University of Virginia Library

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201

PROSPECTUS AND SPECIMEN OF AN INTENDED Rational Work, BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT WHISTLECRAFT, OF STOW-MARKET, IN SUFFOLK, HARNESS AND COLLAR-MAKERS, INTENDED TO COMPRISE THE MOST INTERESTING PARTICULARS RELATING TO King Arthur and his Round Table.

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205

I

Ive often wish'd that I could write a book,
Such as all English people might peruse;
I never should regret the pains it took,
That's just the sort of fame that I should choose:
To sail about the world like Captain Cook,
I'd sling a cot up for my favourite Muse,
And we'd take verses out to Demerara,
To New South Wales, and up to Niagara.

II

Poets consume exciseable commodities,
They raise the nation's spirit when victorious,
They drive an export trade in whims and oddities,
Making our commerce and revenue glorious;
As an industrious and pains-taking body 'tis
That Poets should be reckon'd meritorious:
And therefore I submissively propose
To erect one Board for Verse and one for Prose.

III

Princes protecting Sciences and Art
I've often seen, in copper-plate and print;
I never saw them elsewhere, for my part,
And therefore I conclude there's nothing in't;
But everybody knows the Regent's heart;
I trust he won't reject a well-meant hint;
Each Board to have twelve members, with a seat
To bring them in per ann. five-hundred neat:—

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206

IV

From Princes I descend to the Nobility:
In former times all persons of high stations,
Lords, Baronets, and Persons of gentility,
Paid twenty guineas for the dedications:
This practice was attended with utility;
The patrons lived to future generations,
The poets lived by their industrious earning,—
So men alive and dead could live by Learning.

V

Then, twenty guineas was a little fortune;
Now, we must starve unless the times should mend:
Our poets now-a-days are deem'd importune
If their addresses are diffusely penn'd;
Most fashionable authors make a short one
To their own wife, or child, or private friend,
To show their independence, I suppose;
And that may do for Gentlemen like those.

VI

Lastly, the common people I beseech—
Dear People! if you think my verses clever,
Preserve with care your noble Parts of speech,
And take it as a maxim to endeavour
To talk as your good mothers used to teach,
And then these lines of mine may last for ever;
And don't confound the language of the nation
With long-tail'd words in osity and ation.

VII

I think that Poets (whether Whig or Tory)
(Whether they go to meeting or to church)
Should study to promote their country's glory
With patriotic, diligent research;
That children yet unborn may learn the story,
With grammars, dictionaries, canes, and birch:
It stands to reason—This was Homer's plan,
And we must do—like him—the best we can.

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207

VIII

Madoc and Marmion, and many more,
Are out in print, and most of them have sold;
Perhaps together they may make a score;
Richard the First has had his story told,
But there were Lords and Princes long before,
That had behaved themselves like warriors bold;
Among the rest there was the great King Arthur,
What hero's fame was ever carried farther?

IX

King Arthur, and the Knights of his Round Table,
Were reckon'd the best King, and bravest Lords,
Of all that flourish'd since the Tower of Babel,
At least of all that history records;
Therefore I shall endeavour, if I'm able,
To paint their famous actions by my words:
Heroes exert themselves in hopes of Fame,
And having such a strong decisive claim,

X

It grieves me much, that Names that were respected
In former ages, Persons of such mark,
And Countrymen of ours, should lie neglected,
Just like old portraits lumbering in the dark:
An error such as this should be corrected,
And if my Muse can strike a single spark,
Why then (as poets say) I'll string my lyre;
And then I'll light a great poetic Fire;

XI

I'll air them all, and rub down the Round Table,
And wash the Canvas clean, and scour the Frames,
And put a coat of varnish on the Fable,
And try to puzzle out the Dates and Names;
Then (as I said before) I'll heave my cable,
And take a pilot, and drop down the Thames—
—These first eleven stanzas make a Proem,
And now I must sit down and write my Poem.

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208

CANTO I.

I

Beginning (as my Bookseller desires)
Like an old Minstrel with his gown and beard,
“Fair Ladies, gallant Knights, and gentle Squires,
“Now the last service from the Board is clear'd,
“And if this noble Company requires,
“And if amidst your mirth I may be heard,
“Of sundry strange adventures I could tell,
“That oft were told before, but never told so well.”

II

The Great King Arthur made a sumptuous Feast,
And held his Royal Christmas at Carrisle,
And thither came the Vassals, most and least,
From every corner of this British Isle;
And all were entertain'd, both man and beast,
According to their rank, in proper style;
The steeds were fed and litter'd in the stable,
The ladies and the knights sat down to table.

III

The bill of fare (as you may well suppose)
Was suited to those plentiful old times,
Before our modern luxuries arose,
With truffles and ragoûts, and various crimes;
And therefore, from the original in prose
I shall arrange the catalogue in rhymes:
They served up salmon, venison, and wild boars
By hundreds, and by dozens, and by scores.

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209

IV

Hogsheads of honey, kilderkins of mustard,
Muttons, and fatted beeves, and bacon swine;
Herons and bitterns, peacock, swan and bustard,
Teal, mallard, pigeons, widgeons, and in fine
Plum-puddings, pancakes, apple-pies and custard:
And therewithal they drank good Gascon wine,
With mead, and ale, and cider of our own;
For porter, punch, and negus, were not known.

V

The noise and uproar of the scullery tribe,
All pilfering and scrambling in their calling,
Was past all powers of language to describe—
The din of manful oaths and female squalling:
The sturdy porter, huddling up his bribe,
And then at random breaking heads and bawling,
Outcries, and cries of order, and contusions,
Made a confusion beyond all confusions;

VI

Beggars and vagabonds, blind, lame, and sturdy,
Minstrels and singers with their various airs,
The pipe, the tabor, and the hurdy-gurdy,
Jugglers and mountebanks with apes and bears,
Continued from the first day to the third day,
An uproar like ten thousand Smithfield fairs;
There were wild beasts and foreign birds and creatures,
And Jews and Foreigners with foreign features.

VII

All sorts of people there were seen together,
All sorts of characters, all sorts of dresses;
The fool with fox's tail and peacock's feather,
Pilgrims, and penitents, and grave burgesses;
The country people with their coats of leather,
Vintners and victuallers with cans and messes;
Grooms, archers, varlets, falconers and yeomen,
Damsels and waiting-maids, and waiting-women.

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210

VIII

But the profane, indelicate amours,
The vulgar, unenlighten'd conversation
Of minstrels, menials, courtezans, and boors,
(Although appropriate to their meaner station)
Would certainly revolt a taste like yours;
Therefore I shall omit the calculation
Of all the curses, oaths, and cuts and stabs,
Occasion'd by their dice, and drink, and drabs.

IX

We must take care in our poetic cruise,
And never hold a single tack too long;
Therefore my versatile ingenious Muse
Takes leave of this illiterate, low-bred throng,
Intending to present superior views,
Which to genteeler company belong,
And show the higher orders of society
Behaving with politeness and propriety.

X

And certainly they say, for fine behaving
King Arthur's Court has never had its match;
True point of honour, without pride or braving,
Strict etiquette for ever on the watch:
Their manners were refined and perfect—saving
Some modern graces, which they could not catch,
As spitting through the teeth, and driving stages,
Accomplishments reserved for distant ages.

XI

They look'd a manly, generous generation;
Beards, shoulders, eyebrows, broad, and square, and thick,
Their accents firm and loud in conversation,
Their eyes and gestures eager, sharp, and quick,
Shew'd them prepared, on proper provocation,
To give the lie, pull noses, stab and kick;
And for that very reason, it is said,
They were so very courteous and well-bred.

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211

XII

The ladies look'd of an heroic race—
At first a general likeness struck your eye,
Tall figures, open features, oval face,
Large eyes, with ample eyebrows arch'd and high;
Their manners had an odd, peculiar grace,
Neither repulsive, affable, nor shy,
Majestical, reserved, and somewhat sullen;
Their dresses partly silk, and partly woollen.

XIII

In form and figure far above the rest,
Sir Launcelot was chief of all the train,
In Arthur's Court an ever welcome guest;
Britain will never see his like again.
Of all the Knights she ever had the best,
Except, perhaps, Lord Wellington in Spain:
I never saw his picture nor his print,
From Morgan's Chronicle I take my hint.

XIV

For Morgan says (at least as I have heard,
And as a learned friend of mine assures),
Beside him all that lordly train appear'd
Like courtly minions, or like common boors,
As if unfit for knightly deeds, and rear'd
To rustic labours or to loose amours;
He moved amidst his peers without compare,
So lofty was his stature, look, and air.

XV

Yet oftentimes his courteous cheer forsook
His countenance, and then return'd again,
As if some secret recollection shook
His inward heart with unacknowledged pain;
And something haggard in his eyes and look
(More than his years or hardships could explain)
Made him appear, in person and in mind,
Less perfect than what nature had design'd.

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212

XVI

Of noble presence, but of different mien,
Alert and lively, voluble and gay,
Sir Tristram at Carlisle was rarely seen,
But ever was regretted while away;
With easy mirth, an enemy to spleen,
His ready converse charm'd the wintry day;
No tales he told of sieges or of fights,
Of foreign marvels, like the foolish Knights,

XVII

But with a playful imitative tone
(That merely seem'd a voucher for the truth)
Recounted strange adventures of his own,
The chances of his childhood and his youth,
Of churlish Giants he had seen and known,
Their rustic phrase and courtesies uncouth,
The dwellings, and the diet, and the lives
Of savage Monarchs and their monstrous Wives:

XVIII

Songs, music, languages, and many a lay
Asturian or Armoric, Irish, Basque,
His ready memory seized and bore away;
And ever when the Ladies chose to ask,
Sir Tristram was prepared to sing and play,
Not like a minstrel earnest at his task,
But with a sportive, careless, easy style,
As if he seem'd to mock himself the while.

XIX

His ready wit and rambling education,
With the congenial influence of his stars,
Had taught him all the arts of conversation,
All games of skill and stratagems of wars;
His birth, it seems, by Merlin's calculation,
Was under Venus, Mercury, and Mars;
His mind with all their attributes was mixt,
And, like those planets, wandering and unfixt;

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213

XX

From realm to realm he ran—and never staid;
Kingdoms and crowns he wan—and gave away:
It seem'd as if his labours were repaid
By the mere noise and movement of the fray:
No conquests nor acquirements had he made:
His chief delight was on some festive day
To ride triumphant, prodigal, and proud,
And shower his wealth amidst the shouting crowd:

XXI

His schemes of war were sudden, unforeseen,
Inexplicable both to friend and foe;
It seem'd as if some momentary spleen
Inspired the project and impell'd the blow;
And most his fortune and success were seen
With means the most inadequate and low;
Most master of himself, and least encumber'd,
When overmatch'd, entangled, and outnumber'd.

XXII

Strange instruments and engines he contrived
For sieges, and constructions for defence,
Inventions some of them that have survived,
Others were deem'd too cumbrous and immense:
Minstrels he loved, and cherish'd while he lived,
And patronized them both with praise and pence;
Somewhat more learned than became a Knight,
It was reported he could read and write.

XXIII

Sir Gawain may be painted in a word—
He was a perfect loyal Cavalier;
His courteous manners stand upon record,
A stranger to the very thought of fear.
The proverb says, As brave as his own sword;
And like his weapon was that worthy Peer,
Of admirable temper, clear and bright,
Polish'd yet keen, though pliant yet upright.

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214

XXIV

On every point, in earnest or in jest,
His judgment, and his prudence, and his wit,
Were deem'd the very touchstone and the test
Of what was proper, graceful, just, and fit;
A word from him set every thing at rest,
His short decisions never fail'd to hit;
His silence, his reserve, his inattention,
Were felt as the severest reprehension:

XXV

His memory was the magazine and hoard,
Where claims and grievances, from year to year,
And confidences and complaints were stored,
From dame and knight, from damsel, boor, and peer:
Loved by his friends, and trusted by his Lord,
A generous courtier, secret and sincere,
Adviser-general to the whole community,
He served his friend, but watch'd his opportunity.

XXVI

One riddle I could never understand—
But his success in war was strangely various;
In executing schemes that others plann'd,
He seem'd a very Cæsar or a Marius;
Take his own plans, and place him in command,
Your prospect of success became precarious:
His plans were good, but Launcelot succeeded
And realized them better far than He did.

XXVII

His discipline was stedfast and austere,
Unalterably fix'd, but calm and kind;
Founded on admiration, more than fear,
It seem'd an emanation from his mind;
The coarsest natures that approach'd him near
Grew courteous for the moment and refined;
Beneath his eye the poorest, weakest wight
Felt full of point-of-honour like a knight.

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215

XXVIII

In battle he was fearless to a fault,
The foremost in the thickest of the field;
His eager valour knew no pause nor halt,
And the red rampant Lion in his Shield
Scaled Towns and Towers, the foremost in assault,
With ready succour where the battle reel'd:
At random like a thunderbolt he ran,
And bore down shields, and pikes, and horse, and man.

CANTO II.

I

I've finish'd now three hundred lines and more,
And therefore I begin Canto the Second,
Just like those wandering ancient Bards of Yore;
They never laid a plan, nor ever reckon'd
What turning they should take the day before;
They follow'd where the lovely Muses beckon'd:
The Muses led them up to Mount Parnassus,
And that's the reason that they all surpass us.

II

The Muses served those Heathens well enough—
Bold Britons take a Tankard, or a Bottle,
And when the bottle's out, a pinch of snuff,
And so proceed in spite of Aristotle—
Those Rules of his are dry, dogmatic stuff,
All life and fire they suffocate and throttle—
And therefore I adopt the mode I mention,
Trusting to native judgment and invention.

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216

III

This method will, I hope, appear defensible—
I shall begin by mentioning the Giants,
A race of mortals, brutal and insensible,
(Postponing the details of the Defiance,
Which came in terms so very reprehensible
From that barbarian sovereign King Ryence)
Displaying simpler manners, forms, and passions,
Unmix'd by transitory modes and fashions.

IV

Before the Feast was ended, a Report
Fill'd every soul with horror and dismay;
Some Ladies, on their journey to the Court,
Had been surprised, and were convey'd away
By the Aboriginal Giants, to their Fort—
An unknown Fort—for Government, they say,
Had ascertain'd its actual existence,
But knew not its direction, nor its distance.

V

A waiting damsel, crooked and mis-shaped,
Herself the witness of a woful scene,
From which, by miracle, she had escaped,
Appear'd before the Ladies and the Queen;
Her figure was funereal, veil'd and craped,
Her voice convulsed with sobs and sighs between,
That with the sad recital, and the sight,
Revenge and rage inflamed each worthy knight.

VI

Sir Gawain rose without delay or dallying,
“Excuse us, madam,—we've no time to waste—”
And at the palace-gate you saw him sallying,
With other knights, equipp'd and arm'd in haste;
And there was Tristram making jests, and rallying
The poor mis-shapen Damsel, whom he placed
Behind him on a pillion, pad, or pannel;
He took, besides, his falcon and his spaniel.

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217

VII

But what with horror, and fatigue, and fright,
Poor soul, she could not recollect the way.
They reach'd the mountains on the second night,
And wander'd up and down till break of day,
When they discover'd, by the dawning light,
A lonely glen, where heaps of embers lay;
They found unleaven'd fragments, scorch'd and toasted,
And the remains of mules and horses roasted.

VIII

Sir Tristram understood the Giants' courses—
He felt the embers, but the heat was out—
He stood contemplating the roasted horses,
And all at once, without suspense or doubt,
His own decided judgment thus enforces—
“The Giants must be somewhere here about!”
Demonstrating the carcasses, he shows
That they remain'd untouch'd by kites or crows;

IX

“You see no traces of their sleeping here,
“No heap of leaves or heath, no Giant's nest—
“Their usual habitation must be near—
“They feed at sunset and retire to rest—
“A moment's search will set the matter clear.”
The fact turn'd out precisely as he guess'd;
And shortly after, scrambling through a gully,
He verified his own conjecture fully.

X

He found a Valley, closed on every side,
Resembling that which Rasselas describes;
Six miles in length, and half as many wide,
Where the descendants of the Giant tribes
Lived in their ancient Fortress undescried:
(Invaders tread upon each other's kibes)
First came the Britons, afterwards the Roman,
Our patrimonial lands belong to no man:

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218

XI

So Horace said—and so the Giants found,
Expelled by fresh invaders in succession;
But they maintained tenaciously the ground
Of ancient, indefeasible possession,
And robb'd and ransack'd all the country round;
And ventured on this horrible transgression,
Claiming a right reserved to waste and spoil,
As Lords and lawful owners of the soil.

XII

Huge mountains of immeasurable height
Encompass'd all the level Valley round,
With mighty slabs of rock, that sloped upright,
An insurmountable, enormous mound;
The very River vanish'd out of sight,
Absorb'd in secret channels under ground:
That Vale was so sequester'd and secluded,
All search for ages past it had eluded.

XIII

High overhead was many a Cave and Den,
That with its strange construction seem'd to mock
All thought of how they were contrived, or when—
—Hewn inward in the huge suspended Rock,
The Tombs and Monuments of mighty men:
Such were the patriarchs of this ancient stock.
Alas! what pity that the present race
Should be so barbarous, and depraved, and base!

XIV

For they subsisted (as I said) by pillage,
And the wild beasts which they pursued and chased:
Nor house, nor herdsman's hut, nor farm, nor village,
Within the lonely valley could be traced,
Nor roads, nor bounded fields, nor rural tillage,
But all was lonely, desolate, and waste.
The Castle which commanded the domain
Was suited to so rude and wild a Reign:

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219

XV

A Rock was in the centre, like a Cone,
Abruptly rising from a miry pool,
Where they beheld a Pile of massy stone,
Which masons of the rude primeval school
Had rear'd by help of Giant hands alone,
With rocky fragments unreduc'd by rule,
Irregular, like Nature more than Art,
Huge, rugged, and compact in every part.

XVI

But on the other side a River went,
And there the craggy Rock and ancient Wall
Had crumbled down with shelving deep descent;
Time and the wearing stream had work'd its fall:
The modern Giants had repair'd the Rent,
But poor, reduced, and ignorant withal,
They patch'd it up, contriving as they could,
With stones, and earth, and palisades of wood;

XVII

Sir Gawain tried a parley, but in vain—
A true bred Giant never trusts a Knight—
He sent a Herald, who return'd again
All torn to rags and perishing with fright;
A Trumpeter was sent, but he was slain—
To Trumpeters they bear a mortal spite:
When all conciliatory measures fail'd,
The Castle and the Fortress were assail'd.

XVIII

But when the Giants saw them fairly under,
They shovell'd down a cataract of stones,
A hideous volley like a peal of thunder,
Bouncing and bounding down, and breaking bones,
Rending the earth, and riving rocks asunder;
Sir Gawain inwardly laments and groans,
Retiring last, and standing most exposed;—
Success seem'd hopeless, and the combat closed.

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220

XIX

A Council then was call'd, and all agreed
To call in succour from the Country round;
By regular approaches to proceed,
Intrenching, fortifying, breaking ground.
That morning Tristram happen'd to secede:
It seems his Falcon was not to be found;
He went in search of her, but some suspected
He went lest his advice should be neglected.

XX

At Gawain's summons all the Country came;
At Gawain's summons all the people aided;
They called upon each other in his name,
And bid their neighbours work as hard as they did.
So well beloved was He, for very shame
They dug, they delved, entrench'd, and palisaded,
Till all the Fort was thoroughly blockaded,
And every Ford where Giants might have waded.

XXI

Sir Tristram found his Falcon, bruised and lame,
After a tedious search, as he averr'd,
And was returning back the way he came
When in the neighbouring thicket something stirr'd,
And flash'd across the path, as bright as flame,
Sir Tristram follow'd it, and found a Bird
Much like a Pheasant, only crimson-red,
With a fine tuft of feathers on his head.

XXII

Sir Tristram's mind—invention—powers of thought,
Were occupied, abstracted, and engaged,
Devising ways and means to have it caught
Alive—entire—to see it safely caged:
The Giants and their siege he set at nought
Compar'd with this new warfare that he waged.
He gain'd his object after three days wandering,
And three nights watching, meditating, pondering,

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221

XXIII

And to the Camp in triumph he return'd:
He makes them all admire the creature's crest,
And praise and magnify the prize he earn'd.
Sir Gawain rarely ventured on a jest,
But here his heart with indignation burn'd:
“Good Cousin, yonder stands an Eagle's nest!
—“A Prize for Fowlers such as you and me.”—
Sir Tristram answer'd mildly, “We shall see.”

XXIV

Good humour was Sir Tristram's leading quality,
And in the present case he proved it such;
If he forbore, it was that in reality
His conscience smote him with a secret touch,
For having shock'd his worthy friend's formality—
He thought Sir Gawain had not said too much;
He walks apart with him—and he discourses
About their preparation and their forces—

XXV

Approving every thing that had been done—
“It serves to put the Giants off their guard—
“Less hazard and less danger will be run—
“I doubt not we shall find them unprepared—
“The Castle will more easily be won,
“And many valuable lives be spared;
“The Ladies else, while we blockade and threaten,
“Will most infallibly be kill'd and eaten.”

XXVI

Sir Tristram talk'd incomparably well;
His reasons were irrefragably strong.
As Tristram spoke Sir Gawain's spirits fell,
For he discover'd clearly before long
(What Tristram never would presume to tell),
That his whole system was entirely wrong;
In fact his confidence had much diminish'd
Since all the preparations had been finish'd.

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222

XXVII

“Indeed!” Sir Tristram said, “for aught we know—
“For aught that we can tell—this very night
The valley's entrance may be closed with snow,
“And we may starve and perish here outright—
“'Tis better risking a decided blow—
“I own this weather puts me in a fright.”
In fine, this tedious conference to shorten,
Sir Gawain trusted to Sir Tristram's fortune.

XXVIII

'Twas twilight, ere the wintry dawn had kist
With cold salute the mountain's chilly brow;
The level lawns were dark, a lake of mist
Inundated the vales and depths below,
When valiant Tristram, with a chosen list
Of bold and hardy men, prepared to go,
Ascending through the vapours dim and hoar,
A secret track, which he descried before.

XXIX

If ever you attempted, when a boy,
To walk across the play-ground or the yard
Blindfolded, for an apple or a toy,
Which, when you reach'd the spot, was your reward,
You may conceive the difficult employ
Sir Tristram had, and that he found it hard,
Deprived of landmarks and the power of sight,
To steer their dark and doubtful course aright.

XXX

They climb'd an hour or more with hand and knee;
(The distance of a fathom or a rood
Was farther than the keenest eye could see;)
At last the very ground on which they stood,
The broken turf, and many a batter'd tree—
The crush'd and shatter'd shrubs and underwood—
Apprised them that they were arrived once more
Where they were overwhelm'd the time before.

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223

XXXI

Sir Tristram saw the people in a fluster;
He took them to a shelter'd hollow place:
They crowded round like chickens in a cluster,
And Tristram, with an unembarrass'd face,
Proceeded quietly to take a muster,
To take a muster, and to state the case—
“It was,” he said, “an unexpected error,
“Enough to strike inferior minds with terror;

XXXII

“But since they were assembled and collected,”
(All were assembled except nine or ten)
“He thought that their design might be effected;
“All things were easy to determined men.
“If they would take the track which he directed,
“And try their old adventure once again,”
He slapp'd his breast, and swore within an hour
That they should have the Castle in their power.

XXXIII

This mountain was like others I have seen;
There was a stratum or a ridge of stone
Projecting high beyond the sloping green,
From top to bottom, like a spinal bone,
Or flight of steps, with gaps and breaks between—
A Copper-plate would make my meaning known
Better than words, and therefore with permission,
I'll give a Print of it the next Edition.

XXXIV

Thither Sir Tristram with his comrades went,
For now the misty cloud was clear'd away,
And they must risk the perilous ascent,
Right in the Giants' front, in open day:
They ran to reach the shelter which it lent,
Before the battery should begin to play.
Their manner of ascending up that ridge
Was much like climbing by a broken bridge;

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224

XXXV

For there you scramble on from pier to pier,
Always afraid to lose your hold half way;
And as they clamber'd each successive tier
Of rugged upright rocks, I dare to say,
It was not altogether without fear—
Just fear enough to make brave people gay:
According to the words of Mr. Gray,
“They wound with toilsome march their long array.”

XXXVI

The more alert and active upward sprung,
And let down ropes to drag their comrades after;
Those ropes were their own shirts together strung,
Stript off and twisted with such mirth and laughter,
That with their jokes the rocky echoes rung:
Like countrymen that on a beam or rafter
Attempt to pass a raging wintry flood,
Such was the situation where they stood:

XXXVII

A wild tumultuous torrent raged around,
Of fragments tumbling from the mountain's height;
The whirling clouds of dust, the deafening sound,
The hurried motion that amazed the sight,
The constant quaking of the solid ground,
Environ'd them with phantoms of affright;
Yet with heroic hearts they held right on,
Till the last point of their ascent was won.

XXXVIII

The Giants saw them on the topmost crown
Of the last rock, and threaten'd and defied—
“Down with the mangy dwarfs there!—Dash them down
“Down with the dirty pismires!”—Thus they cried.
Sir Tristram, with a sharp sarcastic frown,
In their own Giant jargon thus replied,
“Mullinger!—Cacamole!—and Mangonell!
“You cursed cannibals—I know you well—

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225

XXXIX

“I'll see that pate of yours upon a post,
“And your left-handed squinting brother's too—
“By Heaven and Earth, within an hour at most,
“I'll give the crows a meal of him and you—
“The wolves shall have you—either raw or roast—
“I'll make an end of all your cursed crew.”
These words he partly said, and partly sang,
As usual with the Giants, in their slang.

XL

He darted forward to the mountain's brow—
The Giants ran away—they knew not why—
Sir Tristram gain'd the point—he knew not how—
He could account for it no more than I.
Such strange effects we witness often now;
Such strange experiments true Britons try
In sieges, and in skirmishes afloat,
In storming heights, and boarding from a boat.

XLI

True Courage bears about a Charm or Spell—
It looks, I think, like an instinctive Law
By which superior natures daunt and quell
Frenchmen and foreigners with fear and awe.
I wonder if Philosophers can tell—
Can they explain the thing with all their jaw?
I can't explain it—but the fact is so,
A fact which every midshipman must know.

XLII

Then instantly the signal was held out,
To shew Sir Gawain that the coast was clear:
They heard his Camp re-echo with a shout—
In half an hour Sir Gawain will be here.
But still Sir Tristram was perplext with doubt—
The crisis of the Ladies' fate drew near—
He dreaded what those poor defenceless creatures
Might suffer from such fierce and desperate natures.

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226

XLIII

The Giants, with their brutal want of sense,
In hurling stones to crush them with the fall,
And in their hurry taking them from thence,
Had half dismantled all the new-built Wall.
They left it here and there, a naked fence
Of stakes and palisades, upright and tall.
Sir Tristram form'd a sudden resolution,
And recommended it for execution.

XLIV

“My Lads,” he cried, “an effort must be made
“To keep those Monsters half an hour in play,
“While Gawain is advancing to our aid,
“Or else the Ladies will be made away.
“By mounting close within the palisade,
“You'll parry their two-handed, dangerous sway
“Their Clubs and Maces: recollect my words,
“And use your daggers rather than your swords.”

XLV

That service was most gallantly perform'd:
The Giants still endeavour'd to repel
And drive them from the breach that they had storm'd:
The foremost of the Crew was Mangonell.
At sight of him Sir Tristram's spirit warm'd;
With aim unerring Tristram's falchion fell,
Lopt off his Club and fingers at the knuckle,
And thus disabled that stupendous Chuckle.

XLVI

The Giant ran, outrageous with the wound,
Roaring and bleeding, to the palisade;
Sir Tristram swerved aside, and reaching round,
Probed all his entrails with his poniard's blade:
His Giant limbs fall thundering on the ground,
His goggling eyes eternal slumbers shade;
Then by the head or heels, I know not which,
They dragg'd him forth, and tost him in the Ditch.

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227

XLVII

Sir Tristram, in the warfare that he waged,
Strove to attract the Giant's whole attention;
To keep it undivided and engaged,
He rack'd his fiery brain and his invention;
And taunted and reviled, and storm'd, and raged,
In terms far worse, and more than I can mention.
In the mean while, in a more sober manner,
Sir Gawain was advancing with his banner.

XLVIII

But first I must commemorate in rhyme
Sir Tristram's dextrous swordmanship and might,
(This incident appears to me sublime),
He struck a Giant's head off in the fight:
The head fell down of course, but for some time
The stupid, headless trunk remain'd upright;
For more than twenty seconds there it stood,
But ultimately fell from loss of blood.

XLIX

Behold Sir Gawain with his valiant band;
He enters on the work with warmth and haste,
And slays a brace of Giants out of hand,
Sliced downward from the shoulder to the waist.
But our ichnography must now be plann'd,
The Keep or Inner Castle must be traced.
I wish myself at the concluding distich,
Although I think the thing characteristic.

L

Facing your Entrance, just three yards behind,
There was a Mass of Stone of moderate height,
It stood before you like a screen or blind:
And there—on either hand to left and right—
Were sloping Parapets or Planes inclined,
On which two massy Stones were placed upright,
Secured by Staples and by leathern Ropes,
Which hinder'd them from sliding down the slopes.

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228

LI

“—Cousin, those Dogs have some device or gin!—
“—I'll run the gauntlet—and I'll stand a knock—”
He dash'd into the Gate through thick and thin—
He hew'd away the bands which held the block—
It rush'd along the slope with rumbling din,
And closed the entrance with a thundering shock,
(Just like those famous old Symplegades
Discover'd by the Classics in their seas.)

LII

This was Sir Tristram—(as you may suppose)
He found some Giants wounded, others dead—
He shortly equalizes these with those;
But one poor Devil there was sick in bed,
In whose behalf the Ladies interpose;
Sir Tristram spared his life, because they said
That he was more humane, and mild, and clever,
And all the time had had an ague-fever.

LIII

The Ladies?—They were tolerably well,
At least as well as could have been expected:
Many details I must forbear to tell,
Their toilet had been very much neglected;
But by supreme good luck it so befell
That when the Castle's capture was effected,
When those vile cannibals were overpower'd,
Only two fat Duennas were devour'd.

LIV

Sir Tristram having thus secured the Fort,
And seen all safe, was climbing to the Wall,
(Meaning to leap into the outer Court;)
But when he came, he saved himself the fall,
Sir Gawain had been spoiling all the sport,
The Giants were demolish'd one and all:
He pull'd them up the Wall—they climb and enter—
Such was the winding up of this adventure.

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229

LV

The only real sufferer in the fight
Was a poor neighbouring Squire of little fame,
That came and join'd the party overnight;
He hobbled home, disabled with a maim
Which he received in tumbling from a height:
The Knights from Court had never heard his name,
Nor recollected seeing him before—
Two leopards' faces were the arms he bore.

LVI

Thus Tristram, without loss of life or limb,
Conquer'd the Giants' Castle in a day;
But whether it were accident or whim
That kept him in the Woods so long away,
In any other mortal except him
I should not feel a doubt of what to say;
But he was wholly guided by his humour,
Indifferent to report and public rumour.

LVII

It was besides imagined and suspected
That he had miss'd his course by deep design,
To take the track which Gawain had neglected—
I speak of others' notions, not of mine:
I question even if he recollected—
He might have felt a moment's wish to shine;
I only know that he made nothing of it,
Either for reputation or for profit.

LVIII

The Ladies, by Sir Gawain's kind direction,
Proceeded instantaneously to Court,
To thank their Majesties for their protection.
Sir Gawain follow'd with a grand escort,
And was received with favour and affection.
Sir Tristram remain'd loitering in the Fort;
He thought the building and the scenery striking,
And that poor captive Giant took his liking.

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230

LIX

And now the thread of our Romance unravels,
Presenting new performers on the stage;
A Giant's education and his travels
Will occupy the next succeeding page:
But I begin to tremble at the cavils
Of this fastidious, supercilious age;
Reviews, and paragraphs in morning papers—
The prospect of them gives my Muse the vapours.

LX

“My dear,” says she, “I think it will be well
“To ascertain our losses or our gains:
“If this first sample should succeed and sell,
“We can renew the same melodious strains.”
Poor soul! she's had, I think, a tedious spell,
And ought to be consider'd for her pains.
And keeping of my company so long—
A moderate compliment would not be wrong.

CANTO III.

I

I've a proposal here from Mr. Murray,
‘He offers handsomely—the money down;
‘My dear, you might recover from your flurry
‘In a nice airy lodging out of town,
‘At Croydon, Epsom, anywhere in Surrey;
‘If every stanza brings us in a crown,
‘I think that I might venture to bespeak
‘A bed-room and front-parlour for next week.

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231

II

‘Tell me, my dear Thalia, what you think;
‘Your nerves have undergone a sudden shock;
‘Your poor dear spirits have begun to sink;
‘On Banstead Downs you'd muster a new stock,
‘And I'd be sure to keep away from drink,
‘And always go to bed by twelve o'clock.
‘We'll travel down there in the morning stages;
‘Our verses shall go down to distant ages.

III

‘And here in town we'll breakfast on hot rolls,
‘And you shall have a better shawl to wear;
‘These pantaloons of mine are chafed in holes;
‘By Monday next I'll compass a new pair:
‘Come, now, fling up the cinders, fetch the coals,
‘And take away the things you hung to air,
‘Set out the tea-things, and bid Phœbe bring
‘The kettle up.’—Arms and the Monks I sing.

IV

Some ten miles off, an ancient abbey stood,
Amidst the mountains, near a noble stream;
A level eminence, enshrined with wood,
Slop'd to the river's bank and southern beam;
Within were fifty friars fat and good,
Of goodly persons, and of good esteem,
That pass'd an easy, exemplary life,
Remote from want and care, and worldly strife.

V

Between the Monks and Giants there subsisted,
In the first abbot's lifetime, much respect;
The Giants let them settle where they listed;
The Giants were a tolerating sect.
A poor lame Giant once the Monks assisted,
Old and abandon'd, dying with neglect,
The Prior found him, cured his broken bone,
And very kindly cut him for the stone.

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232

VI

This seem'd a glorious, golden opportunity,
To civilize the whole gigantic race;
To draw them to pay tithes, and dwell in unity;
The Giants' valley was a fertile place,
And might have much enrich'd the whole community,
Had the old Giant lived a longer space;
But he relapsed, and though all means were tried,
They could but just baptize him—when he died.

VII

And, I believe, the Giants never knew
Of the kind treatment that befell their mate;
He broke down all at once, and all the crew
Had taken leave, and left him to his fate;
And though the Monks exposed him full in view,
Propt on his crutches, at the garden gate,
To prove their cure, and shew that all was right,
It happen'd that no Giants came in sight:

VIII

They never found another case to cure,
But their demeanour calm and reverential,
Their gesture and their vesture grave and pure,
Their conduct sober, cautious, and prudential,
Engaged respect, sufficient to secure
Their properties and interests most essential;
They kept a distant, courteous intercourse;
Salutes and gestures were their sole discourse.

IX

Music will civilize, the poets say,
In time it might have civiliz'd the Giants;
The Jesuits found its use in Paraguay;
Orpheus was famous for harmonic science,
And civilized the Thracians in that way;
My judgment coincides with Mr. Bryant's;
He thinks that Orpheus meant a race of cloisterers,
Obnoxious to the Bacchanalian roisterers.

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233

X

Deciphering the symbols of mythology,
He finds them Monks, expert in their vocation;
Teachers of music, medicine, and theology,
The missionaries of the barbarous Thracian;
The poet's fable was a wild apology
For an inhuman bloody reformation,
Which left those tribes uncivilized and rude,
Naked and fierce, and painted and tattoo'd.

XI

It was a glorious jacobinic job
To pull down convents, to condemn for treason
Poor peeping Pentheus—to carouse and rob,
With naked raving goddesses of reason,
The festivals and orgies of the mob
That every twentieth century come in season.
Enough of Orpheus—the succeeding page
Relates to Monks of a more recent age;

XII

And oft that wild untutor'd race would draw,
Led by the solemn sound and sacred light
Beyond the bank, beneath a lonely shaw,
To listen all the livelong summer night,
Till deep, serene, and reverential awe
Environ'd them with silent calm delight,
Contemplating the Minster's midnight gleam,
Reflected from the clear and glassy stream;

XIII

But chiefly, when the shadowy moon had shed
O'er woods and waters her mysterious hue,
Their passive hearts and vacant fancies fed
With thoughts and aspirations strange and new,
Till their brute souls with inward working bred
Dark hints that in the depth of instinct grew
Subjective—not from Locke's associations,
Nor David Hartley's doctrine of vibrations.

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234

XIV

Each was ashamed to mention to the others
One half of all the feelings that he felt,
Yet thus far each could venture—‘Listen, brothers,
‘It seems as if one heard heaven's thunder melt
‘In music—! all at once it soothes—it smothers—
‘It overpowers one—Pillicock, don't pelt!
‘It seems a kind of shame, a kind of sin,
‘To vex those harmless worthy souls within.’

XV

In castles and in courts Ambition dwells,
But not in castles or in courts alone;
She breathed a wish, throughout those sacred cells,
For bells of larger size, and louder tone;
Giants abominate the sound of bells,
And soon the fierce antipathy was shown,
The tinkling and the jingling, and the clangour;
Roused their irrational gigantic anger.

XVI

Unhappy mortals! ever blind to fate!
Unhappy Monks! you see no danger nigh;
Exulting in their sound and size and weight,
From morn till noon the merry peal you ply:
The belfry rocks, your bosoms are elate,
Your spirits with the ropes and pulleys fly;
Tired, but transported, panting, pulling, hauling,
Ramping and stamping, overjoy'd and bawling.

XVII

Meanwhile the solemn mountains that surrounded
The silent valley where the convent lay,
With tintinnabular uproar were astounded,
When the first peal burst forth at break of day:
Feeling their granite ears severely wounded,
They scarce knew what to think, or what to say;
And (though large mountains commonly conceal
Their sentiments, dissembling what they feel,

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235

XVIII

Yet) Cader-Gibbrish from his cloudy throne
To huge Loblommon gave an intimation
Of this strange rumour, with an awful tone,
Thundering his deep surprise and indignation;
The lesser hills, in language of their own,
Discuss'd the topic by reverberation;
Discoursing with their echoes all day long,
Their only conversation was, ‘ding-dong.’

XIX

Those giant-mountains inwardly were moved,
But never made an outward change of place:
Not so the mountain-giants—(as behoved
A more alert and locomotive race),
Hearing a clatter which they disapproved,
They ran straight forward to besiege the place
With a discordant universal yell,
Like house-dogs howling at a dinner-bell.

XX

Historians are extremely to be pitied,
Obliged to persevere in the narration
Of wrongs and horrid outrages committed,
Oppression, sacrilege, assassination;
The following scenes I wish'd to have omitted,
But truth is an imperious obligation.
So—‘my heart sickens, and I drop my pen,’
And am obliged to pick it up again,

XXI

And, dipping it afresh, I must transcribe
An ancient monkish record, which displays
The savage acts of that gigantic tribe;
I hope, that from the diction of those days,
This noble, national poem will imbibe
A something (in the old reviewing phrase),
‘Of an original flavour, and a raciness;’
I should not else transcribe it out of laziness.

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236

XXII

The writer first relates a dream, or vision,
Observed by Luke and Lawrence in their cells,
And a nocturnal hideous apparition
Of fiends and devils dancing round the bells:
This last event is stated with precision;
Their persons he describes, their names he tells,
Klaproth, Tantallan, Barbanel, Belphegor,
Long-tail'd, long-talon'd, hairy, black, and meagre.

XXIII

He then rehearses sundry marvels more,
Damping the mind with horror by degrees,
Of a prodigious birth a heifer bore,
Of mermaids seen in the surrounding seas,
Of a sea-monster that was cast ashore;
Earthquakes and thunder-stones, events like these,
Which served to shew the times were out of joint,
And then proceeds directly to the point.

XXIV

Erant rumores et timores varii;
Dies horroris et confusionis
Evenit in calendis Januarii;
Gigantes, semen maledictionis
Nostri potentes impii adversarii,
Irascebantur campanarum sonis,
Horâ secundâ centum tres gigantes
Venerunt ante januam ululantes.

XXV

At fratres pleni desolationis,
Stabant ad necessarium præsidium,
Perterriti pro vitis et pro bonis,
Et perduravit hoc crudele obsidium,
Nostri claustralis pauperis Sionis,
Ad primum diem proximorum Idium;
Tunc in triumpho fracto tintinnabulo,
Gigantes ibant alibi pro pabulo.

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237

XXVI

Sed frater Isidorus decumbebat
In lecto per tres menses brachio fracto,
Nam lapides Mangonellus jaciebat,
Et fregit tintinnabulum lapide jacto;
Et omne vicinagium destruebat,
Et nihil relinquebat de intacto,
Ardens molinos, Casas, messuagia,
Et alia multa damna atque outragia.

XXVII

Those Monks were poor proficients in divinity,
And scarce knew more of Latin than myself;
Compared with theirs they say that true Latinity
Appears like porcelain compared with delf;
As for the damage done in the vicinity,
Those that have laid their Latin on the shelf
May like to read the subsequent narration
Done into metre from a friend's translation.

XXVIII

Squire Humphry Bamberham, of Boozley Hall,
(Whose name I mention with deserved respect),
On market-days was often pleased to call,
And to suggest improvements, or correct;
I own the obligation once for all,
Lest critics should imagine they detect
Traces of learning and superior reading,
Beyond, as they suppose, my birth and breeding.

XXIX

Papers besides, and transcripts most material,
He gave me when I went to him to dine;
A trunk full, one coach-seat, and an imperial,
One band-box—But the work is wholly mine;
The tone, the form, the colouring etherial,
‘The vision and the faculty divine,’
The scenery, characters, and triple-rhymes,
I'll swear it—like old Walter of the Times.

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238

XXX

Long, long before, upon a point of weight,
Such as a ring of bells complete and new,
Chapters were summon'd, frequent, full, and late;
The point was view'd in every point of view,
Till, after fierce discussion and debate,
The wiser monks, the wise are always few,
That from the first opposed the plan in toto,
Were over-borne, canonicali voto.

XXXI

A prudent monk, their reader and librarian,
Observed a faction, angry, strong, and warm,
(Himself an anti-tintinnabularian),
He saw, or thought he saw, a party form
To scout him as an alien and sectarian.
There was an undefined impending storm!
The opponents were united, bold, and hot;
They might degrade, imprison him—what not?

XXXII

Now faction in a city, camp, or cloister,
While it is yet a tender raw beginner,
Is nourish'd by superfluous warmth and moisture,
Namely, by warmth and moisture after dinner;
And therefore, till the temper and the posture
Of things should alter—till a secret inner
Instinctive voice should whisper, all is right—
He deem'd it safest to keep least in sight.

XXXIII

He felt as if his neck were in a noose,
And evermore retired betimes from table,
For fear of altercation and abuse,
But made the best excuse that he was able;
He never rose without a good excuse,
(Like Master Stork invited in the fable
To Mr. Fox's dinner); there he sat,
Impatient to retire and take his hat.

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239

XXXIV

For only once or twice that he remain'd
To change this constant formal course, he found
His brethren awkward, sullen, and constrain'd,
—He caught the conversation at a bound,
And, with a hurried agitation, strain'd
His wits to keep it up, and drive it round.
—It saved him—but he felt the risk and danger,
Behaved-to like a pleasant utter stranger.

XXXV

Wise people sometimes will pretend to sleep,
And watch and listen while they droop and snore—
He felt himself a kind of a black sheep,
But studied to be neither less nor more
Obliging than became him—but to keep
His temper, style, and manner as before;
It seem'd the best, the safest, only plan,
Never to seem to feel as a mark'd man.

XXXVI

Wise Curs, when canister'd, refuse to run;
They merely crawl and creep about, and whine,
And disappoint the Boys, and spoil the fun—
That picture is too mean—this Monk of mine
Ennobled it, as others since have done,
With grace and ease, and grandeur of design;
He neither ran nor howl'd, nor crept nor turn'd,
But wore it as he walk'd, quite unconcern'd.

XXXVII

To manifest the slightest want of nerve
Was evidently perfect, utter ruin,
Therefore the seeming to recant or swerve,
By meddling any way with what was doing,
He felt within himself would only serve
To bring down all the mischief that was brewing;
“No duty binds me, no constraint compels
“To bow before the Dagon of the Bells,

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240

XXXVIII

“To flatter this new foolery, to betray
“My vote, my conscience, and my better sense,
“By bustling in the Belfry day by day;
“But in the Grange, the Cellar, or the Spence,
“(While all are otherwise employ'd), I may
“Deserve their thanks, at least avoid offence;
“For (while this vile anticipated clatter
“Fills all their hearts and senses), every matter

XXXIX

“Behoveful for our maintenance and needs
“Is wholly disregarded, and the course
“Of our conventual management proceeds
“At random, day by day, from bad to worse;
“The Larder dwindles and the Cellar bleeds!
“Besides,—besides the bells, we must disburse
“For masonry, for frame-work, wheels and fliers;
“Next winter we must fast like genuine friars.”

XL

As Bees, that when the skies are calm and fair,
In June, or the beginning of July,
Launch forth colonial settlers in the air,
Round, round, and round-about, they whiz, they fly,
With eager worry whirling here and there,
They know not whence, nor whither, where, nor why,
In utter hurry-scurry, going, coming,
Maddening the summer air with ceaseless humming;

XLI

Till the strong Frying-pan's energic jangle
With thrilling thrum their feebler hum doth drown,
Then passive and appeased, they droop and dangle,
Clinging together close, and clustering down,
Link'd in a multitudinous living tangle
Like an old Tassel of a dingy brown;
The joyful Farmer sees, and spreads his hay,
And reckons on a settled sultry day.

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241

XLII

E'en so the Monks, as wild as sparks of fire,
(Or swarms unpacified by pan or kettle),
Ran restless round the Cloisters and the Quire,
Till those huge masses of sonorous metal
Attracted them toward the Tower and Spire;
There you might see them cluster, crowd, and settle,
Throng'd in the hollow tintinnabular Hive;
The Belfry swarm'd with Monks; it seem'd alive.

XLIII

Then, while the Cloisters, Courts, and Yards were still,
Silent and empty, like a long vacation;
The Friar prowl'd about, intent to fill
Details of delegated occupation,
Which, with a ready frankness and good will,
He undertook; he said, “the obligation
“Was nothing—nothing—he could serve their turn
“While they were busy with this new concern.”

XLIV

Combining prudence with a scholar's pride,
Poor Tully, like a toad beneath a harrow,
Twitch'd, jerk'd, and haul'd and maul'd on every side,
Tried to identify himself with Varro;
This course our cautious Friar might have tried,
But his poor convent was a field too narrow;
There was not, from the Prior to the Cook,
A single soul that cared about a book:

XLV

Yet, sitting with his books, he felt unclogg'd
Unfetter'd; and for two hours together tasted
The calm delight of being neither dogg'd,
Nor watch'd, nor worried; he transcribed, he pasted,
Repair'd old Bindings, index'd, catalogued,
Illuminated, mended Clasps, and wasted
An hour or two sometimes in actual reading;
Meanwhile the belfry business was proceeding;

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242

XLVI

And the first opening Peal, the grand display,
In prospect ever present to his mind,
Was fast approaching, pregnant with dismay,
With loathing and with horror undefined,
Like the expectation of an Ague-day;
The day before he neither supp'd nor dined,
And felt beforehand, for a fortnight near,
A kind of deafness in his fancy's ear:

XLVII

But most he fear'd his ill-digested spleen,
Inflamed by gibes, might lead him on to wrangle,
Or discompose, at least, his looks and mien;
So, with the Belfry's first prelusive jangle,
He sallied from the Garden-gate unseen,
With his worst hat, his boots, his line and angle,
Meaning to pass away the time, and bring
Some fish for supper, as a civil thing.

XLVIII

The prospect of their after-supper talk
Employ'd his thoughts, forecasting many a scoff,
Which he with quick reply must damp and balk,
Parrying at once, without a hem or cough,
“Had not the bells annoy'd him in his walk?—
“No, faith! he liked them best when farthest off.”
Thus he prepared and practised many a sentence,
Expressing ease, good-humour, independence.

XLIX

His ground-bait had been laid the night before,
Most fortunately!—for he used to say,
‘That more than once the belfry's bothering roar
‘Almost induced him to remove away;’
Had he so done,—the gigantean corps
Had sack'd the convent on that very day,
But providentially the perch and dace
Bit freely, which detain'd him at the place.

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243

L

And here let us detain ourselves awhile,
My dear Thalia! party's angry frown
And petty malice in that monkish pile,
(The warfare of the cowl and of the gown),
Had almost dried my wits and drain'd my style;
Here, with our legs, then, idly dangling down,
We'll rest upon the bank, and dip our toes
In the poetic current as it flows.

LI

Or in the narrow sunny plashes near,
Observe the puny piscatory Swarm,
That with their tiny Squadrons tack and veer,
Cruising amidst the shelves and shallows warm,
Chasing, or in retreat, with hope or fear
Of petty plunder or minute alarm;
With clannish instinct how they wheel and face,
Inherited arts inherent in the race;

LII

Or mark the jetty, glossy Tribes that glance
Upon the water's firm unruffled breast,
Tracing their ancient labyrinthic dance
In mute mysterious cadence unexpress'd;
Alas! that fresh disaster and mischance
Again must drive us from our place of rest!
Grim Mangonel, with his outrageous crew,
Will scare us hence within an hour or two.

LIII

Poets are privileged to run away—
Alcæus and Archilochus could fling
Their shields behind them in a doubtful fray;
And still sweet Horace may be heard to sing
His filthy fright upon Philippi's day;
(—You can retire, too—for the Muse's wing
Is swift as Cupid's pinion when he flies,
Alarm'd at periwigs and human Tyes).

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244

LIV

This practice was approved in times of yore,
Though later bards behav'd like gentlemen,
And Garcilasso, Camoens, many more,
Disclaim'd the privilege of book and pen;
And bold Aneurin, all bedripp'd with gore,
Bursting by force from the beleaguer'd glen,
Arrogant, haughty, fierce, of fiery mood,
Not meek and mean, as Gray misunderstood.

LV

But we, that write a mere Campaigning Tour,
May choose a station for our point of view
That's picturesque and perfectly secure;
Come, now we'll sketch the friar—That will do—
‘Designs and etchings by an amateur;’
‘A frontispiece, and a vignette or two:’
But much I fear that aqua-tint and etching
Will scarce keep pace with true poetic sketching.

LVI

Dogs that inhabit near the banks of Nile,
(As ancient authors or old proverbs say),
Dreading the cruel critic Crocodile,
Drink as they run, a mouthful and away;
'Tis a true model for descriptive style;
“Keep moving,” (as the man says in the play),
The power of motion is the poet's forte—
Therefore, again, “keep moving! that's your sort!”

LVII

For, otherwise, while you persist and paint,
With your portfolio pinion'd to a spot,
Half of your picture grows effaced and faint,
Imperfectly remember'd, or forgot;
Make sketch, then, upon sketch; and if they a'n't
Complete, it does not signify a jot;
Leave graphic illustrations of your work
To be devised by Westall or by Smirke.

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LVIII

I'll speak my mind at once, in spite of raillery;
I've thought and thought again a thousand times,
What a magnificent Poetic Gallery
Might be design'd from my Stowmarket rhymes;
I look for no reward, nor fee, nor salary,
I look for England's fame in foreign climes
And future ages—Honos alit Artes,
And such a plan would reconcile all parties.

LIX

I'm strongly for the present state of things;
I look for no reform, nor innovation,
Because our present Parliaments and Kings
Are competent to improve and rule the Nation,
Provided Projects that true Genius brings
Are held in due respect and estimation.
I've said enough—and now you must be wishing
To see the landscape, and the friar fishing.

CANTO IV.

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