Page:Hannah More (1887 Charlotte Mary Yonge British).djvu/195

If all my former compositions found
For critic harshness true, and solid ground,
None of my ancient sins you here will see,
Except incurable tautology.
Not e'en reviewers here can find a botch,
British, nor Quarterly, nor scalping Scotch.
The deep logician, though he sought amain
To find false reasoning might seek in vain.
Quibbling grammarians may this work inspect.
Yet in no bungling syntax spy defect.
Its geometric character's complete,
The parallels run on but never meet.
Though close the knots, all casuists must agree,
Solution would but break the unity.
Unravelled mysteries shall here be read,
Till time itself shall break the even thread.
Nor could the rhetorician find, nor hope,
One ill-placed metaphor, one faulty trope.
High claims in this rare composition meet,
Soft without weakness, smooth without deceit.
Say not, as o'er this learned work you pore,
"The author nothing knows of classic lore."
The Roman satirist's self might laud my plan,
For to the end I keep as I began.
Though some its want of ornament may blame,
Utility, not splendour, was my aim.
Not ostentatious I, for still I ween
Its worth is rather to be felt than seen.
Around the feelings still it gently winds;
If lost, no comfort the possessor finds.
Retired from view, it seeks to be obscure,
The public gaze it trembles to endure.
The sober moralist its use may find,
Its object is not loose, it aims to bind.
No creature suffers from its sight or touch,
Can Walter Scott say more, can Byron say so much?
One tribute more, my friend, I seek to raise,
You 've given, indeed, a Crown, give More your praise.