Dalziels' Illustrated Goldsmith

Name: Dalziels' Illustrated Goldsmith
Author: Goldsmith, Oliver
Goldsmith, Oliver
English literature -- 18th century
Long had I sought in vain to find
               A likeness for the scribbling kind—
               The modern scribbling kind, who write
               In wit, and sense, and nature's spite—
               Till reading—I forget what day on,
               A chapter out of Tooke's "Pantheon,"
               I think I met with something there
               To suit my purpose to a hair.
               But let us not proceed too furious,—
               First please to turn to god Mercurius:
               You'll find him pictur'd at full length
               In book the second, page the tenth:
               The stress of all my proofs on him I lay;
               And now proceed we to our simile.
                 _Imprimis_, pray observe his hat:
               Wings upon either side—mark that.
               Well! what is it from thence we gather?
               Why, these denote a brain of feather.
               A brain of feather? very right,
               With wit that's flighty, learning light;
               Such as to modern bard's decreed:
               A just comparison—proceed.
                 In the next place, his feet peruse:
               Wings grow again from both his shoes;
               Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear,
               And waft his godship through the air:
               And here my simile unites;
               For in a modern poet's flights,
               I'm sure it may be justly said,
               His feet are useful as his head.
                 Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
               Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand,
               By classic authors termed Caduceus,
               And highly famed for several uses:
               To wit,—most wond'rously endued,
               No poppy-water half so good;
               For let folks only get a touch,
               Its soporific virtue's such,
               Though ne'er so much awake before,
               That quickly they begin to snore;
               Add, too, what certain writers tell,
               With this he drives men's souls to hell.
                 Now to apply, begin we then:—
               His wand's a modern author's pen;
               The serpents round about it twined
               Denote him of the reptile kind,
               Denote the rage with which he writes,
               His frothy slaver, venom'd bites:
               An equal semblance still to keep,
               Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;
               This difference only,—as the god
               Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
               With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
               Instead of others, damns himself.
                 And here my simile almost tript;
               Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
               Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;
               Well! what of that? out with it.—Stealing;
               In which all modern bards agree,
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Dalziels' Illustrated Goldsmith

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