Whoe'er at Court would hope to cut a dash,
He must go loaded with some useful trash,
Something, sage Dullness, to prolong your reign;
All fancy—stuff—all ornament is vain!
Happy the man who plans, by force of steam
To drive his boat twelve knots against the stream;
Still happier he, who, born to build a bridge,
Schemes mighty matters on some river's edge:—
Such to the world the noblest light impart,
The first in genius, and the first in art!
Hence, then, ye bards, from our wise court refrain;
Wiseacres have forestall'd the present reign:
"No empty scribblings we endure at court"
(Cries Publius, poring o'er a dull Report;)
"Nothing but useful projects we require,
(Cries a new-fangled, self-important 'squire)
"Even Churchman, with his chart, will just but do,
"Who to the pole will now all art pursue:
"For foreign courts have fail'd our men of song,
"And trust me, bards, the Muses went along;
"Since that bright morn they stept on board their brig,
"No Muses here—no Muses are with pig;
"Nor 'till their barque shall heave in sight, once more,
"Shall one true Muse grow pregnant on this shore!"
Now, had not wayward Fortune fix'd me fast,
Firm to a point, that never shall be pass'd;
Did I the smiles of Fortune still pursue,
And, Memmius, wish to rise in fame, like you,
Were this my scheme, I'd quit at once the sail,
And haste to court with compasses and scale,
Quit all the hopes the finer arts bestow,
The flowers of fancy, and—no fruits that grow;
Indulge that powerful something in the scull
That makes us wealthy while it keeps us dull,
To the best place ensures a certain claim,
The road to fortune, and the road to fame.
He must go loaded with some useful trash,
Something, sage Dullness, to prolong your reign;
All fancy—stuff—all ornament is vain!
Happy the man who plans, by force of steam
To drive his boat twelve knots against the stream;
Still happier he, who, born to build a bridge,
Schemes mighty matters on some river's edge:—
Such to the world the noblest light impart,
The first in genius, and the first in art!
Hence, then, ye bards, from our wise court refrain;
Wiseacres have forestall'd the present reign:
"No empty scribblings we endure at court"
(Cries Publius, poring o'er a dull Report;)
"Nothing but useful projects we require,
(Cries a new-fangled, self-important 'squire)
"Even Churchman, with his chart, will just but do,
"Who to the pole will now all art pursue:
"For foreign courts have fail'd our men of song,
"And trust me, bards, the Muses went along;
"Since that bright morn they stept on board their brig,
"No Muses here—no Muses are with pig;
"Nor 'till their barque shall heave in sight, once more,
"Shall one true Muse grow pregnant on this shore!"
Now, had not wayward Fortune fix'd me fast,
Firm to a point, that never shall be pass'd;
Did I the smiles of Fortune still pursue,
And, Memmius, wish to rise in fame, like you,
Were this my scheme, I'd quit at once the sail,
And haste to court with compasses and scale,
Quit all the hopes the finer arts bestow,
The flowers of fancy, and—no fruits that grow;
Indulge that powerful something in the scull
That makes us wealthy while it keeps us dull,
To the best place ensures a certain claim,
The road to fortune, and the road to fame.
[392] This poem is unique, as far as I can discover, in the 1795 edition. The reference to steamboats alludes to Fitch, who at that time was experimenting with steam navigation. In 1790 he completed his fourth boat, which during the summer made regular trips from Philadelphia to Burlington, at the rate of eight miles per hour.