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Now pray, copy less-have a little temerity
-Try if you can't also manage posterity.
-All you add now only lessens your credit; And how could you think, too, of taking to edite? A great deal's endur'd, where there's measure and
rhyme; But prose such as your's is a pure waste of time A singer of ballads unstrung by a cough, Who fairly talks on, till his hearers walk off. Be original, man ; study more,'scribble less; Nor mistake present favour for lasting success; And remember, if laurels are what you would find, The crown of all triumph is freedom of mind."(11) "And here,” cried Apollo," is one at the door, Who shall prove what I say, or my art is no more. Ah, Campbell, you're welcome ;-well, how have you
The poet to this was about to reply,
gave him his hand, and said, “ Show me a sight That can give a divinity sounder delight, Or that earth should more prize from its core to the
poles, Than the self-improved morals of elegant sonis.
Repentant I speak it-though when I was wild, My friends should remember the world was a child That customs were diff'rent, and young people's eyes Had no better examples than those in the skies. But soon as I learnt how to value these doings, I never much valued your billings and cooings; They only make idle the best of my race ; And since my poor Daphne turned tree in my face, There are very few poets, whose caps or whose curls Have obtained such a laurel by hunting the girls. So it gives me, dear Tom, a delight beyond measure, To find how you've mended your notions of pleasure ; For never was poet, whose fanciful hours Could bask in a richer abstraction of bowers, With sounds and with spirits, of charm to detain The wonder-eyed soul in their magic domain ; And never should poet, so gifted and rare, Pollute the bright Eden Jove gives to his care, But love the fair Virtue, for whom it is given, And keep the spot pure for the visits of heaven."(13)
He spoke with a warmth, but his accent was bland, And the poet bow'd down with a blush to his hand, When all on a sudden, there rose on the stairs A noise as of persons with singular airs; You'd have thought 'twas the bishops or judges a
coming, Or whole court of aldermen having and humming, Or Abbot, at least, with his ushers before, But'twas only Bob Southey and two or three more.(14) As soon as he saw him, "pollo seem'd pleas'd ;(15) But as he had settled it not to be teas'd By all the vain dreamers from bed-room and brook, He turn'd from the rest without even a look ;
For Coleridge had vex'd him long since, I suppose,
Should have brought back our fine old pre-eminent
way, And been the first man at my table to-day: But resolved as I am to maintain the partitions 'Twixt wit and mere wildness, he knows the conditions ; And if he retains but a spark of my fire, Will show it this instant--and blush-and retire." He spoke; and poor Wordsworth, his cheeks in a glow, (For he felt he God in him,) made symptoms to go, When Apollo, in pity, to screen him from sight, Threw round him a cloud that was purple and white, The same that of old us'd to wrap his own shoulders, When coming from heaven, he'd spare the beholders :The bard, like a second Æneas, went home in't, And lives underneath it, it seems, at this moment.(20)
Apollo then turning and smoothing his frown, Bade Southey take warning, and let him sit down; But the rest of Bob's friends, too ambitious to finch, Stood fixing their faces, and stirred not an inch ; While Sam, looking soft and politely dejected, Confess'd with a sigh, that 'twas what he expected, Since Phæbus had fatally learnt to confide in Such prosers as Johnson, and rhymers as Dryden. But wrath seiz'd pollo;-and turning again, “ Whatever,” he cried, “ were the faults of such men, Ye shall try, wretched mortals, how well ye can bear What Dryden has witness'd, unsmote with despair (21)
He said; and the place all seem'd swelling with light, While his locks and his isage grew awfully bright; And clouds, burning inward, rolld round on each side, To encircle his state, as he stond in his pride; Till at last the full Deity put on his rays, And burst on the sight in the pomp of bis blaze !
Then a glory beam'd round, as of fiery rods,
That sight and that music might not be sustain'd
flew, They rush'd, and they dash'd, and they scrambled, and
But Phæbus no sooner had gain’d his good ends,