BY A BOOKSELLER'S JOURNEYMAN.
Copied from a MS. of Chatterton.
Vers'd by Experience in the subtle Art,
The myst'ries of a Title I impart :
Teach the young Author how to please the Town,
And make the heavy drug of Rhime go down.
Since Curl, immortal, never dying name!
A Double Pica in the Book of Fame,
By various arts did various Dunces Prop,
And tickled every fancy to his Shop:
Who can like Pottinger, ensure a Book?
Who judges with the solid taste of Cooke?
Villains exalted in the midway Sky,
Shall live again to drain your Purses dry:
Nor yet unrivalled they: see Baldwin comes,
Rich in Inventions, Patents, Cuts, and hums:
The honorable Boswell writes, 'tis true,
What else can Paoli's supporter do.
The trading Wits endeavour to attain,
Like Booksellers, the World's first Idol Gain:
For this they puff the heavy Goldsmith's Line,
And hail his Sentiment, tho' trite, divine;
For this, the patriotic bard complains,
And Bingley binds poor Liberty in Chains:
For this was every reader's faith deceiv'd,
And Edmunds swore what nobody believ'd:
For this the Wits in close Disguises fight;
For this the varying Politicians write;
For this cach month new Magazines are sold,
With Dullness fill'd and transcripts of the Old.
The Town and Country struck a lucky hit,
Was novel, sentimental, full of Wit:
Aping her Walk the same success to find,
The Court and City hobbles far behind :
Sons of Apollo learn; Merit's no more,
Than a good Frontispiece to grace the door.
The Author who invents a title well,
Will always find his cover'd Dullness sell;
Flexney and every Bookseller will buy,
Bound in neat Calf, the Work will never die.
COPY of VERSES written by CHATTERTON,
From a copy given by Chatterton to Mr. H. Kater, of Bristol.
To use a worn out simile,
From flow'r to flow'r the busy Bee
With anxious labor flies,
Alike from scents which give distaste,
By Fancy as disgusting plac'd,
Repletes his useful thighs.
Nor does his vicious taste prefer
The fopling of some gay parterre
The mimickry of art!
But round the meadow-Violet dwells,
Nature replenishing his Cells,
Does ampler stores impart.
So I a humble dumble Drone
Anxious and restless when alone
Seek comfort in the Fair,
And featur'd, up in tenfold brass,
A rhyming, staring, am'rous ass
To You address my pray'r.
But ever in my love-lorn flights
Nature untouch'd by Art delights,
Art ever gives disgust.
Why, says some Priest of mystic thought,
The Bard alone by nature taught,
Is to that nature just.
But ask your orthodox divine
If ye perchance shou'd read this line
Which fancy now inspires:
Will all his sermons, preaching, prayers,
His Hell, his Heaven, his solemn airs
Quench Nature's rising fires?
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