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>>That poem just *sucks*.

It’s not even the form. Moore is always letter perfect with rhyme and rhythm. The first NBC wasn’t. People had to smooth the edges. What you now read is after those rough edges were fixed. And that’s how Henry wrote. Quick, on the back of an envelop with crossouts.

Moore was obnoxiously virtue-signalling. Always talking down. Henry wrote in the voice of the child about the dreams of a child.

What someone needs to do is bring a psychologist into the analysis who can pull the human being out of the writings. Then, as we did, do the same to NBC. I have no doubt how that would work out.

Could the soul that wrote this, write NBC?
Moore (FTP):
“Hail, Youth! In me behold a friendly power,
Thy guard in every place, at every hour,
Who thus appear expos’d to mortal view,
Clearly to mark the course you should pursue.
To me ‘tis giv’n your virtue to secure
From custom’s force and pleasure’s dangerous lure.
I watch the motions of your youthful mind,
Rejoicing when to virtue ‘tis inclin’d;
But when a growing folly is descried,
To root it out, no art I leave untried.
Those drugs I mix in pleasure’s luscious bowl
Which pain the body to preserve the soul.
That listlessness, those qualms, those aches I send
Which dissipation’s giddy round attend.
Nor let these warnings, by your Guardian giv’n,
By winning pleasure from your thoughts be driv’n.
For if, regardless of my friendly voice,
In Fashion’s gaudy scenes your heart rejoice,
Dire punishments shall fall upon your head:
Disgust, and fretfulness, and secret dread.
Unmeaning forms shall swim before your eyes,
Wild as the clouds which float in vernal skies.

But if true wisdom all your thoughts employ,
I promise lasting peace and health and joy.
A mind untouch’d by malice or by spleen
Shall make your slumbers light, your thoughts serene;
And through the ills which mortals must betide
I still will be your counsellor and guide.”

Could THIS soul write NBC?
Henry:
(Timmy was the son of Yale President Timothy Dwight)

Master Timmy brisk and airy
Blythe as Oberon the fairy
On thy head thy cousin wishes
Thousand and ten thousand blisses.

Never may thy wicket ball
In a well or puddle fall;
Or thy wild ambitious kite
O’er the Elm’s thick foliage light.

When on bended knee thou sittest
And the mark in fancy hittest
May thy marble truly trace
Where thy wishes mark’d the place.

If at hide and seek you play,
All involved in the hay
Titt’ring hear the joyful sound
“Timmy never can be found.”

If you hop or if you run
Or whatever is the fun,
Vic’try with her sounding pinion
Hover o’er her little minion.

But when hunger calls the boys
From their helter skelter joys:
Bread and cheese in order standing
For their most rapacious handling
Timmy may thy luncheon be
More than Ben’s as five to three.

But if hasty pudding’s dish
Meet thy vast capacious wish -
Or lob-lollys charming jelly
Court thy cormorantal belly
Mortal foe to megre fast
Be thy spoonful first & last.