 | Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems |  |
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INTRODUCTORY OUTLINE.
“What do they in the north.”
Richard III.
Richard III.
Of old, when Author's meant to try their skill,
The verse began,—“Come forth my grey-goose quill;”
But now, that each revolving season, brings
New forms, and fashions, for all earthly things;
When sound, and light, and motion, are no more
What sound, and light, and motion were of yore;
When all things vary, shall I summon still
The Goose's raw simplicity of quill?
No, art shall trim, and model it; and then
I cry, “Come forth my Bramah's patent pen.”
The verse began,—“Come forth my grey-goose quill;”
But now, that each revolving season, brings
New forms, and fashions, for all earthly things;
When sound, and light, and motion, are no more
What sound, and light, and motion were of yore;
When all things vary, shall I summon still
The Goose's raw simplicity of quill?
No, art shall trim, and model it; and then
I cry, “Come forth my Bramah's patent pen.”
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Come forth thou little “chronicler of time,”
Thou precious accoucheur of prose, and rhyme;
Dear to the happy, but more dear to those,
Who wile away the memory of their woes;
Who far from all who love them, and the mirth
Which circles ever round a social hearth;
Sigh in their solitudes, where not a word,—
Nor laugh,—nor footstep of a friend, is heard;
And sadly seize thee thus; and scribble rhymes,
To banish thoughts of brighter, happier times.
Thou precious accoucheur of prose, and rhyme;
Dear to the happy, but more dear to those,
Who wile away the memory of their woes;
Who far from all who love them, and the mirth
Which circles ever round a social hearth;
Sigh in their solitudes, where not a word,—
Nor laugh,—nor footstep of a friend, is heard;
And sadly seize thee thus; and scribble rhymes,
To banish thoughts of brighter, happier times.
'Tis thus I court thy aid, and bid thee drink
From yonder chrystal fountain, streams of ink;
From the same fount I'd quaff, could it bestow
Like Lethe's flood,—forgetfulness of woe;
Few months are past, since in my desk you lay
In undistrub'd repose from day to day,
I needed not your aid, for then the hours
Flew swiftly by, Time never rests on flowers,
'Tis now he lingers while my spirit mourns,—
As if 'twere luxury to sit on thorns!
I scribbled not by day,—for then I rov'd
Along the sea-beat shore with one I lov'd;
I scribbled not by night,—for visions came,
And I was busy—dreaming of her name;
Dear was our early walk, when o'er the hill
The grey mists of the morning hover'd still;
Dear was the hour of noon;—our chosen seat
Beneath the trees that shelter'd us from heat;
Where daily I took forth a book, and said
That she should sit and listen, whilst I read;
The page was open'd, and we paus'd to look
Upon each other;—and forgot the book.—
Dear was the hour of sunset, for we knew
To-morrow's sun together we should view:
Dear was our evening song, and dear to me
The feast of muffins and the flow of tea.
From yonder chrystal fountain, streams of ink;
From the same fount I'd quaff, could it bestow
Like Lethe's flood,—forgetfulness of woe;
Few months are past, since in my desk you lay
In undistrub'd repose from day to day,
I needed not your aid, for then the hours
Flew swiftly by, Time never rests on flowers,
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As if 'twere luxury to sit on thorns!
I scribbled not by day,—for then I rov'd
Along the sea-beat shore with one I lov'd;
I scribbled not by night,—for visions came,
And I was busy—dreaming of her name;
Dear was our early walk, when o'er the hill
The grey mists of the morning hover'd still;
Dear was the hour of noon;—our chosen seat
Beneath the trees that shelter'd us from heat;
Where daily I took forth a book, and said
That she should sit and listen, whilst I read;
The page was open'd, and we paus'd to look
Upon each other;—and forgot the book.—
Dear was the hour of sunset, for we knew
To-morrow's sun together we should view:
Dear was our evening song, and dear to me
The feast of muffins and the flow of tea.
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But this is past, and now I take thee forth,
To sketch the lights and shadows of the north;
For her alone I'll sketch each passing scene,
Alas! with her, how fair they might have been.
“Aid me, ye Nine!” is still the common cant,
All ask the aid which muses seldom grant;
In calling spirits forth the task is small,
But will those spirits come when we do call?
To sketch the lights and shadows of the north;
For her alone I'll sketch each passing scene,
Alas! with her, how fair they might have been.
“Aid me, ye Nine!” is still the common cant,
All ask the aid which muses seldom grant;
In calling spirits forth the task is small,
But will those spirits come when we do call?
Ye cruel Nine! how can ye disregard
The pensive plaint of many a would-be bard,
Who woos ye all en masse, and scorns to choose
A snug flirtation with a single muse?
The pensive plaint of many a would-be bard,
Who woos ye all en masse, and scorns to choose
A snug flirtation with a single muse?
Those midnight votaries, who oft consume
Their ink, their paper, and their youthful bloom;
Who talk of what they call their tuneful Lyre,
Asking (what much they lack) Poetic fire.
Ah! who can tell how hard it is to climb
The hill, where Poet's meet with thoughts sublime,
How many souls (and bodies we may add)
Have woo'd good fortune, and have wedded bad!
Have warr'd with fate, unable to defeat her,—
(So Beattie said in other words and metre.)
Their ink, their paper, and their youthful bloom;
Who talk of what they call their tuneful Lyre,
Asking (what much they lack) Poetic fire.
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The hill, where Poet's meet with thoughts sublime,
How many souls (and bodies we may add)
Have woo'd good fortune, and have wedded bad!
Have warr'd with fate, unable to defeat her,—
(So Beattie said in other words and metre.)
Some youth reads Pope, and in a little time,
Learns (like a tune) the jingle of the rhyme;
Then rashly puts his Pope upon the shelf,
Buys a blank copy-book, and writes himself;
Counts each line with his fingers, and then hopes
His cold heroics are as good as Pope's!
The jingling rhyme successfully he apes;
The genius of his model all escapes.
Learns (like a tune) the jingle of the rhyme;
Then rashly puts his Pope upon the shelf,
Buys a blank copy-book, and writes himself;
Counts each line with his fingers, and then hopes
His cold heroics are as good as Pope's!
The jingling rhyme successfully he apes;
The genius of his model all escapes.
Thus minor beauties, striving to excel,
Follow the fashions of some reigning belle;
But, when each garment is exactly plac'd
To copy all the frolics of her taste;
They catch the artificial part alone,
The charm remains exclusively her own.
Follow the fashions of some reigning belle;
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To copy all the frolics of her taste;
They catch the artificial part alone,
The charm remains exclusively her own.
Our rhymster, in his lofty cheap abode,
Is parturitious, and brings forth—an ode,
The ode by some admiring friends is seen,
And then is sent to Blackwood's magazine:
“Old North with joy on such an ode will look,
“He cannot fail to put it in his book;
“All men of sense its talent must admire
—North puts it in—He puts it in the fire.
Is parturitious, and brings forth—an ode,
The ode by some admiring friends is seen,
And then is sent to Blackwood's magazine:
“Old North with joy on such an ode will look,
“He cannot fail to put it in his book;
“All men of sense its talent must admire
—North puts it in—He puts it in the fire.
Oh blind injustice! still he writes away;—
Still no rash publisher will print the lay;
In manuscript it sleeps, nor can possess
The type and margin, honors of the press:
Still no rash publisher will print the lay;
In manuscript it sleeps, nor can possess
The type and margin, honors of the press:
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Thus ever doom'd to view—oh worse than all!
His own dear verses, in his own vile scrawl;
He ponders in his garret pale with care,
Wasting his sweetness in the desert air;
And chews the cud of bitter fancy too;
With often very little else to chew.
His own dear verses, in his own vile scrawl;
He ponders in his garret pale with care,
Wasting his sweetness in the desert air;
And chews the cud of bitter fancy too;
With often very little else to chew.
Yet still, though dull contemporaries frown,
He feels secure of posthumous renown,
Thinks the collected remnants of his wit
Will move the earth—when he is under it;
Visions like these his present pangs must heal,
Which e'en if realiz'd, he could not feel;
Will fame, or praise, or honors, comfort him
Whose ears are closed in death—whose eyes are dim!
For men alive he scorns to wield his pen,
He writes for babes unborn, for embryo men.
Whilst many a wild and wayward reverie,
Floats round the station where his brains should be,
And thoughts conceal'd in flimsy flowery clothing,
And many mental flights, that end in nothing.
He feels secure of posthumous renown,
Thinks the collected remnants of his wit
Will move the earth—when he is under it;
Visions like these his present pangs must heal,
Which e'en if realiz'd, he could not feel;
Will fame, or praise, or honors, comfort him
Whose ears are closed in death—whose eyes are dim!
For men alive he scorns to wield his pen,
He writes for babes unborn, for embryo men.
Whilst many a wild and wayward reverie,
Floats round the station where his brains should be,
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And many mental flights, that end in nothing.
But hold, where was I?—I must hasten back
To my own theme, I've wander'd from the track;
Muses, to you I spoke, attend my call,
And hear my invocation, one, and all:
I own that good auld Reekie's charms demand
The mighty touches of a master hand;
And much I hope a master's powerful pen
Will one day draw her picture: but 'till then
Permit a Southron hand to sketch in haste,
A few faint outlines; easily effaced.
To my own theme, I've wander'd from the track;
Muses, to you I spoke, attend my call,
And hear my invocation, one, and all:
I own that good auld Reekie's charms demand
The mighty touches of a master hand;
And much I hope a master's powerful pen
Will one day draw her picture: but 'till then
Permit a Southron hand to sketch in haste,
A few faint outlines; easily effaced.
Besides, the Master Bards appear all busy;
First let us think of Byron—stop, where is he?
Far from his home the noble minstrel strays,
Courting Melpomene; composing plays.—
“Ye breezes waft his tragic treasures o'er,
“The sinking drama may revive once more.”
His plays revive the drama! think not so;
You must not dream of acting them you know:
They're not adapted for the stage in fact;—
(Though faith we've plays enough we cannot act:)
But 'tis his way, and I suspect indeed,
He means to send us books we must not read!
First let us think of Byron—stop, where is he?
Far from his home the noble minstrel strays,
Courting Melpomene; composing plays.—
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“The sinking drama may revive once more.”
His plays revive the drama! think not so;
You must not dream of acting them you know:
They're not adapted for the stage in fact;—
(Though faith we've plays enough we cannot act:)
But 'tis his way, and I suspect indeed,
He means to send us books we must not read!
And Scott, the great enchanter of the north,
Who sent his verse romances crowding forth;
Till suddenly he paus'd; and some one chose
To send romances forth, as good, in prose!
Though known to all, still call'd the great unknown,
We now suspect no magic, but his own;
Methinks his hands must now be full enough,
'Tis said he still is playing blind man's buff.
Who sent his verse romances crowding forth;
Till suddenly he paus'd; and some one chose
To send romances forth, as good, in prose!
Though known to all, still call'd the great unknown,
We now suspect no magic, but his own;
Methinks his hands must now be full enough,
'Tis said he still is playing blind man's buff.
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Scott! thy pure muse may counteract the rhymes
Of Atheist bards who gild the worst of crimes;
Who make their heroes brutal, yet their skill
Can deck them out in fascinations still;
Who give alluring blandishments to evil,
And paint us the flirtations of the Devil!
Oh! still exert thy rare unrivall'd powers,
Still cull Imgination's fairest flowers;
Were life now closing round thee, there is not
A single line that thou couldst wish to blot!
Of Atheist bards who gild the worst of crimes;
Who make their heroes brutal, yet their skill
Can deck them out in fascinations still;
Who give alluring blandishments to evil,
And paint us the flirtations of the Devil!
Oh! still exert thy rare unrivall'd powers,
Still cull Imgination's fairest flowers;
Were life now closing round thee, there is not
A single line that thou couldst wish to blot!
And where is Southey? in himself an host;
Who treads all learning's paths, and shines in most;
The eloquent biographer, who trac'd
Poor Nelson's life with feeling, truth, and taste;
The pure historian, moralist, and sage,
And every inch a bard in Roderick's page;
But his last work! that nightmare of burlesque!
“Visions of judgment hence”—nor haunt my desk.
Who treads all learning's paths, and shines in most;
The eloquent biographer, who trac'd
Poor Nelson's life with feeling, truth, and taste;
The pure historian, moralist, and sage,
And every inch a bard in Roderick's page;
But his last work! that nightmare of burlesque!
“Visions of judgment hence”—nor haunt my desk.
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And where is Moore? the minstrel who can move
Each secret pulse of tenderness, and love;
The son of melody, whose touching words
Float wedded to the music o'er the chords;
Oh! how can one so highly gifted stray
In personality's disgusting way?
In Tommy Brown's ungentlemanlike dress
You show us e'en Tom Little can be less.
Couldst thou feel flatter'd when the vulgar laugh'd
At the foul point of thy envenom'd shaft?
Abandon Fudge;—believe me, such a book
Can never raise the bard of Lalla Rookh:
Cull from thy fancy's rich exhaustless store;
Be great—be all thou hast been—nay, be Moore.
Each secret pulse of tenderness, and love;
The son of melody, whose touching words
Float wedded to the music o'er the chords;
Oh! how can one so highly gifted stray
In personality's disgusting way?
In Tommy Brown's ungentlemanlike dress
You show us e'en Tom Little can be less.
Couldst thou feel flatter'd when the vulgar laugh'd
At the foul point of thy envenom'd shaft?
Abandon Fudge;—believe me, such a book
Can never raise the bard of Lalla Rookh:
Cull from thy fancy's rich exhaustless store;
Be great—be all thou hast been—nay, be Moore.
Campbell when first he gave his talents scope,
In polished numbers taught us how to hope,
But now his angel visits are so few,
That he hath taught us disappointment too:
Say is his new and monthly task so hard,
That in the editor he sinks the bard?
If 'tis for this we taste the bitter cup,
In his own magazine we'll blow him up.
In polished numbers taught us how to hope,
But now his angel visits are so few,
That he hath taught us disappointment too:
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That in the editor he sinks the bard?
If 'tis for this we taste the bitter cup,
In his own magazine we'll blow him up.
And what is Wordsworth doing? He who owns
(At times)—an inspiration, which atones
For much absurdity, and when he chooses
Can make a long “Excursion” with the Muses,
But whose unlucky Betty's, Bobs, and Peters,
Throw into shade his rarer, nobler, metres;
Perhaps e'en now his muse exalts the fame
Of Jemmy Scraggs, or some such classic name;
Or Nancy Dawson may employ his pen,
With sky-blue women, or with small grey men.
(At times)—an inspiration, which atones
For much absurdity, and when he chooses
Can make a long “Excursion” with the Muses,
But whose unlucky Betty's, Bobs, and Peters,
Throw into shade his rarer, nobler, metres;
Perhaps e'en now his muse exalts the fame
Of Jemmy Scraggs, or some such classic name;
Or Nancy Dawson may employ his pen,
With sky-blue women, or with small grey men.
And Crabbe, whose muse is not admir'd the less,
For painting nature in her simplest dress;
Whose thoughts assume not a fantastic form,
Who ne'er attempts to take one's praise by storm,
But reigns supreme in feeling's tenderest scenes,
And wins his readers' hearts by gentlest means.
Leave him to choose his subjects, sure of this,
His taste will never let him choose amiss;
We find in him instead of proud pretence,
Uncommon talents, join'd to common sense.
For painting nature in her simplest dress;
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Who ne'er attempts to take one's praise by storm,
But reigns supreme in feeling's tenderest scenes,
And wins his readers' hearts by gentlest means.
Leave him to choose his subjects, sure of this,
His taste will never let him choose amiss;
We find in him instead of proud pretence,
Uncommon talents, join'd to common sense.
And where is Rogers too? if Memory's Bard
Were unremember'd 'twould indeed be hard;
And Milman, poetry professor too,
Few understand what they profess like you.
And—. But I'll name no more, should I proceed
Through all who write, 'twere difficult indeed.
Were unremember'd 'twould indeed be hard;
And Milman, poetry professor too,
Few understand what they profess like you.
And—. But I'll name no more, should I proceed
Through all who write, 'twere difficult indeed.
For countless Votaries round Parnassus lurk,
And some must find it very up-hill work;
Sick of his briefs, the Lawyer seeks relief
In scribbling cantos—any thing but brief;
Each Parson rhymes in a decorous way,
And every Layman pens a tender lay.
And some must find it very up-hill work;
Sick of his briefs, the Lawyer seeks relief
In scribbling cantos—any thing but brief;
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And every Layman pens a tender lay.
And Woman too predestin'd to excel,
Whose form possesses such a lovely spell;
Man views her, and believes perfection hers,
Or he should veil her error—if she errs:
She mounts the winged steed in triumph too,
And though the vulgar say her hose are blue;
Whilst Baillie, Tighe, and Hemans still possess
So firm a seat, she well may hope success:
And even when ye fail—ye gentle bards,
When on the backs of invitation cards
Ye've written sonnets, and divide your looks
'Twixt last new fashions, and the last new books;
When dulcet lyric measures take the place
Of measur'd tabinets, and lawn, and lace;
When ye have shunn'd the concert and the dance,
And scorn'd your sex's soft bewitching glance,
And caught the poet's frenzy-rolling eye—
(Extremely unbecoming by the bye;)
If then Parnassus seems a hopeless prize,
And, as you struggle, Alps on Alps arise;
If still the Muses prove how rare their aid is,
Remember you've been wooing nine young ladies!
Think not if women often write in vain,
Whilst men the Muses' richest smiles obtain;
Think not their coldness should your spirit vex,
'Tis not your genius fails you, but your sex;
The Nine are female, and each Muse bestows
Her smiles (like other females) on the beaux.
If there's a Muse will not disdain a lay,
In which—sans method—grave is mix'd with gay;
If haply there is one, whose eye prefers
A wild al fresco outline;—I am hers.
Whose form possesses such a lovely spell;
Man views her, and believes perfection hers,
Or he should veil her error—if she errs:
She mounts the winged steed in triumph too,
And though the vulgar say her hose are blue;
Whilst Baillie, Tighe, and Hemans still possess
So firm a seat, she well may hope success:
And even when ye fail—ye gentle bards,
When on the backs of invitation cards
Ye've written sonnets, and divide your looks
'Twixt last new fashions, and the last new books;
When dulcet lyric measures take the place
Of measur'd tabinets, and lawn, and lace;
When ye have shunn'd the concert and the dance,
And scorn'd your sex's soft bewitching glance,
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(Extremely unbecoming by the bye;)
If then Parnassus seems a hopeless prize,
And, as you struggle, Alps on Alps arise;
If still the Muses prove how rare their aid is,
Remember you've been wooing nine young ladies!
Think not if women often write in vain,
Whilst men the Muses' richest smiles obtain;
Think not their coldness should your spirit vex,
'Tis not your genius fails you, but your sex;
The Nine are female, and each Muse bestows
Her smiles (like other females) on the beaux.
If there's a Muse will not disdain a lay,
In which—sans method—grave is mix'd with gay;
If haply there is one, whose eye prefers
A wild al fresco outline;—I am hers.
When sombre shades predominate too much,
I'll change the prospect with a lighter touch;
And when too much of trifling fills the strain,
My own sad thoughts will change the scene again.
My volume thus half earnest and half jest,
Is like a snuff-box of two tunes possest,
One lively and one sad: the same machine
Pours forth each strain in turn from keys unseen.
When either grows fatiguing; we know how
To change the theme at once—As I do now.
I'll change the prospect with a lighter touch;
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My own sad thoughts will change the scene again.
My volume thus half earnest and half jest,
Is like a snuff-box of two tunes possest,
One lively and one sad: the same machine
Pours forth each strain in turn from keys unseen.
When either grows fatiguing; we know how
To change the theme at once—As I do now.
| Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems | |