The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale In two volumes |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
A CONFERENCE BETWIXT APOLLO AND HIS DISCIPLE. |
|
 | The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale |  |
215
A CONFERENCE BETWIXT APOLLO AND HIS DISCIPLE.
La Nature fait des heureux, malgre la Fortune; la Fortune n'en fait jamais malgre la Nature.
Essais de Trublet, vol. iii. p. 270, Paris Edit.
TRANSLATED.
Nature makes some men happy in spite of Fortune; but none were ever made happy by Fortune in spite of Nature.
217
TO MR. CHURCHILL.
219
1764.
'Twas on a sweet autumnal eve,
Just when their tea the ladies leave;
And to the Berwick-Mall repair,
Not for the men—but for the air;
When I employed the silent hour
To rouse imagination's power,
Fixed only to a Poet's duty,
Unmoved by scandal or by beauty;
Regardless of the mental pains,
That oft have checked my youthful strains;
Pains in my lot so very rife,
They quite obscure my scene of life.
Just when their tea the ladies leave;
And to the Berwick-Mall repair,
Not for the men—but for the air;
When I employed the silent hour
To rouse imagination's power,
Fixed only to a Poet's duty,
Unmoved by scandal or by beauty;
224
That oft have checked my youthful strains;
Pains in my lot so very rife,
They quite obscure my scene of life.
Down was I seated at the table,
To think as fast as I was able:
The servants of the tuneful trade,
Pen, ink, and paper were displayed.
Ideas now began to teem,
And usher in the magic dream;
I really thought (forgive the strain,
Our sect, you know, will still be vain)
For me the nine inspiring maids
Had left their Heliconian shades.
To think as fast as I was able:
The servants of the tuneful trade,
Pen, ink, and paper were displayed.
Ideas now began to teem,
And usher in the magic dream;
I really thought (forgive the strain,
Our sect, you know, will still be vain)
For me the nine inspiring maids
Had left their Heliconian shades.
But by a singular event
The spell asunder soon was rent;
Away the flowery vision flew,
And a new scene my notice drew
For a gale visited my door,
I ne'er heard one so soft before;
And with it brought a rich perfume,
A rabian odours filled my room:
This gale, you'll find, conveyed a God
From Jupiter's divine abode;
The fragrant scent that with it came,
Forth issued from his heavenly frame.
Next the melodious God Apollo,
Whose laws I much delight to follow,
Entered my cell with noble gait,
Yet no austerity of state;
I knew him by his hair unshorn,
His visage brighter than the morn;
His long and flowing flaxen hair
Waved gently to each breath of air;
His cheeks were flushed with ardent youth,
His eyes spoke poetry and truth;
Mine scarce could bear to meet the ray,
Effulgent with celestial day.
A laurel-wreath, with flowers intwined,
Trust me, most charmingly designed,
The laurel, and the flowers unfading,
To form the crown each grace was aiding,
On his fair brow my Patron wore,
In his right hand a lyre he bore.
The spell asunder soon was rent;
Away the flowery vision flew,
And a new scene my notice drew
For a gale visited my door,
I ne'er heard one so soft before;
And with it brought a rich perfume,
A rabian odours filled my room:
225
From Jupiter's divine abode;
The fragrant scent that with it came,
Forth issued from his heavenly frame.
Next the melodious God Apollo,
Whose laws I much delight to follow,
Entered my cell with noble gait,
Yet no austerity of state;
I knew him by his hair unshorn,
His visage brighter than the morn;
His long and flowing flaxen hair
Waved gently to each breath of air;
His cheeks were flushed with ardent youth,
His eyes spoke poetry and truth;
Mine scarce could bear to meet the ray,
Effulgent with celestial day.
A laurel-wreath, with flowers intwined,
Trust me, most charmingly designed,
The laurel, and the flowers unfading,
To form the crown each grace was aiding,
On his fair brow my Patron wore,
In his right hand a lyre he bore.
226
I rose astonished from my seat,
With due respect the god to meet;
Kneeling I paid my adoration,
For even to gods I hate prostration;
And when I bow the pliant knee,
The homage is sincere from me:
The knee that ne'er, with servile fate,
Shall trembling on a vizier wait,
Though his benign administration
Thaws with it's beams a frosty nation.
With due respect the god to meet;
Kneeling I paid my adoration,
For even to gods I hate prostration;
And when I bow the pliant knee,
The homage is sincere from me:
The knee that ne'er, with servile fate,
Shall trembling on a vizier wait,
Though his benign administration
Thaws with it's beams a frosty nation.
Stockdale, my friend, he said, arise:
The generous beings of the skies
Oft use their influence here below
To quell a hapless mortal's woe;
And deem themselves as truly great
In condescension, as in state.
Nay even the Universal Mind,
Lord of divine, and human kind,
Thinks that his Majesty's no less,
When earthly man he deigns to bless,
Than when he rends the pole asunder,
And shakes creation with his thunder.
For me to make no idle splutter,
Nor put your spirits in a flutter;
I've hither come to give you ease,
Not to perplex you, but to please;
To show the method, which, employed,
By it your life may be enjoyed,
And you enabled to rehearse,
In easy fortune, easy verse.
And now, that my benign intention
To you may meet with no prevention,
But may completely be applied,
Let us lay needless form aside,
Like easy friends, each take a seat,
That I may say what I think meet.
And as the jovial god of wine
Can human nature make divine,
Open the sluices of the soul,
And bid them flow without controul;
Bring us the bottle and the glass,
And smoothly let the minutes pass:
Suppose my godship quite away,
And fancy you're in chat with Grey,
With whom no minutes you can waste,
For all his sentiments are taste;
Who owes to me, and doctor Cullen
That he's not shrouded in his woollen.
Immediately he took a chair,
Easy, alert, and debonair;
And seeming not to see my pother,
He kindly reached his bard another.
The generous beings of the skies
Oft use their influence here below
To quell a hapless mortal's woe;
And deem themselves as truly great
In condescension, as in state.
Nay even the Universal Mind,
Lord of divine, and human kind,
Thinks that his Majesty's no less,
When earthly man he deigns to bless,
Than when he rends the pole asunder,
And shakes creation with his thunder.
For me to make no idle splutter,
227
I've hither come to give you ease,
Not to perplex you, but to please;
To show the method, which, employed,
By it your life may be enjoyed,
And you enabled to rehearse,
In easy fortune, easy verse.
And now, that my benign intention
To you may meet with no prevention,
But may completely be applied,
Let us lay needless form aside,
Like easy friends, each take a seat,
That I may say what I think meet.
And as the jovial god of wine
Can human nature make divine,
Open the sluices of the soul,
And bid them flow without controul;
Bring us the bottle and the glass,
And smoothly let the minutes pass:
Suppose my godship quite away,
And fancy you're in chat with Grey,
228
For all his sentiments are taste;
Who owes to me, and doctor Cullen
That he's not shrouded in his woollen.
Immediately he took a chair,
Easy, alert, and debonair;
And seeming not to see my pother,
He kindly reached his bard another.
I could not speak a word with ease;
But at length hesitated these:
Since thou, harmonious, healing power,
Deignest with me to spend an hour,
We have some claret from Bourdeaux;
'Twill make our thoughts with ardour flow.
But at length hesitated these:
Since thou, harmonious, healing power,
Deignest with me to spend an hour,
We have some claret from Bourdeaux;
'Twill make our thoughts with ardour flow.
I drew the cork; we drank some glasses
To worthy men, and pretty lasses;
And as I now began to feel
The subtle balsam sweetly steal,
Quite undismayed. I grew inclined
To speak the movements of my mind.
And without studied preparation,
I thus described my situation;
And stifling laudable ambition,
Preferred the following odd petition.
To worthy men, and pretty lasses;
And as I now began to feel
The subtle balsam sweetly steal,
Quite undismayed. I grew inclined
To speak the movements of my mind.
And without studied preparation,
I thus described my situation;
229
Preferred the following odd petition.
Can that good deity who shares
In my uncommon load of cares;
Who heavenly honours can forego,
To sympathize with mortal woe,
Receive offence, if I explain
My troubles in a simple strain;
How hard they are, presume to tell him,
And what I think alone can quell 'em?
In my uncommon load of cares;
Who heavenly honours can forego,
To sympathize with mortal woe,
Receive offence, if I explain
My troubles in a simple strain;
How hard they are, presume to tell him,
And what I think alone can quell 'em?
Phœbus assured me he would hear
My story with propitious ear;
And I, encouraged by the proffer,
Proceeded thus my thoughts to offer.
My story with propitious ear;
And I, encouraged by the proffer,
Proceeded thus my thoughts to offer.
To sing the beauties of a grove,
The joys, and agonies of love;
In striking harmony of numbers
To picture Virtue's peaceful slumbers,
The phantoms that the knave infest,
And keep him all the night from rest;
The glory of a bero's death,
Who for his country yields his breath:
To bid Pratt live to future ages,
Embalmed in monumental pages,
Who made a patriotic stand
To reinstate a sinking land;
Nobly joined liberty, and law,
Disdaining ministerial awe;
Ye gods make this my destination,
A sweet, but dangerous occupation.
The joys, and agonies of love;
In striking harmony of numbers
To picture Virtue's peaceful slumbers,
The phantoms that the knave infest,
And keep him all the night from rest;
230
Who for his country yields his breath:
To bid Pratt live to future ages,
Embalmed in monumental pages,
Who made a patriotic stand
To reinstate a sinking land;
Nobly joined liberty, and law,
Disdaining ministerial awe;
Ye gods make this my destination,
A sweet, but dangerous occupation.
You know, the poet lives all o'er,
Strongly he feels at every pore;
And while the circumspective things,
That never soar on fancy's wings,
In whom we ne'er see thought unfold,
Are scarcely capable to hold
One meagre image at a time,
That image unbecoming rhyme,
A scandal to poetic feet,
Some stupid animal conceit;
Ideas in a crouding train
Press the fine texture of his brain:
For him a thousand wait at once,
And but one trifle for the dunce:
Quick to his pericranium fleo
Objects in throngs, of each degree,
The mean, the beautiful, the great,
The swain's content, the farce of state;
There the whole world admittance gains,
It's few delights, it's many pains.
Strongly he feels at every pore;
And while the circumspective things,
That never soar on fancy's wings,
In whom we ne'er see thought unfold,
Are scarcely capable to hold
One meagre image at a time,
That image unbecoming rhyme,
A scandal to poetic feet,
Some stupid animal conceit;
Ideas in a crouding train
Press the fine texture of his brain:
231
And but one trifle for the dunce:
Quick to his pericranium fleo
Objects in throngs, of each degree,
The mean, the beautiful, the great,
The swain's content, the farce of state;
There the whole world admittance gains,
It's few delights, it's many pains.
Thou knowest, too, that since my birth,
I've barely crawled upon this earth,
Have met with every opposition
To intellectual nutrition;
Each load that might a genius smother,
Or from myself, or from another:
Now, haply, by my own neglect,
Or a more culpable defect,
Into a sea of trouble hurled,
Now by the rigour of the world.
I've barely crawled upon this earth,
Have met with every opposition
To intellectual nutrition;
Each load that might a genius smother,
Or from myself, or from another:
Now, haply, by my own neglect,
Or a more culpable defect,
Into a sea of trouble hurled,
Now by the rigour of the world.
I lost my father when at college,
A blow that lopt my tree of knowledge
My father was that work divine,
That Pope allows so bright to shine
He was a truly honest man,
A hero on a virtuous plan;
Far greater, in my mind, than Tully,
Or Alexander, Greece's bully.
A blow that lopt my tree of knowledge
My father was that work divine,
That Pope allows so bright to shine
232
A hero on a virtuous plan;
Far greater, in my mind, than Tully,
Or Alexander, Greece's bully.
Pardon, I pray, my grateful spirit,
Digressive on paternal merit,
And let me now stick to my point,
Nor put my story out of joint.
Digressive on paternal merit,
And let me now stick to my point,
Nor put my story out of joint.
Since the departure of my sire,
My portion of poetic fire,
As I have ever been distressed,
Was almost to this hour depressed:
A stranger oft to balmy health,
And always to the charms of wealth,
Which causeth suddenly to rise
Elysian scenes before your eyes;
No wants to check the muse's wing,
And make the poet faintly sing;
No shyness from his lordship's scorn,
No frown imperious to be borne:
Both lavish nature, and mankind
For him seem eager, joys to find:
The pleasures of the festal board
Fresh vigour to his soul afford;
The tributary garden greets
His senses with a thousand sweets;
Soft sycophants perfume his lays,
Even human tigers grumble praise.
My portion of poetic fire,
As I have ever been distressed,
Was almost to this hour depressed:
A stranger oft to balmy health,
And always to the charms of wealth,
Which causeth suddenly to rise
Elysian scenes before your eyes;
No wants to check the muse's wing,
And make the poet faintly sing;
233
No frown imperious to be borne:
Both lavish nature, and mankind
For him seem eager, joys to find:
The pleasures of the festal board
Fresh vigour to his soul afford;
The tributary garden greets
His senses with a thousand sweets;
Soft sycophants perfume his lays,
Even human tigers grumble praise.
Balked I have been by many a friend,
On whom I thought I might depend;
Cheated by rogues, o'erlooked by fools,
Who never judge by generous rules;
When first they see one, still express
Their value of him from his dress;
And shrewdly deem the man most wise,
Whose purse is of the largest size.
On whom I thought I might depend;
Cheated by rogues, o'erlooked by fools,
Who never judge by generous rules;
When first they see one, still express
Their value of him from his dress;
And shrewdly deem the man most wise,
Whose purse is of the largest size.
Such hitherto has been my fate,
Such is it at the present date.
The man for poetry designed,
In body delicate, and mind,
Ill brooks oppression's heavy curse,
Grows careless of himself, or worse;
In others this distress I see,
And 'tis exemplified in me.
Therefore this humble boon I crave,
Which may thy son from ruin save.
Oh! rid me of the rhyming vein,
To one more happy give the strain,
Who shall not pass his cloudless days
In errour's and misfortune's maze.
Such is it at the present date.
The man for poetry designed,
In body delicate, and mind,
234
Grows careless of himself, or worse;
In others this distress I see,
And 'tis exemplified in me.
Therefore this humble boon I crave,
Which may thy son from ruin save.
Oh! rid me of the rhyming vein,
To one more happy give the strain,
Who shall not pass his cloudless days
In errour's and misfortune's maze.
Then lucky I, transformed to stone,
In flesh, and spirit, callous grown,
Shall have no more those high sensations,
That work us into such vexations:
Hourly I'll feel the drowsy clog,
And like a pack-horse on I'll jog,
Through life's rough journey calmly trudge,
Nor steady perseverance grudge.
In flesh, and spirit, callous grown,
Shall have no more those high sensations,
That work us into such vexations:
Hourly I'll feel the drowsy clog,
And like a pack-horse on I'll jog,
Through life's rough journey calmly trudge,
Nor steady perseverance grudge.
And though my taste shall be no more,
Perhaps on books I still shall pore,
And hours of solitude amuse
With partial dictionary views;
Like many of my reverend betters,
Ne'er study aught but words and letters.
Thus, when I've long, and much applied,
Bloated with literary pride,
Bristled with Latin and with Greek,
The public notice I may seek;
A Warburton I may commence,
Mistaking memory for sense;
Of poets give false explanations,
And dream about divine legations;
Inhale the incense of a Pope,
And then conclude that I may cope
With all the lords in critic rules,
That governed all the ancient schools.
What matter though I'm in a vision,
And the mere subject of derision?
By my own verdict if I'm blest,
I'll not be anxious for the rest.
Perhaps on books I still shall pore,
And hours of solitude amuse
With partial dictionary views;
235
Ne'er study aught but words and letters.
Thus, when I've long, and much applied,
Bloated with literary pride,
Bristled with Latin and with Greek,
The public notice I may seek;
A Warburton I may commence,
Mistaking memory for sense;
Of poets give false explanations,
And dream about divine legations;
Inhale the incense of a Pope,
And then conclude that I may cope
With all the lords in critic rules,
That governed all the ancient schools.
236
And the mere subject of derision?
By my own verdict if I'm blest,
I'll not be anxious for the rest.
Then in dame Prudence's affairs,
I shall employ my utmost cares;
Strive to mount higher in the church;
And leave young deacons in the lurch;
Drink with some powerful country squire,
Swear all he says is attic fire,
Bow myself double at his door,
Commend his pointer, and his whore.
I shall employ my utmost cares;
Strive to mount higher in the church;
And leave young deacons in the lurch;
Drink with some powerful country squire,
Swear all he says is attic fire,
237
Commend his pointer, and his whore.
Thus if I supple prove, and mean,
Perchance I yet may be a dean;
Young pulpit-orators descry
With envious and malignant eye;
Their merit constantly keep down
With deeds unjust, and haughty frown;
Be plotting still some cruel work,
Ride my cathedral like a Turk,
And slumber in my crimson-stall,
The heaviest blockhead of them all.
Perchance I yet may be a dean;
Young pulpit-orators descry
With envious and malignant eye;
Their merit constantly keep down
With deeds unjust, and haughty frown;
Be plotting still some cruel work,
Ride my cathedral like a Turk,
238
The heaviest blockhead of them all.
Perhaps you'll fancy by my stile
That I'm but jesting all this while.
Then, if you please, we'll set aside
The commentaries I've applied,
As so much flourishing discourse;
Yet pardon me if I inforce
My scheme with recapitulation,
And for it beg your approbation;
Take from me all in verse that flows,
And sink me down to simple prose;
I find it is not for my good;
Make me a dunce, oh! make me wood!
In truth I beg the dissolution
Of my harmonious constitution.
That I'm but jesting all this while.
Then, if you please, we'll set aside
The commentaries I've applied,
As so much flourishing discourse;
Yet pardon me if I inforce
My scheme with recapitulation,
And for it beg your approbation;
Take from me all in verse that flows,
And sink me down to simple prose;
I find it is not for my good;
Make me a dunce, oh! make me wood!
In truth I beg the dissolution
Of my harmonious constitution.
Thus my petition preferred,
Which with a smile Apollo heard;
And suffered me not long to wait
For the decision of my fate:
For after I had closed my speech,
Thus did the god begin to preach.
Which with a smile Apollo heard;
And suffered me not long to wait
For the decision of my fate:
For after I had closed my speech,
Thus did the god begin to preach.
239
Alas! I pity human kind,
To their true interest often blind!
Should I to your desire agree,
Another week you would not see:
Life would be such a grievous load,
I fear you'd take the shortest road
To rest among the peaceful dead,
And cut yourself the vital thread.
For let us now suppose away
The influence of poetic ray,
The glorious, the divine delights,
That issue from your present flights,
That energetic mental frame,
That higher works up Friendship's flame,
A thousand vigorous joys bestows,
Which ne'er in vulgar bosoms rose—
Your being, then, would be so scant,
Of what you were you'd find such want,
That your poor famished, wretched soul,
Like those cooped in Calcutta's hole,
Would look on death with longing eyes,
The last, the dearest earthly prize!
To their true interest often blind!
Should I to your desire agree,
Another week you would not see:
Life would be such a grievous load,
I fear you'd take the shortest road
To rest among the peaceful dead,
And cut yourself the vital thread.
For let us now suppose away
The influence of poetic ray,
The glorious, the divine delights,
That issue from your present flights,
That energetic mental frame,
That higher works up Friendship's flame,
A thousand vigorous joys bestows,
Which ne'er in vulgar bosoms rose—
Your being, then, would be so scant,
Of what you were you'd find such want,
That your poor famished, wretched soul,
Like those cooped in Calcutta's hole,
Would look on death with longing eyes,
The last, the dearest earthly prize!
240
Take courage then, and rest assured
Your bliss henceforth may be secured;
The greatest goods that mortals gain,
Must bear proportionable pain:
Those whom the gods with parts inspire,
Are often blasted with their fire;
It hurries them a headlong course,
Like an unmanageable horse;
And feller than their bitterest foe,
Plunges them in a gulph of woe,
Your bliss henceforth may be secured;
The greatest goods that mortals gain,
Must bear proportionable pain:
Those whom the gods with parts inspire,
Are often blasted with their fire;
It hurries them a headlong course,
Like an unmanageable horse;
And feller than their bitterest foe,
Plunges them in a gulph of woe,
More perfect were the poet formed,
His mind by no rude passion stormed,
In nature's scale he'd quit his place,
And vie with our immortal race.
Did his soul uniformly flow,
Like souls less racked, because more low;
Were progress upon progress gained,
By no repelling check restrained;
Had not externals often power
To seize him in a careless hour,
His sensibility of frame
Now to convulse, and now inflame,
Extinguishing awhile his views
Of steadiness, and of the muse,
Producing many a sad event,
His punishment by nature meant;
Did not his sentimental heart
With keen compunction often smart—
In short, could he but in his way,
The matchless fortitude display
Of an unchangeable Lord-Mayor,
Who haggling first with paltry ware,
Is never by one feeling struck,
But that of prosperous, or bad luck;
And caring not a single pin
Whether our warriours lose, or win,
Provided his affairs but tally
In his own shop, and in the alley,
A train of thievish commerce past,
Obtains the Mansion House at last,
That big, smoaked, dirty, stupid pile,
Exactly in his worship's stile—
If thus unshaken were his aim,
Who could set limits to his flame?
Earth, sea, and air, and skies he'd find
Too little for his boundless mind;
He'd grasp the most remote domains,
And hold a captive world in chains.
Then, as he's formed to hate and scorn
All that are base, and sordid born,
Stakes would impale the wretch that cozens,
And purse proud asses hang by dozens.
His mind by no rude passion stormed,
In nature's scale he'd quit his place,
And vie with our immortal race.
Did his soul uniformly flow,
Like souls less racked, because more low;
Were progress upon progress gained,
By no repelling check restrained;
Had not externals often power
To seize him in a careless hour,
His sensibility of frame
Now to convulse, and now inflame,
241
Of steadiness, and of the muse,
Producing many a sad event,
His punishment by nature meant;
Did not his sentimental heart
With keen compunction often smart—
In short, could he but in his way,
The matchless fortitude display
Of an unchangeable Lord-Mayor,
Who haggling first with paltry ware,
Is never by one feeling struck,
But that of prosperous, or bad luck;
And caring not a single pin
Whether our warriours lose, or win,
Provided his affairs but tally
In his own shop, and in the alley,
A train of thievish commerce past,
Obtains the Mansion House at last,
That big, smoaked, dirty, stupid pile,
Exactly in his worship's stile—
If thus unshaken were his aim,
Who could set limits to his flame?
Earth, sea, and air, and skies he'd find
Too little for his boundless mind;
242
And hold a captive world in chains.
Then, as he's formed to hate and scorn
All that are base, and sordid born,
Stakes would impale the wretch that cozens,
And purse proud asses hang by dozens.
But here his vigour would not stay,
He'd search an unfrequented way;
By some acute invention try
To wing his journey to the sky,
Quaff nectar in the realms above,
And pluck the very beard of Jove.
He'd search an unfrequented way;
By some acute invention try
To wing his journey to the sky,
Quaff nectar in the realms above,
And pluck the very beard of Jove.
But, pray, to my advice attend
(Apollo's every Poet's friend)
Throw on your mind the moral rein,
It's effervescences restrain;
Expend each ardent challition
In reading, or in composition;
And joys unmixed you then shall find,
Loved by the Gods, and by Mankind.
(Apollo's every Poet's friend)
Throw on your mind the moral rein,
It's effervescences restrain;
Expend each ardent challition
In reading, or in composition;
And joys unmixed you then shall find,
Loved by the Gods, and by Mankind.
243
Your faults are viewed with generous eyes
By the good people of the skies,
Who candour never can forego,
Like narrow mortals here below;
See the soul's innermost recess,
Know fully what your acts express;
And hence give each it's proper name,
Nor idly sport away your fame.
By the good people of the skies,
Who candour never can forego,
Like narrow mortals here below;
See the soul's innermost recess,
Know fully what your acts express;
And hence give each it's proper name,
Nor idly sport away your fame.
Dully through life all cannot steal,
A few must exquisitely feel;
And by strong impulses attacked,
By tyranny of passion racked,
The government of reason lost,
In jeopardies they're often tost.
But all their youthful sallies o'er,
And unexperienced now no more,
They cease to merit farther blame,
And virtue is their constant aim.
A few must exquisitely feel;
And by strong impulses attacked,
By tyranny of passion racked,
The government of reason lost,
In jeopardies they're often tost.
But all their youthful sallies o'er,
And unexperienced now no more,
They cease to merit farther blame,
And virtue is their constant aim.
To have your own vote on your side,
(A rule you lately misapplied)
Makes rectitude more sweet, and strong;
But stabs it when you're in the wrong.
(A rule you lately misapplied)
Makes rectitude more sweet, and strong;
But stabs it when you're in the wrong.
244
Then lest I throw my pains away,
And vainly quit the realms of day,
An object let me represent,
That sure will win you to content.
And vainly quit the realms of day,
An object let me represent,
That sure will win you to content.
How highly riches are esteemed!
Emblem of every good they're deemed!
And while the mind neglected lies,
The treasure of the good and wise,
No culture on that part bestowed,
That lifts a man into a God;
For shining ore the sailor braves
The foaming madness of the waves;
Familiar ploughs the Northern Seas,
Content in Greenland's ice to freeze,
Now shivering on a Polar strand,
Now gasping in a Southern land.
Emblem of every good they're deemed!
And while the mind neglected lies,
The treasure of the good and wise,
No culture on that part bestowed,
That lifts a man into a God;
For shining ore the sailor braves
The foaming madness of the waves;
Familiar ploughs the Northern Seas,
Content in Greenland's ice to freeze,
Now shivering on a Polar strand,
Now gasping in a Southern land.
For this the restless merchant toils
And eager heaps commercial spoils,
Every humane emotion lost
In apathy of mental frost!
And deaf to pity's gentler sounds,
Hears nought but shillings, pence, and pounds.
And eager heaps commercial spoils,
Every humane emotion lost
In apathy of mental frost!
And deaf to pity's gentler sounds,
Hears nought but shillings, pence, and pounds.
245
Now let me introduce a man,
Formed but on Nature's common plan,
Not of that intellectual force
That spurs us to a generous course,
Of this same idol, wealth, possessed,
And, doubtless, consequently blessed:
A gilded circle every day
Their worship at his levee pay,
Where, sweetening each respectful word,
He hears the music of—“My Lord;”
And wheresoever he appears,
Nought rough offends his eyes, or ears;
He walks through an elysian maze
Of admiration, and of praise.
Formed but on Nature's common plan,
Not of that intellectual force
That spurs us to a generous course,
Of this same idol, wealth, possessed,
And, doubtless, consequently blessed:
A gilded circle every day
Their worship at his levee pay,
Where, sweetening each respectful word,
He hears the music of—“My Lord;”
And wheresoever he appears,
Nought rough offends his eyes, or ears;
He walks through an elysian maze
Of admiration, and of praise.
As far as matter too can go,
Of happiness how fair a show!
A palace in some noble square,
Another for the rural air;
A coach of the superbest kind,
With gaudy scoundrels packed behind;
Turtle, and ortolans, and plate;
All the companions of the great,
With him take up their kind abode,
All grandeur's complicated load.
Now, ere you probe his lordship's case,
If you but view it's outward face,
You'll think him destined at his birth,
High Heaven's vicegerent here on earth.
But mere externals have not power
To bless you with one happy hour;
Felicity you'll ever find,
Springs from the vigour of the mind:
Unless it holds a noble tone,
Human enjoyment is unknown:
The mind, my friend, the mind's the man,
And just according to it's plan,
Affluence may give you no delight,
But you may sicken at the sight;
Or in a noisome dungeon thrown,
Meagre your food, your bed of stone,
Pleasures, with bright and balmy wings,
May visit you, that fly from kings.
Superiour beings can, with ease,
Give objects any form they please,
And joy from circumstances gain,
Where weaker souls would die of pain.
Don't you perceive, whene'er I shroud
My glories in a heavy cloud,
How blank even Summer's charms appear,
How all is desolate, and drear?
But when my unobstructsd blaze
Returns it's animating rays,
Whate'er is offered to your sight,
Takes new creation from the light;
Bright Flora with a livelier die
Engages the spectator's eye;
More verdant leaves the trees adorn,
A whiter blossom decks the thorn;
The birds rejoice on every spray,
And all is rapture, all is day!
Of happiness how fair a show!
A palace in some noble square,
Another for the rural air;
A coach of the superbest kind,
With gaudy scoundrels packed behind;
Turtle, and ortolans, and plate;
All the companions of the great,
246
All grandeur's complicated load.
Now, ere you probe his lordship's case,
If you but view it's outward face,
You'll think him destined at his birth,
High Heaven's vicegerent here on earth.
But mere externals have not power
To bless you with one happy hour;
Felicity you'll ever find,
Springs from the vigour of the mind:
Unless it holds a noble tone,
Human enjoyment is unknown:
The mind, my friend, the mind's the man,
And just according to it's plan,
Affluence may give you no delight,
But you may sicken at the sight;
Or in a noisome dungeon thrown,
Meagre your food, your bed of stone,
Pleasures, with bright and balmy wings,
May visit you, that fly from kings.
Superiour beings can, with ease,
Give objects any form they please,
And joy from circumstances gain,
Where weaker souls would die of pain.
247
My glories in a heavy cloud,
How blank even Summer's charms appear,
How all is desolate, and drear?
But when my unobstructsd blaze
Returns it's animating rays,
Whate'er is offered to your sight,
Takes new creation from the light;
Bright Flora with a livelier die
Engages the spectator's eye;
More verdant leaves the trees adorn,
A whiter blossom decks the thorn;
The birds rejoice on every spray,
And all is rapture, all is day!
'Tis thus the workings of the soul
It's present images controul:
Mark a man's inward sun: from him
The world is luminous, or dim;
To an inferiour, vulgar view,
Existence wears a dusky due;
But where the powers of genius thrive,
All is resplendent, all alive.
It's present images controul:
Mark a man's inward sun: from him
The world is luminous, or dim;
To an inferiour, vulgar view,
Existence wears a dusky due;
But where the powers of genius thrive,
All is resplendent, all alive.
248
But let me not forget my peer;
Grant his health good, and conscience clear;
Yet, on a trivial search, you'll find,
In bliss you leave him far behind.
Grant his health good, and conscience clear;
Yet, on a trivial search, you'll find,
In bliss you leave him far behind.
Does he those fine perceptions know
Felt by a chosen few below?
When setting Sol's about to lave
His tresses in the western wave,
And taste the joys of Thetis' bed,
The skirts of ether streaked with red;
When not a murmur waves the woods,
When not a murmur moves the floods;
Can he in sweet recesses muse,
Absorbed in philosophic views?
Can he such imagery conceive
As makes the struggling bosom heave,
Causeth, while thought pervades the sky,
The flushing cheek, the humid eye;
And bids, at each momentous turn,
The frame to shiver, and to burn?
Felt by a chosen few below?
When setting Sol's about to lave
His tresses in the western wave,
And taste the joys of Thetis' bed,
The skirts of ether streaked with red;
When not a murmur waves the woods,
When not a murmur moves the floods;
Can he in sweet recesses muse,
Absorbed in philosophic views?
Can he such imagery conceive
As makes the struggling bosom heave,
Causeth, while thought pervades the sky,
The flushing cheek, the humid eye;
And bids, at each momentous turn,
The frame to shiver, and to burn?
When Neptune now forgets to roar,
The sea unruffled, hushed the shore;
Along the margin can he stray,
While meditation marks his way;
And raise devotion's holy strain,
His fancy shooting o'er the main?
The sea unruffled, hushed the shore;
249
While meditation marks his way;
And raise devotion's holy strain,
His fancy shooting o'er the main?
Tell me, to books if he applies
With eager, and creative eyes;
Can he, perusing Plato's page,
Catch all the ardour of the sage?
Are his whole faculties on fire,
When Horace wakes the sounding lyre?
Can he, when Livy's work he reads,
Groan where the chaste Lucretia bleeds;
Shudder at Rome's expiring state,
And glow, and pant for Cato's fate;
Dissolve in Thomson's melting flow,
And weep, and tremble with Rousseau?
With eager, and creative eyes;
Can he, perusing Plato's page,
Catch all the ardour of the sage?
Are his whole faculties on fire,
When Horace wakes the sounding lyre?
Can he, when Livy's work he reads,
Groan where the chaste Lucretia bleeds;
Shudder at Rome's expiring state,
And glow, and pant for Cato's fate;
Dissolve in Thomson's melting flow,
And weep, and tremble with Rousseau?
But now prolix my lecture grows,
I'll therefore bring it to a close.
Let Patience, and let Prudence guide
Your free-born spirit's generous tide:
That a young poet is a curate
Is hard, but manfully endure it;
'Tis not, I hope, your fated sphere
To be through life imprisoned here:
Perhaps you'll yet see halcyon-days,
Brightened with profit and with praise.
Let Folly, and Revenge exclaim,
They cannot bar your path to fame;
Despise each puny, snarling elf,
And only regulate yourself.
I'll therefore bring it to a close.
Let Patience, and let Prudence guide
Your free-born spirit's generous tide:
That a young poet is a curate
Is hard, but manfully endure it;
250
To be through life imprisoned here:
Perhaps you'll yet see halcyon-days,
Brightened with profit and with praise.
Let Folly, and Revenge exclaim,
They cannot bar your path to fame;
Despise each puny, snarling elf,
And only regulate yourself.
To heaven again I steer my way;
Nothing remains for me to say;
The blundering scheme proposed by you,
All my intended counsel drew.
Nothing remains for me to say;
The blundering scheme proposed by you,
All my intended counsel drew.
The god arose, and pressed my hand;
I knelt—he let me understand,
That when he went, I should not follow,
Nor as with men deal with Apollo.
Then after him he shut the door;
I neither saw, nor heard him more.
I knelt—he let me understand,
That when he went, I should not follow,
Nor as with men deal with Apollo.
Then after him he shut the door;
I neither saw, nor heard him more.
Immediately fresh courage filled
My heart, through every nerve it thrilled,
And I resolved to take the route
The deity had pointed out;
Shake off the languor of my soul,
And dauntless press to Merit's goal.
My heart, through every nerve it thrilled,
251
The deity had pointed out;
Shake off the languor of my soul,
And dauntless press to Merit's goal.
Thou mighty critic, whose whole figure
Fully denotes thy judgment's vigour;
Through depth of penetration grave,
An enterprizer try to save;
Blast not with cruel breath the bays,
Just sprouting in his youthful days;
Insist to Berwick's corporation,
The piece deserves not reprobation;
For they and all that shall peruse
This product of my artless muse,
Put faith implicit in thy laws,
Thy condemnation, or applause.
Fully denotes thy judgment's vigour;
Through depth of penetration grave,
An enterprizer try to save;
Blast not with cruel breath the bays,
Just sprouting in his youthful days;
Insist to Berwick's corporation,
The piece deserves not reprobation;
For they and all that shall peruse
This product of my artless muse,
Put faith implicit in thy laws,
Thy condemnation, or applause.
Oh! let not then thy sanction lag,
Move thy wise head awhile zig-zag;
Thy candid sentence let me gain,
And rank me in the tuneful train.
Some criticisms for me write,
To rescue me from hostile spite;
Mark in these verses every grace,
The unities of time, and place:
That while some poets, false, and mean,
Their want of native strength to screen,
Are forced to borrow help from lies,
Those low devices I despise;
That here I elegantly tell,
And faithfully, what once befel
To me, who in a tête à tête
With Phœbus canvassed all my fate,
And offer to my reader's view
At once the beautiful, and true.
Move thy wise head awhile zig-zag;
Thy candid sentence let me gain,
And rank me in the tuneful train.
Some criticisms for me write,
To rescue me from hostile spite;
252
The unities of time, and place:
That while some poets, false, and mean,
Their want of native strength to screen,
Are forced to borrow help from lies,
Those low devices I despise;
That here I elegantly tell,
And faithfully, what once befel
To me, who in a tête à tête
With Phœbus canvassed all my fate,
And offer to my reader's view
At once the beautiful, and true.
A married man ought not to talk in general terms of being moved with beauty. He should not be moved with any fine sight in the world. He should be a stone. Dr. De Bois's Ethics, Vol. II. Page 357.
Mr. John Grey, an attorney, at Berwick. He fell from his horse, in a severely frosty night, and was starved to death.
I lately read a note in Emilius; and a part of it reminded me of my Right Reverend Father, the bishop of Glocester. The whole note is worth giving my reader, as it is written by the delicate and sublime Roussean.
La plûpart des savans le sont à la maniere des enfans. La vaste erudition resulte moins d'une multitude d'idées que d'une multitude d'images. Les dates, les noms propres, les lieux, tous les objets isolé, ou denués d'idées se retiennent uniquement par la mémoire des signes, et rarement se rapellet-on quelqu'une des ces choses, sans voir en même-temps le recto, ou le verso de la page où on l'a lue, ou la figure sous laquelle on la vit la premiere fois. Telle étoit à peu prés la science à la mode les siècles derniers; celle de notre siècle est autre chose. On n' étudie plus, on n' observe plus, on rêve, et l' on nous donne gravement pour de la philosophie les rêves de quelques manvaises nuits. On me dira que je rêve aussi; j' en conviens; mais ce que les autres n'ont garde de faire, je donne mes rêves pour des rêves, laissant chercher au lecteur s'ils ont quelque chose d' utile aux gens éveillés. —Emile, Tom. 1. P. 132, 133. Edit. Selon la Copie de Paris.
“The knowledge of most learned men resembles that of children. Immense erudition is not so much the result of many ideas, as of many images. Dates, proper names, places, all those barren objects that afford no ideas, are merely retained by the memory of signs: and we seldom recollect any one of these things, without remembering at the same time, the side of the leaf in which we read it, or the shape in which it first presented itself to our eyes. Such, almost was the fashionable knowledge of the last centuries: The prevailing turn of this age is very different. We study no more; we make no more observations: we are now a set of dreamers; and we gravely publish the dreams of a few restless nights, as accurate philosophy.—Perhaps I may be told that I dream too: With all my heart; but I give my dreams for dreams, which is not the practice of other visionaries; leaving the reader to examine whether they contain any thing that may be of sure to people awake.”
Now it appears to me that the Bishop hath fallen into both the absurdities of these two literary periods. He seems to be a compound of labour, and chimera.
| The Poetical Works of Percival Stockdale | |