Some men there are, thank Heaven, but very few,
Who will condemn, whate'er you say or do ;
They, with ingenious malice, draw forth evil
From sermons! such are children of the devil!
One writes a song; should it appear in print,
The generous Bavius says, "There's danger in 't."
Another cheers an else heart-broken bard;
"Let the vain fool his parasite reward!”
Kind Zoilus exclaims. Who then escapes?
None, when foul Envy thus her comment shapes.
Yet will my mind fly backwards to the time
When great indeed my fault, I learn'd to rhyme :
When every day gave birth to schemes, that soon.
Pass'd rapidly away, like dreams at noon;
To plans that might have suited fairy-land,
But fleeting here as figures drawn in sand!
How often have we studied Gibbon's page!
How often glow'd with Burke; prophetic sage!
Those intellectual giants, such in truth
They were, with splendid periods charm'd our youth.
Oft have we sought the theatre; and felt
That then embodied there, Rome's genius dwelt,
When Kemble, like the god-like hero, shone
Among inferior lights, a sun alone!
Adored by thousands, such his happy lot-
He was but yesterday; and now - forgot!
Thus as old Time turns round his wheel, uprise,
And fast descend, the mighty and the wise;
A few eulogiums in the journals tell
How wise they were, how mighty, then-farewell!
He whom variety delights, would find
All that must please him in Statira's mind!
Where various qualities are sweetly blent,
Candour with cunning, sense with sentiment.
Look in her face, a devil lurketh there,
That in her eye-glance seems to say-" Beware!"
How often have we prattled round her board,
With would-be Authors and a gentle Lord!
Great was her love of patronage and state;
We praised her talents, and her show of plate.
But times are alter'd: in this world of woe
Realities demand exertion now.
We are not what we were; that burning zeal
For books and pleasures we no longer feel:
Fancy has now withdrawn her high-wrought veil
From our fond gaze, and sober thoughts prevail;
And what has pleased in boyhood now appears
Vain, as comes on the noon-time of our years.
All was romantic, if it be romance
upon the changing stream of chance.
Let Cocker's useful volume supersede
The metaphysic tomes of Brown or Reid.
Yet they are useful too, and happier far
Than those who through the day wage wordy war,
Then dine, just reeking from the crowded court,
On tough beefsteaks, cold soup, and tavern port.
Can the poor head contain what it is now
Expedient for a Gentleman to know?
Though through the circle of the arts we run,
(Thanks to Reviews) we can remember none.
The Lawyer throws aside his book, and burns
To be a Davy and a Smith by turns;
His clients suffer, yet where'er he dines,
Chemist, or Bard, the learned Proteus shines.
Society improves; the times require Some little knowledge in a country squire ; And book clubs, through the country widely spread, Show that at least our modern works are read. The most inveterate sportsman now may speak French and Italian, nay, can construe Greek. A fire-side voyager from shore to shore, He loves not in his easy chair to snore.
All can talk politics, no matter how;
The witty and the dull, the high and low :
But few (which is the test of taste) can quote
Aptly a line, or tell an anecdote :
Few can converse, with unaffected ease,
Or like a Ward, or like a Canning please.
Our country neighbours something more can say
Than "How d'ye do?" and ""Tis a lovely day;"
I've heard from them what in reputed wits
Would be considered very pretty hits.
A bel esprit in France and Britain's known,
But England calls the humorous man her own;
Yet "masters of the joke," who have a name,
Sometimes say things unworthy of their fame.
No dun's loud voice, nor newsman's louder horn,
Here scare you from your slumbers light at morn:
No loungers here at one assail your door,
To kill their time by wasting yours till four:
To them 'tis all the same what themes engage
Their minds, a death perchance, or equipage.
'Tis hard to say who greater ills endure,
The listless rich, or the o'erlabouring poor.
Indolence sits a night-mare on the breast ;
And night or day her victims cannot rest.
Since man was never born to live alone,
How can he be that wretched thing—a drone!
A country-life is tame! Who says 'tis so? The muck-worm cit, or butterfly-like beau; Or some fair Exquisite whose mind is fraught With maxims by the Queen of Fashion taught? "Would you be fashionable, you must weed Your company, my dear, you must indeed.
Those who give balls ask first Exclusives; then
As you would choose your pinks select your men.
Let not a swarm of country-folks appear
To greet you with a cordial welcome, dear;
Such you must cut at once.-It is not worth,
Nor wit, nor talent, no nor even birth
That gives the ton; 'tis something you will find
At Almack's-'tis-it cannot be defined.
Remember you may always turn aside
As if by accident, and not through pride,
When those approach you whom you should not know,
Or be short-sighted, or at least seem so.
Let none but titled names your parties boast,
They look divinely in the Morning Post.
Though Dowagers may old and ugly be,
They blaze in diamonds, are of high degree ;
Though noble Dandies look like gay baboons,
Their stars shine lustrous through our grand saloons :
How sweet it is to listen to the prate
Of some young lordling, pillar of the state!
Who, quite the fashion, to a favour'd few
Speaks, then be thankful if he talks to you."
You laugh at this would-be satiric strain?
Well then, I'll read my Blackstone o'er again,
And talk about a “fine,” or a 66 release,"
And dare to be a Justice of the Peace!
Yet, my good friend, though nothing has a sale
But a high novel, or a bravo's tale,
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