قراءة كتاب The Rubaiyat of Omar Cayenne
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اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 6
LX
The vagrant Singer, how does he, good Lord,
Compete with such a money-making Horde
Of tinsel rhymesters that infest the Shops?
They say he makes enough to pay his Board!
LXI
Why, be our Talent truly Art, how dare
Refuse our Lucubrations everywhere?
And if it's Rot, as our Rejections hint,
God knows the things they print are Rot, for Fair!
LXII
I must abjure Dramatic Force, I must
Take the Sub-Editor's decree on Trust,
Or, lured by hope of selling something Good,
Write out my Heart—then burn it in Disgust!
LXIII
Oh, threats of Failure, hopes of Royalties!
One thing at least I've sold—these Parodies;
One thing is certain, Satire always sells;
The Roast is read, no matter where it is.
LXIV
Strange, is it not? that of the Authors who
Publish in England, such a mighty Few
Make a Success, though here they score a Hit?
The British Public knows a Thing or Two!
LXV
By Revelations of the Past we've learn'd
The Yankee Author usually is burn'd;
All of our Story Writers say the Same;
The London Critic all their Books have spurn'd.
LXVI
I sent my Agent where the Buyers dwell,
Some clever Stories of my own to sell:
And by and by the Agent said to me,
"One thing I sold—that's doing Mighty Well!"
LXVII
So Heaven seems tame indeed when I behold
Editions of Five Hundred Thousand sold;
When Clippings show how Critics scorch me, then
Hell's Roasting seems comparatively Cold!
LXVIII
We are no other than a passing Show
Of clumsy Mountebanks that come and go
To please the General Public; now, who gave
To IT the right to judge, I'd like to know?
LXIX
Impotent Writers bound to feed ITS taste
For Literature and Poetry debased;
Hither and thither pandering we strive,
And one by one our Talents are disgraced.
LXX
The Scribe no question makes of Verse or Prose,
But what the Editor demands he shows;
And he who buys three thousand words of Drule,
He knows what People want—you Bet He knows!
LXXI
The facile Scribbler writes; and, having writ,
No Rules of Rhetoric bother him a Bit,
Or lure him back to cancel half a Line,
Nor Grammar's protests change a Word of it.
LXXII
And though you wring your Hands and wonder Why
Such