O born of heaven, thou Child of magic Song!
What pangs, what cutting hardships wait on thee,
When thou art doom’d to cramping Poverty;
The pois’nous shafts from Defamation’s tongue,--
The jeers and tauntings of the blockhead throng,
Who joy to see thy bold exertions fail;
While Hunger, pinching as December’s gale,
Brings moody dark Despondency along.
And, should’st thou strive Fame’s lofty mount to scale,
The steps of its ascent are cut in sand;
And half-way up,--a snake-scourge in her hand,
Lurks pallid Envy, ready to assail:
And last, if thou the top, expiring, gain,
When Fame applauds, thou hearest not the strain.
In this sheet there is not room to further make known, or plead at
greater length, the claims of Robert Millhouse to notice and protection.
I should blush for any reader of poetical taste, with four shillings to
spare, who, after perusing the preceding extracts, would hesitate to
purchase the poet’s last little volume. I should more than blush for the
more wealthy, who are reputed patrons of talent, if they decline to seek
out and effectually succour him. I am, and am likely to remain, wholly
unacquainted with him: my only wish is to induce attention to a talented
and estimable individual, who is obscure and neglected, because he is
unobtrusive and modest.
_August 8, 1827._
*
[304] Robert Hall.
* * * * *