Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 1.djvu/370

328 Another Epic! Who inflicts again

More books of blank upon the sons of men?

Bœotian, rich Bristowa's boast,

Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast,

And sends his goods to market—all alive!

Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five!

Fresh fish from Hippocrene! who'll buy? who'll buy?

The precious bargain's cheap—in faith, not I.

Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat,

Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat;

If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain,

And strikes the Lyre in vain.

In him an author's luckless lot behold!

Condemned to make the books which once he sold.

Oh, !—Phœbus! what a name

To fill the speaking-trump of future fame!—

Oh, ! for a moment think

What meagre profits spring from pen and ink!

When thus devoted to poetic dreams,

Who will peruse thy prostituted reams?

Oh! pen perverted! paper misapplied!

Had still adorned the counter's side,