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Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Volume 3 by Gilfillan, George, 1813-1878
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A word from our supporters: File extension NEF | Say, poet, in what other nation, Shone ever such a constellation! Attend, ye Popes, and Youngs, and Gays, And tune your harps, and strew your bays: Your panegyrics here provide; You cannot err on flattery's side. Above the stars exalt your style, You still are low ten thousand mile. On Louis all his bards bestowed Of incense many a thousand load; But Europe mortified his pride, And swore the fawning rascals lied. Yet what the world refused to Louis, Applied to George, exactly true is. Exactly true! invidious poet! 'Tis fifty thousand times below it. Translate me now some lines, if you can, From Virgil, Martial, Ovid, Lucan. They could all power in heaven divide, And do no wrong on either side; They teach you how to split a hair, Give George and Jove an equal share. Yet why should we be laced so strait? I'll give my monarch butter weight; And reason good, for many a year Jove never intermeddled here: Nor, though his priests be duly paid, Did ever we desire his aid: We now can better do without him, Since Woolston gave us arms to rout him. ON THE DEATH OF DR SWIFT.l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas;'--'In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something that doth not displease us.' From nature, I believe them true: They argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind. This maxim more than all the rest Is thought too base for human breast: 'In all distresses of our friends, We first consult our private ends; While nature, kindly bent to ease us, Points out some circumstance to please us.' If this perhaps your patience move, Let reason and experience prove. We all behold with envious eyes Our equals raised above our size. Who would not at a crowded show Stand high himself, keep others low? I love my friend as well as you: But why should he obstruct my view? Then let me have the higher post; Suppose it but an inch at most. If in a battle you should find One, whom you love of all mankind, Had some heroic action done, A champion killed, or trophy won; Rather than thus be over-topped, Would you not wish his laurels cropped? Dear honest Ned is in the gout, Lies racked with pain, and you without: How patiently you hear him groan! How glad the case is not your own! What poet would not grieve to see His brother write as well as he? But, rather than they should excel, Would wish his rivals all in hell? |