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 Fourdrinier.

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 Anne,

Fortune, more chary with the sickle,

Had ranked him next to Garth or Tickell;

He might have even dared to hope

A line’s malignity from Pope!

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 pure assayers of the Press.

Said A.: “The author may, in time....”

Then B.: “These little songs display....”

And so forth, in the sense of A.

Over the bard I throw a veil.

There is no moral to this tale.