Expertus Loquitur: 'Tis Sad Experience Speaks

There never was a blessing, or a curse,
So sweet, so cruel, as a knack of verse.
When the smug stripling finds the way to rhyme,
Glad as the wild bee 'mid a bed of thyme ;

With dulcet murmuring, all a summer's day,
With many a scrap of many a purposed lay —
Fitful, yet gentle, as a summer wind,
Pleased with himself, and pleased with all mankind,
Sure of the praise which partial friends bestow,
He breathes in bliss, if bliss may be below.

Pass some few years — and see where all will end.
The hireling scribe, estranged from every friend,
Or if one friend remain, 'tis one so brave,
He will not quit the wreck he cannot save ;
The good man's pity, and the proud man's scorn,
The Muse's vagabond, he roams forlorn.
Thought, wit, invention, tenderness have left him,
All wealth of mind, save empty rhyme, bereft him,
Yet write he must, for still he needs must eat —
Retail fantastic sorrow by the sheet ; —
Sing in his garret of the flowery grove,
And pinched with hunger, wail the woes of love.
Oh may all Christian souls, while yet 'tis time,
Renounce the World, the Flesh, the Devil, and Rhyme.