"For I was born To brand obtrusive ignorance with scorn; On bloated pedantry to pour my rage, And hiss preposterous fustian from the stage. Lo, Delia Crusca! In his closet pent, He toils to give the crude conception vent. Abortive thoughts that right and wrong confound, Truth sacrificed to letters, sense to sound, False glare, incongruous images combine; And noise and nonsense clatter through the line, 'Tis done. Her house the generous Piozzi lends, And thither summons her blue-stocking friends; The summons her blue-stocking friends obey, Lured by the love of poetry--and tea. The bard steps forth in birthday splendor drest, His right hand graceful waving o' er his breast, His left extending, so that all may see A roll inscribed, 'The Wreath of Liberty.' So forth he steps, and with complacent air, Bows round the circle, and assumes the chair; With lemonade he gargles first his throat, Then sweetly preludes to the liquid note: And now 'tis silence all. 'Genius or muse'-- Thus while the flowery subject he pursues, A wild delirium round th' assembly flies; Unusual lustre shoots from Emma's eyes; Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands; And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands. * * * * * Hear now our guests:--'The critics, sir, they cry, Merit like yours the critics may defy;' But this indeed they say, 'Your varied rhymes, At once the boast and envy of the times, In every page, song, sonnet, what you will, Show boundless genius and unrivalled skill.' * * * * * Thus fooled, the moon-struck tribe, whose best essays Sunk in acrostics and in roundelays, To loftier labors now pretend a call, And bustle in heroics one and all. E'en Bertie burns of gods and chiefs to sing-- Bertie who lately twittered to the string His namby pamby madrigals of love, In the dark dingles of a glittering grove, Where airy lays, wove by the hand of morn, Were hung to dry upon a cobweb thorn! Happy the soil where bards like mushrooms rise, And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies! Happier the bards who, write whate'er they will, Find gentle readers to admire them still! * * * * *