HOW rare the case, tho' common the pretence, To write on subjects from a real sense! 'Tis many a celebrated author's fate, To print effusions just as Parrots prate; He moulds a matter, that he once was taught, In various shapes, and thinks that it is Thought. Words at command he marshals in array, And proves—whatever he is pleas'd to say; While learning like a torrent pours along, And sweeps away the subject, right or wrong. One follows for a while a rolling theme, Toss'd in the middle of the rapid stream; Till, out of sight, with like impetuous force Torn from its roots, another takes the course, While froth and bubble glaze the flowing mud, And the man thinks all clear and understood; A shining surface and a transient view Make the slight-witted reader think so too. It entertains him, and the book is bought, Read, and admir'd without expense of thought; No tax impos'd upon his wits,—his cash Paid without scruple,—he enjoys the trash. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD MEN by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS LULLABY by CHARLES LUTWIDGE DODGSON EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH, L.H. by BEN JONSON A PROPHECY by WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR RETURNING, WE HEAR THE LARKS by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE |