A Word for Gifford

A word for Gifford, ere I close my book; For only recently I had a look— As chance would have it—at his wondrous pile, And then for joy each couplet drew a smile; But what beside?—regret I had not seen Before th’ effusions of his fraughtful pen.

A word for Gifford, (“last, but not the least,”)— Whose rare productions were the surest test Of his bright mind; then why do I attempt Panegyric, (and gain, perhaps, contempt For my poor self,) when such as Byron write— Expressive of their pleasure and delight— In praise of him? ’Tis—that I can’t withhold My little instrument, which seems so bold As to presume to dictate to my muse— “It is a duty! therefore daren’t refuse.”

Gifford—the meek, the mighty, honour’d dead! I blame my breast that I no sooner read Those noble pages,—each itself a roll, Confirmatory of thy copious soul.— Great “Baviad,” “Mæviad,” arrows of satire, (Than none but epicures can fail t’admire) Which spread destruction, and set earth on fire,— And to oblivion hurl’d, like rats and mice, Those who then dared to pamper forth their vice, And made a trade by trafficking in rhyme,— Display’d their trash, and hawk’d it as sublime!

Proud is thy name, O Gifford!—but not I Am equal to the task to laudify So great a critic both of gods and men, Who pounced upon them with thy able pen,— Thus set them in the rank where each could boast Of laurels won, or grieve of fortunes lost! No, no, dear Gifford,—mine is not the task (And though thou’rt gone—forgiveness I must ask) To laud so great, so good a man as thou! * * * Pardon me, friends, and pray accept—my bow.