Poems and Plays :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems and Plays

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

Hayley, William (1745-1820)

II.

III.

AN ESSAY ON EPIC POETRY;

EPISTLE THE FIRST.

II.

EPISTLE THE SECOND.

III.

EPISTLE THE THIRD.

IV.

IV.

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EPISTLE THE THIRD.

ARGUMENT OF THE THIRD EPISTLE.

Sketch of the Northern and the Provençal Poetry.— The most distinguished Epic Poets of Italy, Spain, Portugal, France, and England.

Blest be the hand that with a generous care,
To the bright Crown which Learning loves to wear,
Restores the Gem, whose lustre, faint and pale,
Died in the fold of dark Oblivion's veil.
Such praise, O Mason! to the Bard is due,
In whose fraternal guard thy Genius grew;
O'er whose untimely grave thy Lyre has paid
Its just devotion to a Brother's shade:

And thus hereafter shall the British Muse,
In Memory's fane the fairest tablet chuse,
To bid her sons your blended names admire,
The pride of Friendship's as of Fancy's choir.

Thy modest Gray, solicitous to pierce
The dark and distant source of modern Verse,
By strings untried first taught his English Lyre
To reach the Gothic Harp's terrific fire:
The North's wild spectres own his potent hand,
And Hell's nine portals at his voice expand;
With new existence by his Verse endued,
See Gothic Fable wakes her shadowy brood,
Which, in the Runic rhymes of many a Scald.
With pleasing dread our Northern sires appall'd.

Ye brave Progenitors, ye vigorous Source
Of modern Freedom and of Europe's force,
While your rude minds, athirst for martial strife,
Mock'd all the meaner arts of polish'd life,
The Muse still led you by her magic clue,
And from your savage strength new vigor drew.

In War's dire field your dauntless Bards appear'd,
Aloft their animating harps they rear'd,
Pour'd through the charging host their potent strain,
And swell'd the fiery flood in Valor's vein.

Souls thus inspir'd, in every scene elate,
Defied the utmost rage of adverse fate;
In tort'ring death the Royal Captive sang,
And smiles of triumph hid his mortal pang.
Thus to brave Odin's Songs, our Northern sire,
Rude, early framer of the modern Lyre,
Fierce Freedom gave an energy sublime,
Parent and Guardian of the Gothic Rhyme.

While nurtur'd in the North's protecting arms,
The modern Muse display'd her infant charms,
Like Jove's undaunted Child her spirit glow'd,
And force Herculean in her cradle shew'd;
Her native scene in roughness she surpast,
Her breath tempestuous as the Northern blast:

But, when to softer climes the vagrant flew,
And bask'd beneath a sky of azure hue;
When for her throne the flowery South she chose,
And form'd her crown of the Provençal Rose;
Warm'd by a brighter Sun's relaxing beams,
She tun'd her alter'd voice to tender themes:
Here her gay form a gaudier dress assumes,
And shines in Chivalry's imperial plumes;
Her votaries wear proud Honor's mystic glove,
And every lyre resounds Romantic Love;
Save when, to burst Oppression's mental chain,
Keen Satire mingles with this gallant train,
Strikes Priestly pride with Wit's vindictive flash,
And galls the ghostly Tyrant with her lash.
Afraid of Poesy's expansive flood,
These early Bards along the shallows scud
In some light skiff; for on the depths untried
No full-trimm'd vessel floats in Epic pride.

As infants, eager for regard, abound
In sportive efforts of uncertain sound,
Before their little artless lips can reach
The harder elements of perfect speech;
So the young language of each modern clime
Rose by prelusive lays to lofty rhyme.
Thro' many an age, while, in the Convent bred,
O'er the chill'd mind scholastic darkness spread,
Those keener Spirits, who from Nature caught
The warmth that kindles to Poetic thought,
Betray'd, Ambition! by thy blind desire,
Struck with ill-fated zeal the Latian lyre,
Tho' Discord's hand the jarring strings had crost,
And all the sweetness of their tone was lost.

At length, fair Italy, luxuriant land,
Where Art's rich flowers in earliest bloom expand,
Thy daring Dante his wild Vision sung,
And rais'd to Epic pomp his native Tongue.

Down Arno's stream his new-form'd music floats,
The proud vale echoing with his Tuscan notes.
See the bold Bard now sink and now ascend,
Wherever Thought can pierce or Life extend;
In his wide circuit from Hell's drear abyss,
Thro' purifying scenes to realms of perfect bliss,
He seems begirt with all that airy throng,
Who brighten or debase the Poet's song.
Sublimest Fancy now directs his march
To opening worlds, through that infernal arch
O'er whose rough summit aweful words are read,
That freeze each entering soul with hopeless dread.
Now at her bidding his strong numbers flow,
And rend the heart at Ugolino's woe;
While Nature's glory-giving tear bedews
A tale unrivall'd by the Grecian Muse.
Now to those notes that milder grief inspire,
Pathetic Tenderness attunes his lyre,
Which, soft as murmurs of the plaintive dove,
Tells the sad issue of illicit love.

But all the worse companions of his way
Soon into different sounds his ductile voice betray:
Satiric Fury now appears his guide,
Thro' thorny Paths of Enmity and Pride;
Now quaint Conceit his wand'ring steps misleads
Thro' all the hideous forms that Folly breeds;
Now Priestly Dullness the lost Bard enshrouds
In cold confusion and scholastic clouds.
Unequal Spirit! in thy various strain,
With all their influence Light and Darkness reign;
In thy strange Verse and wayward Theme alike
New forms of Beauty and Disorder strike;
Extremes of Harmony and Discord dwell,
The Seraph's music and the Demon's yell!
The patient Reader, to thy merit just,
With transport glows, and shudders with disgust.
Thy Failings sprung from thy disastrous time;
Thy stronger Beauties from a soul sublime,
Whose vigor burst, like the volcano's flame,
From central darkness to the sphere of fame.

Of gentler mind, and with a heart to feel
The fondest warmth of emulative zeal,
Thy festive Scholar, who ador'd thy Lays,
And grac'd thy Genius with no scanty praise,
The gay Boccacio, tempts th' Italian Muse
More varied notes and different themes to chuse;
Themes which her voice had dar'd not yet to sound,
Valor's heroic feats by Beauty crown'd.
Sweet was the glowing Song; but, strange to tell,
On his bold lyre Oblivion's shadows fell;
His richer Tales engross'd the World's regard,
And the bright Novelist eclips'd the Bard.

In following ages, when Italia's shore
Blaz'd with the rising light of Classic lore,
Stern System led, from her new-founded school,
A Poet fashion'd by her rigid rule:
Behold my Son! (his sapient Tut'ress cried)
Who throws the bonds of Gothic rhyme aside;

For whom these hands the Grecian Lyre new strung:
She spoke exulting, and Trissino sung.
In his cold Verse he kept her Critic laws,
While Pedants own'd their pow'r, and yawn'd applause.

Indignant Fancy, who with scorn survey'd
The sleepy honors to proud System paid,
Smiling to see that on her rival's brow
The Poppy lurk'd beneath the Laurel bough,
Resolv'd in sportive triumph to display
The rich extent of her superior sway:
From Necromancy's hand, in happiest hour,
She caught the rod of visionary power;
And as aloft the magic wand she rais'd,
A peerless Bard with new effulgence blaz'd,
Born every law of System to disown,
And rule by Fancy's boundless power alone.
High in mid air, between the Moon and Earth,
The Bard of Pathos now, and now of Mirth,

Pois'd with his lyre between a Griffin's wings,
Her sportive darling, Ariosto, sings.
As the light cloud, whose varying vapors fly,
Driven by the zephyr of the evening sky,
Fixes and charms the never-wearied view,
By taking every shape and every hue;
So, by Variety's supreme controul,
His changeful numbers seize the willing soul.
Enchanted by his Song, Attention sits,
With features catching every cast by fits,
Like the fond infant, in whose tender brain
Young Sensibility delights to reign;
While rapid Joy and Pain each other chase
Thro' the soft muscles of its April face.
In vain the slaves of System would discard
From Glory's classic train this airy Bard;
Delighted Nature her gay fav'rite crown'd,
And Envy's clamour in her plaudit drown'd.
Severe Morality, to censure mov'd,
His wanton Lyre with juster blame reprov'd;

But his sweet Song her anger so beguil'd,
That, ere she finish'd her reproof, she smil'd.

Of chaster fire, a rival name succeeds,
Whose bold and glowing hand Religion leads:
In solemn accent, and in sacred state,
With classic lore and Christian zeal elate,
Sweetly pathetic, and sublimely strong,
Tasso begins his more majestic song;
The Muse of Sion, not implor'd in vain,
Guides to th' impassion'd soul his heavenly strain.
Blush, Boileau, blush, and for that pride atone,
Which slander'd Genius far above thy own;
And thou, great injur'd Bard, thy station claim
Amid the Demi-gods of Epic name;
Heir to a mantle by the Muses spun,
Of a Poetic Sire the more poetic Son.

Nor, tho' just Fame her richer palm devote
To the high sounding lyre of serious note,

Shall gay Tassoni want his festive crown,
Who banish'd from the Muse her aweful frown,
And tuning to light themes her lofty style,
O'er her grave features spread a comic smile.

Such various Sons, of Epic fire possest,
Italia foster'd on her feeling breast.

Spain whose bold genius with misjudging pride
O'ersteps true glory by too large a stride,
Claims higher merit from one Poet's birth,
Who rivals all the different Bards of earth:
With more than Niobe's parental boast,
She calls her single Son himself an Host,
And rashly judges that her Vega's lyre
Is equal to the whole Aonian quire.
Impetuous Poet! whose full brain supplied
Such floods of Verse, and in so quick a tide,
Their rapid swell, by its unrivall'd height,
Pleas'd, yet produc'd more wonder than delight:

Tho' thy free rhyme from Fancy's fountain gush,
And with the grandeur of the torrent rush,
Its troubled streams in dark disorder roam,
With all the torrent's noise and all its foam.
To Emulation fir'd by Tasso's strain,
Thy spirit quitted the dramatic plain
To seek those Epic heights, sublimely calm,
Whence he had pluck'd his Idumean palm;
But, vainly struggling in a task too hard,
Sunk at the feet of that superior Bard.
Brave Spaniard! still thy wounded pride console;
Time shall not strike thy name from Glory's roll,
On which thy generous and fraternal hand
Emblaz'd each brother of thy tuneful band;
Thy Muse shall share the praise she joy'd to give,
And while thy language lasts thy fame shall live.
Perchance, tho' strange the paradox may seem,
That fame had risen with a brighter beam,
Had radiant Fancy less enrich'd thy mind:
Her lavish wealth, for wiser use design'd,

Ruin'd the Poet by its splendid lure,
As India's mines have made his country poor.

With warmth more temperate, and in notes more clear,
That with Homeric richness fill the ear,
The brave Ercilla sounds, with potent breath,
His Epic trumpet in the fields of death.
In scenes of Savage war when Spain unfurl'd
Her bloody banners o'er the western world,
With all his Country's virtues in his frame,
Without the base alloy that stain'd her name.
In Danger's camp this military Bard,
Whom Cynthia saw on his nocturnal guard,
Recorded, in his bold descriptive lay,
The-various fortune of the finish'd day;
Seizing the pen while Night's calm hours afford
A transient slumber to his satiate sword,
With noble justice his warm hand bestows
The meed of Honour on his valiant foes.

Howe'er precluded, by his generous aim,
From high pretensions to inventive fame,
His strongly-colour'd scenes of sanguine strife,
His softer pictures caught from Indian life,
Above the visionary forms of art,
Fire the awaken'd mind and melt the heart.

Tho' fiercest tribes her galling fetters drag,
Proud Spain must strike to Lusitania's flag,
Whose ampler folds, in conscious triumph spread,
Wave o'er her Naval Poet's laureate head.
Ye Nymphs of Tagus, from your golden cell,
That caught the echo of his tuneful shell,
Rise, and to deck your darling's shrine provide
The richest treasures that the deep may hide:
From every land let grateful Commerce shower
Her tribute to the Bard who sung her power;
As those rich gales, from whence his Gama caught
A pleasing earnest of the prize he sought,
The balmy fragrance of the East dispense,
So steals his Song on the delighted sense,

Astonishing, with sweets unknown before,
Those who ne'er tasted but of classic lore.
Immortal Bard! thy name with Gama vies,
Thou, like thy Hero, with propitious skies
The sail of bold adventure hast unfurl'd,
And in the Epic ocean found a world.
'Twas thine to blend the Eagle and the Dove,
At once the Bard of Glory and of Love:
Thy thankless Country heard thy varying lyre
To Petrarch's Softness melt, and swell to Homer's Fire!
Boast and lament, ungrateful land, a Name,
In life, in death, thy honour and thy shame.

Thou nobler realm, whom vanity betrays
To load thy letter'd sons with lavish praise;
Where Eulogy, with one eternal smile,
Heaps her faint roses in a withering pile:

A City milk-maid, on the first of May,
Who, pertly civil, and absurdly gay,
Forms her dull garland in fantastic state,
With ill-adjusted flow'rs and borrow'd plate.
Canst thou, self-flattering France, with justice vaunt
One Epic laurel as thy native plant?
How oft a Gallic hand, with childish fire,
Has rattled Discord on th' heroic lyre,
While their dull aid associate Critics bring,
And vainly teach the use of every string!
In Morals, as, with many an empty boast,
They practise virtue least who preach it most;
So, haughty Gallia, in thy Epic school,
No great Examples rise, but many a Rule.

Yet, tho' unjust to Tasso's nobler lays,
Keen Boileau shall not want his proper praise;
He, archly waving his satiric rod
Thro' the new path which first Tassoni trod,

Pursued his sportive march in happy hour,
And pluck'd from Satire's thorn a festive flower.
His sacerdotal War shall wake delight,
And smiles in Gravity herself excite,
While Canons live to quarrel or to feast,
And gall can tinge the spirit of a Priest.

Nor, gentle Gresset, shall thy sprightly rhyme
Cease to enchant the list'ning ear of Time;
In thee the Graces all their powers instill,
To touch the Epic chords with playful skill.
The hapless Parrot whom thy lays endear,
In piety and woe the Trojan's peer;
His heart as tender, and his love more pure,
Shall, like Æneas, live of fame secure;
While female hands, with many a tender word,
Stroke the soft feathers of their fav'rite bird.

Yet not in childish sport, or trifling joy,
Do Gallic Fair-ones all their hours employ:

See lovely Boccage, in ambition strong,
Build, with aspiring aim, her Epic Song!
By Glory fir'd, her rosy lips rehearse
Thy feats, Columbus, in unborrow'd Verse.
If this new Muse in War's dire field displays
No Grecian splendor, no Homeric blaze,
Attractive still, tho' not in pomp array'd,
She charms like Zama, in her Verse portray'd;
Whose form from dress no gorgeous pride assumes,
Clad in a simple zone of azure plumes.
England's dear guest! this Muse of Gallia caught
From our inspiring Isle her ardent thought;
Here first she strove to reach, with vent'rous hope,
Milton's chaste grandeur, and the grace of Pope;
And sweetly taught, in her mimetic strain,
The Songs of Britain to the Banks of Seine.

But see! with wounded Pride's indignant glance,
The angry Genius of presuming France

From ancient shrines their Epic wreaths would tear,
To swell the glory of her great Voltaire.

O, form'd in Learning's various paths to shine,
Encircled from thy birth by all the Nine,
On thee, blest Bard, these rivals seem'd to shower
Their various attributes and blended power!
But, when their lofty leader bade thee frame
The rich Heroic song on Henry's fame,
Sarcastic Humour, trifling with her lyre,
Took from th' inspiring Muse her solemn fire.
No more her spirit like the Eagle springs,
Or rides the buoyant air with balanc'd wings:
Tho' rapid still, to narrow circuits bound,
She, like the darting Swallow, skims the ground.
Thy Verse displays, beneath an Epic name,
Wit's flinty Spark, for Fancy's solar Flame.
While yet thy hand the Epic chords embrac'd,
With playful spirit, and with frolic haste,

Such lively sounds thy rapid fingers drew,
And thro' the festive notes so lightly flew,
Nature and Fancy join'd their charms to swell,
And laughing Humour crown'd thy new Pucelle;
But the chaste Muses, startled at the sound,
Amid thy sprightly numbers blush'd and frown'd;
With decent anger, and becoming pride,
Severer Virtue threw the Song aside;
While Justice own'd it, with a kinder glance,
The wittiest Levity of wanton France.

Now, graver Britain, amiably severe,
To thee, with native zeal, to thee I steer;
My vent'rous bark, its foreign circuit o'er,
Exulting springs to thy parental shore.

Thou gorgeous Queen, who, on thy silvery coast,
Sittest encircled by a filial host,
And seest thy sons, the jewels of thy crown,
Blaze with each varying ray of rich renown;
If with just love I hold their Genius dear,
Lament their hardships, and their fame revere,

O bid thy Epic Muse, with honour due,
Range her departed Champions in my view!

See, on a party-colour'd steed of fire,
With Humour at his side, his trusty Squire,
Gay Chaucer leads—in form a Knight of old,
And his strong armour is of steel and gold;
But o'er it age a cruel rust has spread,
And made the brilliant metals dark as lead.

Now gentle Spenser, Fancy's fav'rite Bard,
Awakes my wonder and my fond regard;
Encircling Fairies bear, in sportive dance,
His adamantine shield and magic lance;
While Allegory, drest with mystic art,
Appears his Guide; but, promising to dart
A lambent glory round her list'ning Son,
She hides him in the web herself has spun.

Ingenuous Cowley, the fond dupe of Wit,
Seems like a vapour o'er the field to flit;
In David's praise he strikes some Epic notes,
But soon down Lethe's stream their dying murmur floats.

While Cowley vanish'd in an amorous riddle,
Up rose the frolic Bard of Bear and Fiddle:
His smile exhilarates the sullen earth,
Adorning Satire in the mask of Mirth:
Taught by his Song, Fanatics cease their jars,
And wise Astrologers renounce the Stars.
Unrivall'd Butler! blest with happy skill
To heal by comic verse each serious ill,
By Wit's strong flashes Reason's light dispense,
And laugh a frantic nation into sense!

Apart, and on a sacred hill retir'd,
Beyond all mortal inspiration fir'd,
The mighty Milton sits—an host around
Of list'ning Angels guard the holy ground;
Amaz'd they see a human form aspire
To grasp with daring hand a Seraph's lyre,
Inly irradiate with celestial beams,
Attempt those high, those soul-subduing themes,
(Which humbler Denizens of Heaven decline)
And celebrate, with sanctity divine,

The starry field from warring Angels won,
And God triumphant in his Victor Son.
Nor less the wonder, and the sweet delight,
His milder scenes and softer notes excite,
When at his bidding Eden's blooming grove
Breathes the rich sweets of Innocence and Love.
With such pure joy as our Forefather knew
When Raphael, heavenly guest, first met his view,
And our glad Sire, within his blissful bower,
Drank the pure converse of th' æthereal Power,
Round the blest Bard his raptur'd audience throng,
And feel their souls imparadis'd in song.

Of humbler mien, but not of mortal race,
Ill-fated Dryden, with Imperial grace,
Gives to th' obedient lyre his rapid laws;
Tones yet unheard, with touch divine, he draws,
The melting fall, the rising swell sublime,
And all the magic of melodious rhyme.
See with proud joy Imagination spread
A wreath of honor round his aged head!

But two base Spectres, tho' of different hue,
The Bard unhappy in his march pursue;
Two vile disgraceful Fiends, of race accurst,
Conceiv'd by Spleen, by meagre Famine nurst,
Malignant Satire, mercenary Praise,
Shed their dark spots on his immortal bays.

Poor Davenant march'd before, with nobler aim,
His keen eye fix'd upon the palm of Fame,
But cruel Fortune doom'd him to rehearse
A Theme ill-chosen, in ill-chosen Verse.

Next came Sir Richard, but in woeful plight,
Dryden's Led-horse first threw the luckless Knight.
He rose advent'rous still—O who may count
How oft he tried a different Steed to mount!
Each angry steed his awkward rider flung;
Undaunted still he fell, and falling sung.

But Æsculapius, who, with grief distrest,
Beheld his offspring made a public jest,
Soon bade a livelier Son with mirth efface
The shame he suffer'd from Sir Richard's case.

Swift at the word his sprightly Garth began
To make an helmet of a Close-stool Pan;
An Urinal he for his trumpet takes,
And at each blast he blows see Laughter shakes!

Yet peace—new music floats on Æther's wings;
Say, is it Harmony herself who sings?
No! while enraptur'd Sylphs the Song inspire,
'Tis Pope who sweetly wakes the silver lyre
To melting notes, more musically clear
Than Ariel whisper'd in Belinda's ear.
Too soon he quits them for a sharper tone;
See him, tho' form'd to fill the Epic throne,
Decline the sceptre of that wide domain,
To bear a Lictor's rod in Satire's train;
And, shrouded in a mist of moral spleen,
Behold him close the visionary scene!

END OF THE THIRD EPISTLE.