Inebriety and the Candidate | Page 4

meet,

The patriot scrap shall warn us to retreat.
And thou, the first of thy eccentric race,
A forward imp, go, search
the dangerous place,
Where Fame's eternal blossoms tempt each bard,

Though dragon-wits there keep eternal guard;
Hope not unhurt the
golden spoil to seize,
The Muses yield, as the Hesperides;
Who
bribes the guardian, all his labour's done,
For every maid is willing to
be won.
Before the lords of verse a suppliant stand,
And beg our passage
through the fairy land:
Beg more--to search for sweets each blooming
field,
And crop the blossoms woods and valleys yield,
To snatch
the tints that beam on Fancy's bow;
And feel the fires on Genius'
wings that glow;
Praise without meanness, without flattery stoop,


Soothe without fear, and without trembling, hope.
TO THE READER.
The following Poem being itself of an introductory nature, its author
supposes it can require but little preface.
It is published with a view of obtaining the opinion of the candid and
judicious reader on the merits of the writer as a poet; very few, he
apprehends, being in such cases sufficiently impartial to decide for
themselves.
It is addressed to the Authors of the Monthy Review, as to critics of
acknowledged merit; an acquaintance with whose labours has afforded
the writer of this Epistle a reason for directing it to them in particular,
and, he presumes, will yield to others a just and sufficient plea for the
preference.
Familiar with disappointment, he shall not be much surprised to find he
has mistaken his talent.
However, if not egregiously the dupe of his vanity, he promises to his
readers some entertainment, and is assured that however little in the
ensuing Poem is worthy of applause, there is yet less that merits
contempt.
TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.
The pious pilot, whom the gods provide,
Through the rough seas the
shatter'd bark to guide,
Trusts not alone his knowledge of the deep,

Its rocks that threaten, and its sands that sleep;
But whilst with nicest
skill he steers his way,
The guardian Tritons hear their favourite pray.

Hence borne his vows to Neptune's coral dome,
The god relents,
and shuts each gulfy tomb.
Thus as on fatal floods to fame I steer,
I dread the storm that ever
rattles here,
Nor think enough, that long my yielding soul
Has felt

the Muse's soft but strong control,
Nor think enough, that manly
strength and ease,
Such as have pleased a friend, will strangers please;

But, suppliant, to the critic's throne I bow,
Here burn my incense,
and here pay my vow;
That censure hush'd, may every blast give o'er,

And the lash'd coxcomb hiss contempt no more.
And ye, whom
authors dread or dare in vain,
Affecting modest hopes, or poor
disdain,
Receive a bard, who neither mad nor mean,
Despises each
extreme, and sails between;
Who fears; but has, amid his fears
confess'd,
The conscious virtue of a Muse oppress'd;
A muse in
changing times and stations nursed,
By nature honour'd, and by
fortune cursed.
No servile strain of abject hope she brings,
Nor soars presumptuous,
with unwearied wings,
But, pruned for flight--the future all her care -

Would know her strength, and, if not strong, forbear.
The supple slave to regal pomp bows down,
Prostrate to power, and
cringing to a crown;
The bolder villain spurns a decent awe,

Tramples on rule, and breaks through every law;
But he whose soul
on honest truth relies,
Nor meanly flatters power, nor madly flies.

Thus timid authors bear an abject mind,
And plead for mercy they but
seldom find.
Some, as the desperate, to the halter run,
Boldly deride
the fate they cannot shun;
But such there are, whose minds, not
taught to stoop,
Yet hope for fame, and dare avow their hope,
Who
neither brave the judges of their cause,
Nor beg in soothing strains a
brief applause.
And such I'd be;--and ere my fate is past,
Ere clear'd
with honour, or with culprits cast,
Humbly at Learning's bar I'll state
my case,
And welcome then distinction or disgrace!
When in the man the flights of fancy reign,
Rule in the heart or revel
in the brain,
As busy Thought her wild creation apes,
And hangs
delighted o'er her varying shapes,
It asks a judgment, weighty and
discreet,

To know where wisdom prompts, and where conceit.

Alike their draughts to every scribbler's mind
(Blind to their faults as

to their danger blind); -
We write enraptured, and we write in haste,

Dream idle dreams, and call them things of taste,
Improvement trace
in every paltry line,
And see, transported, every dull design;
Are
seldom cautious, all advice detest,
And ever think our own opinions
best;
Nor shows my Muse a muse-like spirit here,
Who bids me
pause, before I persevere.
But she--who shrinks while meditating flight
In the wide way, whose
bounds delude her sight,
Yet tired in her own mazes still to roam,

And cull poor banquets for the soul at home,
Would, ere she ventures,
ponder on the way,
Lest dangers yet unthought of, flight betray;

Lest her Icarian wing, by wits unplumed,
Be robb'd of all the honours
she assumed;
And Dulness swell,--a black and dismal sea,
Gaping
her grave; while censures madden me.
Such was his