 | The Distressed Poet |  |
CANTO THE FIRST.
Say, why should Poverty's prediction
O'ercloud the sprightly scenes of Fiction?
Wherefore so long entail'd its curse,
On all the numerous sons of Verse?
Who scarce possessing from their birth
A legal settlement on earth,
Exalted to a garret story,
Live on imaginary glory.
O'ercloud the sprightly scenes of Fiction?
Wherefore so long entail'd its curse,
On all the numerous sons of Verse?
Who scarce possessing from their birth
A legal settlement on earth,
Exalted to a garret story,
Live on imaginary glory.
Ah! much I grieve to think how hard
The lot of an Aerial Bard!
Compell'd, himself so ill at ease,
To force a smile, and strive to please;
With nothing but bare walls in view,
To picture scenes he never knew!
To sing of masques, and city-feasting,
Things which he never dealt the least in;
The anxious care that wealth creates,
Or which on splendid fortune waits:
Against his feelings and his wishes,
To cater and cook up strange dishes;
To humour ev'ry patron's taste,
Flumm'ry for this, for that puff paste;
Oft tarnish'd subjects burnish bright,
And make what's black in grain look white.
The lot of an Aerial Bard!
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To force a smile, and strive to please;
With nothing but bare walls in view,
To picture scenes he never knew!
To sing of masques, and city-feasting,
Things which he never dealt the least in;
The anxious care that wealth creates,
Or which on splendid fortune waits:
Against his feelings and his wishes,
To cater and cook up strange dishes;
To humour ev'ry patron's taste,
Flumm'ry for this, for that puff paste;
Oft tarnish'd subjects burnish bright,
And make what's black in grain look white.
Nay, sometimes his poetic dreams
Waft him to more exalted themes;
From his joint stool elate he soars,
And proud Olympus' height explores,
Ranges in lofty odes the sky,
Lost in obscure sublimity;
For true sublime begins and ends
In what no mortal comprehends.—
Fearless he treads those dread abodes,
Where Jove drinks Nectar with the Gods,
Tells all his ragamuffin stories,
And damns his Whigs, and damns his Tories.
Or where gay Juno, somewhat frisky,
Her maids of honor treats with whisky;
Her husband, vixen-like, bespatters,
And tears each female's fame to tatters.—
In congress see th' Immortals sit,
With less than mortal sense or wit;
So coarse their thoughts, so low their jokes,
You'd swear them all St. Giles's folks.—
Th' impassion'd bard now trots, now prances,
Still Pindar-like curvets and dances;
Now lost in cloud, now full in day,
Till his steed fairly runs away:
Quite parch'd with thirst he quits the sky,
And finds his porter-pot run dry;
Nay still, perchance, more direful hap,
Can get no credit at the tap;
The landlord, void of taste, refuses
To wet the whistle of the Muses.
Waft him to more exalted themes;
From his joint stool elate he soars,
And proud Olympus' height explores,
3
Lost in obscure sublimity;
For true sublime begins and ends
In what no mortal comprehends.—
Fearless he treads those dread abodes,
Where Jove drinks Nectar with the Gods,
Tells all his ragamuffin stories,
And damns his Whigs, and damns his Tories.
Or where gay Juno, somewhat frisky,
Her maids of honor treats with whisky;
Her husband, vixen-like, bespatters,
And tears each female's fame to tatters.—
In congress see th' Immortals sit,
With less than mortal sense or wit;
So coarse their thoughts, so low their jokes,
You'd swear them all St. Giles's folks.—
Th' impassion'd bard now trots, now prances,
Still Pindar-like curvets and dances;
4
Till his steed fairly runs away:
Quite parch'd with thirst he quits the sky,
And finds his porter-pot run dry;
Nay still, perchance, more direful hap,
Can get no credit at the tap;
The landlord, void of taste, refuses
To wet the whistle of the Muses.
Thus the shrill lark, on trembling wings,
Upborn in air still soaring sings,
At last almost escap'd from view,
Drops to the earth from whence he flew:
Ode-writers hence, if wise, should know,
How quick the fall from high to low.
The plowman who his song hath heard,
Cares not three farthings for the bird;
So those who deal in notes sublime,
Are rarely paid their loss of time.
Upborn in air still soaring sings,
At last almost escap'd from view,
Drops to the earth from whence he flew:
Ode-writers hence, if wise, should know,
How quick the fall from high to low.
The plowman who his song hath heard,
Cares not three farthings for the bird;
So those who deal in notes sublime,
Are rarely paid their loss of time.
5
Tho' ills like these, and many more,
Invest the poet's garret-door,
Whose pen and looks alike confess
The sharpen'd features of distress;
Yet some there are who court the Nine,
On whom the stars serener shine,
Who all at ease in Fortune's shades,
Sport with the fair Aonian Maids;
Whom no mean interests ever fire,
To prostitute the sacred lyre;
Whose artful strings are touch'd alone,
When willing Fancy gives the tone.
Whether intent to bring to light
That silent worth which shuns the sight;
Love's myrtle wreath for Beauty twine,
Or hang a lay on Friendship's shrine;
Some tale of fabled woe to rear,
And steal the plaudit of a tear;
To paint the triumph of a mind,
To honor train'd, by truth refin'd;
Or place the Hero bright in view,
And give to virtue, virtue's due.
Whate'er their theme, their only claim,
In all they write, is—honest fame.
Invest the poet's garret-door,
Whose pen and looks alike confess
The sharpen'd features of distress;
Yet some there are who court the Nine,
On whom the stars serener shine,
Who all at ease in Fortune's shades,
Sport with the fair Aonian Maids;
Whom no mean interests ever fire,
To prostitute the sacred lyre;
Whose artful strings are touch'd alone,
When willing Fancy gives the tone.
Whether intent to bring to light
That silent worth which shuns the sight;
Love's myrtle wreath for Beauty twine,
Or hang a lay on Friendship's shrine;
Some tale of fabled woe to rear,
And steal the plaudit of a tear;
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To honor train'd, by truth refin'd;
Or place the Hero bright in view,
And give to virtue, virtue's due.
Whate'er their theme, their only claim,
In all they write, is—honest fame.
A Bard like this, who never knew
Those cares which oft his tribe pursue,
Pleas'd would employ his vacant hours,
By wak'ning Fancy's sportive pow'rs;
And if he haply chanc'd to start
Some subject which engag'd his heart,
If from that subject he could raise
Lines that might glow in Virtue's praise,
With anxious fondness he would nurse
To prosp'rous growth his infant verse;
And if, with diffidence and doubt,
He brought at last his offspring out,
Set it before the public eye,
To know if it should live, or die,
'Twas trusting to experience yet
That candor he so oft had met.
Those cares which oft his tribe pursue,
Pleas'd would employ his vacant hours,
By wak'ning Fancy's sportive pow'rs;
And if he haply chanc'd to start
Some subject which engag'd his heart,
If from that subject he could raise
Lines that might glow in Virtue's praise,
With anxious fondness he would nurse
To prosp'rous growth his infant verse;
And if, with diffidence and doubt,
He brought at last his offspring out,
7
To know if it should live, or die,
'Twas trusting to experience yet
That candor he so oft had met.
But, Reader, to pursue my tale,
I must draw off Illusion's veil,
And freely own the boasted Nine,
Tho' by most writers deem'd divine,
Are tinctur'd, spite of all we're told,
And strongly too, with mortal mould.
Deserting that exalted line,
Where they are destin'd most to shine,
Too often they'll foment a squabble,
In politics too often dabble;
Like wantons, lure, by winning ways,
Th' incautious youth who stop to gaze;
Seduce them up Parnassus' steep,
Where scarce the strong firm footing keep,
And weaker followers slide and drop,
Ere they have half attain'd its top.—
These Dames too, of celestial birth,
As the vain beauties of the earth,
Proud of their charms, their power, their station,
Live like coquets on admiration:
And if they once indulgence show
To any votary below,
Who hath their magic arts admir'd,
And half believ'd himself inspir'd;
Should he perchance, in evil hour,
Become neglectful of their power,
Or if some rival charm should start,
To fascinate his yielding heart;
Then in their heavenly breasts is seen
The full effects of mortal spleen;
Parnassus straight is in a blaze,
The Muses run nine different ways,
All is cabal, complaint, and chatter,
None but themselves know what's the matter.
Each female passion now afloat,
By jealousy they're veer'd about,
No arrogance of earthly beauty
Could more resent a breach of duty;
By conquest proud, they can't sustain
The loss of one who swell'd their train;
Each stratagem is put in motion,
To bring him back to their devotion.
I must draw off Illusion's veil,
And freely own the boasted Nine,
Tho' by most writers deem'd divine,
Are tinctur'd, spite of all we're told,
And strongly too, with mortal mould.
Deserting that exalted line,
Where they are destin'd most to shine,
Too often they'll foment a squabble,
In politics too often dabble;
Like wantons, lure, by winning ways,
Th' incautious youth who stop to gaze;
Seduce them up Parnassus' steep,
Where scarce the strong firm footing keep,
8
Ere they have half attain'd its top.—
These Dames too, of celestial birth,
As the vain beauties of the earth,
Proud of their charms, their power, their station,
Live like coquets on admiration:
And if they once indulgence show
To any votary below,
Who hath their magic arts admir'd,
And half believ'd himself inspir'd;
Should he perchance, in evil hour,
Become neglectful of their power,
Or if some rival charm should start,
To fascinate his yielding heart;
Then in their heavenly breasts is seen
The full effects of mortal spleen;
Parnassus straight is in a blaze,
The Muses run nine different ways,
9
None but themselves know what's the matter.
Each female passion now afloat,
By jealousy they're veer'd about,
No arrogance of earthly beauty
Could more resent a breach of duty;
By conquest proud, they can't sustain
The loss of one who swell'd their train;
Each stratagem is put in motion,
To bring him back to their devotion.
Our Culprit, who no ill intended,
Had thus their Highnesses offended;
Their backs were up, their pride was nettled,
Their spirit rouz'd, their hopes unsettled.
Had thus their Highnesses offended;
Their backs were up, their pride was nettled,
Their spirit rouz'd, their hopes unsettled.
Be ours a great revenge, said they,
Muses, like dogs, will have their day;
And we'll this truant Love despite,
By making his as black as night.
What! shall another boast the art
To alienate our votary's heart?
Inflame his breast with other fires
Than those our Sisterhood inspires?
But soon he to his cost shall know
We are not to be dealt with so.
By Aganippe's sacred stream,
Of which delirious poets dream,
And rave and write, so much, you'd think
'Twas at their meals their constant drink;
By bright Apollo's golden locks,
With which they'd grace their own dull blocks;
Nay, by old Pegasus beside,
Whom they all want to mount and ride,
Tho' they would strength and judgment lack
To sit five minutes on his back;
By these we swear we'll never cease
To cross his projects and his peace,
Till he returns to his allegiance,
And vows us once again obedience.
Let us then, posting swift as wind,
The Monarch of our Mountain find!
His Delphic Worship ne'er refuses
To vindicate the slighted Muses:
He'll rate the vagrant like a fury,
And be at once both judge and jury.
Muses, like dogs, will have their day;
10
By making his as black as night.
What! shall another boast the art
To alienate our votary's heart?
Inflame his breast with other fires
Than those our Sisterhood inspires?
But soon he to his cost shall know
We are not to be dealt with so.
By Aganippe's sacred stream,
Of which delirious poets dream,
And rave and write, so much, you'd think
'Twas at their meals their constant drink;
By bright Apollo's golden locks,
With which they'd grace their own dull blocks;
Nay, by old Pegasus beside,
Whom they all want to mount and ride,
Tho' they would strength and judgment lack
To sit five minutes on his back;
11
To cross his projects and his peace,
Till he returns to his allegiance,
And vows us once again obedience.
Let us then, posting swift as wind,
The Monarch of our Mountain find!
His Delphic Worship ne'er refuses
To vindicate the slighted Muses:
He'll rate the vagrant like a fury,
And be at once both judge and jury.
Ah, stop! fair Virgins of the lyre!—
Can fancied slights such bosoms fire!
Say, can your minds celestial prove
Those paltry piques which Mortals move?
Or of those springs conceive a notion,
That set their dirty tricks in motion?—
Daughters of Jove! can You disgrace,
By squabbling thus, your royal Race?
Wise as you are, you want a tutor;
Never run down a single suitor,
Nor treat your servants cavalierly,
Who earn, you know, their bread so dearly.
Your wages low, your liveries bare,
Your house-keeping as thin as air;
Fame's their sole vails, their only gain,
And this they often sue in vain;
Nay more, I'll tell you, by the bye,
You'd be mere nothings in the sky,
If the poor scribblers of the earth
Did not support your place and birth.
Tho' my assertion's bold, tis true,
You live by them, not they by you.
Can fancied slights such bosoms fire!
Say, can your minds celestial prove
Those paltry piques which Mortals move?
Or of those springs conceive a notion,
That set their dirty tricks in motion?—
Daughters of Jove! can You disgrace,
By squabbling thus, your royal Race?
12
Never run down a single suitor,
Nor treat your servants cavalierly,
Who earn, you know, their bread so dearly.
Your wages low, your liveries bare,
Your house-keeping as thin as air;
Fame's their sole vails, their only gain,
And this they often sue in vain;
Nay more, I'll tell you, by the bye,
You'd be mere nothings in the sky,
If the poor scribblers of the earth
Did not support your place and birth.
Tho' my assertion's bold, tis true,
You live by them, not they by you.
These flighty Dames in vain I'm teaching,
They're all bounc'd off while I've been preaching;
Giddy, and train'd in scenes of fiction,
They never listen to conviction!
But spread their stories far and near,
Like mischief-making gossips here.
Ill-fortune to our Bard must follow!
They'll get a summons from Apollo,
Who, right or wrong, will take their part,
And find the means to make him smart.
They're all bounc'd off while I've been preaching;
Giddy, and train'd in scenes of fiction,
They never listen to conviction!
13
Like mischief-making gossips here.
Ill-fortune to our Bard must follow!
They'll get a summons from Apollo,
Who, right or wrong, will take their part,
And find the means to make him smart.
Oh, Nature! whose extended sway
All but the Sons of Art obey,
Who, blooming in immortal youth,
Around thee spread'st Grace, Love, and Truth;
Could thy simplicity thus fire
The jealous Muses' vengeful ire?
Can no one give up rhyme for reason,
But They must deem the action treason?
If our poor Poet 'gainst their laws
Hath err'd, thou only wast the cause;
For, Divine Goddess, 'twas to thee
He rais'd his eye, and bow'd his knee!
Won by thy pow'rs, the more he gaz'd,
More on his sense thy beauties blaz'd;
In all thy works his ravish'd eye
Met nought but perfect harmony;
No wonder then his raptur'd mind
To Nature's nobler charms inclin'd,
Fond all her movements to revere,
And trace her thro' her wide career,
In all her silent shades conceal'd,
Or in her loveliest blaze reveal'd.—
Thus rous'd from Fancy's trivial dreams,
To Nature's more inviting themes,
He aim'd to sketch her operations,
When acting on the human passions;
How bright the soul to Virtue gain'd,
How dark, by vice or interest stain'd!
How Truth with hand unerring darts!
How Innocence attracts all hearts!
How looks can plead, how sighs may teach
In terms more eloquent than speech!—
True votary now, he wish'd to raise
A little Temple to her praise,
Where he in elegant array
Her various wonders might display,
Exhibit the mysterious chain
Which links her complicated reign,
And spread on each illumin'd side
What Mines conceal, and Oceans hide.
All but the Sons of Art obey,
Who, blooming in immortal youth,
Around thee spread'st Grace, Love, and Truth;
Could thy simplicity thus fire
The jealous Muses' vengeful ire?
Can no one give up rhyme for reason,
But They must deem the action treason?
If our poor Poet 'gainst their laws
Hath err'd, thou only wast the cause;
For, Divine Goddess, 'twas to thee
He rais'd his eye, and bow'd his knee!
14
More on his sense thy beauties blaz'd;
In all thy works his ravish'd eye
Met nought but perfect harmony;
No wonder then his raptur'd mind
To Nature's nobler charms inclin'd,
Fond all her movements to revere,
And trace her thro' her wide career,
In all her silent shades conceal'd,
Or in her loveliest blaze reveal'd.—
Thus rous'd from Fancy's trivial dreams,
To Nature's more inviting themes,
He aim'd to sketch her operations,
When acting on the human passions;
How bright the soul to Virtue gain'd,
How dark, by vice or interest stain'd!
How Truth with hand unerring darts!
How Innocence attracts all hearts!
15
In terms more eloquent than speech!—
True votary now, he wish'd to raise
A little Temple to her praise,
Where he in elegant array
Her various wonders might display,
Exhibit the mysterious chain
Which links her complicated reign,
And spread on each illumin'd side
What Mines conceal, and Oceans hide.
'Twas this enrag'd the Muses' spirits,
And made their eyes as red as ferrets.
When passion shakes these lovely creatures,
They lose at once their heavenly features,
And in their poor degraded breast
Each mortal feeling stands confest.
Read but the wars of Greece and Troy,
At every school taught every boy:
Old Homer pictures to our view
The manners of th' Olympian crew;
How they deceive, cheat, fight, and squabble,
Far worse than any blackguard rabble;
From that great cuckold-maker Jove,
And the intriguing Queen of Love,
From drunken Bacchus, swaggering Mars,
Down to the race of lesser Stars,
'Tis discord all, eternal brawling,
Nay worse, eternal caterwauling!—
Dian alone, of all the sky,
Affects to boast virginity,
Which makes each female there expose
Her modesty where'er she goes;
And on her head a moon they stick,
To mark her for a Lunatic.
And made their eyes as red as ferrets.
When passion shakes these lovely creatures,
They lose at once their heavenly features,
And in their poor degraded breast
Each mortal feeling stands confest.
Read but the wars of Greece and Troy,
At every school taught every boy:
16
The manners of th' Olympian crew;
How they deceive, cheat, fight, and squabble,
Far worse than any blackguard rabble;
From that great cuckold-maker Jove,
And the intriguing Queen of Love,
From drunken Bacchus, swaggering Mars,
Down to the race of lesser Stars,
'Tis discord all, eternal brawling,
Nay worse, eternal caterwauling!—
Dian alone, of all the sky,
Affects to boast virginity,
Which makes each female there expose
Her modesty where'er she goes;
And on her head a moon they stick,
To mark her for a Lunatic.
Now, Reader, if th' Immortal Race
Can thus Olympus' realms disgrace,
If from the Court end of the world
Such wretched dialogues are hurl'd,
Parnassus hardly will be found
In more politeness to abound.
To own the truth, 'tis nearly equal,
As we shall shew you in the sequel.
Should you compassionate our Bard,
And think his persecution hard,
You'll wish to know how matters went;
I hold the pen with that intent;
But you must give a writer time,
Whether it be in Prose, or Rhyme,
Facts should be clear, and duly stated,
A tale is marr'd if ill related.
We'll leave our Poet for the present,
Indulging thoughts extremely pleasant,
Arranging all his future building,
Settling its ornaments and gilding:
Whilst he's his votive scheme pursuing,
Unconscious of the mischief brewing,
Let us the angry Muses follow,
Who're on the wing to seek Apollo.
Can thus Olympus' realms disgrace,
17
Such wretched dialogues are hurl'd,
Parnassus hardly will be found
In more politeness to abound.
To own the truth, 'tis nearly equal,
As we shall shew you in the sequel.
Should you compassionate our Bard,
And think his persecution hard,
You'll wish to know how matters went;
I hold the pen with that intent;
But you must give a writer time,
Whether it be in Prose, or Rhyme,
Facts should be clear, and duly stated,
A tale is marr'd if ill related.
We'll leave our Poet for the present,
Indulging thoughts extremely pleasant,
Arranging all his future building,
Settling its ornaments and gilding:
18
Unconscious of the mischief brewing,
Let us the angry Muses follow,
Who're on the wing to seek Apollo.
END OF THE FIRST CANTO.
| The Distressed Poet | |