Poems and Plays By William Hayley ... in Six Volumes. A New Edition |
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| V. | EPISTLE
THE FIFTH. |
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 | Poems and Plays |  |
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EPISTLE THE FIFTH.
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ARGUMENT OF THE FIFTH EPISTLE.
Examination of the received opinion, that supernatural Agency is essential to the Epic Poem.—The folly and injustice of all arbitrary systems in Poetry. —The Epic province not yet exhausted.—Subjects from English History the most interesting.—A national Epic Poem the great desideratum in English literature.—The Author's wish of seeing it supplied by the genius of Mr. Mason.
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Ill-fated Poesy! as human worth,
Prais'd, yet unaided, often sinks to earth;
So sink thy powers; not doom'd alone to know
Scorn, or neglect, from an unfeeling foe,
But destin'd more oppressive wrong to feel
From the misguided Friend's perplexing zeal.
Such Friends are those, who in their proud display
Of thy young beauty, and thy early sway,
Pretend thou'rt robb'd of all thy warmth sublime,
By the benumbing touch of modern Time.
Prais'd, yet unaided, often sinks to earth;
So sink thy powers; not doom'd alone to know
Scorn, or neglect, from an unfeeling foe,
But destin'd more oppressive wrong to feel
From the misguided Friend's perplexing zeal.
Such Friends are those, who in their proud display
Of thy young beauty, and thy early sway,
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By the benumbing touch of modern Time.
What! is the Epic Muse, that lofty Fair,
Who makes the discipline of Earth her care!
That mighty Minister, whom Virtue leads
To train the noblest minds to noblest deeds!
Is she, in office great, in glory rich,
Degraded to a poor, pretended Witch,
Who rais'd her spells, and all her magic power,
But on the folly of the favoring hour?
Whose dark, despis'd illusions melt away
At the clear dawn of Philosophic day?
To such they sink her, who lament her fall
From the high Synod of th' Olympian Hall;
Who worship System, hid in Fancy's veil.
And think that all her Epic force must fail,
If she no more can borrow or create
Celestial Agents to uphold her state.
To prove if this fam'd doctrine may be found
To rest on solid, or on sandy ground,
Let Critic Reason all her light diffuse
O'er the wide empire of this injur'd Muse,
To guide our search to every varied source
And separate sinew of her vital force.—
To three prime powers within the human frame,
With equal energy she points her aim:
By pure exalted Sentiment she draws
From Judgment's steady voice no light applause;
By Nature's simple and pathetic strains,
The willing homage of the Heart she gains;
The precious tribute she receives from these,
Shines undebas'd by changing Time's decrees;
The noble thought, that fir'd a Grecian soul,
Keeps o'er a British mind its firm controul;
The scenes, where Nature seems herself to speak,
Still touch a Briton, as they touch'd a Greek:
To captivate admiring Fancy's eyes,
She bids celestial decorations rise;
But, as a playful and capricious child
Frowns at the splendid toy on which it smil'd;
So wayward Fancy now with scorn surveys
Those specious Miracles she lov'd to praise;
Still fond of change, and fickle Fashion's dupe,
Now keen to soar, and eager now to stoop,
Her Gods, Dev'ls, Saints, Magicians, rise and fall,
And now she worships each, now laughs at all.
Who makes the discipline of Earth her care!
That mighty Minister, whom Virtue leads
To train the noblest minds to noblest deeds!
Is she, in office great, in glory rich,
Degraded to a poor, pretended Witch,
Who rais'd her spells, and all her magic power,
But on the folly of the favoring hour?
Whose dark, despis'd illusions melt away
At the clear dawn of Philosophic day?
To such they sink her, who lament her fall
From the high Synod of th' Olympian Hall;
Who worship System, hid in Fancy's veil.
And think that all her Epic force must fail,
If she no more can borrow or create
Celestial Agents to uphold her state.
To prove if this fam'd doctrine may be found
To rest on solid, or on sandy ground,
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O'er the wide empire of this injur'd Muse,
To guide our search to every varied source
And separate sinew of her vital force.—
To three prime powers within the human frame,
With equal energy she points her aim:
By pure exalted Sentiment she draws
From Judgment's steady voice no light applause;
By Nature's simple and pathetic strains,
The willing homage of the Heart she gains;
The precious tribute she receives from these,
Shines undebas'd by changing Time's decrees;
The noble thought, that fir'd a Grecian soul,
Keeps o'er a British mind its firm controul;
The scenes, where Nature seems herself to speak,
Still touch a Briton, as they touch'd a Greek:
To captivate admiring Fancy's eyes,
She bids celestial decorations rise;
But, as a playful and capricious child
Frowns at the splendid toy on which it smil'd;
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Those specious Miracles she lov'd to praise;
Still fond of change, and fickle Fashion's dupe,
Now keen to soar, and eager now to stoop,
Her Gods, Dev'ls, Saints, Magicians, rise and fall,
And now she worships each, now laughs at all.
If then within the rich and wide domain
O'er which the Epic Muse delights to reign,
One province weaker than the rest be found,
'Tis her Celestial Sphere, or Fairy Ground:
Her realm of Marvels is the distant land,
O'er which she holds a perilous command;
For, plac'd beyond the reach of Nature's aid,
Here her worst foes her tottering force invade:
O'er the wide precinct proud Opinion towers,
And withers with a look its alter'd powers;
While lavish Ridicule, pert Child of Taste!
Turns the rich confine to so poor a waste,
That some, who deem it but a cumbrous weight,
Would lop this Province from its Parent State.
O'er which the Epic Muse delights to reign,
One province weaker than the rest be found,
'Tis her Celestial Sphere, or Fairy Ground:
Her realm of Marvels is the distant land,
O'er which she holds a perilous command;
For, plac'd beyond the reach of Nature's aid,
Here her worst foes her tottering force invade:
O'er the wide precinct proud Opinion towers,
And withers with a look its alter'd powers;
While lavish Ridicule, pert Child of Taste!
Turns the rich confine to so poor a waste,
That some, who deem it but a cumbrous weight,
Would lop this Province from its Parent State.
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What mighty voice first spoke this wond'rous law,
Which ductile Critics still repeat with awe—
That man's unkindling pirit must refuse
A generous plaudit to th' Heroic Muse,
Howe'er she paint her scenes of manly life,
If no superior Agents aid the strife?
Which ductile Critics still repeat with awe—
That man's unkindling pirit must refuse
A generous plaudit to th' Heroic Muse,
Howe'er she paint her scenes of manly life,
If no superior Agents aid the strife?
In days of courtly wit, and wanton mirth,
The loose Petronius gave the maxim birth;
Perchance, to sooth the envious Nero's ear,
And sink the Bard whose fame he sigh'd to hear;
To injure Lucan, whose advent'rous mind,
Inflam'd by Freedom, with just scorn resign'd
Th' exhausted fables of the starry pole,
And found a nobler theme in Cato's soul:
To wound him, in the mask of Critic art,
The subtle Courtier launch'd this venom'd dart,
And following Critics, fond of Classic lore,
Still echo the vain law from shore to shore;
On Poets still for Deities they call,
And deem mere earthly Bards no Bards at all.
Yet, if by fits the mighty Homer nods,
Where sinks he more than with his sleepy Gods?
E'en Lucan proves, by his immortal name,
How weak the dagger levell'd at his fame;
For in his Song, which Time will ne'er forget,
If Taste, who much may praise, will much regret,
'Tis not the absence of th' Olympian state,
Embroil'd by jarring Gods in coarse debate:
'Tis nice arrangement, Nature's easy air,
In scenes unfolded with superior care;
'Tis softer diction, elegantly terse,
And the fine polish of Virgilian Verse.
O blind to Nature! who assert the Muse
Must o'er the human frame her empire lose,
Failing to fly, in Fancy's wild career,
Above this visible diurnal sphere!
The loose Petronius gave the maxim birth;
Perchance, to sooth the envious Nero's ear,
And sink the Bard whose fame he sigh'd to hear;
To injure Lucan, whose advent'rous mind,
Inflam'd by Freedom, with just scorn resign'd
Th' exhausted fables of the starry pole,
And found a nobler theme in Cato's soul:
To wound him, in the mask of Critic art,
The subtle Courtier launch'd this venom'd dart,
And following Critics, fond of Classic lore,
Still echo the vain law from shore to shore;
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And deem mere earthly Bards no Bards at all.
Yet, if by fits the mighty Homer nods,
Where sinks he more than with his sleepy Gods?
E'en Lucan proves, by his immortal name,
How weak the dagger levell'd at his fame;
For in his Song, which Time will ne'er forget,
If Taste, who much may praise, will much regret,
'Tis not the absence of th' Olympian state,
Embroil'd by jarring Gods in coarse debate:
'Tis nice arrangement, Nature's easy air,
In scenes unfolded with superior care;
'Tis softer diction, elegantly terse,
And the fine polish of Virgilian Verse.
O blind to Nature! who assert the Muse
Must o'er the human frame her empire lose,
Failing to fly, in Fancy's wild career,
Above this visible diurnal sphere!
Behold yon pensive Fair! who turns with grief
The tender Novel's soul-possessing leaf!
Why with moist eyes to those soft pages glu'd,
Forgetting her fix'd hours of sleep and food;
Why does she keenly grasp its precious woes,
Nor quit the volume till the story close?
'Tis not that Fancy plays her revels there,
Cheating the mind with lucid forms of air;
'Tis not that Passion, in a style impure,
Holds the warm spirit by a wanton lure:
'Tis suffering Virtue's sympathetic sway,
That all the fibres of her breast obey;
'Tis Action, where Immortals claim no part;
'Tis Nature, grappled to the human heart.
The tender Novel's soul-possessing leaf!
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Forgetting her fix'd hours of sleep and food;
Why does she keenly grasp its precious woes,
Nor quit the volume till the story close?
'Tis not that Fancy plays her revels there,
Cheating the mind with lucid forms of air;
'Tis not that Passion, in a style impure,
Holds the warm spirit by a wanton lure:
'Tis suffering Virtue's sympathetic sway,
That all the fibres of her breast obey;
'Tis Action, where Immortals claim no part;
'Tis Nature, grappled to the human heart.
If this firm Sov'reign of the feeling breast
Can thus the fascinated thought arrest,
And thro' the bosom's deep recesses pierce,
Ungrac'd, unaided by enchanting Verse,
Say! shall we think, with limited controul,
She wants sufficient force to seize the soul,
When Harmony's congenial tones convey
Charms to her voice, that aid its magic sway?
If Admiration's hand, with eager grasp,
Her darling Homer's deathless volume clasp,
Say to what scenes her partial eyes revert!
Say what they first explore, and last desert!—
The scenes that glitter with no heavenly blaze,
Where human agents human feelings raise,
While Truth, enamour'd of the lovely line,
Cries to their parent Nature, “These are thine.”
When Neptune rises in Homeric state,
And on their Lord the Powers of Ocean wait;
Tho' pliant Fancy trace the steps he trod,
And with a transient worship own the God,
Yet colder readers with indifference view
The Sovereign of the deep, and all his vassal crew,
Nor feel his watery pomp their mind enlarge,
More than the pageant of my Lord May'r's barge.
But when Achilles' wrongs our eyes engage,
All bosoms burn with sympathetic rage:
And when thy love parental, Chief of Troy!
Hastes to relieve the terrors of thy boy,
Our senses in thy fond emotion join,
And every heart's in unison with thine.
Can thus the fascinated thought arrest,
And thro' the bosom's deep recesses pierce,
Ungrac'd, unaided by enchanting Verse,
Say! shall we think, with limited controul,
She wants sufficient force to seize the soul,
When Harmony's congenial tones convey
Charms to her voice, that aid its magic sway?
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Her darling Homer's deathless volume clasp,
Say to what scenes her partial eyes revert!
Say what they first explore, and last desert!—
The scenes that glitter with no heavenly blaze,
Where human agents human feelings raise,
While Truth, enamour'd of the lovely line,
Cries to their parent Nature, “These are thine.”
When Neptune rises in Homeric state,
And on their Lord the Powers of Ocean wait;
Tho' pliant Fancy trace the steps he trod,
And with a transient worship own the God,
Yet colder readers with indifference view
The Sovereign of the deep, and all his vassal crew,
Nor feel his watery pomp their mind enlarge,
More than the pageant of my Lord May'r's barge.
But when Achilles' wrongs our eyes engage,
All bosoms burn with sympathetic rage:
And when thy love parental, Chief of Troy!
Hastes to relieve the terrors of thy boy,
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And every heart's in unison with thine.
Still in the Muse's ear shall Echo ring,
That heavenly Agents are her vital spring?
Those who conclude her winning charms arise
From Beings darting from the distant skies,
Appear to cherish a conceit as vain,
As once was harbour'd in Neanthus' brain,
When he believ'd that harmony must dwell
In the cold concave of the Orphic shell:
The ancient Lyre, to which the Thracian sung,
Whose hallow'd chords were in a temple hung,
The shallow Youth with weak ambition sought,
And of the pilfering Priest the relique bought;
Viewing his treasure with deluded gaze,
He deem'd himself the heir of Orphic praise;
But when his awkward fingers tried to bring
Expected music from the silent string,
Not e'en the milder brutes his discord bore,
But howling dogs the fancied Orpheus tore.
That heavenly Agents are her vital spring?
Those who conclude her winning charms arise
From Beings darting from the distant skies,
Appear to cherish a conceit as vain,
As once was harbour'd in Neanthus' brain,
When he believ'd that harmony must dwell
In the cold concave of the Orphic shell:
The ancient Lyre, to which the Thracian sung,
Whose hallow'd chords were in a temple hung,
The shallow Youth with weak ambition sought,
And of the pilfering Priest the relique bought;
Viewing his treasure with deluded gaze,
He deem'd himself the heir of Orphic praise;
But when his awkward fingers tried to bring
Expected music from the silent string,
118
But howling dogs the fancied Orpheus tore.
When the true Poet, in whose frame are join'd
Softness of Heart and Energy of Mind,
His Epic scene's expansive limit draws,
Faithful to Nature's universal laws;
If thro' her various walks he boldly range,
Marking how oft her pliant features change;
If, as she teaches, his quick powers supply
Successive pictures to th' astonish'd eye,
Where noblest passions noblest deeds inspire,
And radiant souls exhibit all their fire;
Where softer forms their sweet attractions blend,
And suffering Beauty makes the world her friend;
If thus he build his Rhyme, with varied art,
On each dear interest of the human heart,
His genius, by no vain conceits betray'd,
May spurn faint Allegory's feeble aid.
Softness of Heart and Energy of Mind,
His Epic scene's expansive limit draws,
Faithful to Nature's universal laws;
If thro' her various walks he boldly range,
Marking how oft her pliant features change;
If, as she teaches, his quick powers supply
Successive pictures to th' astonish'd eye,
Where noblest passions noblest deeds inspire,
And radiant souls exhibit all their fire;
Where softer forms their sweet attractions blend,
And suffering Beauty makes the world her friend;
If thus he build his Rhyme, with varied art,
On each dear interest of the human heart,
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May spurn faint Allegory's feeble aid.
Th' Heroic Muse, in earthly virtue strong,
May drive the host of Angels from her Song,
As her fair Sister Muse, the Tragic Queen,
Has banish'd Ghofts from her pathetic scene,
Tho' her high soul, by Shakespeare's magic sway'd,
Still bends to buried Denmark's awful Shade.
May drive the host of Angels from her Song,
As her fair Sister Muse, the Tragic Queen,
Has banish'd Ghofts from her pathetic scene,
Tho' her high soul, by Shakespeare's magic sway'd,
Still bends to buried Denmark's awful Shade.
If we esteem this Epic Queen so great,
To spare her heavenly train, yet keep her state,
'Tis not our aim, with systematic pride,
To sink their glory, or their powers to hide,
Who add, when folded in the Muse's arms,
Celestial beauty to her earthly charms.
To spare her heavenly train, yet keep her state,
'Tis not our aim, with systematic pride,
To sink their glory, or their powers to hide,
Who add, when folded in the Muse's arms,
Celestial beauty to her earthly charms.
Sublimely fashion'd, by no mortal hands,
The dome of mental Pleasure wide expands:
Form'd to preside o'er its allotted parts,
At different portals stand the separate Arts;
But every portal different paths may gain,
Alike uniting in the mystic Fane;
Contentious mortals on these paths debate;
Some, wrangling on the road, ne'er reach the gate,
While others, arm'd with a despotic rod,
Allow no pass but what themselves have trod.
The noblest spirits, to this foible prone,
Have slander'd powers congenial with their own:
Hence, on a Brother's genius Milton frown'd,
Scorning the graceful chains of final sound,
And to one form confin'd the free sublime,
Insulting Dryden as the Man of Rhyme.
The dome of mental Pleasure wide expands:
Form'd to preside o'er its allotted parts,
At different portals stand the separate Arts;
But every portal different paths may gain,
Alike uniting in the mystic Fane;
120
Some, wrangling on the road, ne'er reach the gate,
While others, arm'd with a despotic rod,
Allow no pass but what themselves have trod.
The noblest spirits, to this foible prone,
Have slander'd powers congenial with their own:
Hence, on a Brother's genius Milton frown'd,
Scorning the graceful chains of final sound,
And to one form confin'd the free sublime,
Insulting Dryden as the Man of Rhyme.
Caprice still gives this lasting struggle life;
Rhyme and Blank Verse maintain their idle strife:
The friends of one are still the other's foes,
For stubborn Prejudice no mercy knows.
As in Religion, Zealots, blindly warm,
Neglect the Essence, while they grasp the Form;
Poetic Bigots, thus perversely wrong,
Think Modes of Verse comprize the Soul of Song.
Rhyme and Blank Verse maintain their idle strife:
The friends of one are still the other's foes,
For stubborn Prejudice no mercy knows.
As in Religion, Zealots, blindly warm,
Neglect the Essence, while they grasp the Form;
Poetic Bigots, thus perversely wrong,
Think Modes of Verse comprize the Soul of Song.
If the fine Statuary fill his part
With all the powers of energetic Art;
If to the figures, that, with skill exact,
His genius blends in one impassion'd act,
If to this Group such speaking force he give,
That startled Nature almost cries, “They live;”
All tongues with zeal th' enchanting work applaud,
Nor the great Artist of due praise defraud,
Whether he form'd the rich expressive mass
Of Parian marble or Corinthian brass;
For each his powers might fashion to fulfil
The noblest purpose of mimetic skill;
Each from his soul might catch Promethean fire,
And speak his talents, till the world expire.
With all the powers of energetic Art;
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His genius blends in one impassion'd act,
If to this Group such speaking force he give,
That startled Nature almost cries, “They live;”
All tongues with zeal th' enchanting work applaud,
Nor the great Artist of due praise defraud,
Whether he form'd the rich expressive mass
Of Parian marble or Corinthian brass;
For each his powers might fashion to fulfil
The noblest purpose of mimetic skill;
Each from his soul might catch Promethean fire,
And speak his talents, till the world expire.
'Tis thus that Milton's Verse, and Dryden's Rhyme,
Are proof alike against the rage of Time;
Each Master modell'd, with a touch so bold,
The rude materials which he chose to mould,
That each his portion to perfection brought,
Accomplishing the glorious end he sought.
Are proof alike against the rage of Time;
Each Master modell'd, with a touch so bold,
The rude materials which he chose to mould,
That each his portion to perfection brought,
Accomplishing the glorious end he sought.
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False to themselves, and to their interest blind,
Are those cold judges, of fastidious mind,
Who with vain rules the suffering Arts would load,
Who, ere they smile, consult the Critic's code;
Where, puzzled by the different doubts they see,
(For who so oft as Critics disagree?)
They lose that pleasure by free spirits seiz'd,
In vainly settling how they should be pleas'd.
Are those cold judges, of fastidious mind,
Who with vain rules the suffering Arts would load,
Who, ere they smile, consult the Critic's code;
Where, puzzled by the different doubts they see,
(For who so oft as Critics disagree?)
They lose that pleasure by free spirits seiz'd,
In vainly settling how they should be pleas'd.
Far wiser those, who, with a generous joy,
Nor blindly fond, nor petulantly coy,
Follow each movement of the varying Muse,
Whatever step her airy form may chuse,
Nor to one march her rapid feet confine,
While ease and spirit in her gesture join;
Those who facilitate her free desire,
To melt the heart, or set the soul on fire;
Who, if her voice to simple Nature lean,
And fill with Human forms her Epic scene,
Pleas'd with her aim, assist her moral plan,
And feel with manly sympathy for Man:
Or, if she draw, by Fancy's magic tones,
Ætherial Spirits from their sapphire thrones,
Her Heavenly shapes with willing homage greet,
And aid, with ductile thought, her bright deceit;
For, if the Epic Muse still wish to tower
Above plain Nature's firm and graceful power,
Tho' Critics think her vital powers are lost
In cold Philosophy's petrific frost;
That Magic cannot her sunk charms restore,
That Heaven and Hell can yield her nothing more;
Yet may she dive to many a secret source
And copious spring of visionary force:
India yet holds a Mythologic mine,
Her strength may open, and her art refine:
Tho' Asian spoils the realms of Europe fill,
Those Eastern riches are unrifled still;
Genius may there his course of honour run,
And spotless Laurels in that field be won.
Nor blindly fond, nor petulantly coy,
Follow each movement of the varying Muse,
Whatever step her airy form may chuse,
Nor to one march her rapid feet confine,
While ease and spirit in her gesture join;
Those who facilitate her free desire,
To melt the heart, or set the soul on fire;
Who, if her voice to simple Nature lean,
And fill with Human forms her Epic scene,
Pleas'd with her aim, assist her moral plan,
And feel with manly sympathy for Man:
123
Ætherial Spirits from their sapphire thrones,
Her Heavenly shapes with willing homage greet,
And aid, with ductile thought, her bright deceit;
For, if the Epic Muse still wish to tower
Above plain Nature's firm and graceful power,
Tho' Critics think her vital powers are lost
In cold Philosophy's petrific frost;
That Magic cannot her sunk charms restore,
That Heaven and Hell can yield her nothing more;
Yet may she dive to many a secret source
And copious spring of visionary force:
India yet holds a Mythologic mine,
Her strength may open, and her art refine:
Tho' Asian spoils the realms of Europe fill,
Those Eastern riches are unrifled still;
Genius may there his course of honour run,
And spotless Laurels in that field be won.
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Yet nobler aims the Bards of Britain court,
Who steer by Freedom's star to Glory's port;
Our gen'rous Isle, with far superior claim,
Asks for her Chief the palm of Epic fame.
In every realm where'er th' Heroic Muse
Has deign'd her glowing spirit to infuse,
Her tuneful Sons with civic splendor blaze,
The honour'd Heralds of their country's praise,
Save in our land, the nation of the earth
Ordain'd to give the brightest Heroes birth!—
By some strange fate, which rul'd each Poet's tongue,
Her dearest Worthies yet remain unsung.
Who steer by Freedom's star to Glory's port;
Our gen'rous Isle, with far superior claim,
Asks for her Chief the palm of Epic fame.
In every realm where'er th' Heroic Muse
Has deign'd her glowing spirit to infuse,
Her tuneful Sons with civic splendor blaze,
The honour'd Heralds of their country's praise,
Save in our land, the nation of the earth
Ordain'd to give the brightest Heroes birth!—
By some strange fate, which rul'd each Poet's tongue,
Her dearest Worthies yet remain unsung.
Critics there are, who, with a scornful smile,
Reject the annals of our martial Isle,
And, dead to patriot Passion, coldly deem
They yield for lofty Song no touching theme.
Reject the annals of our martial Isle,
And, dead to patriot Passion, coldly deem
They yield for lofty Song no touching theme.
What! can the British heart, humanely brave,
Feel for the Greek who lost his female slave?
Can it, devoted to a savage Chief,
Swell with his rage, and soften with his grief?
And shall it not with keener zeal embrace
Their brighter cause, who, born of British race,
With the strong cement of the blood they spilt,
The splendid fane of British Freedom built?
Blest Spirits! who, with kindred fire endued,
Thro' different ages this bright work pursued,
May Art and Genius crown your sainted band
With that poetic wreath your Deeds demand!
Feel for the Greek who lost his female slave?
Can it, devoted to a savage Chief,
Swell with his rage, and soften with his grief?
125
Their brighter cause, who, born of British race,
With the strong cement of the blood they spilt,
The splendid fane of British Freedom built?
Blest Spirits! who, with kindred fire endued,
Thro' different ages this bright work pursued,
May Art and Genius crown your sainted band
With that poetic wreath your Deeds demand!
While, led by Fancy thro' her wide domain,
Our steps advance around her Epic plain;
While we survey each laurel that it bore,
And every confine of the realm explore,
See Liberty, array'd in light serene,
Pours her rich lustre o'er th' expanding scene!
Thee, Mason, thee she views with fond regard,
And calls to nobler heights her fav'rite Bard.
Tracing a circle with her blazing spear,
“Here,” cries the Goddess, “raise thy fabric here,
Build on these rocks, that to my reign belong,
The noblest basis of Heroic Song!
Fix here! and, while thy growing works ascend,
My voice shall guide thee, and my arm defend.”
As thus she speaks, methinks her high behest
Imparts pure rapture to thy conscious breast,
Pure as the joy immortal Newton found,
When Nature led him to her utmost bound,
And clearly shew'd, where unborn ages lie,
The distant Comet to his daring eye;
Pure as the joy the Sire of mortals knew,
When blissful Eden open'd on his view,
When first he listen'd to the voice Divine,
And wond'ring heard, “This Paradise is thine.”
With such delight may'st thou her gift receive!
May thy warm heart with bright ambition heave
To raise a Temple to her hallow'd name,
Above what Grecian artists knew to frame!
Of English form the sacred fabric rear,
And bid our Country with just rites revere
The Power, who sheds, in her benignant smile,
The brightest Glory on our boasted Isle!
Our steps advance around her Epic plain;
While we survey each laurel that it bore,
And every confine of the realm explore,
See Liberty, array'd in light serene,
Pours her rich lustre o'er th' expanding scene!
Thee, Mason, thee she views with fond regard,
And calls to nobler heights her fav'rite Bard.
Tracing a circle with her blazing spear,
“Here,” cries the Goddess, “raise thy fabric here,
Build on these rocks, that to my reign belong,
The noblest basis of Heroic Song!
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My voice shall guide thee, and my arm defend.”
As thus she speaks, methinks her high behest
Imparts pure rapture to thy conscious breast,
Pure as the joy immortal Newton found,
When Nature led him to her utmost bound,
And clearly shew'd, where unborn ages lie,
The distant Comet to his daring eye;
Pure as the joy the Sire of mortals knew,
When blissful Eden open'd on his view,
When first he listen'd to the voice Divine,
And wond'ring heard, “This Paradise is thine.”
With such delight may'st thou her gift receive!
May thy warm heart with bright ambition heave
To raise a Temple to her hallow'd name,
Above what Grecian artists knew to frame!
Of English form the sacred fabric rear,
And bid our Country with just rites revere
The Power, who sheds, in her benignant smile,
The brightest Glory on our boasted Isle!
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Justly on thee th' inspiring Goddess calls;
Her mighty task each weaker Bard appalls:
'Tis thine, O Mason! with unbaffled skill,
Each harder duty of our Art to fill;
'Tis thine, in robes of beauty to array,
And in bright Order's lucid blaze display,
The forms that Fancy, to thy wishes kind,
Stamps on the tablet of thy clearer mind.
How softly sweet thy notes of pathos swell,
The tender accents of Elfrida tell;
Caractacus proclaims, with Freedom's fire,
How rich the tone of thy sublimer Lyre;
E'en in this hour, propitious to thy fame,
The rural Deities repeat thy name:
With festive joy I hear the sylvan throng
Hail the completion of their favourite Song,
Thy graceful Song! in honour of whose power,
Delighted Flora, in her sweetest bower,
Weaves thy unfading wreath;—with fondest care,
Proudly she weaves it, emulously fair,
To match that crown, which in the Mantuan grove
The richer Ceres for her Virgil wove!
See! his Eurydice herself once more
Revisits earth from the Elysian shore!
Behold! she hovers o'er thy echoing glade!
Envy, not love, conducts the pensive Shade,
Who, trembling at thy Lyre's pathetic tone,
Fears lest Nerina's fame surpass her own.
Her mighty task each weaker Bard appalls:
'Tis thine, O Mason! with unbaffled skill,
Each harder duty of our Art to fill;
'Tis thine, in robes of beauty to array,
And in bright Order's lucid blaze display,
The forms that Fancy, to thy wishes kind,
Stamps on the tablet of thy clearer mind.
How softly sweet thy notes of pathos swell,
The tender accents of Elfrida tell;
Caractacus proclaims, with Freedom's fire,
How rich the tone of thy sublimer Lyre;
E'en in this hour, propitious to thy fame,
The rural Deities repeat thy name:
With festive joy I hear the sylvan throng
Hail the completion of their favourite Song,
Thy graceful Song! in honour of whose power,
Delighted Flora, in her sweetest bower,
Weaves thy unfading wreath;—with fondest care,
Proudly she weaves it, emulously fair,
128
The richer Ceres for her Virgil wove!
See! his Eurydice herself once more
Revisits earth from the Elysian shore!
Behold! she hovers o'er thy echoing glade!
Envy, not love, conducts the pensive Shade,
Who, trembling at thy Lyre's pathetic tone,
Fears lest Nerina's fame surpass her own.
Thou happy Bard! whose sweet and potent voice
Can reach all notes within the Poet's choice;
Whose vivid soul has led thee to infuse
Dramatic life in the preceptive Muse;
Since, blest alike with Beauty and with Force,
Thou rivall'st Virgil in his sylvan course,
O be it thine the higher palm to gain,
And pass him in the wide Heroic plain!
To sing, with equal fire, of nobler themes,
To gild Historic Truth with Fancy's beams!
To Patriot Chiefs unsung thy Lyre devote,
And swell to Liberty the lofty note!
Can reach all notes within the Poet's choice;
Whose vivid soul has led thee to infuse
Dramatic life in the preceptive Muse;
Since, blest alike with Beauty and with Force,
Thou rivall'st Virgil in his sylvan course,
O be it thine the higher palm to gain,
And pass him in the wide Heroic plain!
To sing, with equal fire, of nobler themes,
To gild Historic Truth with Fancy's beams!
To Patriot Chiefs unsung thy Lyre devote,
And swell to Liberty the lofty note!
129
With humbler aim, but no ungenerous view,
My steps, less firm, their lower path pursue;
Of different Arts I search the ample field,
Mark its past fruits, and what it yet may yield;
With willing voice the praise of Merit found,
And bow to Genius wheresoever found;
O'er my free Verse bid noblest names preside,
Tho' Party's hostile lines those names divide;
Party! whose murdering spirit I abhor,
More subtly cruel, and less brave than War.
Party! insidious Fiend! whose vapors blind
The light of Justice in the brightest mind;
Whose feverish tongue, whence deadly venom flows,
Basely belies the merit of her foes!
O that my Verse with magic power were blest,
To drive from Learning's field this baleful pest!
Fond, fruitless wish! the mighty task would foil
The firmest sons of Literary Toil;
In vain a letter'd Hercules might rise
To cleanse the stable where this Monster lies:
Yet, if the Imps of her malignant brood,
With all their Parent's acrid gall endu'd;
If Spleen pours forth, to Mockery's apish tune,
Her gibing Ballad, and her base Lampoon,
On fairest names, from every blemish free,
Save what the jaundic'd eyes of Party see;
My glowing scorn will execrate the rhyme,
Tho' laughing Humor strike its tuneful chime;
Tho' keenest Wit the glitt'ring lines invest
With all the splendor of the Adder's crest.
My steps, less firm, their lower path pursue;
Of different Arts I search the ample field,
Mark its past fruits, and what it yet may yield;
With willing voice the praise of Merit found,
And bow to Genius wheresoever found;
O'er my free Verse bid noblest names preside,
Tho' Party's hostile lines those names divide;
Party! whose murdering spirit I abhor,
More subtly cruel, and less brave than War.
Party! insidious Fiend! whose vapors blind
The light of Justice in the brightest mind;
Whose feverish tongue, whence deadly venom flows,
Basely belies the merit of her foes!
O that my Verse with magic power were blest,
To drive from Learning's field this baleful pest!
Fond, fruitless wish! the mighty task would foil
The firmest sons of Literary Toil;
In vain a letter'd Hercules might rise
To cleanse the stable where this Monster lies:
130
With all their Parent's acrid gall endu'd;
If Spleen pours forth, to Mockery's apish tune,
Her gibing Ballad, and her base Lampoon,
On fairest names, from every blemish free,
Save what the jaundic'd eyes of Party see;
My glowing scorn will execrate the rhyme,
Tho' laughing Humor strike its tuneful chime;
Tho' keenest Wit the glitt'ring lines invest
With all the splendor of the Adder's crest.
Sublimer Mason! not to thee belong
The reptile beauties of envenom'd Song.
Thou chief of living Bards! O be it ours,
In fame tho' different, as of different powers,
Party's dark clouds alike to rise above,
And reach the firmament of Public Love!
May'st thou ascend Parnassus' highest mound,
In triumph there the Epic Trumpet sound;
While, with no envious zeal, I thus aspire
By just applause to fan thy purer fire;
And of the Work which Freedom pants to see,
Which thy firm Genius claims reserv'd for thee,
In this frank style my honest thoughts impart,
If not an Artist yet a friend to Art!
The reptile beauties of envenom'd Song.
Thou chief of living Bards! O be it ours,
In fame tho' different, as of different powers,
Party's dark clouds alike to rise above,
And reach the firmament of Public Love!
May'st thou ascend Parnassus' highest mound,
In triumph there the Epic Trumpet sound;
While, with no envious zeal, I thus aspire
By just applause to fan thy purer fire;
131
Which thy firm Genius claims reserv'd for thee,
In this frank style my honest thoughts impart,
If not an Artist yet a friend to Art!
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