The Poets Progress（2 / 4）
vampyre—booksellers drain him to the heart,
and viper—critics cureless venom dart.
critics! appll'd i venture on the name,
those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame,
bloody dissectors, worse than ten monroes,
he hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:
by blockhead's daring into madness stung,
his heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung,
his well-won ways—than life itself more dear—
by miscreants torn who ne'er one sprig must wear;
foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,
the hapless poet flounces on through life,
till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
and fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd,
low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
dead even resentment for his injur'd page,
he heeds no more the ruthless critics' rage.
so by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd,
for half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast;
by toil and famine worn to skin and bone,
lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
a little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
and still his precious self his dear delight;
who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,
better than e'er the fairest she he meets;
much specious lore, but little understood,
(veneering oft outshines the solid wood),
his solid sense, by inches you must tell,
but mete his cunning by the scottish ell!
a man of fashion too, he made his tour, ↑返回顶部↑
and viper—critics cureless venom dart.
critics! appll'd i venture on the name,
those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame,
bloody dissectors, worse than ten monroes,
he hacks to teach, they mangle to expose:
by blockhead's daring into madness stung,
his heart by wanton, causeless malice wrung,
his well-won ways—than life itself more dear—
by miscreants torn who ne'er one sprig must wear;
foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife,
the hapless poet flounces on through life,
till, fled each hope that once his bosom fired,
and fled each muse that glorious once inspir'd,
low-sunk in squalid, unprotected age,
dead even resentment for his injur'd page,
he heeds no more the ruthless critics' rage.
so by some hedge the generous steed deceas'd,
for half-starv'd, snarling curs a dainty feast;
by toil and famine worn to skin and bone,
lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
a little upright, pert, tart, tripping wight,
and still his precious self his dear delight;
who loves his own smart shadow in the streets,
better than e'er the fairest she he meets;
much specious lore, but little understood,
(veneering oft outshines the solid wood),
his solid sense, by inches you must tell,
but mete his cunning by the scottish ell!
a man of fashion too, he made his tour, ↑返回顶部↑