Second Epistle To Robert Graham, ESQ., O（2 / 3）
no horns, but those by luckless hymen worn,
and those, alas! not, amalthea's horn:
no nerves olfact'ry, mammon's trusty cur,
clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur;
in naked feeling, and in aching pride,
he bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side:
vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
and scorpion critics cureless venom dart.
critics—appall'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:
his heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
by blockheads' daring into madness stung;
his well-won bays, 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 flounders on thro' life:
till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,
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 or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!
so, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd,
for half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast;
by toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
o dulness! portion of the truly blest!
calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes ↑返回顶部↑
and those, alas! not, amalthea's horn:
no nerves olfact'ry, mammon's trusty cur,
clad in rich dulness' comfortable fur;
in naked feeling, and in aching pride,
he bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side:
vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart,
and scorpion critics cureless venom dart.
critics—appall'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:
his heart by causeless wanton malice wrung,
by blockheads' daring into madness stung;
his well-won bays, 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 flounders on thro' life:
till, fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd,
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 or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage!
so, by some hedge, the gen'rous steed deceas'd,
for half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast;
by toil and famine wore to skin and bone,
lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son.
o dulness! portion of the truly blest!
calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest!
thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes ↑返回顶部↑