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XC.

Sir Launfal visited her grave, and wept
Above it a long gush of silent tears ;-
And, in his noon of fortune, when he slept

On an immortal breast, in after years,
Still in his heart her lovely image kept,

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
Than copper's like pure gold, or crockery delf;-
I shan't be angry, reader, if it's cast

Behind the fire, or left upon the shelf;-
But by the next it shall be far surpast,

(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
The octave rhyme-perhaps the Muse—for ever;
So I must try, in these, to show my wit,
And make my final exit grand and clever ;-
I hope that Canto III. may prove a hit,

Nor shall it fail for want of due endeavour;
Meanwhile I furl my sails and drop my oar,
To soothe tired fancy with a stroll on shore.

END OF CANTO II.

SIR LAUNFAL.

CANTO III.

1.

ARE you a poet, reader?—if

you are,
And under twenty, be advised by me;-
Give up the trade in time-you'd better far
Endure disgrace, chains, exile, poverty ;-
You'd better die at once, than live to mar

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've private reasons—never mind ;
I charge you nothing for my bare suggestion,
And though my words are coarse, my meaning's
kind;-

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,
In rhyme as a profession:-I dare say,
On terms like these, a bard of proper metal
May snap his fingers at the dense array

Of stupid heads, cold hearts, and adverse fortune,
Which mostly make the poet's life a short one.

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
With
your best friends-to be misunderstood-
Pronounced unfeeling, and of course "immoral,"
Because you've felt more deeply than you should-
Bear this-and more-and you may wear the laurel;
And may it do you, for your pains, much good.-
No doubt true fame's an ample compensation
For a life's anguish and a soul's prostration.

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
Were I ten poets-neither heart nor head
Have I to make a true Parnassian student,
For I must be loved, petted, praised, well-fed,
Or else good night; without these aids I shouldn't
Write verses fit to be review'd or read;
And, therefore, I'm determined to retire
Before the public ceases to admire.

VIII.

This is of small importance; but I know
Some real poets, whom I grieve to see
Wasting, alas! their fancy's summer glow
In cold half-courtship of Calliope.
O! for some less asthmatic lungs to blow
A trumpet to their slumbering vanity,

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

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 journals never fated to be read?

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

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