If those who wield the Rod forget,
'Tis truly — Quis custodiet ?

A certain Bard (as Bards will do)
Dressed up his Poems for Review.
His Type was plain, his Title clear;
His Frontispiece by F OURDRINIER .
Moreover, he had on the Back
A sort of sheepskin Zodiac; —
A Mask, a Harp, an Owl, — in fine,
A neat and " classical " Design.
But the in -Side? — Well, good or bad,
The Inside was the best he had:
Much Memory, — more Imitation; —
Some Accidents of Inspiration; —
Some Essays in that finer Fashion
Where Fancy takes the place of Passion; —
And some (of course) more roughly wrought
To catch the Advocates of Thought.

In the less-crowded Age of A NNE ,
Our Bard had been a favoured Man;
Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,
Had ranked him next to Garth or T ICKELL ; —
He might have even dared to hope
A Line's Malignity from P OPE !
But now, when Folks are hard to please,
And Poets are as thick as — Peas,
The Fates are not so prone to flatter,
Unless, indeed, a Friend . . . . No Matter.

The Book, then, had a minor Credit:
The Critics took, and doubtless read it.
Said A. — These little Songs display
No lyric Gift; but still a Ray, —
A Promise. They will do no Harm.
'Twas kindly, if not very warm.
Said B. — The Author may, in Time ,
Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:
His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.
This, certainly, could not be worse.

Sorely discomfited, our Bard
Worked for another ten Years — hard.
Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;
New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;
Before his second Volume came
His Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to know
Each Laureate in embryo!
They tried and tested him, no less, —
The sworn Assayers of the Press.
Said A. — The Author may, in Time . . . .
Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.
Then B. — These little Songs display . . . .
And so forth, in the sense of A.
Over the Bard I throw a Veil.

There is no M ORAL to this Tale.