When Theban Pindar swept the lyre With hand of art, and soul of fire The praise of heroes and of kings Quiver'd along his trembling strings: Proud on the pinions of an ode, The monarch swell'd into the god: The deep, majestic peal of song, With force impetuous roll'd along; And nations stood aghast with wonder, Awed by the poet's deep-mouth'd thunder. Not such indeed in modern times The grand effect of lyric rhimes; Some daring souls perhaps inherit A portion of the Theban's spirit.— But though their lay his lay resemble, We chuse to laugh, and not to tremble. Apollo! yield the iron chair, Or place another Pindar there. With merry heart, and lyre unstrung, With ears unhurt, and nose unwrung, Let Peter take the vacant place, And read his odes with due grimace; Pindar with you may nectar quaff, Let Peter sit and make us laugh. His rhimes will show that panegyric Is not a theme for modern lyric; And though, like Pindar, 'tis his object To take a monarch for his subject, He finds a good and pious king May prove a mirth-exciting thing, And so with great good-humour tries To sink him in his people's eyes; Bids them each fault and foible scan, And lose the monarch in the man: These are the odes that now-a-days Receive the palm of public praise. Then, Phoebus, let the favour'd bard Meet from your hands his due reward! First, let the brother Pindars quarrel, The Theban grace with sprigs of laurel; And since to different modes of song A different meed must sure belong, Mark this deserter from the church With well-directed sprigs of birch.
