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CHAPTER 5th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse |  |
No labour, care, or skill, can e'er perform
Crude schemes that wake Imaginations warm,
That spawn or sprout, with quick successive train,
In teeming mansions of a moon-struck brain;
Which no spring-rains, or ripening suns, require,
But breed on hot-beds, forc'd by Fancy's fire.
Like mushroom-births, which reach their boldest height,
Born, nurs'd, and rear'd, in one productive night—
Or sallad-plants by preternatural heat,
In one nycthemeron grown to crops complete.
But corn and cattle rise by slower growth;
Not rais'd by Madness, or matur'd by Sloth.
Can skill and labour, by intense turmoil,
Break flints and pebbles down to procreant soil?
Will peaty swamps, or spungey marshes, yield
Earth's rich gramineous growths like fertile field?
'Tis counteracting Nature—fighting Fate—
Expecting Desarts turn'd to proud Estate—
Converting stoney tracts to mellow mould—
Transmuting iron to ingots form'd of gold—
Attempting wonders to excite surprize—
Exploring lands all strange, with hooded eyes.
Pushing discoveries, in each unknown part,
Without Cook's genius and consummate Art.
Conceit encourag'd as skill's giddy guide—
Opinion setting Practice quite aside—
Pride wresting Pow'r from Reason's royal hand,
And robbing Judgment of its calm command—
Strapping Experience down to maniac bed,
And ordering Ignorance to rule instead—
Stretching, full strength, thro' perils round each pole,
While spurning learn'd Lieutenant's kind controul;
Devoid of compass, card, or cool advice,
'Mong promontoried Alps of wedging ice,
To find, on swallowing sands, and foundering rocks,
Spontaneous harvests—well-fed herds and flocks.
With wild impetuous course in phrenzies, run,
To seek for snows beneath a zenith sun—
To strain the cordage—bend each swelling sail,
And drive, regardless, with each dangerous gale,
Till, wearied out with effort—stung with shame—
Lamenting loss of honour—badg'd with blame—
The purblind Pilot strikes, on hostile strand,
Amidst insulting Foes, in foreign Land.
Crude schemes that wake Imaginations warm,
That spawn or sprout, with quick successive train,
In teeming mansions of a moon-struck brain;
Which no spring-rains, or ripening suns, require,
But breed on hot-beds, forc'd by Fancy's fire.
Like mushroom-births, which reach their boldest height,
Born, nurs'd, and rear'd, in one productive night—
Or sallad-plants by preternatural heat,
In one nycthemeron grown to crops complete.
But corn and cattle rise by slower growth;
Not rais'd by Madness, or matur'd by Sloth.
Can skill and labour, by intense turmoil,
Break flints and pebbles down to procreant soil?
Will peaty swamps, or spungey marshes, yield
Earth's rich gramineous growths like fertile field?
'Tis counteracting Nature—fighting Fate—
Expecting Desarts turn'd to proud Estate—
Converting stoney tracts to mellow mould—
Transmuting iron to ingots form'd of gold—
Attempting wonders to excite surprize—
Exploring lands all strange, with hooded eyes.
Pushing discoveries, in each unknown part,
Without Cook's genius and consummate Art.
Conceit encourag'd as skill's giddy guide—
Opinion setting Practice quite aside—
Pride wresting Pow'r from Reason's royal hand,
And robbing Judgment of its calm command—
Strapping Experience down to maniac bed,
And ordering Ignorance to rule instead—
87
While spurning learn'd Lieutenant's kind controul;
Devoid of compass, card, or cool advice,
'Mong promontoried Alps of wedging ice,
To find, on swallowing sands, and foundering rocks,
Spontaneous harvests—well-fed herds and flocks.
With wild impetuous course in phrenzies, run,
To seek for snows beneath a zenith sun—
To strain the cordage—bend each swelling sail,
And drive, regardless, with each dangerous gale,
Till, wearied out with effort—stung with shame—
Lamenting loss of honour—badg'd with blame—
The purblind Pilot strikes, on hostile strand,
Amidst insulting Foes, in foreign Land.
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CHAPTER 5th.
The Life and Poetical Works of James Woodhouse | |