If Those Who Wield The Rod Forget, 'Tis Truly--Quis Custodiet? A Certain Bard (As Bards Will Do) Dressed Up His Poems For Review. His Type Was Plain, His Title Clear; His Frontispiece By Fourdrinier. Moreover, He Had On The Back A Sort Of Sheepskin Zodiac;-- A Mask, A Harp, An Owl,--In Fine, A Neat And "Classical" Design. But The In-Side?--Well, Good Or Bad, The Inside Was The Best He Had: Much Memory,--More Imitation;-- Some Accidents Of Inspiration;-- Some Essays In That Finer Fashion Where Fancy Takes The Place Of Passion;-- And Some (Of Course) More Roughly Wrought To Catch The Advocates Of Thought. In The Less-Crowded Age Of Anne, Our Bard Had Been A Favoured Man; Fortune, More Chary With The Sickle, Had Ranked Him Next To Garth Or Tickell;-- He Might Have Even Dared To Hope A Line'S Malignity From Pope! But Now, When Folks Are Hard To Please, And Poets Are As Thick As--Peas, The Fates Are Not So Prone To Flatter, Unless, Indeed, A Friend ... No Matter. The Book, Then, Had A Minor Credit: The Critics Took, And Doubtless Read It. Said A.--These Little Songs Display No Lyric Gift; But Still A Ray,-- A Promise. They Will Do No Harm. 'Twas Kindly, If Not Very Warm. Said B.--The Author May, In Time, Acquire The Rudiments Of Rhyme: His Efforts Now Are Scarcely Verse. This, Certainly, Could Not Be Worse. Sorely Discomfited, Our Bard Worked For Another Ten Years--Hard. Meanwhile The World, Unmoved, Went On; New Stars Shot Up, Shone Out, Were Gone; Before His Second Volume Came His Critics Had Forgot His Name: And Who, Forsooth, Is Bound To Know Each Laureate In Embryo! They Tried And Tested Him, No Less,- The Sworn Assayers Of The Press. Said A.--The Author May, In Time.... Or Much What B. Had Said Of Rhyme. Then B.--These Little Songs Display.... And So Forth, In The Sense Of A. Over The Bard I Throw A Veil. There Is No Moral To This Tale.