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143
THE MODERN HERCULES.
TO JOHN VANCOUVER, ESQ., ON HIS PRESENTING THE AUTHOR WITH A GOLDEN PEN.
Except that muzzy Quiz, an Owl,
A Goose seems Nature's silliest Fowl;
But this Lavat'ring judgment makes
A thousand rude and rash mistakes.
An Owl, 'tis said, is Wisdom's bird:
Wisdom in this appears absurd;
For with my might I do aver,
The Goddess should a Goose prefer.
A Goose seems Nature's silliest Fowl;
But this Lavat'ring judgment makes
A thousand rude and rash mistakes.
An Owl, 'tis said, is Wisdom's bird:
Wisdom in this appears absurd;
For with my might I do aver,
The Goddess should a Goose prefer.
What can an Owl but sit and blink,
And slumber while she seems to think?
Mope through the day in barn or house,
Then wake to hunt a starveling Mouse?
A Fool, that dares to look profound
With Folly's visage fair and round?
Just as the Parrot, Custom's slave,
Is call'd an arch and witty knave,
Because, without or sense or thought,
She apes and slanders as she's taught.
But if the Owl steals forth ere night,
She finds she was not born for flight:
Is spurn'd by all that wing the plains,
Till she her hiding-place regains.
And thus this favourite of the Wise
In drowsy darkness lives and dies.
And slumber while she seems to think?
Mope through the day in barn or house,
Then wake to hunt a starveling Mouse?
A Fool, that dares to look profound
With Folly's visage fair and round?
Just as the Parrot, Custom's slave,
Is call'd an arch and witty knave,
Because, without or sense or thought,
She apes and slanders as she's taught.
But if the Owl steals forth ere night,
She finds she was not born for flight:
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Till she her hiding-place regains.
And thus this favourite of the Wise
In drowsy darkness lives and dies.
But for the Goose—Ye Periods, roll,
To vindicate that injured Fowl!
'Tis true, when Geese have got together,
—Like other Gossips of a feather—
They'll graze and gabble half a day,
And neither sense nor wit display:
But then in this you know they find
Their counterparts in Humankind.
And grave Historians relate
A Roman Goose once sav'd the State;
And though I own an Idiot-look
Hath ne'er the Goose's head forsook,
Which seems extremely dull and stupid;
Yet Pallas, Venus, Mars and Cupid,
And all the votaries of Apollo,
Are still oblig'd to steal or borrow,
Whene'er they try to soar or sing,
A feather from the Goose's wing.
To vindicate that injured Fowl!
'Tis true, when Geese have got together,
—Like other Gossips of a feather—
They'll graze and gabble half a day,
And neither sense nor wit display:
But then in this you know they find
Their counterparts in Humankind.
And grave Historians relate
A Roman Goose once sav'd the State;
And though I own an Idiot-look
Hath ne'er the Goose's head forsook,
Which seems extremely dull and stupid;
Yet Pallas, Venus, Mars and Cupid,
And all the votaries of Apollo,
Are still oblig'd to steal or borrow,
Whene'er they try to soar or sing,
A feather from the Goose's wing.
And how could absent Lovers woo,
And carry on their bill and coo,
Without their guardian Goose's quill
To mark a page of coo and bill;
To spread from east to west a sigh
Responsive of the tender lie—
Pardon—I mean the tender Truth?
For every Boaz boasts a Ruth!
Not Palmer's wheels could cheer the Maid,
Without a Goose or Gander's aid!
And if, as sometimes is the case,
The Swain or Maiden's in disgrace,
What like the Goose-quill can impart
A lesson to the roving Heart?
Or what to bleeding Constancy
Such balmy comfort can apply?
And carry on their bill and coo,
Without their guardian Goose's quill
To mark a page of coo and bill;
To spread from east to west a sigh
Responsive of the tender lie—
Pardon—I mean the tender Truth?
For every Boaz boasts a Ruth!
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Without a Goose or Gander's aid!
And if, as sometimes is the case,
The Swain or Maiden's in disgrace,
What like the Goose-quill can impart
A lesson to the roving Heart?
Or what to bleeding Constancy
Such balmy comfort can apply?
And, ah! how poor the Warrior's fame,
Did not the Pen assert his claim!
And as for frolic, fun, and spirit,
And all that Belles and Beaux inherit,
A Goose can keep them all in awe,
By teaching justice, sense, and law.
In short, though Birds of prouder note,
More gaudy plume, more tuneful throat,
With loftier lays the Bard inspire,
Should claim more homage from his lyre,
A single feather from the Goose
Shall prove of more intrinsic use;
A truer friend to Virtue's cause,
And those submissive to her laws,
Than all the Owls that wing the air,
Although Minerva's partial care.
Did not the Pen assert his claim!
And as for frolic, fun, and spirit,
And all that Belles and Beaux inherit,
A Goose can keep them all in awe,
By teaching justice, sense, and law.
In short, though Birds of prouder note,
More gaudy plume, more tuneful throat,
With loftier lays the Bard inspire,
Should claim more homage from his lyre,
A single feather from the Goose
Shall prove of more intrinsic use;
A truer friend to Virtue's cause,
And those submissive to her laws,
Than all the Owls that wing the air,
Although Minerva's partial care.
But how, my Friend, shall I receive
The splendid instrument you give?
A Poet with a golden Pen
Preposterous seems to prosing men;
Who with the Goose their stomachs fill,
And leave poor Poets but the Quill.
Yet since you thus indulge the Muse,
She would be churlish to refuse.
But what must be her theme sublime,
Her thoughts august, and lofty rhyme?
Oh! what should be the soaring lay
To suit a gift so rich and gay?
Shall she some Warrior's fame rehearse?
Or shall the Lover's grace her verse?
Shall Friendship mark the glowing line?
Or, Pity, shall the strain be thine?
Direct me, ever-honour'd Muse,
The subject of the Song to choose.
The splendid instrument you give?
A Poet with a golden Pen
Preposterous seems to prosing men;
Who with the Goose their stomachs fill,
And leave poor Poets but the Quill.
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She would be churlish to refuse.
But what must be her theme sublime,
Her thoughts august, and lofty rhyme?
Oh! what should be the soaring lay
To suit a gift so rich and gay?
Shall she some Warrior's fame rehearse?
Or shall the Lover's grace her verse?
Shall Friendship mark the glowing line?
Or, Pity, shall the strain be thine?
Direct me, ever-honour'd Muse,
The subject of the Song to choose.
I paus'd. Methought as if inspir'd,
As if by some emotion fir'd,
The Pen of Gold, upon its stand
Self-mov'd, began to seek my hand;
And thus to Fancy's ear replied,
By Fancy's self personified,
As if by some emotion fir'd,
The Pen of Gold, upon its stand
Self-mov'd, began to seek my hand;
And thus to Fancy's ear replied,
By Fancy's self personified,
“O Bard! be mine the first essay,
And let Vancouver be my lay:
To him by grateful right belong
The Golden Present's virgin song;
And well his powers of head and heart
Congenial numbers will impart.
And let Vancouver be my lay:
To him by grateful right belong
The Golden Present's virgin song;
And well his powers of head and heart
Congenial numbers will impart.
“But how shall I the theme begin?
Shall Slander , with her tongue malign,
First pour her venom o'er the page
With more than dæmon's deadly rage?
Shall she the marks of Heaven deface,
The characters of Hell to trace?
Shall she pervert each glowing thought,
And swear that Head with mischief fraught?
Shall she pronounce that generous Heart
A store-room vile of selfish Art?
Shall she, in Envy's colours, show,
That e'en the Balms the Good bestow,—
Balms which those smiling Cots adorn ,
Where late prevail'd the wounding thorn,
Where beat the rain, and blew the wind,—
But prove some latent fraud behind?
Though ev'ry fair and household Guest,
Day's honest labour, evening's rest;
The Parents' blissful smile and tear
Exchang'd for meagre looks severe;
And Village Virtue, that before,
Indignant, shunn'd the Peasant's door,
Leading to ev'ry deed obscene
And vice of the polluted Green:
The Cot now yield to kinder Powers,
That round it twine Life's moral flowers;
The buds and blossoms of the Soul,
And Nature's charms to deck the whole;
The Jess'mine fair, the Woodbine gay,
And Children blooming sweet as they:—
Oh, shall the Muse all these pass by,
And all the good they bring deny?
Shall she, with frantic Party Hate,
From Tachbrook to the Castle Gate ;
Thence far diffused by many a maze,
Where Malice, with Satanic gaze,
Eyes the fair Eden with disdain,
Where Virtue, Truth, and Beauty reign;
Shall she pronounce all these a snare,
Some mighty ruin to prepare?
Shall Slander , with her tongue malign,
First pour her venom o'er the page
With more than dæmon's deadly rage?
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The characters of Hell to trace?
Shall she pervert each glowing thought,
And swear that Head with mischief fraught?
Shall she pronounce that generous Heart
A store-room vile of selfish Art?
Shall she, in Envy's colours, show,
That e'en the Balms the Good bestow,—
Balms which those smiling Cots adorn ,
Where late prevail'd the wounding thorn,
Where beat the rain, and blew the wind,—
But prove some latent fraud behind?
Though ev'ry fair and household Guest,
Day's honest labour, evening's rest;
The Parents' blissful smile and tear
Exchang'd for meagre looks severe;
And Village Virtue, that before,
Indignant, shunn'd the Peasant's door,
Leading to ev'ry deed obscene
And vice of the polluted Green:
The Cot now yield to kinder Powers,
That round it twine Life's moral flowers;
The buds and blossoms of the Soul,
And Nature's charms to deck the whole;
The Jess'mine fair, the Woodbine gay,
And Children blooming sweet as they:—
Oh, shall the Muse all these pass by,
And all the good they bring deny?
Shall she, with frantic Party Hate,
From Tachbrook to the Castle Gate ;
148
Where Malice, with Satanic gaze,
Eyes the fair Eden with disdain,
Where Virtue, Truth, and Beauty reign;
Shall she pronounce all these a snare,
Some mighty ruin to prepare?
“Or should she paint the Worth within,
That decorates the private scene;
Distinguish, in the ranks of men,
The Donor of the Golden Pen;
Paint Brother, Sister, Friend, and Wife,—
Their comforts anchoring on his life;
Show him intrepidly pursue,
Though Envy's Snakes were full in view;
Undaunted by the brow austere;
His honest arms uncheck'd by fear;
Show him, at Midnight's darkest hour,
Defying the Assassin's power;
Seek his lov'd home, though perils wait,
Superior to the wiles of Hate?
And, with magnificent disdain,
Scorning to falter, or complain;
But keep the tenor of his way,
And ne'er to Vice or Vengeance stray?”
That decorates the private scene;
Distinguish, in the ranks of men,
The Donor of the Golden Pen;
Paint Brother, Sister, Friend, and Wife,—
Their comforts anchoring on his life;
Show him intrepidly pursue,
Though Envy's Snakes were full in view;
Undaunted by the brow austere;
His honest arms uncheck'd by fear;
Show him, at Midnight's darkest hour,
Defying the Assassin's power;
Seek his lov'd home, though perils wait,
Superior to the wiles of Hate?
And, with magnificent disdain,
Scorning to falter, or complain;
But keep the tenor of his way,
And ne'er to Vice or Vengeance stray?”
Here ceas'd the Pen, and Fancy fled,
Whilst Truth confirm'd what both had said:
For Truth, with Reason on her side,
Had been Imagination's guide,
And every trace of every line
From Truth receiv'd a stamp divine.
Whilst Truth confirm'd what both had said:
For Truth, with Reason on her side,
Had been Imagination's guide,
And every trace of every line
From Truth receiv'd a stamp divine.
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Go, then, my Friend, in Honour's cause,
Nor heed the obloquy it draws:
Accoutred thus, fair Truth thy guide,
On shalt thou march with generous pride;
A modern Hercules shalt move,
More arduous Toils and Perils prove.
The glorious Parallel shall run
Till thou surpass Alcmena's son;
For nobler labours claim thy might,
And greater Monsters urge thy fight.
Nor heed the obloquy it draws:
Accoutred thus, fair Truth thy guide,
On shalt thou march with generous pride;
A modern Hercules shalt move,
More arduous Toils and Perils prove.
The glorious Parallel shall run
Till thou surpass Alcmena's son;
For nobler labours claim thy might,
And greater Monsters urge thy fight.
Was the proud Chief of awful Jove
Arm'd by the fav'ring powers above?
Did Ocean's God a shield afford?
Pallas and Hermes helm and sword?
Vulcan a brazen club bestow?
Phœbus his arrows and his bow?
Did thus the daring Hercules
The victims of his prowess seize?
The hundred-headed Savage slay?
And the fierce Centaurs make his prey?
The foul Augean Stables clean
Of their enormous filth obscene?
Tam'd he the Mares of Diomede,
Wont like the Cannibal to feed?—
By these was his proud might confess'd,
Whilst Men and Gods his altars bless'd?
Arm'd by the fav'ring powers above?
Did Ocean's God a shield afford?
Pallas and Hermes helm and sword?
Vulcan a brazen club bestow?
Phœbus his arrows and his bow?
Did thus the daring Hercules
The victims of his prowess seize?
The hundred-headed Savage slay?
And the fierce Centaurs make his prey?
The foul Augean Stables clean
Of their enormous filth obscene?
Tam'd he the Mares of Diomede,
Wont like the Cannibal to feed?—
By these was his proud might confess'd,
Whilst Men and Gods his altars bless'd?
But, oh, my friend! 'tis left for you
A task more glorious to pursue;
More than Nemean beasts to tame:
To bid vile Avarice taste of shame;
The Hydra Prejudice destroy,
And Giants yet more dire annoy:
Compel that foulest child of Hell,
Ingratitude, thy arm to feel:
Drag her fell Snakes to public view,
More fierce than those Alcides slew;
Bid them no longer sting the Breast,
Fit only for an Angel Guest;
No longer cling, with fatal twine,
Round spotless Virtue's native shrine;
Nor, with insidious serpent Art,
Wind round the noble Warwick's heart.
These from that Paradise expel,
As erst from Heav'n the Spirits fell,
Degraded, from th'indignant skies,
With Lucifer, no more to rise;
And ne'er, till Penitence restore
Their honours, be their exile o'er.
Then Pity, where she long has shone,
In Greville's breast, her proper throne,
In recompense of Grief sincere,
Shall seal their pardon with a tear.
But till that work of genuine Grace
In their dark bosoms seek a place,
Confessing whence the darkness rose,
Oh, may they prove Vancouver's foes!
And only Courage be his friend,
Till Virtue's means gain Virtue's end.
A task more glorious to pursue;
More than Nemean beasts to tame:
To bid vile Avarice taste of shame;
150
And Giants yet more dire annoy:
Compel that foulest child of Hell,
Ingratitude, thy arm to feel:
Drag her fell Snakes to public view,
More fierce than those Alcides slew;
Bid them no longer sting the Breast,
Fit only for an Angel Guest;
No longer cling, with fatal twine,
Round spotless Virtue's native shrine;
Nor, with insidious serpent Art,
Wind round the noble Warwick's heart.
These from that Paradise expel,
As erst from Heav'n the Spirits fell,
Degraded, from th'indignant skies,
With Lucifer, no more to rise;
And ne'er, till Penitence restore
Their honours, be their exile o'er.
Then Pity, where she long has shone,
In Greville's breast, her proper throne,
In recompense of Grief sincere,
Shall seal their pardon with a tear.
But till that work of genuine Grace
In their dark bosoms seek a place,
Confessing whence the darkness rose,
Oh, may they prove Vancouver's foes!
And only Courage be his friend,
Till Virtue's means gain Virtue's end.
Then what shall recompense the Deed?
Say, what shall be thy glorious meed?
If the first Hercules could claim
Homage as great, as great his Fame;
If Fanes magnificent were rear'd,
And he the Deity rever'd;
If worship, human and divine,
Was heap'd upon his Pagan shrine;
If Statues crown'd th'imperial Dome;
And the Farnese of sacred Rome
Has been with pomp for ages shown,
A Work superior and alone;
If, when his vast exploits were o'er,
The Earth consented to adore;
If on his medals shone the Lyre;
If still his great achievements fire
To mighty deeds, and deathless lays;
The theme of universal praise:—
If to a Hero, stain'd with crime,
Are paid these homages sublime,—
Say, when thy virtuous labours end,
What honours shall thy life attend?
When thou hast taught the Base to know
The worth of salutary woe;
When thou hast made the Good thy care,
And the Poor bless thee in a prayer:
Oh, say what temples shall arise
To point thy Labours to the skies!
What statues shall thy form express?
What medals shall thy power impress?
Shall the enormous shoulders spread?
A Giant's frame, a Giant's head?
Shall we transfer the club and bow,
And near thy figure bid them glow?
Shall the huge arms, and ample chest,
Denote a Hercules confest?
Shall limbs colossal, from the mould
Of sculptur'd marble, brass, or gold,
Seem starting into life, to prove
Thou wert another Son of Jove;
And, tho' thy tasks of toil were o'er,
Thou couldst have borne twelve labours more?
Say, what shall be thy glorious meed?
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Homage as great, as great his Fame;
If Fanes magnificent were rear'd,
And he the Deity rever'd;
If worship, human and divine,
Was heap'd upon his Pagan shrine;
If Statues crown'd th'imperial Dome;
And the Farnese of sacred Rome
Has been with pomp for ages shown,
A Work superior and alone;
If, when his vast exploits were o'er,
The Earth consented to adore;
If on his medals shone the Lyre;
If still his great achievements fire
To mighty deeds, and deathless lays;
The theme of universal praise:—
If to a Hero, stain'd with crime,
Are paid these homages sublime,—
Say, when thy virtuous labours end,
What honours shall thy life attend?
When thou hast taught the Base to know
The worth of salutary woe;
When thou hast made the Good thy care,
And the Poor bless thee in a prayer:
Oh, say what temples shall arise
To point thy Labours to the skies!
What statues shall thy form express?
What medals shall thy power impress?
Shall the enormous shoulders spread?
A Giant's frame, a Giant's head?
Shall we transfer the club and bow,
And near thy figure bid them glow?
152
Denote a Hercules confest?
Shall limbs colossal, from the mould
Of sculptur'd marble, brass, or gold,
Seem starting into life, to prove
Thou wert another Son of Jove;
And, tho' thy tasks of toil were o'er,
Thou couldst have borne twelve labours more?
Ah no! Far other Wreaths shall twine
Around Vancouver's purer shrine.
In the rich temple of the Mind,
Sacred to love of humankind,
A nobler altar shall be rais'd
Than e'er in heathen temples blaz'd:
The triumph of a generous Heart,
Accus'd of every selfish Art;
The glory of the Good and Wise,
Without one sordid sacrifice;
Th'ordeal of true Friendship past,
And every Virtue prov'd at last.
Around Vancouver's purer shrine.
In the rich temple of the Mind,
Sacred to love of humankind,
A nobler altar shall be rais'd
Than e'er in heathen temples blaz'd:
The triumph of a generous Heart,
Accus'd of every selfish Art;
The glory of the Good and Wise,
Without one sordid sacrifice;
Th'ordeal of true Friendship past,
And every Virtue prov'd at last.
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