Reclining in his coach and four,
(The same that Phaeton drove before
Till soaring high, as legends say
He fell like whips of modern day
And left his sire the debt to pay)
As Phoebus took his daily ride,
By chance he looked on earth and spied,
Where Britain rules the subject ocean,
The world of poets in commotion.
He wondered long till rumour said
The poet Laureat, Pye, was dead —
“Poor Pye and is thy exit come —
I’ve many of his cards at home
A civil man, by all I hear —
He called upon me twice a year,
But I was always out of late,
And so, poor man we never met.
I’ve seen him once or twice I know
But t’was some twenty years ago.
Well who’s appointed to succeed?
Not that I ought to care indeed
Since Dryden’s time nor would I wrong ’em
I’ve seldom had a friend among ’em,
For even if intimate before
When in they rudely shut the door
Threw off the staff that gave support
Nor called me in to share their port.
But who’s the man?” — “Southey they say
For Scott to him resign’d the day.”
“Resign’d!” — “ Yes! he was heard to own.”
“The other more deserved the crown.”
“I doubt it — but the thing is new
When poets know a rival’s due.
Dear Southey! He’s my ancient friend.
A little wild, but then he’ll mend
He’ll need no curb ere wanes the moon
For nothing tames a bard so soon
And now methinks the plan is new
The Chest shall have a laureat too.
Fly rumour bid its votaries strive
Fair Ellen’s hand the wreath shall give
And lacking port, to point their theme
A copious glass of lemon cream.
I need not fear to quench their fire
When roused by Ellen’s eyes and lyre
With two such themes to prompt their lays
The Attic Chest and Ellen’s praise.”
M. S. Junr.