VI. 'Tis true, you don't-but, pale and struck with terror, To the unknown; a secret prepossession, To plunge with all your fears-but where? You know not, And that's the reason why you do-or do not. VII. But what's this to the purpose? you will say. But a mere airy and fantastic basis, To build up common things with common places. VIII. You know, or don't know, that great Bacon saith, Fling up a straw, 't will show the way the wind blows;>> And such a straw, borne on by human breath, Is poesy, according as the mind glows; A paper kite which flies 't wixt life and death, A shadow which the onward soul behind throws: And mine's a bubble not blown up for praise, But just to play with, as an infant plays. IX. The world is all before me-or behind; Of passions too, I've proved enough to blame, Until I fairly knock'd it up with rhyme. X. I've brought this world about my ears, and eke XI. But << why then publish?»—There are no rewards I ask in turn, why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read?-To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or ponder'd, sad or cheery; And what I write I cast upon the stream, To swim or sink-I've had at least my dream. XII. I think that were I certain of success, I hardly could compose another line: So long I've battled either more or less, That no defeat can drive me from the Nine. This feeling 't is not easy to express, And yet 't is not affected, I opine. In play, there are two pleasures for your choosingThe one is winning, and the other losing. XIII. Besides, my muse by no means deals in fiction: Of course with some reserve and slight restriction, XIV. Love, war, a tempest-surely there 's variety; A bird's-eye view too of that wild--society; A slight glance thrown on men of every station. If you have nought else, here's at least satiety Both in performance and in preparation; And though these lines should only line portmanteaus, Trade will be all the better for these cantos. VOL. III. 12 XV. The portion of this world which I at present XVI. With much to excite, there 's little to exalt; A kind of common-place, even in their crimes; A want of that true nature which sublimes Whate'er it shows with truth; a smooth monotony Of character, in those at least who have got any. XVII. Sometimes indeed, like soldiers off parade, They break their ranks and gladly leave the drill; But then the roll-call draws them back afraid, And they must be or seem what they were: still Doubtless it is a brilliant masquerade, But when of the first sight you 've had your fill, XVIII. When we have made our love, and gamed our gaming, XIX. 'Tis said—indeed a general complaint- And that their books have but one style in common- XX. But this can't well be true, just now; for writers Of what they deem themselves most consequential, The real portrait of the highest tribe? 'Tis that, in fact, there's little to describe. |