Beloved of Heaven, pursued by wayward fate,
Whose verse shall live in every British mind,
Though sweet, yet strong; though nervous, yet refined ;
A motley part he play'd in life's gay scene,
The dupe of vanity and wayward spleen;
Aping the world, a strange fantastic elf;
Great, generous, noble, when he was himself.
GRAINGER possess'd a true poetic vein,
But why waste numbers on a Sugar-cane?
Say, Doctor, why, since those who only need
Thy blank instructions, sure will never read?
COOPER essay'd a vein to England new,
To be the poet of refined virtù.
His muse, half French, half English, trips away,
A nymph presentable, though rather gay,
Brought up at Paris, and not half at ease
Where British morals hold their strict decrees.
But ill the gentleman supports his claim
To Gresset's wit or old Anacreon's name.
SMOLLETT and ARMSTRONG, both of Pæan's band, Compatriot offspring of a thoughtful land, A land severe, whose mettle yet unbroke
Toils in the team, and yet disdains the yoke.
In mind Athenian, but in spirit still
The land of Wallace wight, and Christie's Will.*
Such then was Scotland, nor could learning, art,
Or finest genius quite subdue that heart.
So neither keenest sense nor soundest morals
Could keep her brightest sons from needless quarrels.
And oft 't would seem her literary men
Reluctant changed the claymore for the pen.
Scots were they both by temper as by birth,
And both were racy of their native earth;
But pensive ARMSTRONG, though he heir'd a name
For bloody deeds of old bequeath'd to fame,
On Liddal's banks renown'd and sands of Drife,
Was yet almost too indolent for strife.
And little of the Scot was in him seen,
Save now and then a passing fit of spleen.
And sure the man of whom our Thomson sung
(Thomson a Scot in nothing but his tongue)
In such a gentle strain of kind reproof,
As could be dictated by nought but love,
Could not be other than a kindly soul,
Who oft forgot the doctor o'er a bowl;
And when he spied the humming, sparkling cream Of bright champagne, or snuff'd of punch the steam, Even as a poet would forget his theme.
* See Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, vol. III., p. 105. Second Edition. VOL. II.
Yet in his graver mood he lectured well
On ills which haply oft himself befell.
And with small practice, but with some small wealth,
He turn'd to stately verse the Art of Health;
And justly earn'd a lofty place among
The masters of the blank didactic song.
Correct his judgment, he knew where to stop,
And smells by no means often of the shop.
Yea, though a learn'd disciple of St. Luke,
He never once alludes to purge or puke;
Nor with hard words of most portentous omen
Describes the thorax, pelvis, or abdomen,
Nor winds his numbers thro' the duodenum,
Nor of the small guts sings, or tells you how to
WILKIE, the Scottish Homer, so 'tis said;
I will not censure what I never read.
Had Homer been a chiel of merry Tweeddale,
And had his trumpet been an old Scotch fiddle,
His Pegasus a shuffling Shetland pad,
Homer had wrote the Epigoniad.
Good DoDSLEY, honest, bustling, hearty soul,
A footman, verse-man, prose-man, bibliopole ;
A menial first beneath a lady's roof,
Then Mercury to guttling Dartineuf,
His humble education soon complete,
He learnt good things to write, good things to eat.
Then boldly ventured on the buskin'd stage,
And show'd how toys may help to make us sage:
Nay, dared to bite the great with satire's tooth,
And made a Miller tell his King the truth.
In tragic strain he told Cleone's woes,
The touching sorrows and the madd'ning throes
Of a fond mother and a faithful wife.
The Economy of Human Life."
For flights didactic then his lyre he strung,
Made rhymes on Preaching, and blank verse on
Anon with soaring weary, much at his ease,
Wrote Epigrams, and Compliments, and Kisses.
All styles he tried, the tragic, comic, lyric,
The grave didactic and the keen satiric;
Now preach'd and taught as sober as a dominie,
Now went pindaric-mad about Melpomene;
Now tried the pastoral pipe and oaten stop,
Yet all the while neglected not his shop.
Fair be his fame, among a knavish clan
His noblest title was an honest man.
A bookseller, he robb'd no bard of pelf,
No bard he libell'd, though a bard himself.
Far other fate was thine, unhappy KIT,*
Luckless adventurer in the trade of wit.
A bitter cup was offer'd to thy lip,
Drugg'd with the wants and woes of authorship.
Untimely thrust upon this mortal stage,
No childish pastime could thy thoughts engage.
Books were thy playmates. In a happy dream
Thy hours unmark'd would glide along the stream
Christopher Smart, born April 11, 1722; died May 21, 1773.
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