Paper: a Poem. [196]

Some wit of old—such wits of old there were—

Whose hints show'd meaning, whose allusions care,

By one brave stroke to mark all human kind,

Call'd clear blank paper ev'ry infant mind;

When still, as opening sense her dictates wrote,

Fair virtue put a seal, or vice a blot.

The thought was happy, pertinent, and true;

Methinks a genius might the plan pursue.

I (can you pardon my presumption), I—

No wit, no genius, yet for once will try.

Various the papers various wants produce,

The wants of fashion, elegance, and use.

Men are as various: and, if right I scan,

Each sort of paper represents some man.

Pray note the fop—half powder and half lace—

Nice, as a bandbox were his dwelling-place:

He's the gilt-paper, which apart you store,

And lock from vulgar hands in the 'scrutoire.

Mechanics, servants, farmers, and so forth,

Are copy-paper, of inferior worth;

Less priz'd, more useful, for your desk decreed,

Free to all pens, and prompt at ev'ry need.

The wretch, whom av'rice bids to pinch and spare,

Starve, cheat, and pilfer, to enrich an heir,

Is coarse brown-paper; such as pedlars choose

To wrap up wares, which better men will use.

Take next the miser's contrast, who destroys

Health, fame, and fortune, in a round of joys.

Will any paper match him? Yes, throughout,

He's a true sinking-paper, past all doubt.

The retail politician's anxious thought

Deems this side always right, and that stark nought;

He foams with censure; with applause he raves—

A dupe to rumours, and a tool of knaves;

He'll want no type his weakness to proclaim,

While such a thing as fools-cap has a name.

The hasty gentleman, whose blood runs high,

Who picks a quarrel, if you step awry,

Who can't a jest, or hint, or look endure:

What's he? What? Touch-paper to be sure.

What are our poets, take them as they fall,

Good, bad, rich, poor, much read, not read at all?

Them and their works in the same class you'll find;

They are the mere waste-paper of mankind.

Observe the maiden, innocently sweet,

She's fair white-paper, an unsullied sheet;

On which the happy man, whom fate ordains,

May write his name, and take her for his pains.

One instance more, and only one I'll bring;

'Tis the great man who scorns a little thing,

Whose thoughts, whose deeds, whose maxims are his own,

Form'd on the feelings of his heart alone:

True genuine royal-paper is his breast;

Of all the kinds most precious, purest, best.