 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
101
SIDDONS:
A POEM.
Vehemens in flectendo, in quo uno vis omnis oratoris est.
Cicero.—Orator.
105
A bard, whom no poetic ills appall,
The patron's coldness, or the critic's gall;
With generous effort, still asserts the bays;
Or gives a brother's genius all its praise.
The patron's coldness, or the critic's gall;
With generous effort, still asserts the bays;
Or gives a brother's genius all its praise.
Poets not merely, to their Phœbus owe
That art which bids immortal numbers flow;
The kind inspirer, to his favourite train,
Gives, with his tuneful, his prophetick strain.
They feel ambition's late, but lasting power
And leave the vain their tinsel of the hour;
Of justice from posterity secure,
Calmly the malice of their age endure.
That art which bids immortal numbers flow;
The kind inspirer, to his favourite train,
Gives, with his tuneful, his prophetick strain.
They feel ambition's late, but lasting power
And leave the vain their tinsel of the hour;
106
Calmly the malice of their age endure.
But celebrated actors hardly save
Their well-earned laurel from the ruthless grave;
Their glory sickens at it's owner's death,
And scarce outlives cotemporary breath.
With eastern flowers, to strew their path of life,
Fame, luxury, gold, maintain a friendly strife;
But they bequeathe no strong, immortal verse;
And hence their fame droops pallid o'er their herse.
Their well-earned laurel from the ruthless grave;
Their glory sickens at it's owner's death,
And scarce outlives cotemporary breath.
With eastern flowers, to strew their path of life,
Fame, luxury, gold, maintain a friendly strife;
But they bequeathe no strong, immortal verse;
And hence their fame droops pallid o'er their herse.
Poets, a more august, and sacred name,
Their art, our glory, and their fate, our shame,
Bear, and anticipate, a different doom,
In mortal fortune, and beyond the tomb.
Their art, our glory, and their fate, our shame,
Bear, and anticipate, a different doom,
In mortal fortune, and beyond the tomb.
Those talents which produce the godlike strain,
Subject the man to poverty, and pain;
Mean labours his ethereal fire controul;
And want unnerves his energy of soul.
Whenever God, for his mysterious ends,
Pressed with all evils, destitute of friends,
Presents a Chatterton to human view,
The Devil conjures up a Walpole too.
Subject the man to poverty, and pain;
Mean labours his ethereal fire controul;
And want unnerves his energy of soul.
Whenever God, for his mysterious ends,
Pressed with all evils, destitute of friends,
107
The Devil conjures up a Walpole too.
Yet well they know, ere glory's wreath is won,
And far from Orford's more unfeeling son,
Through glades Elysian ere their spirits rove,
Or through the fragrance of the laurel grove;
Full well they know (the presage heals their woes)
That even on earth their fame eternal flows;
That their existence was by heaven designed
To give the distant sons of human kind
The brightest emanations of the mind.
And far from Orford's more unfeeling son,
Through glades Elysian ere their spirits rove,
Or through the fragrance of the laurel grove;
Full well they know (the presage heals their woes)
That even on earth their fame eternal flows;
That their existence was by heaven designed
To give the distant sons of human kind
The brightest emanations of the mind.
A splendid object, full in fancy's view,
On bards and actors my reflexions drew;
Candour my verse digressive will forgive;
They write correctly who securely live;
The poet, from his theme before he strayed,
For Siddons had invoked the muse's aid.
His liberal strain requests the publick ear,
Not with presumption, nor fictitious fear.
Talents pre-eminent are sure to find
From him the verdict of an honest mind;
He wishes that the laurel still may bloom
Round the right brow, and round the sacred tomb;
Admires, with ardour, each illustrious name;
Himself, through all his soul, alive to fame.
On bards and actors my reflexions drew;
Candour my verse digressive will forgive;
They write correctly who securely live;
The poet, from his theme before he strayed,
For Siddons had invoked the muse's aid.
His liberal strain requests the publick ear,
Not with presumption, nor fictitious fear.
Talents pre-eminent are sure to find
From him the verdict of an honest mind;
108
Round the right brow, and round the sacred tomb;
Admires, with ardour, each illustrious name;
Himself, through all his soul, alive to fame.
Siddons! bright subject for a poet's page!
Born to augment the glory of the stage!
Our soul of tragedy restored I see;
A Garrick's genius is renewed in thee.
To give our nature all it's glorious course;
With moral beauty, with resistless force,
To call forth all the passions of the mind,
The good, the brave, the vengeful, the refined;
The sigh, the thrill, the start, the angel's tear;
Thy Isabella is our Garrick's Lear.
Born to augment the glory of the stage!
Our soul of tragedy restored I see;
A Garrick's genius is renewed in thee.
To give our nature all it's glorious course;
With moral beauty, with resistless force,
To call forth all the passions of the mind,
The good, the brave, the vengeful, the refined;
The sigh, the thrill, the start, the angel's tear;
Thy Isabella is our Garrick's Lear.
'Tis not the beauties of thy form alone,
Thy graceful motion, thy impassioned tone;
Thy charming attitudes, thy magic pause,
That speaks the eloquence of nature's laws;
Not these have given thee high theatrick fame,
Nor fired the muse to celebrate thy name.
Thy graceful motion, thy impassioned tone;
Thy charming attitudes, thy magic pause,
That speaks the eloquence of nature's laws;
Not these have given thee high theatrick fame,
Nor fired the muse to celebrate thy name.
When Thomson's epithets, to nature true,
Recall her brightest glories to my view;
Whene'er his mind-illumined aspect brings
The look that speaks unutterable things;
In fancy, then, thy image I shall see;
Then, heavenly artist, I shall think on thee!
Whatever passion animates thine eye;
Thence, whether pity steals, or terrours fly;
Or heaven commands, to fix a verse benign,
With power miraculous, thy face to shine;
Whatever feeling 'tis thy aim to move,
Fear, vengeance, hate, benevolence, or love;
Still do thy looks usurp divine controul,
And on their objects rivet all the soul:
Thy lightning far outstrips the poet's race;
Even Otway's numbers yield to Siddons' face.
Recall her brightest glories to my view;
109
The look that speaks unutterable things;
In fancy, then, thy image I shall see;
Then, heavenly artist, I shall think on thee!
Whatever passion animates thine eye;
Thence, whether pity steals, or terrours fly;
Or heaven commands, to fix a verse benign,
With power miraculous, thy face to shine;
Whatever feeling 'tis thy aim to move,
Fear, vengeance, hate, benevolence, or love;
Still do thy looks usurp divine controul,
And on their objects rivet all the soul:
Thy lightning far outstrips the poet's race;
Even Otway's numbers yield to Siddons' face.
Long after thou hast closed the glowing scene;
Withdrawn thy killing, or transporting mien;
Humanely hast removed from mortal sight,
Those eyes that shed insufferable light;
Effects continue, rarely seen before;
The tumult of the passions is not o'er;
Imagined miseries we still deplore:
We see a few (oh! England's pride, and shame!
But 'tis where Picq, and Vestris have a name!)
Who still are clinging to the tale of woe,
Aud give, without reserve, their tears to flow;
Still thy strong pathos works the generous heart;
Still, still we grieve, and cannot think it art.
Withdrawn thy killing, or transporting mien;
Humanely hast removed from mortal sight,
Those eyes that shed insufferable light;
Effects continue, rarely seen before;
The tumult of the passions is not o'er;
Imagined miseries we still deplore:
We see a few (oh! England's pride, and shame!
But 'tis where Picq, and Vestris have a name!)
110
Aud give, without reserve, their tears to flow;
Still thy strong pathos works the generous heart;
Still, still we grieve, and cannot think it art.
Even yet distress on meditation grows;
Even yet I feel all Isabella's woes;
The dreadful thoughts, raised by the magick ring,
With all her agonies my bosom sting;
I feel, where Biron ascertains his life,
All the severe amazement of the wife:
When she, by force, from his remains is borne,
Myself by ruffians, from myself am torne;
Where the keen dagger gives her soul relief,
Frees her from frenzy, and o'erwhelming grief;
At vain compassion, with her latest breath,
I laugh, and triumph in fictitious death.
The poet, born with elegant desires,
Born to diffuse, in ease, the muse's fires;
Inspired by thee, forgets his rigorous doom,
In fate's long winter feels his genius bloom;
Forgets each taint that checks his growing bays,
Avowed hostilities, or frugal praise;
Nor can grim poverty his warmth restrain;
The squalid spectre threats his gripe in vain.
On other heroines is attention hung;
In them, we're charmed with a mellifluous tongue;
All action's grace, in them, our eyes admire;
Yet, with these powers, from genius we require
Thy rare prerogative, resistless fire.
Even yet I feel all Isabella's woes;
The dreadful thoughts, raised by the magick ring,
With all her agonies my bosom sting;
I feel, where Biron ascertains his life,
All the severe amazement of the wife:
When she, by force, from his remains is borne,
Myself by ruffians, from myself am torne;
Where the keen dagger gives her soul relief,
Frees her from frenzy, and o'erwhelming grief;
At vain compassion, with her latest breath,
I laugh, and triumph in fictitious death.
The poet, born with elegant desires,
Born to diffuse, in ease, the muse's fires;
Inspired by thee, forgets his rigorous doom,
In fate's long winter feels his genius bloom;
Forgets each taint that checks his growing bays,
Avowed hostilities, or frugal praise;
Nor can grim poverty his warmth restrain;
The squalid spectre threats his gripe in vain.
111
In them, we're charmed with a mellifluous tongue;
All action's grace, in them, our eyes admire;
Yet, with these powers, from genius we require
Thy rare prerogative, resistless fire.
More gentle arts the calm spectator views;
Their softer pleasure soothes: but fire subdues;
This, in a moment, thrilling through the frame,
Makes voluntary victims to it's flame:
Of common motion scorns the laws assigned;
To Thebes, or Athens, whirls the ravished mind;
Sends it's contending passions from the stage,
And racks us with ambition, grief, or rage.
This magick property, this fire divine,
Pours heaven's own lightning through the poet's line.
This Hayley wants; and hence his golden lays
A respite give us; give us breath to praise.
But when great Dryden flies along his plain,
And gives his foaming Pegasus the rein,
We fight old battles, and we slay the slain.
This fire diffused it's warmth when Milton sung;
And sways the soul, in Siddons, and in Younge.
Celestial property! at thy display,
How feebler lustre fades, and dies away!
Thus, if we recollect Blandusia's stream,
Of Horace, once, the sportive, rural theme;
It's grot, it's trees, it's murmurs we admire,
And in our bosom feel Arcadian fire.
Next, should our fancy o'er the Atlantick stray,
Where nobler objects wake a bolder lay;
Where Orellana, from his mighty source,
Holds a magnificent, stupendous course;
And borne through many a far-extended plain,
Repels the jealous, and reluctant main;
Small images, indignant, we discard;
We lose the fountain; nay we lose the bard;
The mind expands; it's genius sweeps along;
And pours it's fervour in congenial song.
Their softer pleasure soothes: but fire subdues;
This, in a moment, thrilling through the frame,
Makes voluntary victims to it's flame:
Of common motion scorns the laws assigned;
To Thebes, or Athens, whirls the ravished mind;
Sends it's contending passions from the stage,
And racks us with ambition, grief, or rage.
This magick property, this fire divine,
Pours heaven's own lightning through the poet's line.
This Hayley wants; and hence his golden lays
A respite give us; give us breath to praise.
But when great Dryden flies along his plain,
And gives his foaming Pegasus the rein,
We fight old battles, and we slay the slain.
This fire diffused it's warmth when Milton sung;
And sways the soul, in Siddons, and in Younge.
112
How feebler lustre fades, and dies away!
Thus, if we recollect Blandusia's stream,
Of Horace, once, the sportive, rural theme;
It's grot, it's trees, it's murmurs we admire,
And in our bosom feel Arcadian fire.
Next, should our fancy o'er the Atlantick stray,
Where nobler objects wake a bolder lay;
Where Orellana, from his mighty source,
Holds a magnificent, stupendous course;
And borne through many a far-extended plain,
Repels the jealous, and reluctant main;
Small images, indignant, we discard;
We lose the fountain; nay we lose the bard;
The mind expands; it's genius sweeps along;
And pours it's fervour in congenial song.
Or, thus, if Mason's page a poet reads;
Sports among dews, and trees, and flowers, and meads;
The mind, too candid to the florid strain,
Expects emotion, but expects, in vain.
But, if to raise imagination's force,
He seeks, in Homer's muse, a sure resource;
Perhaps, where Priam his grave council calls,
And Helen moves divinely on the walls;
While Troy's astonished youth new raptures prove,
And age grows tender to the faults of love;
The modern bard imbibes the Grecian fires,
To the sublime, and beautiful aspires;
He emulates, in thought, Homerick lays,
And boldly meditates a Devon's praise.
Sports among dews, and trees, and flowers, and meads;
The mind, too candid to the florid strain,
Expects emotion, but expects, in vain.
But, if to raise imagination's force,
He seeks, in Homer's muse, a sure resource;
113
And Helen moves divinely on the walls;
While Troy's astonished youth new raptures prove,
And age grows tender to the faults of love;
The modern bard imbibes the Grecian fires,
To the sublime, and beautiful aspires;
He emulates, in thought, Homerick lays,
And boldly meditates a Devon's praise.
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |