A certain Bard (as Bards will do) Dressed up his Poems for Review. His Type was plain, his Title clear; His Frontispiece by FOURDRINIER. Moreover, he had on the Back A sort of sheepskin Zodiac;-- A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,--in fine, A neat and "classical" Design. But the _in_-Side?--Well, good or bad, The Inside was the best he had: Much Memory,--more Imitation;-- Some Accidents of Inspiration;-- Some Essays in that finer Fashion Where Fancy takes the place of Passion;-- And some (of course) more roughly wrought To catch the Advocates of Thought. In the less-crowded Age of ANNE, Our Bard had been a favoured Man; Fortune, more chary with the Sickle, Had ranked him next to GARTH or TICKELL;-- He might have even dared to hope A Line's Malignity from POPE! But now, when Folks are hard to please, And Poets are as thick as--Peas, The Fates are not so prone to flatter, Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter. The Book, then, had a minor Credit: The Critics took, and doubtless read it. Said A.--_These little Songs display No lyric Gift; but still a Ray,-- A Promise. They will do no Harm._ 'Twas kindly, if not _very_ warm. Said B.--_The Author may, in Time, Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme: His Efforts now are scarcely Verse._ This, certainly, could not be worse. Sorely discomfited, our Bard Worked for another ten Years--hard. Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on; New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone; Before his second Volume came His Critics had forgot his Name: And who, forsooth, is bound to know Each Laureate _in embryo_! They tried and tested him, no less,- The sworn Assayers of the Press. Said A.--_The Author may, in Time...._ Or much what B. had said of Rhyme. Then B.--_These little Songs display...._ And so forth, in the sense of A. Over the Bard I throw a Veil. There is no MORAL to this Tale. THE TOYMAN. With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense? Hereon men waste their Eloquence. "Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course. How can you lend your Theme its Force? How can you be direct and clear, Concise, and (best of all) sincere, If you must pen your Strain sublime In Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme? Who ever heard true Grief relate Its heartfelt Woes in 'six' and 'eight'? Or felt his manly Bosom swell Beneath a French-made _Villanelle_? How can your _Mens divinior_ sing Within the Sonnet's scanty Ring, Where she must chant her Orphic Tale In just so many Lines, or fail?..."