Inebriety and the Candidate | Page 7

of Hermes' own
Cheapside,
Nor gold itself, nor all the Ganges laves,
Or shrouds,
well shrouded in his sacred waves;
Nor gorgeous vessels deck'd in
trim array,
Which the more noble Thames bears far away;
Let those

whose nod makes sooty subjects flee?
Hack with blunt steel the
savory callipee;
Let those whose ill-used wealth their country fly,

Virtue-scorn'd wines from hostile France to buy;
Favour'd by Fate, let
such in joy appear,
Their smuggled cargoes landed thrice a year;

Disdaining these, for simpler food I'll look,
And crop my beverage at
the mantled brook.
O Virtue! brighter than the noon-tide ray,
My humble prayers with
sacred joys repay!
Health to my limbs may the kind gods impart,

And thy fair form delight my yielding heart!
Grant me to shun each
vile inglorious road,
To see thy way, and trace each moral good:
If
more--let Wisdom's sons my page peruse,
And decent credit deck my
modest Muse.
Nor deem it pride that prophesies my song
Shall please the sons of
taste, and please them long.
Say ye! to whom my Muse submissive
brings
Her first-fruit offering, and on trembling wings,
May she not
hope in future days to soar,
Where fancy's sons have led the way
before?
Where genius strives in each ambrosial bower
To snatch
with agile hand the opening flower?
To cull what sweets adorn the
mountain's brow,
What humbler blossoms crown the vales below?

To blend with these the stores by art refined,
And give the moral
Flora to the mind?
Far other scenes my timid hour admits,
Relentless critics and
avenging wits;
E'en coxcombs take a licence from their pen,
And to
each "Let him perish," cry Amen!
And thus, with wits or fools my
heart shall cry,
For if they please not, let the trifles die:
Die, and be
lost in dark oblivion's shore,
And never rise to vex their author more.
I would not dream o'er some soft liquid line,
Amid a thousand
blunders form'd to shine;
Yet rather this, than that dull scribbler be,

From every fault and every beauty free,
Curst with tame thoughts and
mediocrity.
Some have I found so thick beset with spots,
'Twas

hard to trace their beauties through their blots;
And these, as tapers
round a sick man's room
Or passing chimes, but warn'd me of the
tomb!
O! if you blast, at once consume my bays,
And damn me not with
mutilated praise.
With candour judge; and, a young bard in view,

Allow for that, and judge with kindness too;
Faults he must own,
though hard for him to find,
Not to some happier merits quite so blind;

These if mistaken Fancy only sees,
Or Hope, that takes Deformity
for these:
If Dunce, the crowd-befitting title falls
His lot, and
Dulness her new subject calls,
To the poor bard alone your censures
give -
Let his fame die, but let his honour live;
Laugh if you
must--be candid as you can,
And when you lash the Poet, spare the
Man.
Footnotes:
{1} First published in Ipswich, 1775.
{2} First published 1780.
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