| |
| FRIENDS of the Muse, to you of right belong | |
| The first staid footsteps of my square-toed song; | |
| Full well I know the strong heroic line | |
| Has lost its fashion since I made it mine; | |
| But there are tricks old singers will not learn, | 5 |
| And this grave measure still must serve my turn. | |
| So the old bird resumes the selfsame note | |
| His first young summer wakened in his throat; | |
| The selfsame tune the old canary sings, | |
| And all unchanged the bobolink’s carol rings; | 10 |
| When the tired songsters of the day are still | |
| The thrush repeats his long-remembered trill; | |
| Age alters not the crow’s persistent caw, | |
| The Yankee’s “Haow,” the stammering Briton’s “Haw;” | |
| And so the hand that takes the lyre for you | 15 |
| Plays the old tune on strings that once were new. | |
| Nor let the rhymester of the hour deride | |
| The straight-backed measure with its stately stride: | |
| It gave the mighty voice of Dryden scope; | |
| It sheathed the steel-bright epigrams of Pope; | 20 |
| In Goldsmith’s verse it learned a sweeter strain; | |
| Byron and Campbell wore its clanking chain; | |
| I smile to listen while the critic’s scorn | |
| Flouts the proud purple kings have nobly worn; | |
| Bid each new rhymer try his dainty skill | 25 |
| And mould his frozen phrases as he will; | |
| We thank the artist for his neat device; | |
| The shape is pleasing, though the stuff is ice. | |
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| Fashions will change—the new costume allures, | |
| Unfading still the better type endures; | 30 |
| While the slashed doublet of the cavalier | |
| Gave the old knight the pomp of chanticleer, | |
| Our last-hatched dandy with his glass and stick | |
| Recalls the semblance of a new-born chick; | |
| (To match the model he is aiming at | 35 |
| He ought to wear an eggshell for a hat). | |
| He ought to wear an eggshell for a hat). | |
| Which of these objects would a painter choose, | |
| And which Velasquez or Van Dyck refuse? | |
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