Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and Plays

By William Hayley ... in Six Volumes. A New Edition

Hayley, William (1745-1820)

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AN ESSAY ON EPIC POETRY;

EPISTLE THE FIRST.

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EPISTLE THE FIRST.

ARGUMENT OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Introduction.—Design of the Poem to remove prejudices which obstruct the cultivation of Epic writing.—Origin of Poetry.—Honours paid to its infancy.—Homer the first Poet remaining.—Difficulty of the question why he had no Successor in Greece.— Remark of a celebrated Writer, that as Criticism flourishes Poetry declines.—Defence of Critics.— Danger of a bigoted acquiescence in critical Systems —and of a Poet's criticising his own works.— Advantages of Friendship and Study of the higher Poets.

Perish that critic pride, which oft has hurl'd
Its empty thunders o'er the Epic world;
Which, eager to extend its mimic reign,
Would bind free Fancy in a servile chain;
With papal rage the eye of Genius blind,
And bar the gates of Glory on the mind!

Such dark decrees have letter'd Bigots penn'd,
Yet seiz'd that honour'd name, the Poet's Friend.
But Learning from her page their laws will blot;
Scorn'd be their arrogance! their name forgot!
Th' indignant Bard, abhorring base controul,
Seeks the just Critic of congenial soul.
Say! Mason, Judge and Master of the Lyre!
Harmonious Chief of Britain's living Choir,
Say! wilt Thou listen to his weaker strains,
Who pants to range round Fancy's rich domains;
To vindicate her empire, and disown
Proud System, seated on her injur'd throne?
Come! while thy Muse, contented with applause,
Gives to her graceful song a little pause,
Enjoying triumphs past; at leisure laid
In thy sweet Garden's variegated shade,
Or fondly hanging on some favourite Oak
That Harp, whose notes the fate of Mona spoke,

Strung by the sacred Druids' social band,
And wisely trusted to thy kindred hand!
Come! for thy liberal and ingenuous heart
Can aid a Brother in this magic art;
Let us, and Freedom be our guide, explore
The highest province of poetic lore,
Free the young Bard from that oppressive awe,
Which feels Opinion's rule as Reason's law,
And from his spirit bid vain fears depart,
Of weaken'd Nature and exhausted Art!
Phantoms! that literary spleen conceives!
Dullness adopts, and Indolence believes!
While with advent'rous step we wind along
Th' expansive regions of Heroic song,
From different sources let our search explain
Why few the Chieftans of this wide domain.
Haply, inspiriting poetic youth,
Our verse may prove this animating truth,
That Poesy's sublime, neglected field
May still new laurels to Ambition yield;

Her Epic trumpet, in a modern hand,
Still make the spirit glow, the heart expand.
Be such our doctrine! our enlivening aim
The Muse's honour, and our Country's fame!

Thou first and fairest of the social Arts!
Sovereign of liberal souls and feeling hearts!
If, in devotion to thy heavenly charms,
I clasp'd thy altar with my infant arms,
For thee neglected the wide field of wealth,
The toils of int'rest and the sports of health,—
Enchanting Poesy! that zeal repay
With powers to sing thy universal sway!
To trace thy progress from thy distant birth,
Heaven's pure descendant! dear delight of Earth!
Charm of all regions! to no age confin'd!
The prime ennobler of th' aspiring mind!

Nor will thy dignity, sweet Power! disdain
What Fiction utters in her idle strain,
Thy sportive Friend! who mocking solemn Truth,
Tells her fond tales of thy untutor'd youth.

As wrong'd Latona (so her tale begins)
To Delphos travell'd with her youthful twins;
Th' envenom'd Python, with terrific sway,
Cross'd the fair Goddess in her destin'd way:
The heavenly parent, in the wild alarm,
Her little Dian in her anxious arm,
High on a stone, which she in terror trod,
Cried to her filial guard, the Archer God,
Bidding with force, that spoke the Mother's heart,
Her young Apollo launch his ready dart;
In measur'd sounds her rapid mandate flow'd,
The first foundation of the future Ode!
Thus, at their banquets, fabling Greeks rehearse
The fancied origin of sacred Verse:
And though cold Reason may with scorn assail,
Or turn contemptuous from their simple tale,
Yet, Poesy! thy sister Art may stoop
From this weak sketch to paint th' impassion'd group.

Though taste refin'd to modern Verse deny
The hacknied pageants of the Pagan sky,
Their sinking radiance still the Canvass warms,
Painting still glories in their graceful forms;
Nor canst thou envy, if the world agree
To grant thy Sister claims denied to thee;
For thee, the happier Art! the elder-born!
Superior rights and dearer charms adorn:
Confin'd she catches, with observance keen,
Her single moment of the changeful scene;
But thou, endu'd with energy sublime,
Unquestion'd arbiter of space and time!
Canst join the distant, the unknown create,
And, while Existence yields thee all her state,
On the astonish'd mind profusely pour
Myriads of forms, that Fancy must adore.
Yet of thy boundless power the dearest part
Is firm possession of the feeling Heart:
No progeny of Chance, by Labour taught,
No slow-form'd creature of scholastic thought,

The child of Passion thou! thy lyre she strung,
To her parental notes she tun'd thy tongue;
Gave thee her boldest swell, her softest tone,
And made the compass of her voice thy own.

To Admiration, source of joy refin'd!
Chaste, lovely mover of the simple mind!
To her, though sceptics, in their pride, declaim,
With many an insult, on her injur'd name;
To her, sweet Poesy! we owe thy birth,
Thou first encomiast of the fruitful Earth!
By her inspir'd, the earliest mortal found
The ear-delighting charm of measur'd sound;
He hail'd the Maker of a world so fair,
And the first accent of his song was prayer.
O, most attractive of those airy Powers,
Who most illuminate Man's chequer'd hours!
Is there an Art, in all the group divine,
Whose dawn of Being must not yield to thine?
Religion's self, whose provident controul
Takes from fierce Man his anarchy of soul,

She o'er thy youth with fond affection hung,
And borrow'd music from thy infant tongue.
Law, sterner Law, whose potent voice imprest
Severest terror on the human breast,
With thy fresh flow'rs her aweful figure crown'd,
And spoke her mandate in thy softer sound.
E'en cold Philosophy, whom later days
Saw thy mean rival, envious of thy praise;
Who clos'd against thee her ungrateful arms,
And urg'd her Plato to defame thy charms;
She from thy childhood gain'd no fruitless aid,
From thee she learnt her talent to persuade.
Gay Nature view'd thee with a smiling glance,
The Graces round thee fram'd the frolic dance:
And well might festive Joy thy favour court;
Thy song turn'd strife to peace and toil to sport.
Exhausted Vigour at thy voice reviv'd,
And Mirth from thee her dearest charm deriv'd.
Triumphant Love, in thy alliance blest,
Enlarg'd his empire o'er the gentle breast;

His torch assum'd new lustre from thy breath,
And his clear flame defied the clouds of death,
But of the splendid train, who felt thy sway,
Or drew existence from thy vital ray,
Glory, with fondest zeal, proclaim'd thy might,
And hail'd thee victor of oblivious Night.
Her martial trumpet to thy hand she gave,
At once to quicken and reward the Brave:
It sounds—his blood the kindling Hero pays,
A cheap and ready price for thy eternal praise!
Tho' selfish Fear th' immortal strain deride,
And mock the Warrior's wish as frantic pride!

Ye gallant, hapless Dead of distant time,
Whose fame has perish'd unembalm'd in rhyme,
As thro' the desert air your ashes fly,
In Fancy's ear the nameless atoms cry,
“To us, unhappy! cruel Fates refuse
“The well-earn'd record of th' applauding Muse.”
Blest are those Chiefs, who, blazon'd on her roll,
Still waken virtue in each kindred soul;

Their bright existence still on earth prolong,
And shine for ever in the deathless song.
Yet oft Oblivion, in a treacherous shade,
Has sunk the tuneful rites to Valour paid;
Her palsied lips refusing to rehearse
The sacred, old, traditionary verse.

As well the curious eye, with keen desire,
Might hope to catch that spark of vital fire,
Which first thro' Chaos shot a sudden light,
And quicken'd Nature in its transient flight;
As the fond ear to catch the fleeting note,
Which on the ravish'd air was heard to float,
When first the Muse her Epic strain began,
And every list'ning Chief grew more than Man.

But, as the Ruler of the new-born day
From Chaos rose, in glory's rich array;
So from deep shades, impenetrably strong,
That shroud the darken'd world of antient song,
Bright Homer bursts, magnificently clear,
The solar Lord of that poetic sphere;

Before whose blaze, in wide luxuriance spread,
Each Grecian Star hides his diminish'd head;
Whose beams departed yet enchant the sight,
In Latium's softer, chaste, reflected light.

Say ye! whose curious philosophic eye
Searches the depth where Nature's secrets lie;
Ye, who can tell how her capricious fit
Directs the flow and ebb of human wit,
And why, obedient to her quick command,
Spring-tides of Genius now enrich her fav'rite land,
Now sink, by her to different climes assign'd,
And only leave some worthless weeds behind!
Say! why in Greece, unrival'd and alone,
The Sovereign Poet grac'd his Epic throne?
Why did the realm that echoed his renown,
Produce no kindred heir to claim his crown?
If, as the liberal mind delights to think,
Fancy's rich flow'rs their vital essence drink
From Liberty's pure streams, that largely roll
Their quick'ning virtue thro' the Poet's soul;

Why, in the period when this Friend of Earth
Made Greece the model of heroic worth,
And saw her votaries act, beneath her sway,
Scenes more sublime than Fiction can display,
Why did the Epic Muse's silent lyre
Shrink from those feats that summon'd all her fire?
Or if, as courtly Theorists maintain,
The Muses revel in a Monarch's reign;
Why, when young Ammon's soul, athirst for fame,
Call'd every Art to celebrate his name;
When ready Painting, at his sovereign nod,
With aweful thunder arm'd this mimic God;
Why did coy Poesy, tho' fondly woo'd,
Refuse that dearer smile for which he sued,
And see him shed, in martial Honour's bloom,
The tear of envy on Achilles' tomb?

In vain would Reason those nice questions solve,
Which the fine play of mental powers involve:

In Bards of ancient time, with genius fraught,
What mind can trace how thought engender'd thought,
How little hints awak'd the large design,
And subtle Fancy spun her variegated line?
Yet sober Critics, of no vulgar note,
But such as Learning's sons are proud to quote,
The progress of Homeric verse explain,
As if their souls had lodg'd in Homer's brain.
Laughs not the spirit of poetic frame,
However slightly warm'd by Fancy's flame,
When grave Bossu by System's studied laws
The Grecian Bard's ideal picture draws,
And wisely tells us, that his Song arose
As the good Parson's quiet Sermon grows;
Who, while his easy thoughts no pressure find
From hosts of images that crowd the mind,
First calmly settles on some moral text,
Then creeps—from one division—to the next?

Nor, if poetic minds more flowly drudge
Thro' the cold comments of this Gallic judge,
Will their indignant spirit less deride
That subtle Pedant's more presumptive pride,
Whose bloated page, with arrogance replete,
Imputes to Virgil his own dark conceit;
And from the tortur'd Poet dares to draw
That latent sense, which Horace never saw;
Which, if on solid próof more strongly built,
Must brand the injur'd Bard with impious guilt.

While such Dictators their vain efforts waste
In the dark visions of distemper'd Taste,
Let us that pleasing, happier light pursue,
Which beams benignant from the milder few,
Who, justly conscious of the doubts that start
In all nice questions on each finer Art,
With modest doubt assign each likely cause,
But dare to dictate no decisive laws.

'Tis said by one, who, with this candid claim,
Has gain'd no fading wreath of Critic fame,
Who, fondly list'ning to her various rhyme,
Has mark'd the Muse's step thro' many a clime;
That, where the settled Rules of Writing spread,
Where Learning's code of Critic Law is read,
Tho' other treasures deck th' enlighten'd shore,
The germs of Fancy ripen there no more.
Are Critics then, that bold, imperious tribe!
The Guards of Genius, who his path prescribe;
Are they like Visirs in an Eastern court,
Who sap the very power they should support?
Whose specious wiles the royal mind unnerve,
And sink the monarch they pretend to serve.
No! of their value higher far I deem;
And prize their useful toil with fond esteem.
When Lowth's firm spirit leads him to explore
The hallow'd confines of Hebraic lore;

When his free pages, luminous and bold,
The glorious end of Poesy unfold,
Assert her powers, her dignity defend,
And speak her, as she is, fair Freedom's friend;
When thus he shines his mitred Peers above,
I view his warmth with reverential love;
Proud, if my verse may catch reflected light
From the rich splendor of a mind so bright.

Blest be the names, to no vain system tied,
Who render Learning's blaze an useful guide,
A friendly beacon, rais'd on high to teach
The wand'ring bark to shun the shallow beach.
But O! ye noble, and aspiring few,
Whose ardent souls poetic fame pursue,
Ye, on whom smiling Heaven, perfection's source,
Seems to bestow unlimitable force,
The inborn vigour of your souls defend,
Nor lean too fondly on the firmest friend!
Genius may sink on Criticism's breast,
By weak dependance on her truth opprest,

Sleep on her lap, and stretch his lifeless length,
Shorn by her soothing hand of all his strength.

Thou wilt not, Mason! thou, whose generous heart
Must feel that Freedom is the soul of Art,
Thou wilt not hold me arrogant or vain,
If I advise the young poetic train
To deem infallible no Critic's word;
Not e'en the dictates of thy Attic Hurd:
No! not the Stagyrite's unquestion'd page,
The Sire of Critics, sanctified by age!
The noblest minds, with solid reason blest,
Who feel that faculty above the rest,
Who argue on those arts they never try,
Exalt that Reason they so oft apply,
Till in its pride, with tyrannous controul,
It crush the kindred talents of the soul;
And hence, in every Art, will systems rise,
Which Fancy must survey with angry eyes;
And at the lightning of her scornful smile,
In frequent ruin sinks the labour'd pile.

How oft, my Romney! have I known thy vein
Swell with indignant heat and gen'rous pain,
To hear, in terms both arrogant and tame,
Some reas'ning Pedant on thy Art declaim:
Its laws and limits when his sovereign taste
With firm precision has minutely trac'd,
And in the close of a decisive speech
Pronounc'd some point beyond the Pencil's reach,
How has thy Genius, by one rapid stroke,
Refuted all the sapient things he spoke!
Thy Canvass placing, in the clearest light,
His own Impossible before his sight!
O might the Bard who loves thy mental fire,
Who to thy fame attun'd his early lyre,
Learn from thy Genius, when dull Fops decide,
So to refute their systematic pride!
Let him, at least, succeeding Poets warn
To view the Pedant's lore with doubt, or scorn,
And e'en to question, with a spirit free,
Establish'd Critics of the first degree!

Among the names that Judgment loves to praise,
The pride of ancient, or of modern days;
What Laws of Poesy can Learning show
Above the Critic song of sage Despreaux?
His fancy elegant, his judgment nice,
His method easy, and his style concise;
The Bard of Reason, with her vigour fraught,
Her purest doctrine he divinely taught;
Nor taught in vain! His precept clear and chaste
Reform'd the errors of corrupted Taste;
And French Imagination, who was bit
By that Tarantula, distorted Wit,
Ceasing her antic gambols to rehearse,
Blest the pure magic of his healing verse:
With his loud fame applauding Europe rung,
And his just praise a rival Poet sung.
Yet, had this Friend of Verse-devoted Youth,
This tuneful Teacher of Poetic truth,
Had he but chanc'd his doctrine to diffuse
Ere Milton commun'd with his sacred Muse;

And could that English, self-dependant soul,
Born with such energy as mocks controul,
Could his high spirit, with submissive awe,
Have stoop'd to listen to a Gallic Law;
His hallow'd subject, by that Law forbid,
Might still have laid in silent darkness hid,
And, this bright Sun not rising in our sphere,
Homer had wanted still his true compeer.

From hence let Genius to himself be just,
Hence learn, ye Bards, a liberal distrust;
Whene'er 'tis said, by System's haughty Son,
That what He cannot do, can ne'er be done,
'Tis Fancy's right th' exalted throne to press,
Whose height proud System can but blindly guess,
Springs, whose existence she denies, unlock,
And call rich torrents from the flinty rock.
Let the true Poet, who would build a name
In noble rivalship of ancient fame,

When he would plan, to triumph over Time,
The splendid sabric of his losty rhyme,
Let him the pride of Constantine assume,
Th' imperial Founder of the second Rome,
Who scorn'd all limits to his work assign'd,
Save by th' inspiring God who rul'd his mind;
Or, like the fabled Jove, to ascertain
The doubtful confines of his wide domain,
Two Eagles let him send of equal wing,
Whose different flight may form a perfect ring,
And, at the point where Sense and Fancy meet,
There safely bold, and though sublime discreet,
His fame's foundation let him firmly lay,
Nor dread the danger of disputed sway!

Yet, if the Bard to glory must aspire
By free exertion of unborrow'd fire,
Nor, like the Classic Bigot, vainly deem
No modern Muse can challenge just esteem,
Unless her robe in every fold be prest
To fall precisely like the Grecian vest;
If the blind notion he must boldly shun,
That Beauty's countless forms are only one,
And not, when Fancy, from her magic hoard,
Would blindly bring him treasures unexplor'd,
Snap her light wand, and force her hand to bear
The heavier Compass, and the formal Square;
Let him no less their dangerous pride decline,
Who singly criticise their own design.
In that nice toil what various perils lurk!
Not Pride alone may mar the needful work;
But foes more common to the feeling nerve,
Where Taste and Genius dwell with coy Reserve,
The sickly Doubt, with modest weakness fraught,
The languid Tedium of o'erlabour'd thought,

The Pain to feel the growing work behind
The finish'd model in the forming mind;
These foes, that oft the Poet's bosom pierce,
These! that condemn'd to fire Virgilian Verse,
Prove that the Bard, a bold, yet trembling elf,
Should find a Critic firmer than himself.
But what fine Spirit will assume the Judge,
Patient thro' all this irksome toil to drudge?
'Tis here, O Friendship! here thy glories shine;
The hard, th' important task is only thine;
For thou alone canst all the powers unite,
That justly make it thy peculiar right:
Thine the fixt eye, which at no foible winks;
Thine the warm zeal, which utters all it thinks,
In those sweet tones, that hasty Spleen disarm,
That give to painful Truth a winning charm,
And the quick hand of list'ning Genius teach,
To grasp that excellence he burns to reach:
Thou sweet Subduer of all mental strife!
Thou Source of vigour! thou Support of life!

Nor Art nor Science could delight or live,
Without that energy thy counsels give:
Genius himself must sink in dumb despair,
Unblest, uncherish'd by thy cheering care.

Nor let the Bard, elate with youthful fire,
When Fancy to his hand presents the lyre,
When her strong plumes his soaring spirit lift,
When Friendship, Heaven's more high and holy gift,
With zeal angelic prompts his daring flight,
And round him darts her doubt-dispelling light;
Let him not then, by Vanity betray'd,
Look with unjust contempt on Learning's aid!
But, as th' advent'rous Seaman, to attain
That bright renown which great Discoverers gain,
Consults the conduct of each gallant name,
Who sail'd before him in that chase of Fame,
Reviews, with frequent glance, their useful chart,
Marks all their aims, and fathoms all their art,
So let the Poet trace their happy course,
So bravely emulate their mental force,

Whose daring souls, from many a different clime,
Have nobly ventur'd on the sea of Rhyme!
Led by no fear, his swelling sail to slack,
Let him, with eager eyes, pursue the track;
Not like a Pirate, with insidious views
To plunder every vessel he pursues,
But with just hope to find yet farther shores,
And pass each rival he almost adores!

END OF THE FIRST EPISTLE.

Jupiter, ut perhibent, spatium quum discere vellet
Naturæ, regni nescius ipse sui,
Armigeros utrimque duos æqualibus alis
Misit ab Eois Occiduisque plagis.
Parnassus geminos fertur junxisse volatus;
Contulit alternas Pythius axis aves.

Claudian.