The Harp of Erin Containing the Poetical Works of the Late Thomas Dermody. In Two Volumes |
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MORE WONDERS!
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| II. |
 | The Harp of Erin |  |
108
MORE WONDERS!
AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO M. G. LEWIS, Esq. M. P.
“The times have been,
That when the brains were out the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
To push us from our stools.”
Shakspeare.
That when the brains were out the man would die,
And there an end; but now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
To push us from our stools.”
Shakspeare.
110
Yet once more, O thou muse whose bold
dispatch
Could raise an Iliad from a bruising-match,
Bid Gifford, Ward, and Wolcot, Belcher, shine,
And crowd with coxcombs thy encumber'd line!
Once more, if haply so sublime a flight
Has not thine eagle-wing unfeather'd quite,
Lift thy sonorous voice distinctly clear,
To hail the wonders of this wond'rous year;
And though awhile forgot thy epic lore,
With slacken'd pinion in epistle soar.
Could raise an Iliad from a bruising-match,
Bid Gifford, Ward, and Wolcot, Belcher, shine,
And crowd with coxcombs thy encumber'd line!
Once more, if haply so sublime a flight
Has not thine eagle-wing unfeather'd quite,
Lift thy sonorous voice distinctly clear,
To hail the wonders of this wond'rous year;
And though awhile forgot thy epic lore,
With slacken'd pinion in epistle soar.
Peace to all pedants! Not to thee I sing
Whose praises through each echoing college ring;
Great living lexicon, whose heathen Greek
Might rouse the angry shade of sir John Cheeke;
Or wake old Homer in paternal pain,
To view his favour'd Phrygia lost again.
Whose praises through each echoing college ring;
Great living lexicon, whose heathen Greek
Might rouse the angry shade of sir John Cheeke;
111
To view his favour'd Phrygia lost again.
Peace to all play'rs! I hope no more to hear
The sense of Shakspeare vibrate on my ear;
So come not furious in this darkling age,
When few effulgent stars adorn the stage,
Rudely to quench their ineffectual light,
And shroud the theatre in central night.
The sense of Shakspeare vibrate on my ear;
So come not furious in this darkling age,
When few effulgent stars adorn the stage,
Rudely to quench their ineffectual light,
And shroud the theatre in central night.
Peace to all poets of the piddling school;
By chance who dazzle, or who err by rule;
Who by affected point presume to please,
Of genuine wit the dark antipodes;
Who for sweet babes their brain-abortions pass,
And make the winged horse a sluggish ass!
A reptile race: if e'er I madly stain
My meanest page with such an ideot strain,
May that too serve, like their unheeded stuff,
To wrap up nails, and pennyworths of snuff.
By chance who dazzle, or who err by rule;
Who by affected point presume to please,
Of genuine wit the dark antipodes;
Who for sweet babes their brain-abortions pass,
And make the winged horse a sluggish ass!
A reptile race: if e'er I madly stain
My meanest page with such an ideot strain,
May that too serve, like their unheeded stuff,
To wrap up nails, and pennyworths of snuff.
Peace to all patrons! I no longer feed
With pearls poetic that sharp-snouted breed;
My lord no longer does his gift proclaim,
While sneering servants wait to mark my shame;
No more the porter, of unvarying face,
With courteous insolence denies his grace:
For while great bards may pun and shine in state,
Poor bards, God help the while! must watch the gate.
Yet seldom they such sacred rapture feel
As lends a flavour to the well-earn'd meal,
Who gain for study, temperance, and health,
The bitter blessing of unbounded wealth.
With pearls poetic that sharp-snouted breed;
My lord no longer does his gift proclaim,
While sneering servants wait to mark my shame;
No more the porter, of unvarying face,
With courteous insolence denies his grace:
For while great bards may pun and shine in state,
Poor bards, God help the while! must watch the gate.
112
As lends a flavour to the well-earn'd meal,
Who gain for study, temperance, and health,
The bitter blessing of unbounded wealth.
Peace to all novelists: a milky tribe
Who ne'er descend coarse nature to describe;
But throng each hour, “so modest of demaine ,”
With perfect characters to master Lane!
I who, with happiest sleight of tuneful heed,
Ne'er shook soft warblings from the Doric reed;
I who, no simple tenant of the shade,
Ne'er saw a shepherd but in masquerade;
I who thy garden view with doating eyes,
Great Bedford, fairest sure beneath the skies;
I who full often pipe my am'rous lay
To nymphs who lamb-like through Old Bond-street stray;
Whose sylvan scenes nigh placid Smith field grow,
Whose past'rals come from Paternoster-row,
Whose rural walk gay Tothill-fields supply;
I reck not such fine trumpery—not I.
Who ne'er descend coarse nature to describe;
But throng each hour, “so modest of demaine ,”
With perfect characters to master Lane!
I who, with happiest sleight of tuneful heed,
Ne'er shook soft warblings from the Doric reed;
I who, no simple tenant of the shade,
Ne'er saw a shepherd but in masquerade;
I who thy garden view with doating eyes,
Great Bedford, fairest sure beneath the skies;
I who full often pipe my am'rous lay
To nymphs who lamb-like through Old Bond-street stray;
Whose sylvan scenes nigh placid Smith field grow,
Whose past'rals come from Paternoster-row,
Whose rural walk gay Tothill-fields supply;
I reck not such fine trumpery—not I.
Peace to all censors; if, of peace possest,
Their cruel eulogy will let me rest!
For oft, to speed some more infernal ends,
The ruthless dunces call themselves my friends;
Wrest all my motives, maul my harmless mirth,
Nay, better than the midwife know my birth;
Or, when I write by truth's impartial laws,
To private pique ascribe a public cause.
Thus late of Wolcot: though, by this good light,
I ken not if the blade be black or white;
Nor yet know whether, save from babbling fame,
Pindar or Wolcot be his proper name.
The poet's skill alone intent to scan,
I ne'er dissect the morals of the man.
'Tis mine to trace the beauties of his song:
To other search domestic faults belong.
Should critics on these terms my offer meet,
To damn my dulness or applaud my wit,
In joint opinion I with Grub-street close,
And I and Dutton are no longer foes.
Their cruel eulogy will let me rest!
113
The ruthless dunces call themselves my friends;
Wrest all my motives, maul my harmless mirth,
Nay, better than the midwife know my birth;
Or, when I write by truth's impartial laws,
To private pique ascribe a public cause.
Thus late of Wolcot: though, by this good light,
I ken not if the blade be black or white;
Nor yet know whether, save from babbling fame,
Pindar or Wolcot be his proper name.
The poet's skill alone intent to scan,
I ne'er dissect the morals of the man.
'Tis mine to trace the beauties of his song:
To other search domestic faults belong.
Should critics on these terms my offer meet,
To damn my dulness or applaud my wit,
In joint opinion I with Grub-street close,
And I and Dutton are no longer foes.
Thee now let poignant pleasantry
assail;
Thee, too tenacious of thy nurse's tale;
Thee, Lewis, I devote to satire's shrine:
Though pert facility perhaps is thine;
Thine quick conception, of the quainter kind;
And taste, to trifles aukwardly inclin'd.
But why to vice bestow a pander screen?
Why with thy monstrous births deform the scene?
Why build on blockheads an inglorious fame,
Who merely guess thy merit, by thy name;
Who pass no further judgment, when they see
Those all-sufficient vouchers M. and P.?
Go to: as well grave John's funereal croak
Might strive t'im part the spirit of a joke;
Or Claremont personate the god of wine,
Claremont who “looks as he did never dine; ”
As thou by such vile trick aspire to raise
A splendid monument of deathless praise.
Thee, too tenacious of thy nurse's tale;
Thee, Lewis, I devote to satire's shrine:
Though pert facility perhaps is thine;
Thine quick conception, of the quainter kind;
And taste, to trifles aukwardly inclin'd.
But why to vice bestow a pander screen?
Why with thy monstrous births deform the scene?
114
Who merely guess thy merit, by thy name;
Who pass no further judgment, when they see
Those all-sufficient vouchers M. and P.?
Go to: as well grave John's funereal croak
Might strive t'im part the spirit of a joke;
Or Claremont personate the god of wine,
Claremont who “looks as he did never dine; ”
As thou by such vile trick aspire to raise
A splendid monument of deathless praise.
Oft, in youth's idle summer, have I stray'd
Delighted through the wild wood's leafy shade,
While from some legend's magic clue I caught
All its romantic tenderness of thought;
Oft, fondly glowing with heroic heat,
At Arthur's table took my fancied seat;
At Merlin's call, beneath unclouded skies,
Saw bloomy bow'rs and golden turrets rise;
And, as soft warblings harmoniz'd each spray,
Dissolv'd in bliss, all languishingly lay.
Soon riper reason spurn'd the specious dream,
When manhood made me choose a nobler theme;
Some theme that wider benefits pursu'd,
Some theme conducive to the public good.
Much as thyself I praise the merry elves,
But wish not fairy-tales to load our shelves;
Nor yet have offer'd, with presumptuous pride,
To push, for Geoffry, Juvenal aside:
Though oft my breast has felt a rapt'rous thrill,
Touch'd by the plume of Ludovico's quill;
Though oft with Dante I have lov'd to dwell
Mid the dread woes of Ugolino's cell,
And o'er the fabled scroll of grief severe
Heav'd the big sigh or stream'd the ardent tear.
But when those fatal fantasies pervert
The wayward sense, not meliorate the heart;
When the numb'd soul is steep'd in stupid trance,
And ev'n the scriptures dwindle to romance;
I curse the madness of a guilty taste,
By thee with more than vulgar glory grac'd;
Avert my fondness from such nauseous whims,
Preferring to Child Waters David's hymns.
Delighted through the wild wood's leafy shade,
While from some legend's magic clue I caught
All its romantic tenderness of thought;
Oft, fondly glowing with heroic heat,
At Arthur's table took my fancied seat;
At Merlin's call, beneath unclouded skies,
Saw bloomy bow'rs and golden turrets rise;
And, as soft warblings harmoniz'd each spray,
Dissolv'd in bliss, all languishingly lay.
Soon riper reason spurn'd the specious dream,
When manhood made me choose a nobler theme;
Some theme that wider benefits pursu'd,
Some theme conducive to the public good.
115
But wish not fairy-tales to load our shelves;
Nor yet have offer'd, with presumptuous pride,
To push, for Geoffry, Juvenal aside:
Though oft my breast has felt a rapt'rous thrill,
Touch'd by the plume of Ludovico's quill;
Though oft with Dante I have lov'd to dwell
Mid the dread woes of Ugolino's cell,
And o'er the fabled scroll of grief severe
Heav'd the big sigh or stream'd the ardent tear.
But when those fatal fantasies pervert
The wayward sense, not meliorate the heart;
When the numb'd soul is steep'd in stupid trance,
And ev'n the scriptures dwindle to romance;
I curse the madness of a guilty taste,
By thee with more than vulgar glory grac'd;
Avert my fondness from such nauseous whims,
Preferring to Child Waters David's hymns.
Like conj'rer's bag, how many a maniac's scull
Is with newts, toads, and asps, completely full!
Sure that the horrid medley will go down,
He spews his various garbage on the town;
Till sprightly belles are frighten'd into fits,
And beaus (if blest with any) lose their wits.
Perversely ridden by some scribbling imp,
Did I, a kraken, challenge you, a shrimp?
When first you made the gaping million drunk,
Did I expose the baldness of your Monk?
Did I discover the mysterious hole
From which your putrid carcases you stole?
And while those “spirits from the vasty deep”
You call'd aloud, did I not only sleep?
In pity I forbear, as carrion prey,
To taint my nostrils with your hideous play;
Where incident and language, point and plot,
And all but loathsome spectacle's forgot;
Drawbridge and dungeon, knight and trusty squire,
Squalid consumption, spectre cloth'd in fire,
Illumin'd altars, and “chimeras dire.”
Smit with the frenzy of a foreign race
Who all their beauty in distortion place,
Who couple contraries with equal ease
As taylors munch their cucumbers with peas,
Was't not enough to filch their flimsy style,
But thou must rob the worthies of our isle;
Those dauntless spirits whose exalted fire,
Shall bid eternity their works admire;
Those heirs of honour who, divinely brave,
Fought as they sung; o'er whose illustrious grave,
The muse hath hung th' imperishable wreath
Whose golden blooms ambrosial sweetness breathe;
Those bright phenomena of former days,
Crown'd with sure profit, and as certain praise;
When charming poesy was all their own,
And Germans, but for dulness, quite unknown?
Ev'n now, when star-eyed Learning has unfurl'd
Her pictur'd banner o'er th' applauding world,
That Briton who affects the German school
Is (lo the aptness of the rhyme!) a fool.
Is with newts, toads, and asps, completely full!
Sure that the horrid medley will go down,
He spews his various garbage on the town;
116
And beaus (if blest with any) lose their wits.
Perversely ridden by some scribbling imp,
Did I, a kraken, challenge you, a shrimp?
When first you made the gaping million drunk,
Did I expose the baldness of your Monk?
Did I discover the mysterious hole
From which your putrid carcases you stole?
And while those “spirits from the vasty deep”
You call'd aloud, did I not only sleep?
In pity I forbear, as carrion prey,
To taint my nostrils with your hideous play;
Where incident and language, point and plot,
And all but loathsome spectacle's forgot;
Drawbridge and dungeon, knight and trusty squire,
Squalid consumption, spectre cloth'd in fire,
Illumin'd altars, and “chimeras dire.”
Smit with the frenzy of a foreign race
Who all their beauty in distortion place,
Who couple contraries with equal ease
As taylors munch their cucumbers with peas,
Was't not enough to filch their flimsy style,
But thou must rob the worthies of our isle;
117
Shall bid eternity their works admire;
Those heirs of honour who, divinely brave,
Fought as they sung; o'er whose illustrious grave,
The muse hath hung th' imperishable wreath
Whose golden blooms ambrosial sweetness breathe;
Those bright phenomena of former days,
Crown'd with sure profit, and as certain praise;
When charming poesy was all their own,
And Germans, but for dulness, quite unknown?
Ev'n now, when star-eyed Learning has unfurl'd
Her pictur'd banner o'er th' applauding world,
That Briton who affects the German school
Is (lo the aptness of the rhyme!) a fool.
Yet wisely (and, I wot, by shrewd advice)
Thou sell'st thy tome at an enormous price.
How few can reach it in this troublous time!
For now a guinea touches the sublime.
Shillings, indeed, your middling folks may bring;
But, ah! that guinea is a serious thing.
Paper nor type affords such true delight
As that small portrait to the partial sight:
And yet the vassal mob may wish to sport
Their taste as freely as the mob at court.
Say to what use, should charity prevail,
Wilt thou apply the surplus of the sale?
Wilt thou bestow some Chatterton his bread,
And bid one drooping genius lift his head:
Or rather, to renew the holy game,
A Covent-garden sisterhood reclaim;
New nuns elect, debarr'd from wanton wiles,
Or friars of the order of St. Giles;
Refit old abbeys mouldering in decay,
With wooden crosses plant the public way,
Encowl at once each pocket-picking chap,
And proudly raise at Holborn a La Trappe?
Thou sell'st thy tome at an enormous price.
How few can reach it in this troublous time!
For now a guinea touches the sublime.
Shillings, indeed, your middling folks may bring;
But, ah! that guinea is a serious thing.
Paper nor type affords such true delight
As that small portrait to the partial sight:
And yet the vassal mob may wish to sport
Their taste as freely as the mob at court.
Say to what use, should charity prevail,
Wilt thou apply the surplus of the sale?
118
And bid one drooping genius lift his head:
Or rather, to renew the holy game,
A Covent-garden sisterhood reclaim;
New nuns elect, debarr'd from wanton wiles,
Or friars of the order of St. Giles;
Refit old abbeys mouldering in decay,
With wooden crosses plant the public way,
Encowl at once each pocket-picking chap,
And proudly raise at Holborn a La Trappe?
How couldst thou gut each stall, and grub, and glean,
Like the vile vamper of a magazine;
Nay, for the bliss of being bought and read,
Rob at one pull the living and the dead?
Oh, witness all ye gods! no pen of mine
Had pour'd the stricture of one sober line,
If Southey only felt thy plund'ring rage,
If only Southey's ballads deck'd thy page:
Congenial Southey, who has made poor Joan,
As though in travail, through his volume groan,
And set so oft all necromancy loose;
Glorious competitor of mother Goose.
But why, by letter'd felony unaw'd,
Immortal Dryden of his right defraud?
Known in all lands, in every tongue display'd,
Great hapless bard whose talent was his trade.
Why, not so long elaps'd from mortal day
Wrest his green laurels from the brow of Gray?
But chief from Burns, whose needy friends remain
To reap the profits of his recent strain,
Why pluck his purest gem, his richest grace,
Which candour wishes in its proper place?
Here let me shed a tear, to feeling true,
To him, the son of native Humour, due;
To whom fair Fancy gave the pow'r, and smil'd,
Best to depict the wonderful, the wild;
Yet who, 'mid vauntings of capricious pride,
With all his fame a slighted victim died.
Divulge what “foul fiend” hurried thee along,
From Percy to purloin his ancient song;
To baffle his research and curious care,
And leave the prelate's pious Reliques bare.
'Twas almost sacrilege; and by saint Paul,
Doth loudly for austerest penance call:
A fiery ordeal at least I think,
Or an eternal fast from pen and ink.
Like the vile vamper of a magazine;
Nay, for the bliss of being bought and read,
Rob at one pull the living and the dead?
Oh, witness all ye gods! no pen of mine
Had pour'd the stricture of one sober line,
If Southey only felt thy plund'ring rage,
If only Southey's ballads deck'd thy page:
Congenial Southey, who has made poor Joan,
As though in travail, through his volume groan,
And set so oft all necromancy loose;
Glorious competitor of mother Goose.
119
Immortal Dryden of his right defraud?
Known in all lands, in every tongue display'd,
Great hapless bard whose talent was his trade.
Why, not so long elaps'd from mortal day
Wrest his green laurels from the brow of Gray?
But chief from Burns, whose needy friends remain
To reap the profits of his recent strain,
Why pluck his purest gem, his richest grace,
Which candour wishes in its proper place?
Here let me shed a tear, to feeling true,
To him, the son of native Humour, due;
To whom fair Fancy gave the pow'r, and smil'd,
Best to depict the wonderful, the wild;
Yet who, 'mid vauntings of capricious pride,
With all his fame a slighted victim died.
Divulge what “foul fiend” hurried thee along,
From Percy to purloin his ancient song;
To baffle his research and curious care,
And leave the prelate's pious Reliques bare.
'Twas almost sacrilege; and by saint Paul,
Doth loudly for austerest penance call:
120
Or an eternal fast from pen and ink.
But now, with honest wrath too justly warm,
Let Fancy lend her intellectual charm;
While, sure your ghostly worship to delight,
I recollect a vision of the night,
And drier maxims featously improve
By a mere dream—since dreams descend from Jove.
Let Fancy lend her intellectual charm;
While, sure your ghostly worship to delight,
I recollect a vision of the night,
And drier maxims featously improve
By a mere dream—since dreams descend from Jove.
When ev'ry sense by pow'rful Sleep was seal'd,
And o'er the brain his poppy-dews prevail'd,
In my lone study, lo! methought I sat,
Grave as an owl, and pensive as a cat.
Before my sight, in pompous garment gay,
Fresh from the press thy Tales of Wonder lay;
And much I gloated, with lascivious eyes,
On its white form, gilt edge, and comely size:
When sudden from the lab'ring shelves around
I heard at first a small, still, solemn sound,
That louder wax'd anon:—and now I view'd
Descending from their cells the motley brood;
An animated host of various hue;
Pale-yellow, chesnut-brown, cerulean blue,
And glowing red as if inflam'd by rage;
All cover'd with the rev'rend dust of age.
Fierce they approach'd, and (oh, extremest grief!)
Each from the stranger-volume tore a leaf,
Indignant tore; and while my anxious mind
Quick doubts involv'd, scarce “left a wreck behind;”
Then to their several seats alertly fled,
Mutt'ring low curses on thy fated head.
Curious to know what lucubration rare
Those vellum-vested knaves would deign to spare,
Thy tome, all tatter'd as it was, I took:
Good heav'n, how much unlike the former book!
For they had pick'd the meat, but spurn'd the bone;
And left thee only Southey's and—thy own.
Pleas'd by the civil censure of the joke,
I shook my sides with laughter, and awoke.
The man who makes morality his aim,
No servile lacquey of a short-liv'd fame;
Who from the plenteous store of knowledge flings
On peasants honour, or contempt on kings;
Who never stoop'd to yelp with mongrel throat
A statesman's praise, nor pawn'd his venal vote;
Who ne'er his conscience villainously sold,
To change his thread-bare frieze for cloth of gold;
Who ne'er could truck integrity for pelf,
Consummate traitor—traitor to himself;
Who with a brave disdain eschews the bow'r
Of syren pleasure, and the bait of pow'r;
Who, with a gen'rous openness of mind,
Renders his genius useful to mankind;
Who, filling the rude hind with mental food,
The sweet profusion pours of fair and good;
Though secret foes his stubborn truth assail,
Tried at the bar, or pining in a jail;
Against his peace though hell's black imps conspire,—
Him do I rev'rence, him do I admire;
And, half represt by some low coward fear,
Ask in a sigh, why is not H—here?
Not the grim scavenger condemn'd to scrape
Some German rubbish into form and shape;
Who monthly prints at the express desire
Of a dull duke, and figures an esquire;
Not the collegiate drudge whose puny praise
Rests on the ruins of remoter days;
Content, with prosody's familiar aid,
Bad English in worse Latin to degrade;
His Gradus ad Parnassum in one hour
Completely rifled of each Roman flow'r,
'Till (bust of Maro tremble from thy base!)
Each cantab wonders at his classic grace;
Swears, Livy, he disputes the palm with thee,
And half denies thy patavinity.
One who well knew the soul's minutest springs
(Squire Ovid) in harmonious numbers sings:
“Intently to have learn'd each lib'ral art,
Refines the morals, and reforms the heart.”
But liberal arts in vain to those are taught
Who turn their very learning to a fault.
Not the pert fop who, in a fairy trance,
Will before breakfast drivel a romance;
Nay, if you kindly grant him twice that time,
Will metamorphose his romance to rhyme;
No: (though ordain'd in that huge house to sit,
Renown'd for policy, if not for wit;
Where flies the quick reply, the smart remark,
Should whig meet whig, and jostle in the dark;)
Not ev'n thyself, O Lewis! do I prize
When, vainly learn'd, unprofitably wise,
In futile schemes thy brighter parts are lost,
And the state's welfare by a goblin crost.
Hence ye light tribe who weave the gaudy clue
Which puzzled reason seldom can pierce through!
Ye silky sonneteering fribbles, hence;
Disown'd by poesy, disdain'd by sense!
Close to sage Bedlam fix your lineal throne,
And 'mid craz'd brethren make Moorfields your own.
Hear thou the voice of taste, of judgment hear!
Let their fair forms in wonted light appear;
Let Nature's self, consummate linguist, plead;
Be chaste propriety from phrenzy freed;
Thy ill example instantly remove,
Divorc'd from follies far beneath thy love.
When thou hast sprinkled holy water down,
And wasted pailfulls on this precious town;
When thou hast exercis'd each hare-brain'd rogue,
Proclaiming nonsense is no more the vogue;
Each boarding-school of beastly novels clear'd,
Clean of pollution as a bridegroom's beard;
But chiefly go'st thyself at night to bed
Compos'd, without one spectre in thy head;
And I no more am stunn'd, in list'ning lanes,
With river-queens, mad Molls, and crazy Janes;
Then will I change my tune to notes of praise,
Nor blend the bitter ivy with the bays.
And o'er the brain his poppy-dews prevail'd,
In my lone study, lo! methought I sat,
Grave as an owl, and pensive as a cat.
Before my sight, in pompous garment gay,
Fresh from the press thy Tales of Wonder lay;
And much I gloated, with lascivious eyes,
On its white form, gilt edge, and comely size:
When sudden from the lab'ring shelves around
I heard at first a small, still, solemn sound,
That louder wax'd anon:—and now I view'd
Descending from their cells the motley brood;
An animated host of various hue;
Pale-yellow, chesnut-brown, cerulean blue,
And glowing red as if inflam'd by rage;
All cover'd with the rev'rend dust of age.
Fierce they approach'd, and (oh, extremest grief!)
Each from the stranger-volume tore a leaf,
121
Quick doubts involv'd, scarce “left a wreck behind;”
Then to their several seats alertly fled,
Mutt'ring low curses on thy fated head.
Curious to know what lucubration rare
Those vellum-vested knaves would deign to spare,
Thy tome, all tatter'd as it was, I took:
Good heav'n, how much unlike the former book!
For they had pick'd the meat, but spurn'd the bone;
And left thee only Southey's and—thy own.
Pleas'd by the civil censure of the joke,
I shook my sides with laughter, and awoke.
The man who makes morality his aim,
No servile lacquey of a short-liv'd fame;
Who from the plenteous store of knowledge flings
On peasants honour, or contempt on kings;
Who never stoop'd to yelp with mongrel throat
A statesman's praise, nor pawn'd his venal vote;
Who ne'er his conscience villainously sold,
To change his thread-bare frieze for cloth of gold;
Who ne'er could truck integrity for pelf,
Consummate traitor—traitor to himself;
Who with a brave disdain eschews the bow'r
Of syren pleasure, and the bait of pow'r;
Who, with a gen'rous openness of mind,
Renders his genius useful to mankind;
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The sweet profusion pours of fair and good;
Though secret foes his stubborn truth assail,
Tried at the bar, or pining in a jail;
Against his peace though hell's black imps conspire,—
Him do I rev'rence, him do I admire;
And, half represt by some low coward fear,
Ask in a sigh, why is not H—here?
Not the grim scavenger condemn'd to scrape
Some German rubbish into form and shape;
Who monthly prints at the express desire
Of a dull duke, and figures an esquire;
Not the collegiate drudge whose puny praise
Rests on the ruins of remoter days;
Content, with prosody's familiar aid,
Bad English in worse Latin to degrade;
His Gradus ad Parnassum in one hour
Completely rifled of each Roman flow'r,
'Till (bust of Maro tremble from thy base!)
Each cantab wonders at his classic grace;
Swears, Livy, he disputes the palm with thee,
And half denies thy patavinity.
One who well knew the soul's minutest springs
(Squire Ovid) in harmonious numbers sings:
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Refines the morals, and reforms the heart.”
But liberal arts in vain to those are taught
Who turn their very learning to a fault.
Not the pert fop who, in a fairy trance,
Will before breakfast drivel a romance;
Nay, if you kindly grant him twice that time,
Will metamorphose his romance to rhyme;
No: (though ordain'd in that huge house to sit,
Renown'd for policy, if not for wit;
Where flies the quick reply, the smart remark,
Should whig meet whig, and jostle in the dark;)
Not ev'n thyself, O Lewis! do I prize
When, vainly learn'd, unprofitably wise,
In futile schemes thy brighter parts are lost,
And the state's welfare by a goblin crost.
Hence ye light tribe who weave the gaudy clue
Which puzzled reason seldom can pierce through!
Ye silky sonneteering fribbles, hence;
Disown'd by poesy, disdain'd by sense!
Close to sage Bedlam fix your lineal throne,
And 'mid craz'd brethren make Moorfields your own.
Hear thou the voice of taste, of judgment hear!
Let their fair forms in wonted light appear;
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Be chaste propriety from phrenzy freed;
Thy ill example instantly remove,
Divorc'd from follies far beneath thy love.
When thou hast sprinkled holy water down,
And wasted pailfulls on this precious town;
When thou hast exercis'd each hare-brain'd rogue,
Proclaiming nonsense is no more the vogue;
Each boarding-school of beastly novels clear'd,
Clean of pollution as a bridegroom's beard;
But chiefly go'st thyself at night to bed
Compos'd, without one spectre in thy head;
And I no more am stunn'd, in list'ning lanes,
With river-queens, mad Molls, and crazy Janes;
Then will I change my tune to notes of praise,
Nor blend the bitter ivy with the bays.
| The Harp of Erin | |