ACCOMMODATION, A POETICAL EPISTLE,
&c.
ACCOMMODATION, A POETICAL EPISTLE TO JOHN ASHBY,
Esq
BY
ROWLEY THOMAS.
QUI MORES HOMINUM MULTORUM VIDIT.—
HOR.
SHREWSBURY:
Printed by J. EDDOWES, for the AUTHOR. MDCCLXXV.
ACCOMMODATION,
&c.
CONDESCENSION
in the muse
Severest critics
will excuse;
Condescension
in the man
Is the
skilful, winning,
plan:
By condescension, here, I mean
Accommodation in the scene
Of life.—
Will
A---y
condescend
To view the trifler in the friend;
That friend who ever has, and will
Protect his character from ill;
Give up life,—all
fancy's power,
To cheer his every anxious hour?
Then surely
A---y
can't refuse
The
whimseys
of a
flighty muse.
A
bland, goodnatur'd, muse
that must
Protect the good,—the great,—the just;
Protect the wise,—protect the brave,—
All,—All,—but
coward, fool,
and
knave:
And cowards, fools, and knaves shall be
The objects of
her charity.
Then
A---y
surely will excuse
An
idle, truant, laughing muse;
A muse that ever will incline
To favour
A---y
with a line;—
—His
gentleness
can ne'er refuse
The fondly,—overweening muse;
That oft
in person
will attend him,
And
counsel quaint
will freely lend him:
Then
A---y
never can refuse
The
gambols
of this
frolic
muse.
How!—says,
Sir critic;—
not to brand
With infamy the murdering hand;
And every character that can
Sink to the
brute
from
reasoning man!
—Avaunt rash criticism!—
Learn ye!
He serv'd his time to vile attorney;
And
vile attorneys
ne'er can be
Fit subjects for
a lash from thee:
—We then
should
too much
condescend.—
What!—Give our satire for no end!
No!—Let him canter o'er the hill
Of
wild Parnassus with his quill;
And stumble on without a note
From us, who
think
and
write by
rote.
The conscious muse, in native charms,
Laughs,—'till she bursts,—at such alarms;
Dares
every critic to defiance,
—She never wishes
such alliance;
Dares
every critic with a frown,—
To laud her,
—up;
to blast her,
—down.
With indignation now she burns,
And gladly to that friend returns;—
Who gave her, with a
gentle hand,
And
feeling heart,
each sweet command:—
What to
embrace,—
and what to
fly
During her term of slavery.
Kind,—gentle spirit!—yet e'en he
Can scarce escape severity;
Whose
noble mind,—
and
swelling heart,
Their virtues
cheerfully impart
TO MAN AT LARGE:—
without a dream
Of
self
's attractive,—darling theme;
That
luscious,—dear,—engaging thing,
Which sways alike
the clown,—the king;—
At every place,—at every hour,—
Gives
strange exemplars
of it's power.
The
cheerful reader
too 'll excuse
The
queer digressions
of the muse;
And give her credit for awhile
For every laugh,—for every smile;—
Which she engages to exert,—
Neither too timorous,—nor pert;
As opportunity permits,—
And she can strike some lucky hits.
Her first essay;—and all her own.
—Sir critic,
fy!—suppress that frown!—
—Solicits favor, from—
—A FRIEND:—
And, if she meet with his applause,
Will lengthen out her
little cause:—
—By daring,
in some future plan,
Analysis
of the human character;—begun by the author of this little performance;—showing
POPE's Essay on man
unintelligible,
as a finished,—philosophical, piece;
but
largely subscribing
to the
inimitable beauties of it,
as a
merely poetical one.
To analyze that creature man;
Whether in poetry, or prose,
Is insignificant to those,
Who think,—who act,—
from
nature's school,
And never idly play the fool:—
—As whilom
THOMAS
often did,
Without his ever being chid;—
Except by such,—as never knew,
Skilful
to give the
finespun clew
To mild conversion's calm retreat;—
—Where all the
muses,—graces
meet;—
And every
ghost,—
and every
shade,
Of
GODLIKE MAN,—
that
GOD
has made:
Midst scenes of
wildest dissipation
lost;—
His
sensibility too often crost;—
Thro' the
kindliest warmth of blood,
Deserting every
social good:
This, and that, perverse vexation
Springing all from circulation
Of
boiling blood,—
thro' every vein
Quick-trembling to it's source again,—
The heart;—
whence every rapture flows
For every good, which it bestows
On kindred man:—without a thought
Of being ask'd for,—being sought.
Spite of
all the rage of fashion,—
Spite of
every wayward passion,—
Spite of nature's opposition;—
He means to make a strange transition
From
bad
to
good;—offhand
reclaim
Each
immoral,
youthful aim;
And stranger still!—for
quirking seats
Barter the
muse's green retreats.
Hold!—cries,
dame prudence;—
hold your hand
And listen to this sage command.—
Beware, young man!—
with caution rove
O'er
legal bank,—
thro'
quibbling grove;—
Let
law,
and
reason,—PRUDENCE
join;—
Then, then!
you strike a good design.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Curse on
your tame,—your frigid notions
And all such
quack,—cathartic potions.
The
GOD OF NATURE
gave us passions,—
To
grace us with
on all occasions;
And gave us
reason
to control
The
frantic sallies
of the soul.
Past follies!—Nature
ought to bear,
And think
him highly worth
her care.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
With all his faults,—and all his folly,
He's freed at length from
MELANCHOLY;
And her attendant,
—APATHY.—
—Dull,
—cynic apathy!—
whose boast,
And blunted praise is always lost,—
By
seldom thinking,—never acting;—
And yet it ever
seems transacting.
A mere machine,—
we use at will,
And keep it
going on,—or still,
As fancy leads:—
a
moping jade;—
A piece of clockwork,—
only made
For
keenest cuts
of
comic wit,—
Just when
my lady
's in the fit
To flourish o'er
wild nature
's page,
And
stamp the wretch
of every age.
The cruel critics still abuse
The
whimsical,—meandrous muse;—
Without one social feeling dare
To blast
my first,—my only care;
And dully criticising say;—
The pillars, when they artless lay,
The superstructure must betray:—
Quickly the
castle
's undermin'd
And by a
trifling gale of wind.
So fare the laurel and the bays
Of such a rhymester's
jingling lays;—
—His
canting,—puling,—lukewarm,—
The
brawling brats
of
coldest climes,—
The
laurel
claim and
blooming bays,
Without the least pretence to praise:—
—Let gentlest breezes gently come,
They shake his
high-aspiring plume,—
Which trembling drops,—without a tear
From us who give him,
—every fear.
And now,
AERIAL GENIUS!—
now
Stoop to my muse,—she'll teach you, how
To sweep the skilful,—winning bow.
Bend
genius,—
bend!—accept this
new,—
This grand,—accommodating clew;
—Nobly defend the muse's claim
A
mirthful muse
's honest aim.—
—And when dull apathists perceive
That you the
mystic muse
can believe;—
They'll
crawl it on,—in faith with you,
And own themselves
high-honoured
too.—
—Let but the lower ranks comply,—
You'll have the
muse's leave
to fly,—
And
soar it to
your native sky.
First
let the
towering genius
dare
To make
high worth
his
constant care;—
Next
let the towering genius bend
To make each
honest heart,—his friend.
And never think it worth his part
To court
the head without the heart:—
—We grant,—
that where they kindly meet,
The union
forms
an higher treat:—
But a good heart,—the deity will own,—
Far,—far excels,—the merely laurel'd crown.