The Poems of Oliver Goldsmith

LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind-
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite-
Till reading, I forgot what day on,
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,*
I think I met with something there,
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious:
First please to turn to god Mercurius:
You'll find him pictur'd at full length
In book the second, page the tenth.
The stress of all my proofs on him I lay;
And now proceed we to our simile.

* A popular school-book, by Andrew Tooke, Head Master of the Charter-house.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat; Wings upon either side-mark that. Well! what is it from thence we gather? Why, these denote a brain of feather. A brain of feather! very right— With wit that's flighty, learning light; Such as to modern bards decreed; A just comparison—proceed,

In the next place, his feet peruse ; Wings grow again from both his shoes: Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air. And here my simile unitesFor, in a modern poet's flights, I'm sure it may be justly said,

His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand,
By classic authors termed Caduceus,
And highly fam'd for several uses;
To wit, most wondrously endu’d,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,

Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add, too, what certain writers tell,

With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then:
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twin'd
Denote him of the reptile kind—
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep-
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill, the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript;
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing;

Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;

In which all modern bards agree,

Being each as great a thief as he.

But even this deity's existence

Shall lend my simile assistance:

Our modern bards! why, what a-pox

Are they but senseless stones and blocks?