XC. Sir Launfal visited her grave, and wept On an immortal breast, in after years, A thought distinct from earthly hopes and fears, But mix'd with yearnings for some after-home, And cherish'd hopes of endless bliss to come. XCI. Amen! this Canto's no more like the last Behind the fire, or left upon the shelf;- (At least in what depends upon myself;-) In fact, the present Canto's whole demerit's Occasioned by my utter want of spirits. XCII. Two more are yet to come ;—and then I quit Nor shall it fail for want of due endeavour; END OF CANTO II. SIR LAUNFAL. CANTO III. 1. ARE you a poet, reader?—if you are, This world's best hopes, in thankless slavery Grinding your soul, that, ere your bones are rotten, You may be mock'd, belied, reviled, forgotten. II. Why I give this advice is not the question; Perhaps I'm rather hipp'd from indigestion, Which proves, at least, that (though a bard) I've dined But to return-do any thing you will But dream of reaching the Castalian rill. III. That is, unless you've blood, and wind, and mettle, And constant training, and five feeds a day "Books, leisure, perfect freedom," and can settle, Of stupid heads, cold hearts, and adverse fortune, IV. Go-if you can, for poesy's sweet sake Renounce all social comforts;-live and die, A lone enthusiast, near some northern lake, With your thick-coming thoughts for company; And if contempt and slander fail to break Your heart-e'en earn your immortality; But then the hope of posthumous renown Is all you'll have to wash life's bitters down. V. Make up your mind to be traduced to quarrel VI. Only don't half and half it-be a poet Complete, or not at all-the Muse is chary To mortals of her love, and won't bestow it On wooers scarce lukewarm, or prone to vary If you've another hobby, you must throw it Away-in this she's downright arbitrary; And if to her you must devote your heart, Devote it whole-she won't accept a part. VII. For my part, I can't do it, and I couldn't VIII. This is of small importance; but I know And make them feel (the blockheads) that they're doing Precisely what must cause their utter ruin. IX. Up! Walker, where on earth have you been dozing 樂 These six years? Is your Muse effete, or dead, That you persist in idling, punning, prosing, Spinning fine cobwebs from your heart and head, *Now, alas! nineteen! Jan. 21, 1837. And miscellaneous monthly trash composing For shame-for shame,-if you'd preserve your credit, Make haste and use some nobler means to spread it. X. The world imagines, (but the world's an ass) That I, not you, am Mr. Knight's Apollo: Macaulay's fame doth far your fame surpass, Praed's Troubadour beats your Gustavus hollow. You'll hardly save your distance,—though, alas! 'Tis you who ought to lead, and we to follow :We're clever fellows, (and, I think, we've shown it,) But far from first-rate poets,—I must own it, XI. But you you must be perfectly aware That you've been long profaning sacred powers, And playing tricks with genius rich and rare, In its true worth as far transcending ours As the best China the worst crockery-ware. Now, by Parnassus, and its laurel bowers, Could I but half your inspiration borrow, I'd try my hand at Eschylus to-morrow. XII. I've done-now where's Sir Launfal? who's the bore [ence; Plague torment-burthen-bane of my exist A tertian fever, a perpetual sore, A fool who can't be taught to keep his distance, But raps, most importunely, at my door Y |