HKB
you prize old Numa's blood, Set down that work, and that alone, as good, Which, blurred and blotted, checked and counter- checked, Has stood all tests, and issued forth correct.
Because Democritus thinks fit to say, That wretched art to genius must give way, Stands at the gate of Helicon, and guards Its precinct against all but crazy bards, Our witlings keep long nails and untrimmed hair, Much in brown studies, in the bath-room rare. For things are come to this; the merest dunce, So but he choose, may start up bard at once, Whose head, too hot for hellebore to cool, Was ne'er submitted to a barber's tool. What ails me now, to dose myself each spring? Else had I been a very swan to sing. Well, never mind: mine be the whetstone's lot, Which makes steel sharp, though cut itself will not. Although no writer, I may yet impart To writing folk the precepts of their art, Whence come its stores, what trains and forms a bard, And how a work is made, and how 'tis marred.
Of writing well, be sure, the secret lies In wisdom: therefore study to be wise. The page of Plato may suggest the thought, Which found, the words will come as soon as sought. The man who once has learned to comprehend His duty to his country and his friend, The love that parent, brother, guest may claim. The judge's, senator's, or general's aim, That man, when need occurs, will soon invent For every part its proper sentiment. Look too to life and manners, as they lie Before you: these will living words supply. A play, devoid of beauty, strength, and art, So but the thoughts and morals suit each part, Will catch men's minds and rivet them when caught More than the clink of verses without thought.
To Greece, fair Greece, ambitious but of praise, The Muse gave ready wit, and rounded phrase. Our Roman boys, by puzzling days and nights, Bring down a shilling to a hundred mites. Come, young Albinus, tell us, if you take A penny from a sixpence, what 'twill make. Fivepence. Good boy! you'll come to wealth one day. Now add a penny. Sevenpence, he will say. O, when this cankering rust, this greed of gain, Has touched the soul and wrought into its grain, What hope that poets will produce such lines As cedar-oil embalms and cypress shrines?
A bard will wish to profit or to please, Or, as a tertium quid, do both of these. Whene'er you lecture, be concise: the soul Takes in short maxims, and retains them whole: But pour in water when the vessel's filled, It simply dribbles over and is spilled.
Keep near to truth in a fictitious piece, Nor treat belief as matter of caprice. If on a child you make a vampire sup, It must not be alive when she's ripped up. Dry seniors scout an uninstructive strain; Young lordlings treat grave verse with tall disdain: But he who, mixing grave and gay, can teach And yet give pleasure, gains a vote from each: His works enrich the vendor, cross the sea, And hand the author down to late posterity.