The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop ... To Which are Prefixed, Memoirs of the Life of the Author By the Rev. Thomas Clare |
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MINOR POETRY. |
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 | The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop |  |
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MINOR POETRY.
Much of Parnassus, and it's heights sublime,
We read in antient writ, and modern rhyme:—
Heights, which, tho' millions in th' attempt engage,
Scarce one can reach; and hardly once an age.
We read in antient writ, and modern rhyme:—
Heights, which, tho' millions in th' attempt engage,
Scarce one can reach; and hardly once an age.
Tho' all in eager multitudes contend,
Rivals for summits, which so few ascend,
Full many a station of the sacred spot,
Might amply fit less proud ambition's lot:
For numerous tracts of varied landscape fill
Th' adjacent vales, and slope along the hill.
Rivals for summits, which so few ascend,
Full many a station of the sacred spot,
Might amply fit less proud ambition's lot:
For numerous tracts of varied landscape fill
Th' adjacent vales, and slope along the hill.
Of these ('tis all my little skill can do)
Permit me now to sketch a bird's-eye view;
Nor scorn (howe'er inadequate the scrap)
A school-geographer's poetic map.
Permit me now to sketch a bird's-eye view;
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A school-geographer's poetic map.
In smooth extent, which rural beauties grace,
A spacious level skirts the mountain's base:
There might retire, there chant, the pastoral swains,
The Colins, and the Damons of the plains:
There in soft minstrelsy's eternal round,
Wed words to words, wherever sound meets sound;
Till each responsive spray, the meads among,
Quivers in cadence, blossoms into song.
A spacious level skirts the mountain's base:
There might retire, there chant, the pastoral swains,
The Colins, and the Damons of the plains:
There in soft minstrelsy's eternal round,
Wed words to words, wherever sound meets sound;
Till each responsive spray, the meads among,
Quivers in cadence, blossoms into song.
Full to the sight, in distant prospect, towers
A grove of myrtles, twining into bowers.
There love-sick spirits manufacture sighs,
Embalm in metre, dimples, lips, and eyes:
Vows, flatteries, perjuries, Echo's haunts invade;
Hopes, fears, and jealousies breath from every shade.
By nymphs coy, kind, true, false, fair, brown, short, tall,
Some passionate madrigal be-rhymes them all.
A grove of myrtles, twining into bowers.
There love-sick spirits manufacture sighs,
Embalm in metre, dimples, lips, and eyes:
Vows, flatteries, perjuries, Echo's haunts invade;
Hopes, fears, and jealousies breath from every shade.
By nymphs coy, kind, true, false, fair, brown, short, tall,
Some passionate madrigal be-rhymes them all.
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Where tangling briers, in form of fence, between
Two carpet lawns, diversify the scene,
The rough, rude tribe of satirists might reside;
Cynics, who snarl, and scorners, who deride.
Avoid their gripe, ye virtuous, and ye sage!
Too oft for interest, or for spleen they rage.
'Twere well, did vice alone feel their attack!
Or truth reserve their thorns for folly's back!
Two carpet lawns, diversify the scene,
The rough, rude tribe of satirists might reside;
Cynics, who snarl, and scorners, who deride.
Avoid their gripe, ye virtuous, and ye sage!
Too oft for interest, or for spleen they rage.
'Twere well, did vice alone feel their attack!
Or truth reserve their thorns for folly's back!
Where from the turf, a gradual eminence swells,
The whifling breeze a windmill's sails impels;
There, as in hives, might swarm the sons of whim;
The crotchet-mongers of fantastic trim;
Who retail fancy's frolics, oddity's hits,
Maggots of genius! real nutshell wits!
Wags, who in masques grotesque shake humour's chin;
Pun in conundrums; or in epigrams grin!
The whifling breeze a windmill's sails impels;
There, as in hives, might swarm the sons of whim;
The crotchet-mongers of fantastic trim;
Who retail fancy's frolics, oddity's hits,
Maggots of genius! real nutshell wits!
Wags, who in masques grotesque shake humour's chin;
Pun in conundrums; or in epigrams grin!
A little farther on, from forth a cave,
Bursts an abrupt cascade's sonorous wave;
Whose dashing fragments might announce th' abode,
Where lofty language labours—big with ode:
Spurns vulgar comprehension's hackney'd ways;
Soars past the confines of pedestrian phrase;
Above connection, method, or design,
In muse-mad rant, eccentrically fine!
Bursts an abrupt cascade's sonorous wave;
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Where lofty language labours—big with ode:
Spurns vulgar comprehension's hackney'd ways;
Soars past the confines of pedestrian phrase;
Above connection, method, or design,
In muse-mad rant, eccentrically fine!
Not far from this ascent a forest lies;
Whose broad old oaks in mossy grandeur rise:—
There dwell the bards, who social aims avow,
And deck with civic wreaths the patriot brow:
Whose popular strains at once record, and raise,
The sailor's spirit, and the soldier's praise:
While conscious, “Britons never will be slaves,”
Zeal shouts from voice to voice, “Britannia rule the waves.”
Whose broad old oaks in mossy grandeur rise:—
There dwell the bards, who social aims avow,
And deck with civic wreaths the patriot brow:
Whose popular strains at once record, and raise,
The sailor's spirit, and the soldier's praise:
While conscious, “Britons never will be slaves,”
Zeal shouts from voice to voice, “Britannia rule the waves.”
More upland still, and thro' an avenue seen,
Stands a fair clump of laurels, ever green;
Where rove the guardian bards of each bright name,
Which verse and virtue consecrate to fame;
Names of such men, as Heaven's best signature wore;
Whose least distinction was the rank they bore:
Names, which improv'd humanity loves to hear;
Names, to integrity honourably dear;
Names, which by every test of merit known,
Truth may transcribe, even now, from Britain's Throne!
Stands a fair clump of laurels, ever green;
Where rove the guardian bards of each bright name,
Which verse and virtue consecrate to fame;
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Whose least distinction was the rank they bore:
Names, which improv'd humanity loves to hear;
Names, to integrity honourably dear;
Names, which by every test of merit known,
Truth may transcribe, even now, from Britain's Throne!
While thus, for others, separate seats I trace,
Perhaps you'll ask me, where myself I'd place;
—What place becomes me, you must judge, not I;
—What place I'd wish for, I'll confess; and why:
I'd mount, where poesy's first enthusiasts stood;
High as old Homer:—higher, if I could!—
There boast how good a work, with what good will,
Your Ancestors did here;—and You do still:—
Then every Muse to choral symphony woo,
In numbers worthy Them, and worthy You.
Perhaps you'll ask me, where myself I'd place;
—What place becomes me, you must judge, not I;
—What place I'd wish for, I'll confess; and why:
I'd mount, where poesy's first enthusiasts stood;
High as old Homer:—higher, if I could!—
There boast how good a work, with what good will,
Your Ancestors did here;—and You do still:—
Then every Muse to choral symphony woo,
In numbers worthy Them, and worthy You.
| The Poetical Works of The Rev. Samuel Bishop | |