252 

 LINES 



ADDRESSED TO MY OWN INKSTAND. 



DEAR stream, that from thy sable source 

 Hast rolled thy golden sands to me ; 



Let me retrace thy mazy course, 



Since first, my friend, I sailed with thee ! 



Since, rapt by Little's glowing verse, 

 The young idea, taught to shoot, 



Expanded to a second curse, 



By plucking that forbidden fruit. 



You taught me, when the world forsook 

 My softer strain, the next to try ; 



From Melodies to Lalla Rookh, 

 From smart lampoon to naked lie. 



Alike on beautiful and vile, 



Thy influence would itself disclose ; 

 As oft, they say, the sunbeams smile 



Alike on nightshade and on rose. 



You taught my quill the language fit, 

 When first biography I penned ; 



To sneer at Richard Brinsley's wit, 

 With the cool candour of a friend. 



To doubt, when aught demanded praise 

 To damn, when frailty's voice implored 



For gold the newly dead to raise, 

 As delving misers seek their hoard. 



You shewed the way, with glittering bait, 

 Murray with smiling face to draw ; 



Till, brooding o'er my quarto's weight, 

 Down fell the hapless victim's jaw. 



So, into old Trophonius' cave, 

 Who e'er stept in with joyous feet, 



Came hobbling out, with looks as grave, 

 As Rogers in a winding-sheet. 



You give the inspiration due 



For gay to-morrow's festive throng ; 



The ready jest I owe to you, 



That slides impromptu from the tongue 



You teach my lyre the various string, 



For lordly or plebeian ear ; 

 For prisoned friends you find the sting, 



And fulsome spittle for the peer. 



And wilt thou, as from earliest youth, 

 My wants, my wishes, still supply ; 



Make all that I assume, seem truth 

 My native meanness, seem a lie ? 



Thou wilt ; then stand thou always here, 

 For we, dear friend, must never part ; 



Even so the salt-box, ever near, 

 Betrays the merry-andrew's art. 



August, 1832. 



