What, thou, my friend! a man of rhymes,

  And, better still, a man of guineas,

To talk of "patrons," in these times,

  When authors thrive like spinning-jennies,

And Arkwright's twist and Bulwer's page

  Alike may laugh at patronage!

No, no—those times are past away,

  When, doomed in upper floors to star it.

The bard inscribed to lords his lay,—

  Himself, the while, my Lord Mountgarret.

No more he begs with air dependent.

His "little bark may sail attendant"

  Under some lordly skipper's steerage;

But launched triumphant in the Row,

Or taken by Murray's self in tow.

  Cuts both Star Chamber and the peerage.

Patrons, indeed! when scarce a sail

Is whiskt from England by the gale.

But bears on board some authors, shipt

For foreign shores, all well equipt

With proper book-making machinery,

To sketch the morals, manners, scenery,

Of all such lands as they shall see,

Or not see, as the case may be:—

It being enjoined on all who go

To study first Miss Martineau,

And learn from her the method true,[too.

To do one's books—and readers,

For so this nymph of nous and nerve

Teaches mankind "How to Observe;"

And, lest mankind at all should swerve,

Teaches them also "What to Observe."

No, no, my friend—it cant be blinkt—

The Patron is a race extinct;

As dead as any Megatherion

That ever Buckland built a theory on.

Instead of bartering in this age

Our praise for pence and patronage,

We authors now more prosperous elves,

Have learned to patronize ourselves;

And since all-potent Puffing's made

The life of song, the soul of trade.

More frugal of our praises grown,

We puff no merits but our own.

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.

In vain the critics set to watch him

Try at the starting post to catch him:

He's off—the puffers carry it hollow—

The critics, if they please, may follow.

Ere they've laid down their first positions,

He's fairly blown thro' six editions!

In vain doth Edinburgh dispense

Her blue and yellow pestilence

(That plague so awful in my time

To young and touchy sons of rhyme)—

The Quarterly, at three months' date,

To catch the Unread One, comes too late;

And nonsense, littered in a hurry,

Becomes "immortal," spite of Murray.

But bless me!—while I thus keep fooling,

I hear a voice cry, "Dinner's cooling."

That postman too (who, truth to tell,

'Mong men of letters bears the bell,)

Keeps ringing, ringing, so infernally

That I must stop—

    Yours sempiternally.