 | The Harp of Erin |  |
AN ESSAY ON WIT.
Indoctè, doctique scribimus passim.
Hor.
Of all the fools with frantic learning
curst,
Sure the quaint pedant is supremely worst:
Who, ev'ry dawn of fancy's ray denied,
Fills the huge volume of scholastic pride
With deep surmises, classically fit,
Yet far remov'd from elegance or wit;
Who sums up every trace of Latian lore,
And says what graver blockheads said before;
Wrests from vindictive Time the mould'ring bust,
And wipes from monkish tomes their ancient dust,
To pore on pages which some madman wrote,
Guiltless of wit, and innocent of thought.
Sure the quaint pedant is supremely worst:
Who, ev'ry dawn of fancy's ray denied,
Fills the huge volume of scholastic pride
With deep surmises, classically fit,
Yet far remov'd from elegance or wit;
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And says what graver blockheads said before;
Wrests from vindictive Time the mould'ring bust,
And wipes from monkish tomes their ancient dust,
To pore on pages which some madman wrote,
Guiltless of wit, and innocent of thought.
Go thou, desirous of the scholiast mine,
Who wishest sense from logic to refine;
Go, and improve on Maro's rural lay,
Or mark his muse the epic pomp display:
Peruse sweet Victa's imitative art,
And feel the flame of rapture in thy heart;
For he with candid niceness probes the wound,
Nor taints the bay around his temple bound;
He, the glad bard of Leo's golden reign,
Rejects the cowl, and plans the tuneful strain,
To papal ear attunes the Mantuan reed;
Or bids with nobler pangs the bosom bleed.—
Each brilliant beauty of each line explore,
And then consult old Scaliger no more.
Who wishest sense from logic to refine;
Go, and improve on Maro's rural lay,
Or mark his muse the epic pomp display:
Peruse sweet Victa's imitative art,
And feel the flame of rapture in thy heart;
For he with candid niceness probes the wound,
Nor taints the bay around his temple bound;
He, the glad bard of Leo's golden reign,
Rejects the cowl, and plans the tuneful strain,
To papal ear attunes the Mantuan reed;
Or bids with nobler pangs the bosom bleed.—
Each brilliant beauty of each line explore,
And then consult old Scaliger no more.
Some may perchance with too much caution heed
My liberal precepts, and quite cease to read.
But no such stupid rule my soul approves:
Let each peruse the author that he loves;
With smiling Flaccus all his leisure spend,
Or to proud Tully's copious speech attend,
Till Admiration, satiate with delight,
Forgets this world, and thinks all trouble light.
My liberal precepts, and quite cease to read.
But no such stupid rule my soul approves:
Let each peruse the author that he loves;
With smiling Flaccus all his leisure spend,
Or to proud Tully's copious speech attend,
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Forgets this world, and thinks all trouble light.
But let not Dulness' leaden sons intrude,
To mar the calm symposion of the good;
To blot the fine sensations of the mind
For strains of classic purity inclin'd;
O'er the free breast their Gothic clouds to shed,
And chase the projects of the heart and head.
Keep me, oh! keep me from the pedant beau,
That mortal frightfullest of frights below,
Who oft disturbs the minstrel's holy rest,
And breaks his scull to break a foolish jest;
Damns every work of merit or of wit,
To reign perpetual censor of the pit.
Ah! wretch abhorr'd by ev'ry gen'rous soul,
Mixture uncouth of monkey and of owl,
How can your plaudit ever meet success,
Who when you please us most, but please us less?
In vain the dark saliva on thy tongue
Wrong turns to right, and right transforms to wrong;
Though stunn'd by Malice and her hideous peal,
Still we assert our thoughts, and still we feel.
Hail glorious freedom of the purer soul,
Above the muffled murderer's base control,
Who stabs the guiltless bosom with a smile,
And bathes the wound with vinegar, not oil;
Who nips young Merit in her primal bloom,
And scatters to the wind the sweet perfume
Which Attic bees with honey'd lip exhal'd,
Till the green bud felt his cold hand, and fail'd!
To mar the calm symposion of the good;
To blot the fine sensations of the mind
For strains of classic purity inclin'd;
O'er the free breast their Gothic clouds to shed,
And chase the projects of the heart and head.
Keep me, oh! keep me from the pedant beau,
That mortal frightfullest of frights below,
Who oft disturbs the minstrel's holy rest,
And breaks his scull to break a foolish jest;
Damns every work of merit or of wit,
To reign perpetual censor of the pit.
Ah! wretch abhorr'd by ev'ry gen'rous soul,
Mixture uncouth of monkey and of owl,
How can your plaudit ever meet success,
Who when you please us most, but please us less?
In vain the dark saliva on thy tongue
Wrong turns to right, and right transforms to wrong;
Though stunn'd by Malice and her hideous peal,
Still we assert our thoughts, and still we feel.
Hail glorious freedom of the purer soul,
Above the muffled murderer's base control,
Who stabs the guiltless bosom with a smile,
And bathes the wound with vinegar, not oil;
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And scatters to the wind the sweet perfume
Which Attic bees with honey'd lip exhal'd,
Till the green bud felt his cold hand, and fail'd!
Lo! squint-ey'd Malice triumphs still elate
O'er luckless Chatterton's disastrous fate;
Still shews, insensible, that matchless youth,
Nor dares to vindicate his fame by truth.
O'er luckless Chatterton's disastrous fate;
Still shews, insensible, that matchless youth,
Nor dares to vindicate his fame by truth.
Wit, like true beauty, needs no foreign aid:
Each nat'ral lustre has a nat'ral shade.
But some, unconscious of her native grace,
Deck her, like belles, with tinsel and with lace
That glare a while in Folly's garish ray,—
But, seen through Judgment's optic, fade away.
Beware false ornaments, for all expect
Such care exorbitant must hide defect.
The gaudy style, the prim conjunction shun:
They make true wit a quibble or a pun;
They sink the sense beneath the jingling sound
That labours like a mole to burst the ground,
But all in vain; while leaden Dulness throws
New cumbrances on verse, new chains on prose,
Till like a cart creaks the rough rumbling song,
And Prose scarce trails her period-length along.
Each nat'ral lustre has a nat'ral shade.
But some, unconscious of her native grace,
Deck her, like belles, with tinsel and with lace
That glare a while in Folly's garish ray,—
But, seen through Judgment's optic, fade away.
Beware false ornaments, for all expect
Such care exorbitant must hide defect.
The gaudy style, the prim conjunction shun:
They make true wit a quibble or a pun;
They sink the sense beneath the jingling sound
That labours like a mole to burst the ground,
But all in vain; while leaden Dulness throws
New cumbrances on verse, new chains on prose,
Till like a cart creaks the rough rumbling song,
And Prose scarce trails her period-length along.
Long in the mine the beamy diamond lies,
Hid by the conscious earth from mortal eyes;
But when the sun, with all-reviving light,
Flings his hot ray, and summons it to sight,
Then twinkling gleams around it glitt'ring play,
Till the full lustre burst upon the day.
So should true wit emerge by slow degrees,
And suit each taste with unaffected ease;
Sport round the heart, in frolic mazes rove,
And 'stead of baleful Hate, awaken Love.
Hid by the conscious earth from mortal eyes;
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Flings his hot ray, and summons it to sight,
Then twinkling gleams around it glitt'ring play,
Till the full lustre burst upon the day.
So should true wit emerge by slow degrees,
And suit each taste with unaffected ease;
Sport round the heart, in frolic mazes rove,
And 'stead of baleful Hate, awaken Love.
But without fancy, how can wit appear,
Or modulate its tone to ev'ry ear?
Fancy, fair Empress of the Elfin shore,
Who, deeply versed in legendary lore,
“Could glance from earth to heav'n, from heav'n to earth,”
And give to contraries a mutual birth;
Whence, mingling in one blaze the magic light,
Springs real wit, the soul's refin'd delight.
Think you, did Fancy carelessly desert,
In peevish mood, the courtly Roman's heart,
When to his touch awoke the silver chord,
And great Augustus hung on ev'ry word?
Did Fancy, smiling sorceress, discard,
For witless dunces, fair Belinda's bard,
When mimic battles swell his sportive page,
And sylphs with sylphs contend in epic rage?
Did she not bless mild Parnell's ev'ning hour,
And on each line her brightest influence show'r?
What has she, in her high profusion done
For frolic Swift, sweet Gay, and manly Addison?
Or modulate its tone to ev'ry ear?
Fancy, fair Empress of the Elfin shore,
Who, deeply versed in legendary lore,
“Could glance from earth to heav'n, from heav'n to earth,”
And give to contraries a mutual birth;
Whence, mingling in one blaze the magic light,
Springs real wit, the soul's refin'd delight.
Think you, did Fancy carelessly desert,
In peevish mood, the courtly Roman's heart,
When to his touch awoke the silver chord,
And great Augustus hung on ev'ry word?
Did Fancy, smiling sorceress, discard,
For witless dunces, fair Belinda's bard,
When mimic battles swell his sportive page,
And sylphs with sylphs contend in epic rage?
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And on each line her brightest influence show'r?
What has she, in her high profusion done
For frolic Swift, sweet Gay, and manly Addison?
And Judgment too, a sage severe, must come,
With envious shears to prune the hasty bloom;
Exub'rant Nature's embryo buds to form,
And bid them rise superior to the storm.
For as the sire his infant race must chide,
To check wild Folly's growth, or Genius' pride,
Yet nurse each darling in his aged breast,
And leave to powerful Nature all the rest:
So must keen Judgment, with a candid hand,
Expel each weed from Wit's luxuriant land;
Or, when in seemly rows the flow'rs arise,
View the soft offspring with a parent's eyes.
Matured by his sage skill, the roots remain,
And mock the summer sun, and wint'ry rain;
While weaker natives, though of gaudier form,
Droop ev'ry leaf, and close each fading charm.
And lo, what troops o'erspread th' ideal plain!
Riddles, acrostics, crotchets of the brain;
Rude sons of folly on false taste begot,
Abhorr'd by genius, and devoid of thought.
What motley patches on each garb are seen!
How leaps each quibble, like a harlequin!
Charades, the last in modish grandeur march,
With garments varying as the wat'ry arch,
When o'er the heav'n it spreads a glitt'ring dye,
Yet fading disappoints the curious eye.
Chief of the band a pigmy warrior comes;
Sound forth, yon jackalls, to the deaf'ning drums:
At every step a hundred feet he gets,
At every look his tongue incessant frets,
Till o'er the plain his giant-bulk descends,
And each hoarse word the vocal welkin rends.
“What can this monster be?” some belle exclaims,
While her own bosom feels his mining flames.
Know, beauteous maid (if such peruse my song),
This wicked contrariety is Ton:
Ton, the fierce pest from Gallia's hated shore,
Ton, the great king of ev'ry knave and whore,
Who sanctifies the gamester's curs'd pretence,
And raises fashion on the throne of sense.
With envious shears to prune the hasty bloom;
Exub'rant Nature's embryo buds to form,
And bid them rise superior to the storm.
For as the sire his infant race must chide,
To check wild Folly's growth, or Genius' pride,
Yet nurse each darling in his aged breast,
And leave to powerful Nature all the rest:
So must keen Judgment, with a candid hand,
Expel each weed from Wit's luxuriant land;
Or, when in seemly rows the flow'rs arise,
View the soft offspring with a parent's eyes.
Matured by his sage skill, the roots remain,
And mock the summer sun, and wint'ry rain;
While weaker natives, though of gaudier form,
Droop ev'ry leaf, and close each fading charm.
And lo, what troops o'erspread th' ideal plain!
Riddles, acrostics, crotchets of the brain;
Rude sons of folly on false taste begot,
Abhorr'd by genius, and devoid of thought.
What motley patches on each garb are seen!
How leaps each quibble, like a harlequin!
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With garments varying as the wat'ry arch,
When o'er the heav'n it spreads a glitt'ring dye,
Yet fading disappoints the curious eye.
Chief of the band a pigmy warrior comes;
Sound forth, yon jackalls, to the deaf'ning drums:
At every step a hundred feet he gets,
At every look his tongue incessant frets,
Till o'er the plain his giant-bulk descends,
And each hoarse word the vocal welkin rends.
“What can this monster be?” some belle exclaims,
While her own bosom feels his mining flames.
Know, beauteous maid (if such peruse my song),
This wicked contrariety is Ton:
Ton, the fierce pest from Gallia's hated shore,
Ton, the great king of ev'ry knave and whore,
Who sanctifies the gamester's curs'd pretence,
And raises fashion on the throne of sense.
But change the theme from folly's tinsel train
To the great masters of th' instructive strain;
Who, still unconscious of each meaner claim,
Exalt their country to applause and fame.
Nor I the last in glory's godlike course,
To lash a vicious age with nervous force;
Or, rising to a pitch supremely high'r,
Cast a bold hand around the living lyre;
To rescue poesy from every fool,
And break the privilege of being dull.
How many a blockhead, with undoubted might,
Has borne the laurels of the wordy fight,
Who free from taste, true elegance, or wit,
Has rack'd his well-squeezed numskull while he writ;
Or, low'ring high in Grub-street's airy site,
Spent for a wretched pun the livelong night?
How many a genius, taught to nobler views,
Endow'd with every blessing of the muse,
Through fortune's frown, or by some patron's curse,
Has lost ignobly both the palm and purse?
Witness a Smart, to hast'ning ills a prey,
The greedy dun unmindful of his say:
On Cam's smooth brink the Nine their fav'rite led,
Yet, ah! how destitute of praise, and bread!
Some mind congenial may espouse his cause,
Some mind above the critic's meaner laws.
But what avails the plaudit of the few,
If they their empty praise alone renew?
The dark-brow'd bookseller's auspicious smile,
Excels their talk, and soothes the author's toil;
For spite of all our high-brain'd tricks, the muse
Must sip more solid food than slight Castalian dews.
Witness a Brooke, whose pen could once assert
The patriot's right, and warm each lib'ral heart;
How sunk his fame, with every honour dead!
How all his glory's living-lustre fled!
Taught to despise the envious crowd that swill
Coarse rapture from the Heliconian rill,
He knew the minstrel's duty to attend,
Nor in the close observer lose the friend:
Yet ah! how low the echo of his name!
How dumb the trump of canonizing fame!
To the great masters of th' instructive strain;
Who, still unconscious of each meaner claim,
Exalt their country to applause and fame.
Nor I the last in glory's godlike course,
To lash a vicious age with nervous force;
Or, rising to a pitch supremely high'r,
Cast a bold hand around the living lyre;
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And break the privilege of being dull.
How many a blockhead, with undoubted might,
Has borne the laurels of the wordy fight,
Who free from taste, true elegance, or wit,
Has rack'd his well-squeezed numskull while he writ;
Or, low'ring high in Grub-street's airy site,
Spent for a wretched pun the livelong night?
How many a genius, taught to nobler views,
Endow'd with every blessing of the muse,
Through fortune's frown, or by some patron's curse,
Has lost ignobly both the palm and purse?
Witness a Smart, to hast'ning ills a prey,
The greedy dun unmindful of his say:
On Cam's smooth brink the Nine their fav'rite led,
Yet, ah! how destitute of praise, and bread!
Some mind congenial may espouse his cause,
Some mind above the critic's meaner laws.
But what avails the plaudit of the few,
If they their empty praise alone renew?
The dark-brow'd bookseller's auspicious smile,
Excels their talk, and soothes the author's toil;
For spite of all our high-brain'd tricks, the muse
Must sip more solid food than slight Castalian dews.
184
The patriot's right, and warm each lib'ral heart;
How sunk his fame, with every honour dead!
How all his glory's living-lustre fled!
Taught to despise the envious crowd that swill
Coarse rapture from the Heliconian rill,
He knew the minstrel's duty to attend,
Nor in the close observer lose the friend:
Yet ah! how low the echo of his name!
How dumb the trump of canonizing fame!
Thus far, my Berwick,
have
I strain'd the theme,
While friendship's energy exalts the flame.
O thou, my patron, my resplendent pride,
Guide my weak bark across the boist'rous tide;
Allay the blasts of malice, while the gale
Of fav'ring rapture swells my little sail;
And, oh! if e'er tow'rds danger's rock I stray,
Chide my fond soul, and point the surer way;
While, proudly rising o'er the foaming flood,
I steer exulting with the great and good.
Nor thou despise the shepherd's first essay,
Who decks with rigid rules his rural lay;
For though the reed was e'er unwont to sound
The court's gay talents and its gaudy round,
Yet by degrees a nobler note may swell:
First we must meditate, and then excel.
While friendship's energy exalts the flame.
O thou, my patron, my resplendent pride,
Guide my weak bark across the boist'rous tide;
Allay the blasts of malice, while the gale
Of fav'ring rapture swells my little sail;
And, oh! if e'er tow'rds danger's rock I stray,
Chide my fond soul, and point the surer way;
While, proudly rising o'er the foaming flood,
I steer exulting with the great and good.
185
Who decks with rigid rules his rural lay;
For though the reed was e'er unwont to sound
The court's gay talents and its gaudy round,
Yet by degrees a nobler note may swell:
First we must meditate, and then excel.
Those who with nice disgust, and envy sharp,
Start at the uncouth tinkling of my harp;
Let them (for such there are) attaint my bays,
And scoff at youthful glory's dawning rays;
Let them the hour of noon-tide radiance wait,
And kneel before the sun that they must hate.
The bard how blameful who neglects himself,
While fed for silence or by pride or pelf;
Who casts the rod of satire quite aside,
And gives to greatness what a god supply'd!
Enough for me (for I defy the great—
I mean the abject vassals of the state),
That princely Rawdon will my lay peruse;
Rawdon, who guards the poet and his muse.
Enough for me that Moira deigns to clear,
The clouds of malice magnified by fear;
Which round my head their foul contagion flung,
While party's fiends yell'd louder as I sung.
Enough for me, that you review my toil
With partial warmth, and friendship's glowing smile.
Start at the uncouth tinkling of my harp;
Let them (for such there are) attaint my bays,
And scoff at youthful glory's dawning rays;
Let them the hour of noon-tide radiance wait,
And kneel before the sun that they must hate.
The bard how blameful who neglects himself,
While fed for silence or by pride or pelf;
Who casts the rod of satire quite aside,
And gives to greatness what a god supply'd!
Enough for me (for I defy the great—
I mean the abject vassals of the state),
That princely Rawdon will my lay peruse;
Rawdon, who guards the poet and his muse.
186
The clouds of malice magnified by fear;
Which round my head their foul contagion flung,
While party's fiends yell'd louder as I sung.
Enough for me, that you review my toil
With partial warmth, and friendship's glowing smile.
Here let me pay to worth a tribute due:
To Boyd who bade my artless soul pursue
True learning's track, with viny wreaths o'erhung;
Who form'd the first faint accents of my tongue;
Who mark'd with classic neatness each weak line,
And bade bold nature's dregs to wit refine.
He the best teacher of the song sublime,
For he himself can “build the lofty rhime.”
Nor has his page escap'd the ken of Fame,
His page anneal'd with Alghieri's name.
From Tuscan shores his muse exulting flies,
And draws a train of light aslant the skies;
With fierce Orlando's martial fame returns,
While ev'ry breast with expectation burns.
Again Astolfo's horn shall swell the line;
Again Rinaldo's prowess grow divine;
Again whole turms display the glitt'ring shield,
And murder stalk o'er Ronscesvallis' field.
Proceed; thou best, last bard, proceed,
And at Fame's temple claim thy glorious meed;
Claim the best meed to real merit due,
And the great tale of Eugene's acts pursue;
The wondrous story weave in fancy's loom,
And let the wizard dyes eternal bloom;
Give to the hero all the hero asks,
And crown with lasting rapture all thy tasks;
So shall I once thy full-grown honours see,
Nor blush to boast that I have sung for thee.
To Boyd who bade my artless soul pursue
True learning's track, with viny wreaths o'erhung;
Who form'd the first faint accents of my tongue;
Who mark'd with classic neatness each weak line,
And bade bold nature's dregs to wit refine.
He the best teacher of the song sublime,
For he himself can “build the lofty rhime.”
Nor has his page escap'd the ken of Fame,
His page anneal'd with Alghieri's name.
From Tuscan shores his muse exulting flies,
And draws a train of light aslant the skies;
187
While ev'ry breast with expectation burns.
Again Astolfo's horn shall swell the line;
Again Rinaldo's prowess grow divine;
Again whole turms display the glitt'ring shield,
And murder stalk o'er Ronscesvallis' field.
Proceed; thou best, last bard, proceed,
And at Fame's temple claim thy glorious meed;
Claim the best meed to real merit due,
And the great tale of Eugene's acts pursue;
The wondrous story weave in fancy's loom,
And let the wizard dyes eternal bloom;
Give to the hero all the hero asks,
And crown with lasting rapture all thy tasks;
So shall I once thy full-grown honours see,
Nor blush to boast that I have sung for thee.
------“Those who cannot
write, and those who can,
All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.”
All rhyme, and scrawl, and scribble, to a man.”
Pope.
At that time it was Dermody's intention to have given a complete collection of Smart's poems; their merit is very well known.
The Reverend Mr. Berwick, then chaplain to the Countess of Moira. To this gentleman Dermody has paid no fulsome compliment, for his kindness to him in a singular case requires a much stronger assertion of gratitude. When friendship turned with the tide of fashion and party, he alone remained immoveable to its arbitrary command, and supported the title of a real friend.
Those great personages, eminent in their respective stations, are too much admired to admit of any peculiar commendation here. They were unwearied patrons of the unfortunate Dermody, while he lived. Their encouragement to genius is admired, but seldom imitated.
The reverend Hugh Boyd. The amiable character of this worthy gentleman, deserves as much praise as can be offered to merit and benevolence. Dermody esteemed it one of the happiest circumstances of his life, that he had received (though indeed but for a short time) his instructions, in matters of classical, poetical, and theological tendency. He is the author and translator of many classical and esteemed works; and till Dante shall cease to charm, the name of Boyd will be revered by the lovers of poesy.
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