Unlike those feeble gales of praise
Which critics blew in former days,
Our modern puffs are of a kind
That truly, really _raise the wind;_
And since they've fairly set in blowing,
We find them the best _trade_-winds going.
'Stead of frequenting paths so slippy
As her old haunts near Aganippe,
The Muse now taking to the till
Has opened shop on Ludgate Hill
(Far handier than the Hill of Pindus,
As seen from bard's back attic windows):
And swallowing there without cessation
Large draughts (_at sight_) of inspiration,
Touches the _notes_ for each new theme,
While still fresh "_change_ comes o'er her dream."
What Steam is on the deep--and more--
Is the vast power of Puff on shore;
Which jumps to glory's future tenses
Before the present even commences;
And makes "immortal" and "divine" of us
Before the world has read one line of us.
In old times, when the God of Song
Drove his own two-horse team along,
Carrying inside a bard or two,
Bookt for posterity "all thro';"--
Their luggage, a few close-packt rhymes,
(Like yours, my friend,) for after-times--
So slow the pull to Fame's abode,
That folks oft slept upon the road;--
And Homer's self, sometimes, they say,
Took to his night-cap on the way.
Ye Gods! how different is the story
With our new galloping sons of glory,
Who, scorning all such slack and slow time,
Dash to posterity in _no_ time!
Raise but one general blast of Puff
To start your author--that's enough.
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