The Simpliciad A Satirico-Didactic Poem containing Hints for the Scholars of the New School [by Richard Mant] |
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 | The Simpliciad |  |
1
THE SIMPLICIAD;
A SATIRICO-DIDACTIC POEM.
Simplex munditiis.
—Horace.
—Horace.
Undeck'd save with herself.
—Milton.
—Milton.
3
TO
Messrs. William Wordsworth,
Robert Southey, and S. T. Coleridge
7
Should Wyatt spurn whate'er of fair and grand,
Or Grecian grace or Gothic spirit plann'd,
His pow'rs on pasteboard trifles to employ,
The nick-nack semblance of a baby-toy:
Or Flaxman bid the sculptur'd marble wear
A vacant simper and a clownish stare;
Who but would laugh the artist's skill to scorn?
Who but his prostituted art would mourn?
And will you then the smile, the sigh refuse,
Daughter of heav'n to see the high-soul'd Muse
Condemn'd in leading strings to pipe, and cry,
And lisp the accents of the nursery;
8
To whine with beggars, and with felons swear?
F.
Yet Nature and Simplicity belong—
P.
True, to the mighty arbiters of song,
To painters, sculptors, all who claim a part
In the rich heritage of mimic art.
What strikes the soul in that majestic dome,
“The world's just wonder, and ce'n thine, O “Rome?”
What gives the charm to Raphael's chaste design,
Bids Delphi's God with matchless beauty shine,
And stamps with life “the tale of Troy divine?”
F.
Simplicity.
P.
Yes, not with rags defil'd,
A stamm'ring, stagg'ring, puling, puny child:
But the great mother of a noblc race,
Full-shap'd, harmonious, firm in voice and pace,
Inform'd by science, and array'd by grace.
A stamm'ring, stagg'ring, puling, puny child:
But the great mother of a noblc race,
Full-shap'd, harmonious, firm in voice and pace,
Inform'd by science, and array'd by grace.
9
Most poets err (forgive th' advent'rous strain,
Lords of the lyre, which dares your praise profane)
Whilst with a zeal too ardent they pursue
A favourite beauty fondly kept in view.
Rapt with bright Chivalry's romantic song,
Of genius bold, in numbers sweet and strong,
Scott pours the latest Minstrel's lay along;
Yet oft, the tale by quaint intrusions crost,
Sense, fancy, feeling shrink from “lost, lost, lost.”
Slave of apostrophe, of ah! and oh!
To sober dignity determin'd foe,
Campbell assumes the Andes giant's form,
Enthron'd on clouds amid the mountain's storm.
Spirit and ease of each the brave intent,
Burns is familiar, Cowper negligent;
While Virgil smiles to see himself so fine
In graceful Sotheby's embellish'd line,
And Camoens mourns, that Strangford sweet and gay
Blurs with unhallow'd spot his modest lay.
Lords of the lyre, which dares your praise profane)
Whilst with a zeal too ardent they pursue
A favourite beauty fondly kept in view.
Rapt with bright Chivalry's romantic song,
Of genius bold, in numbers sweet and strong,
Scott pours the latest Minstrel's lay along;
Yet oft, the tale by quaint intrusions crost,
Sense, fancy, feeling shrink from “lost, lost, lost.”
Slave of apostrophe, of ah! and oh!
To sober dignity determin'd foe,
Campbell assumes the Andes giant's form,
Enthron'd on clouds amid the mountain's storm.
Spirit and ease of each the brave intent,
Burns is familiar, Cowper negligent;
While Virgil smiles to see himself so fine
In graceful Sotheby's embellish'd line,
And Camoens mourns, that Strangford sweet and gay
Blurs with unhallow'd spot his modest lay.
10
O! if the poet with immodest stain
The heav'nly gift of poesy profane,
In fair array the wanton harlot deck,
And wake the blush on Virtue's maiden cheek;
Spare not thy satire's holy rage to pour,
And let its keenest vengeance light on Moore.
P.
Less high the purport of my playful rhime,
To sport with folly, not to war with crime;
A crime, that manhood shames, and makes the Muse
A go-between and pander to the stews;
A crime, that merits, would that it might draw
On its ripe back the iron scourge of law.
F.
Then why assault Simplicity? Her lays
Modest and lovely—
P.
Modest! 'tis her praise;
Nor barely modest; Gifford must approve
The friend of mercy, peace, and virtuous love:
(Gifford, the dread of every snivelling fool,
That loves and rhimes by Della Cruscan rule.)
And therefore 'tis, Simplicity may claim,
She, or the mongrel that affects her name,
A lighter rod. But for the Muse disgrac'd,
For genius outrag'd, and perverted taste,
The scholar's pity, and the critic's sneer,
And smirking ignorance with stare and leer
Attend her triumph: while to greet the song
Enthusiast Folly draws her mimic throng;
And, as the vapid chorus louder swells,
Her whistle blows, and chimes her coral bells.
O, that thou ever should'st forego thy claim,
Sweet child of Genius, to thy father's fame,
Renounce the glory of thine elder song,
And ape the whimper of a beldame's tongue!
When smiling mild the glorious chief of Troy
Unlac'd his helmet, and caress'd his boy;
Amid the roaring of th' Ægean deep
When Danae cried, “O sleep, my infant, sleep;”
When her fond spouse o'er Heliodora shed
The tender tear and gave her to the dead,
Thine was the song:—thine is the song that wakes
Echo, who sleeps by Albion's northern lakes,
Echo, whose birth the cuckoo cannot tell,
Tho' that 'tis sound the bird must know full well;
Where Poets, dozing in lethargic dream,
Such as may Fancy's wayward sons beseem,
Entwine each random weed, that charms their eye,
To hang on wildly-staring Poesy:
Poets, who fix their visionary sight
On Sparrow's eggs in prospect of delight,
With fervent welcome greet the glow-worm's flame,
Put it to bed and bless it by its name;
Hunt waterfalls, that gallop down the hills:
And dance with dancing laughing daffodills;
Or measure muddy ponds from side to side,
And find them three feet long and two feet wide:
Poets with brother donkey in the dell
Of mild equality who fain would dwell
With brother lark or brother robin fly,
And flutter with half-brother butterfly;
To woodland shades with liberty repair,
And scorn with pious sneer the Housc of Pray'r:
Of apostolic daisies learn to think,
Draughts from their urns of true devotion drink:
Woo with fond languishment their chymic maids,
Pray for their Spanicls; consecrate their spades;
Whine over tatter'd cloaks and ragged breeches,
And moralize with gatherers of leeches.
Boast of New Bond-street, and St. Paul's Churchyard,
With “Lyric Ballads” many a gentle Bard,
Proud of gilt cover, with engravings grac'd,
Courts of mammas and aunts the curious taste.
'Tis their's with greater than the Doctor's skill,
To make by night the screaming infant still;
Or, welcoming day with some melodious air,
Wash his nice hands, and comb his shining hair,
To story told of Gaffer Grumble's wig,
Dame Hubbard's dog, and Betty Pringle's pig.
A simple tale these artless bards rehearse;
The ditty simple, simple is the verse;
But ah! in vain—for know a simpler lay
Wrests from their grasp the nursery prize away!
Bards of the lakes! in sickly thoughts sublime,
The vulgar image, and the doggrel rhime,
Less worthy far of go-cart, pap, and bib,
Your brethren of the cradle and the crib.
What tho' they dare, when Autumn winds are sobbing,
To chaunt a funeral stave o'er poor Cock Robin,
They cannot sing how by some name or other,
All men who know him call Cock Robin brother,
Then bid old Father Adam ope his eyes,
And shudd'ring see this sight beneath the skies,
How Redbreasts hunt and feed on Butterflies.
What though in simple rhimes to nature true,
They sing of roses red and violets blue,
Tis not for them to hymn the spring-day praises
Of patient primroses and dauntless daisies;
Indignant show'r in fiddle-faddle verses
Blessings on celandines, on king-cups curses;
To scold tall flow'rs, which do as worldlings do,
And will be seen, whether we'll see or no;
While others blithe of heart from week to week
More arch and wily play at hide-and-seek;
To bless mysterious cuckoos; and to sing,
With fancy tether'd to a Linnet's wing,
In numbers shilly-shally, shally-shilly,
So very feeling and so very silly,
That wondering Nonsense proud to see a son
Of Science prate in phrase so like her own,
Dwells on the meagre verse with sparkling cyes,
While o'er degraded Genius Reason sighs.
Sad is the triumph of the simple Bard!
Her limbs all fetter'd and her cheeks all marr'd,
Nature her violated kingdom feels,
And sense and judgment blur his chariot wheels.
But would ye wish, ye nursery bards, to know
The sources, whence your rivals' glories flow,
Hear, while no brother-mason I impart
The precious mysteries of the sinking art,
And not disposed to dive beneath the flood,
Strip off the buoyant cork from those who wou'd.
Nor barely modest; Gifford must approve
The friend of mercy, peace, and virtuous love:
(Gifford, the dread of every snivelling fool,
That loves and rhimes by Della Cruscan rule.)
And therefore 'tis, Simplicity may claim,
She, or the mongrel that affects her name,
11
For genius outrag'd, and perverted taste,
The scholar's pity, and the critic's sneer,
And smirking ignorance with stare and leer
Attend her triumph: while to greet the song
Enthusiast Folly draws her mimic throng;
And, as the vapid chorus louder swells,
Her whistle blows, and chimes her coral bells.
O, that thou ever should'st forego thy claim,
Sweet child of Genius, to thy father's fame,
Renounce the glory of thine elder song,
And ape the whimper of a beldame's tongue!
When smiling mild the glorious chief of Troy
Unlac'd his helmet, and caress'd his boy;
Amid the roaring of th' Ægean deep
When Danae cried, “O sleep, my infant, sleep;”
When her fond spouse o'er Heliodora shed
The tender tear and gave her to the dead,
Thine was the song:—thine is the song that wakes
Echo, who sleeps by Albion's northern lakes,
Echo, whose birth the cuckoo cannot tell,
Tho' that 'tis sound the bird must know full well;
12
Such as may Fancy's wayward sons beseem,
Entwine each random weed, that charms their eye,
To hang on wildly-staring Poesy:
13
On Sparrow's eggs in prospect of delight,
With fervent welcome greet the glow-worm's flame,
Put it to bed and bless it by its name;
14
And dance with dancing laughing daffodills;
15
And find them three feet long and two feet wide:
Poets with brother donkey in the dell
Of mild equality who fain would dwell
With brother lark or brother robin fly,
And flutter with half-brother butterfly;
16
And scorn with pious sneer the Housc of Pray'r:
17
Draughts from their urns of true devotion drink:
18
Pray for their Spanicls; consecrate their spades;
19
And moralize with gatherers of leeches.
20
With “Lyric Ballads” many a gentle Bard,
21
Courts of mammas and aunts the curious taste.
'Tis their's with greater than the Doctor's skill,
To make by night the screaming infant still;
Or, welcoming day with some melodious air,
Wash his nice hands, and comb his shining hair,
To story told of Gaffer Grumble's wig,
Dame Hubbard's dog, and Betty Pringle's pig.
A simple tale these artless bards rehearse;
The ditty simple, simple is the verse;
But ah! in vain—for know a simpler lay
Wrests from their grasp the nursery prize away!
Bards of the lakes! in sickly thoughts sublime,
The vulgar image, and the doggrel rhime,
Less worthy far of go-cart, pap, and bib,
Your brethren of the cradle and the crib.
What tho' they dare, when Autumn winds are sobbing,
To chaunt a funeral stave o'er poor Cock Robin,
They cannot sing how by some name or other,
All men who know him call Cock Robin brother,
22
And shudd'ring see this sight beneath the skies,
How Redbreasts hunt and feed on Butterflies.
What though in simple rhimes to nature true,
They sing of roses red and violets blue,
23
Of patient primroses and dauntless daisies;
24
Blessings on celandines, on king-cups curses;
25
And will be seen, whether we'll see or no;
While others blithe of heart from week to week
More arch and wily play at hide-and-seek;
To bless mysterious cuckoos; and to sing,
With fancy tether'd to a Linnet's wing,
26
So very feeling and so very silly,
That wondering Nonsense proud to see a son
Of Science prate in phrase so like her own,
Dwells on the meagre verse with sparkling cyes,
While o'er degraded Genius Reason sighs.
Sad is the triumph of the simple Bard!
Her limbs all fetter'd and her cheeks all marr'd,
Nature her violated kingdom feels,
And sense and judgment blur his chariot wheels.
But would ye wish, ye nursery bards, to know
The sources, whence your rivals' glories flow,
Hear, while no brother-mason I impart
The precious mysteries of the sinking art,
And not disposed to dive beneath the flood,
Strip off the buoyant cork from those who wou'd.
I.
First choose your theme: not one, whose view supplies
Visions of beauty to poetic eyes,
Charms the rapt soul with scenes of other years,
Or “opes the source of sympathetic tears.”
Such was the theme, when Southey's feeling song
Invok'd revenge for bleeding Afric's wrong;
And such when Wordsworth bade the Minstrel raise
His festal strain to “Good Lord Clifford's” praise.
For why to distant lands and ages roam?
Less hackney'd themes invite you nearer home;
Congcnial themes, which yield more tasteful food
To pocts musing in their fitful mood.
See! with impassion'd flow'rs each bank is teeming;
See! with blue sparrow's eggs each hedge is gleaming;
Ecstatic birds, whose thoughts no bard can measure;
Blossoms that breathe, and twigs that pant with pleasure.
Heaths bloom with cups, the darlings of the eye;
Green fields with grass, that drinks a sense of joy;
Hills have their thorns with clasping mosses hung;
Thorns now so old, you'd say they ne'er were young,
Mosses, so close, you'd say that they were bent
With wicked plain and manifest intent,
As if they all had joined in one endeavour,
To kill and bury the poor thorn for ever.
The village boasts its busy, busy bees;
Old road-menders who dine on bread and cheese;
Poachers, who go, when trade in England fails,
To drink their grog and curse in New South Wales;
Goodies who boil their pottage one and one
By the same fire; and some, who dwell alone;
Beggars, on lies and impudence who thrive,
And cottage girls, who don't know seven from five.
If from such arduous tasks you shrink dismay'd,
Play with your cat, apostrophize your spade:
Or should some donkey cross you on the way,
(Not such as wends with crimson housing gay,
The conscious palfrey of a high-born lass,
But a poor, half-starv'd, plodding, vulgar ass)
'Tis but with gentle hand to give him bread,
And clap his ragged coat, and pat his head,
Lament his sad prophetic fears, approve
His patient merit, and his filial love,
Converse a little with his asking feet,
And praise his hoarse bray, musically sweet;
Then in despite of scornful folly's pother,
Ask him to live with you, and hail him Brother!
Visions of beauty to poetic eyes,
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Or “opes the source of sympathetic tears.”
Such was the theme, when Southey's feeling song
Invok'd revenge for bleeding Afric's wrong;
And such when Wordsworth bade the Minstrel raise
His festal strain to “Good Lord Clifford's” praise.
For why to distant lands and ages roam?
Less hackney'd themes invite you nearer home;
Congcnial themes, which yield more tasteful food
To pocts musing in their fitful mood.
See! with impassion'd flow'rs each bank is teeming;
See! with blue sparrow's eggs each hedge is gleaming;
Ecstatic birds, whose thoughts no bard can measure;
Blossoms that breathe, and twigs that pant with pleasure.
28
Green fields with grass, that drinks a sense of joy;
29
Thorns now so old, you'd say they ne'er were young,
Mosses, so close, you'd say that they were bent
With wicked plain and manifest intent,
As if they all had joined in one endeavour,
To kill and bury the poor thorn for ever.
The village boasts its busy, busy bees;
Old road-menders who dine on bread and cheese;
30
To drink their grog and curse in New South Wales;
31
By the same fire; and some, who dwell alone;
Beggars, on lies and impudence who thrive,
And cottage girls, who don't know seven from five.
If from such arduous tasks you shrink dismay'd,
Play with your cat, apostrophize your spade:
Or should some donkey cross you on the way,
(Not such as wends with crimson housing gay,
32
But a poor, half-starv'd, plodding, vulgar ass)
33
And clap his ragged coat, and pat his head,
Lament his sad prophetic fears, approve
His patient merit, and his filial love,
Converse a little with his asking feet,
And praise his hoarse bray, musically sweet;
Then in despite of scornful folly's pother,
Ask him to live with you, and hail him Brother!
Such subjects are original, 'tis true;
But then they're very poor and paltry too.
And thro' the frame so swiftly venom speeds,
So hard it is to purge a field from weeds,
'Tis chance but themes like these infect your style,
Debase your thoughts, and make your language vile.
But then they're very poor and paltry too.
And thro' the frame so swiftly venom speeds,
So hard it is to purge a field from weeds,
'Tis chance but themes like these infect your style,
Debase your thoughts, and make your language vile.
Not but the bard can wave his wizard wand,
And turn a desert into fairy land,
Of village spoils a manly trophy raise,
And crown a Sofa with a Georgic's praise,
And turn a desert into fairy land,
Of village spoils a manly trophy raise,
And crown a Sofa with a Georgic's praise,
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II.
But like your models, bolder ye defySelection, combination, energy.
As in review your throng'd ideas pass,
Survey'd in memory's reflective glass,
To every rule of sober reason blind,
Cull out the worst, and leave the best behind.
Or if some nobler thought will venture forth,
As tho' we slight we cannot stifle worth,
So marr'd and mangled let it court the view,
Rang'd cheek by jowl beside the antic crew,
And so disfigur'd and disguis'd withal
In babyish style and phrase fantastical,
That the nice eye may sickening turn away
From such mean fellowship and coarse array,
While Fun salutes the charmer Folly bride,
And Laughter tickles Humour's shaking side.
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III.
For be your thoughts attir'd like Falstaff's pack,
Poor hungry knaves with lean and shirtless back.
What that attire is, dost thou ask of me?
Come walk abroad, and I will answer thee.
Yon children, 'mid the strawberries at play;
Yon old man breaking stones on the high way;
Yon lieing gipsey with her sea of tears;
Yon convict wretch that laughs and prays and swears;
Only ask them, as thou hast ask'd of me,
What words to use and they will answer thee!
Poor hungry knaves with lean and shirtless back.
What that attire is, dost thou ask of me?
Come walk abroad, and I will answer thee.
Yon children, 'mid the strawberries at play;
Yon old man breaking stones on the high way;
Yon lieing gipsey with her sea of tears;
Yon convict wretch that laughs and prays and swears;
Only ask them, as thou hast ask'd of me,
What words to use and they will answer thee!
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But tho' you deem the style of art too good
And bright for simple Nature's constant food,
Yet spurn not what belike may help along
Your lagging skeletons of meagre song,
As budding groves wak'd by the vernal tune,
Bestir themselves to spur the steps of June.
For visitings of thought beyond the reach,
The scope, the eye-mark of our English speech,
Behold your mighty master Furius brings
New words to temper your sweet jargonings;
Or bids the old in awkward union close,
A hailstone swarm; his godlike task foregoes
Of spitting snow on hoary Alpine rocks,
To steep in silence British weathercocks.
He wills; the rivers trample to the deep,
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
Awaken'd echoes through the mountains throng,
And kettles whisper their faint undersong.
And bright for simple Nature's constant food,
Yet spurn not what belike may help along
Your lagging skeletons of meagre song,
37
Bestir themselves to spur the steps of June.
For visitings of thought beyond the reach,
The scope, the eye-mark of our English speech,
Behold your mighty master Furius brings
New words to temper your sweet jargonings;
38
A hailstone swarm; his godlike task foregoes
Of spitting snow on hoary Alpine rocks,
To steep in silence British weathercocks.
He wills; the rivers trample to the deep,
The cataracts blow their trumpets from the steep,
39
And kettles whisper their faint undersong.
IV.
With loftiest numbers, uncontrol'd by rhime,
In epic glory Milton stands sublime;
Such Thomson chose, and Cowper, to array
In moral beauty the descriptive lay.
The finished couplet Pope's smooth rhimes approve,
For precept terse, or tender tale of love.
While Nature owns the elegiac strains,
In solemn quatrain pensive Gray complains,
Or strikes to loftier verse the varying lyre,
Divides the crown, and rivals Dryden's fire.
But ye for metre rummage Percy's Reliques;
In sapphics limp, or amble in dactylics;
Trip it in Ambrose Philips's trochaics;
In dithyrambics vault; or hobble in prosaics.
Yours be the linnet's note, teem'd forth in gushes;
And yours the drunken lark's, as up he rushes;
And yours the fiery nightingale's, that sings
With skirmish and capricious passagings.
Why fetter Genius? But as e'er you hope
To shun the praise of Dryden and of Pope,
The graceful ease, the stately march decline,
And manly vigour of a classic line.
In epic glory Milton stands sublime;
Such Thomson chose, and Cowper, to array
In moral beauty the descriptive lay.
The finished couplet Pope's smooth rhimes approve,
For precept terse, or tender tale of love.
40
In solemn quatrain pensive Gray complains,
Or strikes to loftier verse the varying lyre,
Divides the crown, and rivals Dryden's fire.
But ye for metre rummage Percy's Reliques;
In sapphics limp, or amble in dactylics;
Trip it in Ambrose Philips's trochaics;
In dithyrambics vault; or hobble in prosaics.
Yours be the linnet's note, teem'd forth in gushes;
And yours the drunken lark's, as up he rushes;
41
With skirmish and capricious passagings.
Why fetter Genius? But as e'er you hope
To shun the praise of Dryden and of Pope,
The graceful ease, the stately march decline,
And manly vigour of a classic line.
Thus subject, image, language, metre cull,
Spite of resisting genius, you'll be dull:
But to th' abyss of bathos would you creep,
Unfailing source of ridicule or sleep,
For themes of sorrow marshal all your art,
And plant your whole artillery at the heart.
Spite of resisting genius, you'll be dull:
42
Unfailing source of ridicule or sleep,
For themes of sorrow marshal all your art,
And plant your whole artillery at the heart.
Now the gruff farmer's dozing conscience wake,
With tale of Harry Gill and Goody Blake.
Poor Goody Blake, and cruel Harry Gill!
She stole his hedges, and he used her ill,
And now his teeth they chatter, chatter, still.
Now rouse maternal fears for Betty Foy,
Her lamblike pony, and her idiot boy;
Who went to fetch the Doctor, but he staid
Beside the water, while the pony fed,
Took the pale moon-beam for the sun, nor knew
The cock's shrill clarion from the owl's to-whoo!
Let Pity now the one-eyed huntsman wail,
Whose legs are wither'd, and whose ancles swell,
Plumb-coated, cherry-cheek'd Old Simon Lee!
Or the blind Highland Boy who went to sea,
High land 'tis called, because it is not low,
And land because it is not sea, I trow;
He went, and how? in Household Tub, like those
Which washer-women use to wash their clothes.
With tale of Harry Gill and Goody Blake.
Poor Goody Blake, and cruel Harry Gill!
She stole his hedges, and he used her ill,
And now his teeth they chatter, chatter, still.
Now rouse maternal fears for Betty Foy,
Her lamblike pony, and her idiot boy;
43
Beside the water, while the pony fed,
Took the pale moon-beam for the sun, nor knew
The cock's shrill clarion from the owl's to-whoo!
Let Pity now the one-eyed huntsman wail,
Whose legs are wither'd, and whose ancles swell,
44
Or the blind Highland Boy who went to sea,
45
And land because it is not sea, I trow;
He went, and how? in Household Tub, like those
Which washer-women use to wash their clothes.
Now “shrill your dolours forth” for Alice Fell,
The little girl in Durham, who doth dwell;
Wretch! as behind a bard's post-chaise she rode,
Loose in the wind her tatter'd garment flow'd:
She saw it not, till in the wheel entangled
Like any garden scare-crow there it dangled.
But in the chaise, the child, good man! he took
Drove to the inn, and of the host bespoke
For her of duffil grey another cloak.
The little girl in Durham, who doth dwell;
Wretch! as behind a bard's post-chaise she rode,
Loose in the wind her tatter'd garment flow'd:
She saw it not, till in the wheel entangled
Like any garden scare-crow there it dangled.
But in the chaise, the child, good man! he took
Drove to the inn, and of the host bespoke
For her of duffil grey another cloak.
46
Let deeper tones the grey-hair'd man deplore,
The old leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!
See! motionless he stands, and like a cloud,
That heareth not the winds which call so loud,
And now upon the water he doth look;
And readeth there as if he read his book;
And stirreth now the pond about his feet,
And tho' with not a leech he there can meet,
He smiles so sweetly on his state forlorn,
That gazing bards may laugh themselves to scorn.
The old leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!
See! motionless he stands, and like a cloud,
That heareth not the winds which call so loud,
And now upon the water he doth look;
And readeth there as if he read his book;
And stirreth now the pond about his feet,
And tho' with not a leech he there can meet,
He smiles so sweetly on his state forlorn,
That gazing bards may laugh themselves to scorn.
47
And then bid horror harrow up the soul
With grannam's tale of blear-eyed collier Moll!
Ah! what avail'd her limbs for labour form'd,
The coals she carried, and the dogs she worm'd,
Her heart that kindly for her asses felt,
And tongue that curses like a trooper dealt?
What, that her husband once she left in bed,
(Her flannel night-cap muffled up his head)
Put on his breeches, and with mastiff face
Went to the press-gang captain in his place?
One morn they found her in the stable dead,
Kill'd by a cruel smuggler, and her head
Hung (for her throat was cut from ear to ear)
Just by a bit of skin, oh dear! oh dear!—
With grannam's tale of blear-eyed collier Moll!
48
The coals she carried, and the dogs she worm'd,
Her heart that kindly for her asses felt,
And tongue that curses like a trooper dealt?
49
(Her flannel night-cap muffled up his head)
Put on his breeches, and with mastiff face
Went to the press-gang captain in his place?
One morn they found her in the stable dead,
Kill'd by a cruel smuggler, and her head
Hung (for her throat was cut from ear to ear)
Just by a bit of skin, oh dear! oh dear!—
50
Now shame to genius, learning, feeling, sense!
Poets of old to Nature made pretence,
Yet did they not for naked Nature scorn
Art that refines, and graces that adorn,
The fancy bright, the eloquence divine,
And soul that lives along the breathing line.
But when this itch for simpleness can blind
The sight, and quell the vigour of the mind,
Shades of the Sosii! can we fondly hope
To draw admiring crowds to Longman's shop,
Bound in gilt calf thro' Britain's shires to speed,
And bring home laurels from beyond the Tweed?
Saw ye not late the critics lash addrest—
Poets of old to Nature made pretence,
Yet did they not for naked Nature scorn
Art that refines, and graces that adorn,
The fancy bright, the eloquence divine,
And soul that lives along the breathing line.
But when this itch for simpleness can blind
The sight, and quell the vigour of the mind,
51
To draw admiring crowds to Longman's shop,
Bound in gilt calf thro' Britain's shires to speed,
And bring home laurels from beyond the Tweed?
Saw ye not late the critics lash addrest—
F.
All idle prattle—critics may protest
Gainst babyish simpleness in nonsense drest,
But novelty will gain a brief applause;
And spite of reason's and the critic's laws,
Loungers and girls will read as fashion draws.
P.
But for the Bard—
F.
Why he must have his way:
Who will not see it, may exclude the day.
And when the fit's on, 'tis as well to kill,
As strive to cure a madman 'gainst his will.
THE END.
| The Simpliciad | |