Could Horace give so sad a monster birth? Why then in vain he would excite our mirth; His humour well our laughter might command, But who can bear the death's head in his hand?
While with the fustian of thy book, The witty ancient you enrobe, You make the graceful Horace look As pitiful as Tom M'Lobe.[1] Ye Muses, guard your sacred mount, And Helicon, for if this log Should stumble once into the fount, He'll make it muddy as a bog.
[Footnote 1: A notorious Irish poetaster, whose name had become proverbial.--_Scott._]
High as Longinus to the stars ascends, So deeply Carthy to the centre tends.
RATIO INTER LONGINUM ET CARTHIUM COMPUTATA
Aethereas quantum Longinus surgit in auras, Carthius en tantum ad Tartara tendit iter.
What Midas touch'd became true gold, but then, Gold becomes lead touch'd lightly by thy pen.
CARTHY KNOCKED OUT SOME TEETH FROM HIS NEWS-BOY
For saying he could not live by the profits of Carthy's works, as they did not sell.
I must confess that I was somewhat warm, I broke his teeth, but where's the mighty harm? My work he said could ne'er afford him meat, And teeth are useless where there's nought to eat!
TO CARTHY On his sending about specimens to force people to subscribe to his Longinus.
Thus vagrant beggars, to extort By charity a mean support, Their sores and putrid ulcers show, And shock our sense till we bestow.
TO CARTHY On his accusing Mr. Dunkin for not publishing his book of Poems.
How different from thine is Dunkin's lot! Thou'rt curst for publishing, and he for not.
ON CARTHY'S PUBLISHING SEVERAL LAMPOONS, UNDER THE NAMES OF INFAMOUS POETASTERS
So witches bent on bad pursuits, Assume the shapes of filthy brutes.
Thy labours, Carthy, long conceal'd from light, Piled in a garret, charm'd the author's sight, But forced from their retirement into day, The tender embryos half unknown decay; Thus lamps which burn'd in tombs with silent glare, Expire when first exposed to open air.
TO CARTHY, ATTRIBUTING SOME PERFORMANCES TO MR. DUNKIN
From the Gentleman's London Magazine for January.
My lines to him you give; to speak your due, 'Tis what no man alive will say of you. Your works are like old Jacob's speckled goats, Known by the verse, yet better by the notes. Pope's essays upon some for Young's may pass, But all distinguish thy dull leaden mass; So green in different lights may pass for blue, But what's dyed black will take no other hue.