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Not to believe my verse and their own eyes,

       And cry that they 'the moral cannot find,'

       I tell him, if a clergyman, he lies;

       Should captains the remark, or critics, make,

       They also lie too—under a mistake.

       The public approbation I expect,

       And beg they 'll take my word about the moral,

       Which I with their amusement will connect

       (So children cutting teeth receive a coral);

       Meantime, they 'll doubtless please to recollect

       My epical pretensions to the laurel:

       For fear some prudish readers should grow skittish,

       I 've bribed my grandmother's review—the British.

       I sent it in a letter to the Editor,

       Who thank'd me duly by return of post—

       I 'm for a handsome article his creditor;

       Yet, if my gentle Muse he please to roast,

       And break a promise after having made it her,

       Denying the receipt of what it cost,

       And smear his page with gall instead of honey,

       All I can say is—that he had the money.

       I think that with this holy new alliance

       I may ensure the public, and defy

       All other magazines of art or science,

       Daily, or monthly, or three monthly; I

       Have not essay'd to multiply their clients,

       Because they tell me 't were in vain to try,

       And that the Edinburgh Review and Quarterly

       Treat a dissenting author very martyrly.

       'Non ego hoc ferrem calida juventa

       Consule Planco,' Horace said, and so

       Say I; by which quotation there is meant a

       Hint that some six or seven good years ago

       (Long ere I dreamt of dating from the Brenta)

       I was most ready to return a blow,

       And would not brook at all this sort of thing

       In my hot youth—when George the Third was King.

       But now at thirty years my hair is grey

       (I wonder what it will be like at forty?

       I thought of a peruke the other day)—

       My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I

       Have squander'd my whole summer while 't was May,

       And feel no more the spirit to retort; I

       Have spent my life, both interest and principal,

       And deem not, what I deem'd, my soul invincible.

       No more—no more—Oh! never more on me

       The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,

       Which out of all the lovely things we see

       Extracts emotions beautiful and new,

       Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee:

       Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?

       Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power

       To double even the sweetness of a flower.

       No more—no more—Oh! never more, my heart,

       Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!

       Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

       Thou canst not be my blessing or my curse:

       The illusion 's gone for ever, and thou art

       Insensible, I trust, but none the worse,

       And in thy stead I 've got a deal of judgment,

       Though heaven knows how it ever found a lodgment.

       My days of love are over; me no more

       The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,

       Can make the fool of which they made before—

       In short, I must not lead the life I did do;

       The credulous hope of mutual minds is o'er,

       The copious use of claret is forbid too,

       So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,

       I think I must take up with avarice.

       Ambition was my idol, which was broken

       Before the shrines of Sorrow, and of Pleasure;

       And the two last have left me many a token

       O'er which reflection may be made at leisure:

       Now, like Friar Bacon's brazen head, I 've spoken,

       'Time is, Time was, Time 's past:'—a chymic treasure

       Is glittering youth, which I have spent betimes—

       My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.

       What is the end of Fame? 't is but to fill

       A certain portion of uncertain paper:

       Some liken it to climbing up a hill,

       Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour;

       For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,

       And bards burn what they call their 'midnight taper,'

       To have, when the original is dust,

       A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.

       What are the hopes of man? Old Egypt's King

       Cheops erected the first pyramid

       And largest, thinking it was just the thing

       To keep his memory whole, and mummy hid;

       But somebody or other rummaging,

       Burglariously broke his coffin's lid:

       Let not a monument give you or me hopes,

       Since not a pinch of dust remains of Cheops.

       But I being fond of true philosophy,

       Say very often to myself, 'Alas!

       All things that have been born were born to die,

       And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;

       You 've pass'd your youth not so unpleasantly,

       And if you had it o'er again—'t would pass—

       So thank your stars that matters are no worse,

       And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.'

       But for the present, gentle reader! and

       Still gentler purchaser! the bard—that 's I—

       Must, with permission, shake you by the hand,

       And so 'Your humble servant, and good-b'ye!'

       We meet again, if we should understand

       Each other; and if not, I shall not try

       Your patience further than by this short sample—

       'T were well if others follow'd my example.

       'Go, little book, from this my solitude!

       I cast thee on the waters—go thy ways!

       And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,

       The world will find thee after many days.'

       When Southey's read, and Wordsworth understood,

       I can't help putting in my claim to praise—

      

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