happier line, 175 We win the chine of the long Apennine! _Arms and the man_--Here, too, perhaps, you find A pithless branch beneath a fungous rind? Not so;--a seasoned trunk of many a day, Whose gross and watery parts are drawn away. 180 But what, in fine (for still you jeer me), call For the moist eye, bowed head, and lengthened drawl, What strains of genuine pathos?--_O'er the hill_ _The dismal slug-horn sounded, loud and shrill,_ _A Mimallonian blast: fired at the sound, 185_ _In maddening groups the Bacchants pour around,_ _Mangle the haughty calf with gory hands,_ _And scourge the indocile lynx with ivy wands;_ _While Echo lengthens out the barbarous yell,_ _And propagates the din from cell to cell!_ 190 O were not every spark of manly sense, Of pristine vigor quenched, or banished hence, Could this be borne! this cuckoo-spit of Rome, Which gathers round the lips in froth and foam! --The _haughty calf_, and _Attin's_ jangling strain, 195 Dropped, without effort, from the rheumy brain; No savor they of bleeding nails afford, Or desk, oft smitten for the happy word. But why must you, alone, displeased appear, And with harsh truths thus grate the tender ear? 200 O yet beware! think of the closing gate! And dread the cold reception of the great: This currish humor you extend too far, While every word growls with that hateful gnar! Right! From this hour (for now my fault I see) 205 All shall be charming--charming all, for me: What late seemed base, already looks divine, And wonders start to view in every line! Tis well, you cry: this spot let none defile, Or turn to purposes obscene and vile. 210 Paint, then, two snakes entwined; and write around, URINE NOT, CHILDREN, HERE; 'TIS HOLY GROUND. Awed, I retire: and yet--when vice appeared, Lucilius o'er the town his falchion reared; On Lupus, Mutius, poured his rage by name, 215 And broke his grinders on their bleeding fame. And yet--arch Horace, while he strove to mend, Probed all the foibles of his smiling friend; Played lightly round and round the peccant part, And won, unfelt, an entrance to his heart. 220 Well skilled the follies of the crowd to trace, And sneer, with gay good humor in his face. And I!--I must not mutter? No; nor dare-- Not to myself? No. To a ditch? Nowhere. Yes, here I'll dig--here, to sure trust confide 225 The secret which I would, but can not, hide. My darling book, a word;--
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King Midas wears (These eyes beheld them, these!) such ass's ears!