The Works of the Late Aaron Hill ... In Four Volumes. Consisting of Letters on Various Subjects, And of Original Poems, Moral and Facetious. With An Essay on the Art of Acting |
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CLEON to LYCIDAS;
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 | The Works of the Late Aaron Hill |  |
CLEON to LYCIDAS;
A Time-Piece.
Faith, and the muse, have err'd. 'Twas just advice,
Skill'd Lycidas! that check'd too hasty praise.
I shou'd have cool'd pre-currence, into pause,
And weigh'd the public voice, oppos'd to mine:
Then had I found the future, in the past;
Nor falsely charg'd contractions puny grasp
With compass, it conceiv'd not. Share, my friend,
In pity, share, the pain my soul sustains,
To find such hope so faded. Hope, too rais'd,
To stoop at humble self: Hope, wing'd for all.
All was my blasted prospect. Fond surmize
O'er-rated, and out-stretch'd, a people's bliss.
Skill'd Lycidas! that check'd too hasty praise.
I shou'd have cool'd pre-currence, into pause,
And weigh'd the public voice, oppos'd to mine:
Then had I found the future, in the past;
Nor falsely charg'd contractions puny grasp
With compass, it conceiv'd not. Share, my friend,
In pity, share, the pain my soul sustains,
To find such hope so faded. Hope, too rais'd,
To stoop at humble self: Hope, wing'd for all.
286
O'er-rated, and out-stretch'd, a people's bliss.
Bid throb, the muse's pulse—for thy sweet call,
What muse, uncharm'd, can hear?—Bid burn, the brow
Vindictive, and appeal due satire's frown.
Due, to the stagg'rers, that made drunk by power
Forget past thirst's dry promise: and presume,
Dark dreamers! that the world forgets it, too.
Bid the priest Poet consecrate the rage
Of a wrong'd nation's curses. Rage, at zeal
From ranc'rous gall, hot envy's acrid hell!
Long under cloak of patriot semblance hid,
Guileful to lurk in wait, till av'rice snapt
Corruption's watch'd-for lure: Then, off, at once
Flew wide th' obstructive virtue. Veil'd no more,
Scramblers, in broad exposure's blushless brawn,
Light from the dust, lick'd prone th' admissive gold,
Deep-stain'd with cank'ry ordure. Lambent slaves!
Fiend-cloven tongues! grac'd, once, to shame belief:
And make distrust seem virtue!—yet, vain truth!
No sooner hears the muse her Poet's call,
Than venal calumny whets every sting,
To wound his honest purpose. Public sense
With her, is private feeling: Satire's frown
Mean warmth from disappointment. Spurn the hag:
Or, let her err, neglected. Perish warmth,
That acts, or wills or thinks from partial pique,
Unfaithful to its seemings! Self avaunt!
Self is beneath resentment; nor descends
The muse, to note such waste of wild impute.
What muse, uncharm'd, can hear?—Bid burn, the brow
Vindictive, and appeal due satire's frown.
Due, to the stagg'rers, that made drunk by power
Forget past thirst's dry promise: and presume,
Dark dreamers! that the world forgets it, too.
Bid the priest Poet consecrate the rage
Of a wrong'd nation's curses. Rage, at zeal
From ranc'rous gall, hot envy's acrid hell!
Long under cloak of patriot semblance hid,
Guileful to lurk in wait, till av'rice snapt
Corruption's watch'd-for lure: Then, off, at once
Flew wide th' obstructive virtue. Veil'd no more,
Scramblers, in broad exposure's blushless brawn,
Light from the dust, lick'd prone th' admissive gold,
Deep-stain'd with cank'ry ordure. Lambent slaves!
Fiend-cloven tongues! grac'd, once, to shame belief:
287
No sooner hears the muse her Poet's call,
Than venal calumny whets every sting,
To wound his honest purpose. Public sense
With her, is private feeling: Satire's frown
Mean warmth from disappointment. Spurn the hag:
Or, let her err, neglected. Perish warmth,
That acts, or wills or thinks from partial pique,
Unfaithful to its seemings! Self avaunt!
Self is beneath resentment; nor descends
The muse, to note such waste of wild impute.
Unpersonal, the cheeks indignant glow,
That blushes but for others. Fall disgrace
On ears, of dastard start, that dare not hear:
Or tongues, that dare not own, truth's boldest call!
Fall, even, contempt on worth, where, fac'd for scorn,
Tort of revulsive brow bids pride withold
Thy smile, cheap gratitude! which craft's low guile
Oft lends the beggar'd heart, that wants, within.
Shame on the painful stretch, that racks the great!
Needless extension! dignity like light,
Dwells in itself, displayer, undisplay'd.
How have I seen the native courtier shine!
Warp'd to no sowre sublime, enchant men's eyes;
Charm dress'd in easy honour's effluent air:
Fill out distinction's voids without pomp's aid,
Strike in descending: and attract, supreme!
That blushes but for others. Fall disgrace
On ears, of dastard start, that dare not hear:
Or tongues, that dare not own, truth's boldest call!
Fall, even, contempt on worth, where, fac'd for scorn,
Tort of revulsive brow bids pride withold
Thy smile, cheap gratitude! which craft's low guile
Oft lends the beggar'd heart, that wants, within.
Shame on the painful stretch, that racks the great!
Needless extension! dignity like light,
288
How have I seen the native courtier shine!
Warp'd to no sowre sublime, enchant men's eyes;
Charm dress'd in easy honour's effluent air:
Fill out distinction's voids without pomp's aid,
Strike in descending: and attract, supreme!
Oh, thou! to whom lost Anna's evening ray
Ow'd love's allegiant lustre: flame, of joy,
Wit, genius! tide of art! whence letter'd hope
Drew depth, to fail ungrounded. Soul of taste!
Shade, without chill! soft'ning superior height
With access and urbanity!—what need
Thy name here added? Day's meridian blaze
Marks the known hour, untold.—O, say, best judge,
Thou, who so nobly trod'st th' illustrious steep,
Oft clouded, since thou left'st it!—Teach th' untaught,
Why are the rais'd look'd up to?—'Tis, to try
Their claim to sit, so mounted. 'Tis, to task
Their strength to lift low climbers. Down, proud snails,
That, crawl'd too high, your slime-track'd shells expose!
Out with these snuffs in blaze, that shine, to stink!
What have the lame to do, with wrestler's toils?
'Tis impudence, that prompts deformity
To prink itself, like beauty. Want of light
Were flatt'ry, to the ugly. Drag 'em out:
And leave 'em, in the eye of scorn, impal'd.
Ow'd love's allegiant lustre: flame, of joy,
Wit, genius! tide of art! whence letter'd hope
Drew depth, to fail ungrounded. Soul of taste!
Shade, without chill! soft'ning superior height
With access and urbanity!—what need
Thy name here added? Day's meridian blaze
Marks the known hour, untold.—O, say, best judge,
Thou, who so nobly trod'st th' illustrious steep,
Oft clouded, since thou left'st it!—Teach th' untaught,
Why are the rais'd look'd up to?—'Tis, to try
Their claim to sit, so mounted. 'Tis, to task
Their strength to lift low climbers. Down, proud snails,
That, crawl'd too high, your slime-track'd shells expose!
289
What have the lame to do, with wrestler's toils?
'Tis impudence, that prompts deformity
To prink itself, like beauty. Want of light
Were flatt'ry, to the ugly. Drag 'em out:
And leave 'em, in the eye of scorn, impal'd.
These are the minds, that disavow the Muse!
Dead to the formful glow, that figures thought,
Blots low sensation from the wid'ning heart;
Lends an elastic nerve, to every sense:
Pushes exerted virtue into act:
Feels, for a world embrac'd; and warms mankind.
—Nothing of this, poor souls! disturbs their calm.
Closing their tortois'd lump of cold content,
Distant, perhaps, they hear the poet's name:
Less probably, sometimes perhaps, half deign
To turn th'untasted page; there, lumb'ring on,
Find nothing in the noblest verse, but rhyme:
And equal Durfey's frost, to Dryden's fire!
Sleep, genius, sleep—the times invite repose.
No source, of all Britannia's silv'ry streams,
Shall feed hope's with'ring root, where hearts, thus dry,
Have drunk, like spunges, fortune's ponded swell:
And o'er th' unmoisten'd virtues shake no drop.
Dead to the formful glow, that figures thought,
Blots low sensation from the wid'ning heart;
Lends an elastic nerve, to every sense:
Pushes exerted virtue into act:
Feels, for a world embrac'd; and warms mankind.
—Nothing of this, poor souls! disturbs their calm.
Closing their tortois'd lump of cold content,
Distant, perhaps, they hear the poet's name:
Less probably, sometimes perhaps, half deign
To turn th'untasted page; there, lumb'ring on,
Find nothing in the noblest verse, but rhyme:
And equal Durfey's frost, to Dryden's fire!
Sleep, genius, sleep—the times invite repose.
No source, of all Britannia's silv'ry streams,
Shall feed hope's with'ring root, where hearts, thus dry,
290
And o'er th' unmoisten'd virtues shake no drop.
O, Lycidas! how climbing zeal will lye!
Come, help me to deplore those blust'ring gales,
Whose ventilative heave puff'd out their void,
With shows, of airy ardour: Till up-driv'n
O'er skreenful clouds, there burst the bubbly forms!
There, shrunk their satiate bulk, to trackless hush!
Speak, ye forgotten graces, if unsworn
To hold dumb distance, round the seats of power,
And rev'rence, un-approaching, step more near:
Untarnish those bald stars: tell 'em, their lights
Were lent, to be reflected. Every muse,
By every art attended, sighing, prone,
Complains of interception. Each, in vain,
Invokes one beam. But pines, in shiv'ring shade.
Come, help me to deplore those blust'ring gales,
Whose ventilative heave puff'd out their void,
With shows, of airy ardour: Till up-driv'n
O'er skreenful clouds, there burst the bubbly forms!
There, shrunk their satiate bulk, to trackless hush!
Speak, ye forgotten graces, if unsworn
To hold dumb distance, round the seats of power,
And rev'rence, un-approaching, step more near:
Untarnish those bald stars: tell 'em, their lights
Were lent, to be reflected. Every muse,
By every art attended, sighing, prone,
Complains of interception. Each, in vain,
Invokes one beam. But pines, in shiv'ring shade.
Why, Lycidas, were ends and means misjoin'd?
Why am I born to pain, for pity, will'd?
Why chose the God, that warm'd thy widening heart,
To curb thy shorten'd hand, and press down fire;
What shall we say, to touch these sons of noise
With sense, how boldly death dissects their name?
What shall we do, to break th' imperious blinds,
That rise 'twixt power and taste! to pierce their mist?
And teach th'incumbent reeks, what clouds they form?
How shall a noteless, nameless, silent, friend
To thought's obscure retreats, unnerv'd, like me,
By dignity's bold brace, or fame's felt spring,
Shake those close groves of state, whence kings catch gloom?
Why am I born to pain, for pity, will'd?
Why chose the God, that warm'd thy widening heart,
To curb thy shorten'd hand, and press down fire;
291
With sense, how boldly death dissects their name?
What shall we do, to break th' imperious blinds,
That rise 'twixt power and taste! to pierce their mist?
And teach th'incumbent reeks, what clouds they form?
How shall a noteless, nameless, silent, friend
To thought's obscure retreats, unnerv'd, like me,
By dignity's bold brace, or fame's felt spring,
Shake those close groves of state, whence kings catch gloom?
Oh! were their reach but thine! or, lot more wish'd,
Happier, and safer, most remote from thrones!
O, were thy will but theirs!—Then, Lycidas,
No self-exposing halt, in place possess'd,
Wou'd shame remember'd sweep to distant hope.
Corrective care wou'd change, what once it charg'd:
Watchful discernment seize unshould'ring worth,
That crowds not into notice. Taste wou'd dare
Feel uninfus'd distinction: take no cue
From int'rests venal nod—less, wait for prayer,
From virtue's bashful pang, or art's dumb claim:
For, excellence hugs close her modest veil,
But, (actively inquisitive for woe,
For wit's guess'd wants, for sorrow's cover'd tear,
For pains, wrongs, penury of every good,
With-held by every evil) drag back weight,
That holds down worth depress'd,—and bid it spring.
Happier, and safer, most remote from thrones!
O, were thy will but theirs!—Then, Lycidas,
No self-exposing halt, in place possess'd,
Wou'd shame remember'd sweep to distant hope.
Corrective care wou'd change, what once it charg'd:
Watchful discernment seize unshould'ring worth,
That crowds not into notice. Taste wou'd dare
Feel uninfus'd distinction: take no cue
From int'rests venal nod—less, wait for prayer,
From virtue's bashful pang, or art's dumb claim:
292
But, (actively inquisitive for woe,
For wit's guess'd wants, for sorrow's cover'd tear,
For pains, wrongs, penury of every good,
With-held by every evil) drag back weight,
That holds down worth depress'd,—and bid it spring.
So, cou'd my verse, ah! fruitless dream! inspire,
Then shou'd I feel I breathe, nor life's dim track
Touch'd languid, lose each footstep's feeble mark,
And leave no streak on time, to note my name.
—But, hush, vain struggler, bid thy breast contract;
And satisfy with will, thy pow'rless soul.
How shou'd such lot be mine, who drink wit's dregs,
In desarts, where seduction's drowth has choak'd
With venal dust, Castalia's dwindled rill!
How shall I raise my voice, till greatness hears?
Then shou'd I feel I breathe, nor life's dim track
Touch'd languid, lose each footstep's feeble mark,
And leave no streak on time, to note my name.
—But, hush, vain struggler, bid thy breast contract;
And satisfy with will, thy pow'rless soul.
How shou'd such lot be mine, who drink wit's dregs,
In desarts, where seduction's drowth has choak'd
With venal dust, Castalia's dwindled rill!
How shall I raise my voice, till greatness hears?
Write, says the whisp'ring impulse, that assumes
Ambition's airiest hope, yet hates her name:
Write, but be read. Write rugged truths, untun'd
To flatt'ry's dulcid lentor: roughly loud,
As when the last heard call shall wake the dead.
Court some kind angels aid, to voice thy theme.
Alas! no Angel dwells, where avarice reigns!—
Oh! for some hoarse Teutonic note, more stern,
Than Runic bard, o'er hostile scalp, e'er sung,
When Woden's hall resounded to his clang!
Then shou'd satiric fervor, sharply strong,
Roar, like the muses's bull, till the wak'd nine
Concurr'd, in frightful consort; while intense,
Up the steep cliffs of Pindus' pathless brow,
Rumbling, I roll'd my tumbril theme along.
Ambition's airiest hope, yet hates her name:
293
To flatt'ry's dulcid lentor: roughly loud,
As when the last heard call shall wake the dead.
Court some kind angels aid, to voice thy theme.
Alas! no Angel dwells, where avarice reigns!—
Oh! for some hoarse Teutonic note, more stern,
Than Runic bard, o'er hostile scalp, e'er sung,
When Woden's hall resounded to his clang!
Then shou'd satiric fervor, sharply strong,
Roar, like the muses's bull, till the wak'd nine
Concurr'd, in frightful consort; while intense,
Up the steep cliffs of Pindus' pathless brow,
Rumbling, I roll'd my tumbril theme along.
Wrong not, by numbers tun'd to concord's shell,
The brawl-devoted taste, that tans thy times.
Softness be Opera's claim: be sharpness thine.
Softness in satire asks good sense, in guilt:
'Twere lost, on power's blind puddlers. Wit's light gnat,
Humming its courteous buz, is brush'd from note:
Her wasp, close-fast'ning, bids th' unlist'ner feel.
Sting then: and force from pain, what pride with-holds.
So shall thy verse, at least, out-soar contempt;
And lend distaste discernment.—Touch no praise.
'Tis idol sacrifice, to gods, of Stone.
Praise has but one pleas'd reader: scarce, one friend.
Satire can squeeze kind looks, from bitt'rest gall.
The brawl-devoted taste, that tans thy times.
Softness be Opera's claim: be sharpness thine.
Softness in satire asks good sense, in guilt:
'Twere lost, on power's blind puddlers. Wit's light gnat,
Humming its courteous buz, is brush'd from note:
Her wasp, close-fast'ning, bids th' unlist'ner feel.
Sting then: and force from pain, what pride with-holds.
294
And lend distaste discernment.—Touch no praise.
'Tis idol sacrifice, to gods, of Stone.
Praise has but one pleas'd reader: scarce, one friend.
Satire can squeeze kind looks, from bitt'rest gall.
Loosen the reins to spleen, cries angry truth;
Where phlegmful fogs distil their lazy damp
'Tis wholesom to be mad. Nor pause, for thought:
Who, that but sees or hears, needs think, for fame?
Born, to no past'ral plain's romantic range,
Calm, and cool-fann'd by reason's temp'rate gale,
Feel, that thou breath'st in passion's haziest fen,
Contagious air, by sensual suns, inflam'd:
Where carnate emulation, stripp'd of mind,
Glows muscularly strong: where license reigns,
Uncurb'd by law's restraint: where youth's fed fire,
Bids bashful diffidence of self be bold.
Where not to rev'rence, is to know, mankind:
Where disrespect is ease; noise taste in life;
And modesty low breeding. Where descent
Drives literally downward: 'till, behold!
Yon Coachman's copy'd soul propels the peer;
And dim-star slouchers shine, by glare of shame,
Downcast decorum swells the public laugh.
Judgments and views run backward. Nature nods.
Ends but succeed, as means prepost'rous err.
Malice grows fast, water'd by pity's tear:
And factions but contend, for rank in wrong.
Where phlegmful fogs distil their lazy damp
'Tis wholesom to be mad. Nor pause, for thought:
Who, that but sees or hears, needs think, for fame?
Born, to no past'ral plain's romantic range,
Calm, and cool-fann'd by reason's temp'rate gale,
Feel, that thou breath'st in passion's haziest fen,
Contagious air, by sensual suns, inflam'd:
Where carnate emulation, stripp'd of mind,
Glows muscularly strong: where license reigns,
Uncurb'd by law's restraint: where youth's fed fire,
Bids bashful diffidence of self be bold.
Where not to rev'rence, is to know, mankind:
Where disrespect is ease; noise taste in life;
And modesty low breeding. Where descent
Drives literally downward: 'till, behold!
Yon Coachman's copy'd soul propels the peer;
295
Downcast decorum swells the public laugh.
Judgments and views run backward. Nature nods.
Ends but succeed, as means prepost'rous err.
Malice grows fast, water'd by pity's tear:
And factions but contend, for rank in wrong.
Up, from rhyme's popy'd vale; ascend fame's hill:
Soft to the soft: Thy theme be tempest—On.
Write with a whirlwind's fury. Snatch the God,
That thunders in blank verse, to ride thy storm.
So may they hear, tho' cricket stakes were pitch'd,
Tho' the won Plate's broad triumph shook the field:
Tho' cock's, hard-conqu'ring crow, to shouting rings;
Or Briton's coarse debates out-quarrel Rome's.
—Muse, I begin. Assist, with all your sail,
Ye prose-inflating hawks, of Helicon!
Lend me your wing's wide stretch, to aid my sweep.
Soft to the soft: Thy theme be tempest—On.
Write with a whirlwind's fury. Snatch the God,
That thunders in blank verse, to ride thy storm.
So may they hear, tho' cricket stakes were pitch'd,
Tho' the won Plate's broad triumph shook the field:
Tho' cock's, hard-conqu'ring crow, to shouting rings;
Or Briton's coarse debates out-quarrel Rome's.
—Muse, I begin. Assist, with all your sail,
Ye prose-inflating hawks, of Helicon!
Lend me your wing's wide stretch, to aid my sweep.
Come! let the soul of Freedom's reinless power,
Vast, and unconscious of constraint, inspire!
Wild let her lift me from the lawns of song,
Musick's hedg'd boundlets, mem'ry's measur'd mead's,
Where rhyme-trac'd cadence, in harmonious close,
Rivets recorded sense, and pins down thought.
Light, and disrob'd of softness, let her drive,
Loose, to the voids, of fancy's viewless scope:
Vague, and unshap'd, and pathless, as the air.
Vast, and unconscious of constraint, inspire!
296
Musick's hedg'd boundlets, mem'ry's measur'd mead's,
Where rhyme-trac'd cadence, in harmonious close,
Rivets recorded sense, and pins down thought.
Light, and disrob'd of softness, let her drive,
Loose, to the voids, of fancy's viewless scope:
Vague, and unshap'd, and pathless, as the air.
What shall be sung? ye sons of vastness, say,
What subject, sadly soundful, like the rush
Of hoarse, broad, Cat'racts, shall blank numbers roar?
What subject, sadly soundful, like the rush
Of hoarse, broad, Cat'racts, shall blank numbers roar?
Shall it be Sorrow's energetic plaint,
That groans away the sun, and lends new gloom
To midnight's mournful umbrage? Tim'd too well,
Too lately, Albion's boreal wastes had wept
The suited theme: when tears, from rash revolt,
Wash'd ruthless prisons: when th'accessless wilds
Of bleak-brow'd mountains shriek'd, with vocal woe;
Mothers and Orphan's cries! whom famine found,
Where only famine cou'd: Despair's pale tribe!
Weeping, in death's chill grasp, their own unfelt,
Some past or future fate, of friend more dear;
Why shou'd the gen'rous Muse insult the fall'n?
Why not deplore the pangs of hostile pain?
Just if they thought their cause, their crime seem'd faith.
Guiltless in will, by taste involv'd in wrong,
From educative custom's devious warp,
Spare the persisting blind: unhoping grace:
Trustless of regal virtues: erring on
From doubt of mercy. For, alas! no voice
Of truth, in desarts heard, had taught 'em, Kings,
Who last can fear offence, can, first, forgive.
Paint, then, their pity'd anguish: nobly feel,
To make sublimely felt, this brave man's test:
That hearts, unshaken by resister's rage,
Are conquer'd by their sorrow.—Vain attempt!
Spread the sonorous wing for flights of joy.
Sorrow renounces latitude of range:
Dwells in confinement's cave; where thought sits chain'd,
Muses are shunn'd: and horror's winking lamp.
Ghastlying night's ebon eye, sees woes on woes,
Tear following tear, sigh echoing sigh, combin'd,
Move in close consonance of sist'ring sound.
That groans away the sun, and lends new gloom
To midnight's mournful umbrage? Tim'd too well,
Too lately, Albion's boreal wastes had wept
The suited theme: when tears, from rash revolt,
Wash'd ruthless prisons: when th'accessless wilds
Of bleak-brow'd mountains shriek'd, with vocal woe;
Mothers and Orphan's cries! whom famine found,
297
Weeping, in death's chill grasp, their own unfelt,
Some past or future fate, of friend more dear;
Why shou'd the gen'rous Muse insult the fall'n?
Why not deplore the pangs of hostile pain?
Just if they thought their cause, their crime seem'd faith.
Guiltless in will, by taste involv'd in wrong,
From educative custom's devious warp,
Spare the persisting blind: unhoping grace:
Trustless of regal virtues: erring on
From doubt of mercy. For, alas! no voice
Of truth, in desarts heard, had taught 'em, Kings,
Who last can fear offence, can, first, forgive.
Paint, then, their pity'd anguish: nobly feel,
To make sublimely felt, this brave man's test:
That hearts, unshaken by resister's rage,
Are conquer'd by their sorrow.—Vain attempt!
Spread the sonorous wing for flights of joy.
Sorrow renounces latitude of range:
Dwells in confinement's cave; where thought sits chain'd,
Muses are shunn'd: and horror's winking lamp.
Ghastlying night's ebon eye, sees woes on woes,
298
Move in close consonance of sist'ring sound.
Shall it be love, soft whisp'ring out the soul,
From its own mansion tenderly exhal'd
To reach some sweeter self? No: dare not touch
That theme; 'tis sacred to the rights of rhyme,
Union will ne'er, by dissonance, be sung.
Love's links are married couplets: hand in hand
The willing yoke-mates share confederate fall:
Soft as the zephyr skims the dew-drop'd rose.
—But, even had rhyme conspir'd to tempt—forbear.
Aweful, resign, a wreath, more nobly won.
Saint-John, his country's boast, his country's crime,
When courts at leisure left his youth, to love,
Saint-John! the Muse's Lord, this theme once sung:
Sung it, in verse more soft, than beauty's eye!
More strong, than her Attraction! Almahide,
Immortal Almahide! by Saint John, lives.
Who shall attempt to touch the Theme he chose?
He, who was voic'd by musick: mien'd by love!
He, who, by turns, has every muse possess'd,
And every art, protected: Every grace,
Through every fortune, led—Supreme, in all.
Saint John! whom woman wish'd, man envied; realms
Made war on: yet, whom none found power to hate!
From its own mansion tenderly exhal'd
To reach some sweeter self? No: dare not touch
That theme; 'tis sacred to the rights of rhyme,
Union will ne'er, by dissonance, be sung.
Love's links are married couplets: hand in hand
The willing yoke-mates share confederate fall:
Soft as the zephyr skims the dew-drop'd rose.
—But, even had rhyme conspir'd to tempt—forbear.
Aweful, resign, a wreath, more nobly won.
Saint-John, his country's boast, his country's crime,
When courts at leisure left his youth, to love,
Saint-John! the Muse's Lord, this theme once sung:
Sung it, in verse more soft, than beauty's eye!
More strong, than her Attraction! Almahide,
Immortal Almahide! by Saint John, lives.
Who shall attempt to touch the Theme he chose?
He, who was voic'd by musick: mien'd by love!
He, who, by turns, has every muse possess'd,
299
Through every fortune, led—Supreme, in all.
Saint John! whom woman wish'd, man envied; realms
Made war on: yet, whom none found power to hate!
Nor
grief thy theme, nor love. What choice remains?
Shall it be death's grim waste, War's field of fire?
Aptlier, the subject wou'd have warm'd our isle,
When England's sun shot wide th' irradiate flame
Of her fam'd Edward's day-dawn.—Yet, who knows,
But at some far-thrown moment, whit'ning broad,
Some light, new rising, may (perhaps) once more,
Off-roll the sullen shade, that glooms our fame.
Rekindling sense of martial fire may glow,
Till the rous'd nation blazes. Then, the sons
Of Sires unskill'd to think defeat no shame,
Starting to destin'd vengeance, the struck drum
No more shall bid the form-dress'd soldier sleep:
But roll its deepn'ing bass to wake due death;
Then too, no more, the trumpets clang'ry shrill,
Fright'ning the Opera Dame, shall to her ear
Call her affected hand, and shut out claim
To promise of a son, like him she loves.
Shall it be death's grim waste, War's field of fire?
Aptlier, the subject wou'd have warm'd our isle,
When England's sun shot wide th' irradiate flame
Of her fam'd Edward's day-dawn.—Yet, who knows,
But at some far-thrown moment, whit'ning broad,
Some light, new rising, may (perhaps) once more,
Off-roll the sullen shade, that glooms our fame.
Rekindling sense of martial fire may glow,
Till the rous'd nation blazes. Then, the sons
Of Sires unskill'd to think defeat no shame,
Starting to destin'd vengeance, the struck drum
No more shall bid the form-dress'd soldier sleep:
But roll its deepn'ing bass to wake due death;
Then too, no more, the trumpets clang'ry shrill,
300
Call her affected hand, and shut out claim
To promise of a son, like him she loves.
Hail the wish'd wonder: give him birth, O time!
And into fame's rough ocean launch his name.
—But, when he rises, bid him hate no Muse.
Fan his impatient blaze, to letter'd love.
Pour the enthusiast fervor thro' his ear,
That fir'd the conqu'ring Ammons thirsty soul—
Born for the poet's praise, teach him to know,
That war's wing'd bolt, by love of verse impell'd,
Bursts every bar to glory. Verse, to war
Lends ardour: War, to verse, new warmth, imparts.
So join'd, that never hero reach'd renown:
Or, reach'd, ne'er held; who wrong'd the Muse's claim.
And into fame's rough ocean launch his name.
—But, when he rises, bid him hate no Muse.
Fan his impatient blaze, to letter'd love.
Pour the enthusiast fervor thro' his ear,
That fir'd the conqu'ring Ammons thirsty soul—
Born for the poet's praise, teach him to know,
That war's wing'd bolt, by love of verse impell'd,
Bursts every bar to glory. Verse, to war
Lends ardour: War, to verse, new warmth, imparts.
So join'd, that never hero reach'd renown:
Or, reach'd, ne'er held; who wrong'd the Muse's claim.
Oh
what, ye gothic renders of the ear!
Ye blank verse bursters of Pierian bars!
Strong beyond chaining comet; swerves of thought!
Giant surmounters of wit's loftiest Alps!
Ye hurlers of prose rocks at musick's heaven!
What shall deserve the dread, your thunder bears?
Ye blank verse bursters of Pierian bars!
Strong beyond chaining comet; swerves of thought!
Giant surmounters of wit's loftiest Alps!
301
What shall deserve the dread, your thunder bears?
Faction deserves, and claims it: cries a howl,
That paints th' attentive soul—Come, learn her laws.
Give, to the deity, that skakes down thrones,
Th' allegiance of thy Muse. Blank verse be mine.
Guideless and boundless in aspiring grasp,
And frownful in majestic sullenness,
Her musick dwells in murmur. Let her growl
For faction: taste her lust of loud complaint,
And hang on empire's wheels the drag of hate.
Range safe beneath her standard: mark its sweep!
Unfurling into length, the dreadful wave
Sees earth's chill'd kingdoms shake, beneath its shade!
Kneel, and be Hers: enroll thy name—and rail.
That paints th' attentive soul—Come, learn her laws.
Give, to the deity, that skakes down thrones,
Th' allegiance of thy Muse. Blank verse be mine.
Guideless and boundless in aspiring grasp,
And frownful in majestic sullenness,
Her musick dwells in murmur. Let her growl
For faction: taste her lust of loud complaint,
And hang on empire's wheels the drag of hate.
Range safe beneath her standard: mark its sweep!
Unfurling into length, the dreadful wave
Sees earth's chill'd kingdoms shake, beneath its shade!
Kneel, and be Hers: enroll thy name—and rail.
Thou start'st!—alas, for verse, that dares, not rail?
What can'st thou hope from praise? it wounds no name.
Art thou to learn thou liv'st, where greatness hoards
Regard, to bribe repugnance? o'er-assur'd,
And cheaply negligent of zeal inclin'd.
So must it be, where party's billowy surge
Bids wave push wave from power. There, science sleeps.
Uproar and contest reign. Deep, to the root,
Pain-trod Parnassus shakes: and each sap'd sprig,
That green'd the muse's grove, finds dry decay.
While pelted into fright, or laugh'd to spleen,
Deaf ministerial ears, absorb'd in fret;
Or dirtily engross'd by craft's low buz,
Taste not the calm surveys of leisure's range:
Share no delight in song; nor woo, nor weigh,
The power, that dwells in gen'rous praise, to guide
A nation's doubtful heart, to find her friend.
What can'st thou hope from praise? it wounds no name.
Art thou to learn thou liv'st, where greatness hoards
302
And cheaply negligent of zeal inclin'd.
So must it be, where party's billowy surge
Bids wave push wave from power. There, science sleeps.
Uproar and contest reign. Deep, to the root,
Pain-trod Parnassus shakes: and each sap'd sprig,
That green'd the muse's grove, finds dry decay.
While pelted into fright, or laugh'd to spleen,
Deaf ministerial ears, absorb'd in fret;
Or dirtily engross'd by craft's low buz,
Taste not the calm surveys of leisure's range:
Share no delight in song; nor woo, nor weigh,
The power, that dwells in gen'rous praise, to guide
A nation's doubtful heart, to find her friend.
Waste not the warmth of verse on things, like these,
Or, stain their mem'ry, with effaceless gall.
—Yet, since, sometimes, in power's obscurest night,
Through sabley jet, pale threads of white may start,
Shou'd vice shame one, to virtue, lend him light.
Faction, that loves no truth, must own this, one:
That never friend to verse malign'd the just.
Virtues, however thankless, forc'd, or few,
Compell the poet's praise—But wou'd thy song
Wake these sublime insolvents, into sense
Of what they owe attachment? Let it rail.
Rail horrible: in accents, like their own,
When envy's acrimonious rage impells
Detraction's venal insult. Nerve, in sounds
Like thunder's gath'ring menace, the rais'd arm
Of opposition's onset. Tell the press,
Where public plunder bawds for private thrift.
Where grandeur holds a stalking-horse, to shame,
And skreens guilt's aim at honesty. Why laws,
Bent and re-bent like wire, crack short, start wide,
And, with two ends, bind nothing. Tell whose thirst,
By taste unguided, snaps at bubbly froth,
And leaves the sapid depth, untouch'd, below:
Teach, where bought strength was weakness: wisdom craft:
And infamy long due, where chance gave joy.
Or, stain their mem'ry, with effaceless gall.
—Yet, since, sometimes, in power's obscurest night,
Through sabley jet, pale threads of white may start,
Shou'd vice shame one, to virtue, lend him light.
303
That never friend to verse malign'd the just.
Virtues, however thankless, forc'd, or few,
Compell the poet's praise—But wou'd thy song
Wake these sublime insolvents, into sense
Of what they owe attachment? Let it rail.
Rail horrible: in accents, like their own,
When envy's acrimonious rage impells
Detraction's venal insult. Nerve, in sounds
Like thunder's gath'ring menace, the rais'd arm
Of opposition's onset. Tell the press,
Where public plunder bawds for private thrift.
Where grandeur holds a stalking-horse, to shame,
And skreens guilt's aim at honesty. Why laws,
Bent and re-bent like wire, crack short, start wide,
And, with two ends, bind nothing. Tell whose thirst,
By taste unguided, snaps at bubbly froth,
And leaves the sapid depth, untouch'd, below:
Teach, where bought strength was weakness: wisdom craft:
And infamy long due, where chance gave joy.
304
Begin, describe, discolour. Spread abroad
Sedition's fluid tints, and stain a state.
So, shall attracted notice deign regard,
And slander snatch the perquisite of praise.
Such are the tastes of office! such, the souls,
That actuate half the mighty! Note it, you,
Who rev'rence high distinction. This unmark'd,
Hope's empty swell plumes broad her feathery crest:
But, bald in disappointment, frights belief.
Court crocodiles are scal'd: they feel no tweak.
He, who wou'd wake must wound: seen danger strikes
More forcibly, than all thy Pathos, Wit!
Sedition's fluid tints, and stain a state.
So, shall attracted notice deign regard,
And slander snatch the perquisite of praise.
Such are the tastes of office! such, the souls,
That actuate half the mighty! Note it, you,
Who rev'rence high distinction. This unmark'd,
Hope's empty swell plumes broad her feathery crest:
But, bald in disappointment, frights belief.
Court crocodiles are scal'd: they feel no tweak.
He, who wou'd wake must wound: seen danger strikes
More forcibly, than all thy Pathos, Wit!
Say, Tacitus,—thy skill the secret found:
In what state-scale, five hundred insults, poiz'd,
Weigh'd down five hundred thanks, in grateful gold.
Dream not, thy Roman's genius mov'd such boon:
Not his fam'd father's vict'ries, ten times won,
And to thy claim transferr'd, had, there, so charm'd.
Oh power of prompt reproach, to rasp reward:
And flash conception's fire from flint most cold!
Call it not bounty: blast it, angry muse;
And from the fame of Albion blot that tale.
Th' imbitter'd hand of calumny bows down
The heart; its gall corrodes, to smile thro' wrongs,
And pay compell'd respect, to dreaded scorn:
While, on the candid courtship of the kind,
No fost'ring glance descends!—untott'ring power
Takes compliment, as tribute. Over-cramm'd
With self, and surfeiting on brief success,
The narrow-compass'd heart wants room, for taste.
—Or grant some glimm'ry ray gave light, to guess
Th' effect of skill'd applause: what thence, results,
But insolent contempt, of aid unsought?
The busy breast, that pants, in post hard held,
Wants leisure to be grateful: 'Tis the task
Of grandeur in disgrace, to thank a friend.
In what state-scale, five hundred insults, poiz'd,
Weigh'd down five hundred thanks, in grateful gold.
Dream not, thy Roman's genius mov'd such boon:
Not his fam'd father's vict'ries, ten times won,
And to thy claim transferr'd, had, there, so charm'd.
Oh power of prompt reproach, to rasp reward:
And flash conception's fire from flint most cold!
305
And from the fame of Albion blot that tale.
Th' imbitter'd hand of calumny bows down
The heart; its gall corrodes, to smile thro' wrongs,
And pay compell'd respect, to dreaded scorn:
While, on the candid courtship of the kind,
No fost'ring glance descends!—untott'ring power
Takes compliment, as tribute. Over-cramm'd
With self, and surfeiting on brief success,
The narrow-compass'd heart wants room, for taste.
—Or grant some glimm'ry ray gave light, to guess
Th' effect of skill'd applause: what thence, results,
But insolent contempt, of aid unsought?
The busy breast, that pants, in post hard held,
Wants leisure to be grateful: 'Tis the task
Of grandeur in disgrace, to thank a friend.
So spoke th' inurbane voice. The muse sigh'd sad:
Paus'd long, withheld consent; and thus reply'd.
Paus'd long, withheld consent; and thus reply'd.
Faction is fam'd for falsehood—If she, now,
Hints truth, 'tis infamy too poor for verse:
Leave it to prose-tongu'd party's cool display—
Nor love the measures: nor malign the men.
Grant imag'd worth, by erring fancy form'd,
Ideal, as the dreamer's empty grasp,
Who, suffers, but the shown? unmask'd, and found!
What has mistaken candor lost, but faith?
Hints truth, 'tis infamy too poor for verse:
Leave it to prose-tongu'd party's cool display—
Nor love the measures: nor malign the men.
306
Ideal, as the dreamer's empty grasp,
Who, suffers, but the shown? unmask'd, and found!
What has mistaken candor lost, but faith?
When, miscomputing their unsounded swell,
Deep'ning proud shallows, thou o'er-rat'st design,
And wrong'st the guiltless, by respect undue,
Blush, and be dumb: repent; and sin no more.
Where, arrogant in virtue, conscious claim
Looks cold, on praise consign'd to length'ning time,
Or, uninspir'd to judge, reads flat: nor finds
Distinction, 'twixt the Bell-man's power, and thine,
Smile, and forgive the blind: but, still, be just,
Still, be the worth thy theme: the taste thy scorn.
Deep'ning proud shallows, thou o'er-rat'st design,
And wrong'st the guiltless, by respect undue,
Blush, and be dumb: repent; and sin no more.
Where, arrogant in virtue, conscious claim
Looks cold, on praise consign'd to length'ning time,
Or, uninspir'd to judge, reads flat: nor finds
Distinction, 'twixt the Bell-man's power, and thine,
Smile, and forgive the blind: but, still, be just,
Still, be the worth thy theme: the taste thy scorn.
And
thou, fled soul, of Pope! dis-rob'd from dust,
And, in that dust, deposing each faint stain,
That speck'd, while here, thy part divine with man!
If, from that source of truth, where, now, thou shin'st,
Spirits, like thine, look down, and love it, still;
Hear, and attest. Sarcastic, as thou wast,
All scorn of flatt'ry sleeps not, in thy grave.
There lives, who dares assert the poet's fire,
Undimm'd by venal smoke. Who boasts no muse:
Yet owns the rights of all; and loves their fame.
Who, from retreat's safe depth, feels virtue's wounds;
Adopts th' impropriate pang, and flies from rest.
Who, from the summit point of fortune's spire,
There, cou'd his fate stand rais'd, wou'd, touch'd as now,
Bow prostrate, as the worm, to hail the wrong'd;
Then greatest, when most lessen'd! by false fears,
From envy's miscreant arts, and stripp'd of name!
And, in that dust, deposing each faint stain,
That speck'd, while here, thy part divine with man!
If, from that source of truth, where, now, thou shin'st,
307
Hear, and attest. Sarcastic, as thou wast,
All scorn of flatt'ry sleeps not, in thy grave.
There lives, who dares assert the poet's fire,
Undimm'd by venal smoke. Who boasts no muse:
Yet owns the rights of all; and loves their fame.
Who, from retreat's safe depth, feels virtue's wounds;
Adopts th' impropriate pang, and flies from rest.
Who, from the summit point of fortune's spire,
There, cou'd his fate stand rais'd, wou'd, touch'd as now,
Bow prostrate, as the worm, to hail the wrong'd;
Then greatest, when most lessen'd! by false fears,
From envy's miscreant arts, and stripp'd of name!
And
you, whoe'er you are, where-e'er you pine,
Who glow, perhaps, unmark'd, perhaps, o'erlook'd,
Perhaps, untasted, by sublime defect
Of dignity in sense; which kings may want,
But none, 'midst all his titles, can bestow:
Grieve not to seem too little to the great.
What lose the gen'rous, who profusely waste,
On high-plac'd weakness, all the muse's strength?
Shines the sun faintlier, for those beams he pours,
Vain, and unthank'd, to warm th' insensate rock?
Who glow, perhaps, unmark'd, perhaps, o'erlook'd,
Perhaps, untasted, by sublime defect
Of dignity in sense; which kings may want,
But none, 'midst all his titles, can bestow:
Grieve not to seem too little to the great.
What lose the gen'rous, who profusely waste,
On high-plac'd weakness, all the muse's strength?
308
Vain, and unthank'd, to warm th' insensate rock?
Tell the big blanks, that he, who courts neglect,
And loves to praise, unpaid, is paid within.
Is greater, than the great: pities their scorn:
And bids their merit live; by verse they wrong'd.
And loves to praise, unpaid, is paid within.
Is greater, than the great: pities their scorn:
And bids their merit live; by verse they wrong'd.
| The Works of the Late Aaron Hill | |