THE YOUNG AUTHOR.
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hen first the peasant, long inclined to roam,Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home,Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields,He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields:Then dances jocund o'er the watery way,While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play:Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll,And future millions lift his rising soul;In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine,And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine. 10Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies,Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise;Sickening with fear, he longs to view the shore,And vows to trust the faithless deep no more.So the young author, panting after fame,And the long honours of a lasting name,Intrusts his happiness to human kind,More false, more cruel than the seas or wind! Toil on, dull crowd! in ecstasies he cries,For wealth or title, perishable prize; 20While I those transitory blessings scorn,Secure of praise from ages yet unborn.This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late,He flies to press, and hurries on his fate;Swiftly he sees the imagined laurels spread,And feels the unfading wreath surround his head.Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth be wise,Those dreams were Settle's[1] once, and Ogilby's![2]The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise,To some retreat the baffled writer flies, 30Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest,Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest;There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot--Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot. [Footnote 1: 'Settle;' see Life of Dryden.] [Footnote 2: 'Ogilby:' a poor translator.] * * * * * FRIENDSHIP: AN ODE.
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