The pursuits of literature A satirical poem in four dialogues, with notes. The seventh edition, revised [by T. J. Mathias] |
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| 4. | DIALOGUE THE FOURTH AND LAST. |
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DIALOGUE THE FOURTH AND LAST.
Ουδ' αλαοσκοπιην ειχε κρειων Ενοσιχθων:
Και γαρ ο θαυμαων ηστο Πτολεμοντε Μαχηντε,
Ψψου επ' ακροτατης κορυφης Σαμου υληεσσης
Θρηικιης: ενθεν γαρ εφαινετο πασα μεν Ιδη,
Φαινετο δε Πριαμοιο πολις, και νηες Αχαιων.
Αυτικα δ' εξ ορεος κατεβησατο παιπαλοεντος.
ΤΡΙΣ μεν ορεξατ' ιων, ΤΟ ΔΕ ΤΕΤΡΑΤΟΝ ικετο τεκμωρ
Αιγας, ενθα δε οι κλυτα δωματα ΒΕΝΘΕΣΙ ΛΙΜΝΗΣ
Χρυσεα, μαρμαιροντα τετευχαται, αφθιτα αιει.
Hom. Il. 13. v. 10.
Και γαρ ο θαυμαων ηστο Πτολεμοντε Μαχηντε,
Ψψου επ' ακροτατης κορυφης Σαμου υληεσσης
Θρηικιης: ενθεν γαρ εφαινετο πασα μεν Ιδη,
Φαινετο δε Πριαμοιο πολις, και νηες Αχαιων.
Αυτικα δ' εξ ορεος κατεβησατο παιπαλοεντος.
ΤΡΙΣ μεν ορεξατ' ιων, ΤΟ ΔΕ ΤΕΤΡΑΤΟΝ ικετο τεκμωρ
Αιγας, ενθα δε οι κλυτα δωματα ΒΕΝΘΕΣΙ ΛΙΜΝΗΣ
Χρυσεα, μαρμαιροντα τετευχαται, αφθιτα αιει.
Hom. Il. 13. v. 10.
Ουκ ησυχος
Δαφνηφαγων φοιβαεν εκ λαιμων οπα.
Δαφνηφαγων φοιβαεν εκ λαιμων οπα.
AUTHOR.
Oh, for that sabbath's dawn ere Britain wept,
And France before the Cross believ'd and slept!
(Rest to the state, and slumber to the soul!)
Ere yet the brooding storm was heard to roll
In fancy's ear o'er many an Alpine rock,
Or Europe trembled at the fated shock;
Ere by his lake Geneva's angel stood,
And wav'd his scroll prophetick o'er the flood,
With names (as yet unheard) and symbols drear,
Calvin in front, and Neckar in the rear;
But chief Equality's vain priest, Rousseau,
A sage in sorrow nurs'd, and gaunt with woe,
By persecution train'd and popish zeal,
Ripe with his wrongs to frame the dire appeal,
What time his work the Citizen began,
And gave to France the social savage, Man.
And France before the Cross believ'd and slept!
(Rest to the state, and slumber to the soul!)
Ere yet the brooding storm was heard to roll
In fancy's ear o'er many an Alpine rock,
Or Europe trembled at the fated shock;
Ere by his lake Geneva's angel stood,
And wav'd his scroll prophetick o'er the flood,
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Calvin in front, and Neckar in the rear;
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A sage in sorrow nurs'd, and gaunt with woe,
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Ripe with his wrongs to frame the dire appeal,
What time his work the Citizen began,
And gave to France the social savage, Man.
Was it for this, in Leo's fost'ring reign
Learning uprose with tempests in her train;
Was every gleam deceitful, every ray
But idle splendor from the orb of day?
Say, were the victims mark'd from earliest time,
The Flamens conscious of a Nation's crime?
Why smoak'd the altars with the new perfume,
If heav'ns own fire descends but to consume?
Alas, proud Gallia's fabrick to the ground
What arm shall level, or what might confound!
Learning uprose with tempests in her train;
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But idle splendor from the orb of day?
Say, were the victims mark'd from earliest time,
The Flamens conscious of a Nation's crime?
Why smoak'd the altars with the new perfume,
If heav'ns own fire descends but to consume?
Alas, proud Gallia's fabrick to the ground
What arm shall level, or what might confound!
Oh for that hand, which o'er the walls of Troy
His lightning brandish'd with a furious joy,
Her state, her arms, her fleets, her very name
Gave, as in mock'ry, to poetick fame,
And with the fire of Philip's son, unfurl'd
His classick standard o'er a wond'ring world,
Till “Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief,
And curs'd th'access of that celestial thief.”
Oh, for a Bryant's hand!
His lightning brandish'd with a furious joy,
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Gave, as in mock'ry, to poetick fame,
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His classick standard o'er a wond'ring world,
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And curs'd th'access of that celestial thief.”
Oh, for a Bryant's hand!
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Methinks you smile,
And fain would land me on the wand'ring isle,
Where the learn'd drain Acrasia's foaming bowl,
Till round the Sun their heads with Gebelin's roll;
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Nor Hallam trembling for the sacred page,
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What is my work? mere records of the Muse;
And lo! by Buonaparte's iron pen,
The tale of Rome may be Troy's tale again.
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No; other thoughts my lab'ring soul employ,
That springs anew to long-forgotten joy;
I range in Fancy's consecrated round,
And meet the poet on a poet's ground,
Nor seek historick truth of time and place,
But truth of manners, character and grace.
That springs anew to long-forgotten joy;
I range in Fancy's consecrated round,
And meet the poet on a poet's ground,
Nor seek historick truth of time and place,
But truth of manners, character and grace.
The Bards who once the wreaths of glory wore,
Cloath'd in translucent veil their wondrous lore;
The tales they sung a willing age believ'd,
Charm'd into truth, and without guile deceiv'd.
Where'er they rov'd, young Fancy and the Muse
Wav'd high their mirror of a thousand hues;
They gaz'd; and as in varying guise pourtray'd
Aëreal phantoms hov'ring round them play'd,
Gave to each fleeting form, that shot along,
Existence everlasting as their song;
And as by nature's strength the tablet grew,
Rapture the pencil guided as they drew.
Cloath'd in translucent veil their wondrous lore;
The tales they sung a willing age believ'd,
Charm'd into truth, and without guile deceiv'd.
Where'er they rov'd, young Fancy and the Muse
Wav'd high their mirror of a thousand hues;
They gaz'd; and as in varying guise pourtray'd
Aëreal phantoms hov'ring round them play'd,
Gave to each fleeting form, that shot along,
Existence everlasting as their song;
And as by nature's strength the tablet grew,
Rapture the pencil guided as they drew.
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Nay, now you soar indeed; another flight,
And the wing'd courser bears you from my sight:
You're strangel mov'd.
AUTHOR.
The matter is my own;
I never shar'd the profits of the gown,
Nor yet, with Horace and myself at war,
For rhyme and victuals left the starving Bar;
I never lov'd Dean Dewlap's vacant looks,
Or purchas'd empty praise from empty books;
I leave at sales the undisputed reign
To milk-white Gosset, and Lord Spencer's train.
No German nonsense sways my English heart,
Unus'd at ghosts and rattling bones to start:
I never chose, in various nature strong,
Logick for verse, or history for song;
But at the magick of Torquato's strain,
Disarm'd and captive in Armida's chain,
To Godfrey's pomp Rinaldo still prefer,
Nor care if ranting Wakefield thinks I err.
To Hurd, not Parr, my Muse submits her lays,
Pleas'd with advice, without a lust for praise,
Fond to correct, but never to defend,
And him who marks her errors, deems her friend;
With patriot aim and no irreverent rage,
Without one stain of party on the page,
From Grecian springs her strength, her art she draws,
Firm in her trust, ennobled in her cause;
Her moral none, the verse some few disdain,
Yet not a note she sounds shall sound in vain,
While Bryant in applause with Baker joins,
Gifford approves, and Storer loves the lines:
Though still, a stranger in the sacred clime,
Some say, I love not poetry, but rhyme.
I never shar'd the profits of the gown,
Nor yet, with Horace and myself at war,
For rhyme and victuals left the starving Bar;
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Or purchas'd empty praise from empty books;
I leave at sales the undisputed reign
To milk-white Gosset, and Lord Spencer's train.
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Unus'd at ghosts and rattling bones to start:
I never chose, in various nature strong,
Logick for verse, or history for song;
But at the magick of Torquato's strain,
Disarm'd and captive in Armida's chain,
To Godfrey's pomp Rinaldo still prefer,
Nor care if ranting Wakefield thinks I err.
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Pleas'd with advice, without a lust for praise,
Fond to correct, but never to defend,
And him who marks her errors, deems her friend;
With patriot aim and no irreverent rage,
Without one stain of party on the page,
From Grecian springs her strength, her art she draws,
Firm in her trust, ennobled in her cause;
Her moral none, the verse some few disdain,
Yet not a note she sounds shall sound in vain,
While Bryant in applause with Baker joins,
Gifford approves, and Storer loves the lines:
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Some say, I love not poetry, but rhyme.
Offspring of other times, ye visions old!
Legends, no more by gentle hands unroll'd,
Magnanimous deceits! where favour'd youth
Finds short repose from formidable truth!
Oh witness if, e'er silent in your praise,
I've pass'd in vice or sloth inglorious days,
But rais'd for you my firm unalter'd voice,
Fancy my guide, and solitude my choice.
Legends, no more by gentle hands unroll'd,
Magnanimous deceits! where favour'd youth
Finds short repose from formidable truth!
Oh witness if, e'er silent in your praise,
I've pass'd in vice or sloth inglorious days,
But rais'd for you my firm unalter'd voice,
Fancy my guide, and solitude my choice.
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Though now no Syren voice be heard, no strain
Ascend from Pindus, or Arcadia's plain;
No Graces round th'Olympian throne of Jove
Bid the nine virgins raise the chant of love.
The harp of Taliessin lies unstrung,
Close by the loom, where Death's dread sisters sung;
Unfelt each charm of Odin's magick tree,
With many an uncouth Runick phantasy,
The symbol deep, and consecrated rhyme,
Trac'd with due reverence in the northern clime.
Though now no temper'd lance, no magick brand,
No Durindana waves o'er fabled land;
No nightly-rounding Ariel floats unseen,
Or flames amazement o'er the desert green;
No wizards hold, some blasted pine beneath,
Their horrid sabbath on the darken'd heath;
Say, are the days of blest delusion fled?
Must fiction rear no more her languid head?
No more the Muse her long-lost transports know,
Nor trace the fount whence living waters flow?
Awake, ye slumb'ring Rulers of the song!
Each in your solemn orders pass along;
In sacred radiance o'er your mountain old
Yet once again your dignities unfold,
And fill the space; your scepter'd glories claim,
And vindicate the great Pierian name.
Ascend from Pindus, or Arcadia's plain;
No Graces round th'Olympian throne of Jove
Bid the nine virgins raise the chant of love.
The harp of Taliessin lies unstrung,
Close by the loom, where Death's dread sisters sung;
Unfelt each charm of Odin's magick tree,
With many an uncouth Runick phantasy,
The symbol deep, and consecrated rhyme,
Trac'd with due reverence in the northern clime.
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No Durindana waves o'er fabled land;
No nightly-rounding Ariel floats unseen,
Or flames amazement o'er the desert green;
No wizards hold, some blasted pine beneath,
Their horrid sabbath on the darken'd heath;
Say, are the days of blest delusion fled?
Must fiction rear no more her languid head?
No more the Muse her long-lost transports know,
Nor trace the fount whence living waters flow?
Awake, ye slumb'ring Rulers of the song!
Each in your solemn orders pass along;
In sacred radiance o'er your mountain old
Yet once again your dignities unfold,
And fill the space; your scepter'd glories claim,
And vindicate the great Pierian name.
OCTAVIUS.
Are these a poet's only themes? I fear,
No verse like this will find a patient ear.
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Hear yet awhile:—the dread resistless pow'r,
That works deep-felt at inspiration's hour,
He claims alone—
OCTAVIUS.
Who claims?
AUTHOR.
The favour'd Bard,
Who nobly conscious of his just reward,
With loftier soul, and undecaying might,
Paints what he feels in characters of light.
He turns: and instantaneous all around
Cliffs whiten, waters murmur, voices sound,
Portentous forms in heav'n's aërial hall
Appear, as at some great supernal call.
Thence oft in thought his steps ideal haste
To rocks and groves, the wilderness or waste;
To plains, where Tadmor's regal ruins lie
In desolation's sullen majesty;
Or where Carthusian tow'rs the pilgrim draw.
And bow the soul with unresisted awe,
Whence Bruno, from the mountain's pine-clad brow,
Survey'd the world's inglorious toil below;
Then, as down ragged cliffs the torrent roar'd,
Prostrate great Nature's present God ador'd,
And bade, in solitude's extremest bourn,
Religion hallow the severe sojourn.
Who nobly conscious of his just reward,
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Paints what he feels in characters of light.
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Cliffs whiten, waters murmur, voices sound,
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Appear, as at some great supernal call.
Thence oft in thought his steps ideal haste
To rocks and groves, the wilderness or waste;
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In desolation's sullen majesty;
Or where Carthusian tow'rs the pilgrim draw.
And bow the soul with unresisted awe,
Whence Bruno, from the mountain's pine-clad brow,
Survey'd the world's inglorious toil below;
Then, as down ragged cliffs the torrent roar'd,
Prostrate great Nature's present God ador'd,
And bade, in solitude's extremest bourn,
Religion hallow the severe sojourn.
To him the Painter gives his pencil's might;
No gloom too dreadful and no blaze too bright,
What time to mortal ken he dares unveil
The inexpressive form in semblance frail,
To the strain'd view presents the yawning tomb,
Substantial horrors, and eternal doom.
No gloom too dreadful and no blaze too bright,
What time to mortal ken he dares unveil
The inexpressive form in semblance frail,
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Substantial horrors, and eternal doom.
To Him the Pow'rs of harmony resort,
And as the Bard, with high commanding port,
Scans all th'ethereal wilderness around,
Pour on his ear the thrilling stream of sound;
Strains, from that full-strung chord at distance swell,
Notes, breathing soft from musick's inmost cell,
While to their numerous pause, or accent deep,
His choral passions dread accordance keep.
And as the Bard, with high commanding port,
Scans all th'ethereal wilderness around,
Pour on his ear the thrilling stream of sound;
Strains, from that full-strung chord at distance swell,
Notes, breathing soft from musick's inmost cell,
While to their numerous pause, or accent deep,
His choral passions dread accordance keep.
Thence musing, lo he bends his weary eyes
On life and all it's sad realities;
Marks how the prospect darkens in the rear,
Shade blends with shade, and fear succeeds to fear,
Mid forms that rise, and flutter through the gloom,
'Till Death unbar the cold sepulchral room.
On life and all it's sad realities;
Marks how the prospect darkens in the rear,
Shade blends with shade, and fear succeeds to fear,
Mid forms that rise, and flutter through the gloom,
'Till Death unbar the cold sepulchral room.
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Such is the Poet: bold, without confine,
Imagination's “charter'd libertine!”
He scorns, in apathy, to float or dream
On listless Satisfaction's torpid stream,
But dares alone in vent'rous bark to ride
Down turbulent Delight's tempestuous tide;
While thoughts encount'ring thoughts in conflict fierce
Tumultuous rush, and labour into verse,
Then, as the swelling numbers round him roll,
Stamps on th'immortal page the visions of the soul.
Imagination's “charter'd libertine!”
He scorns, in apathy, to float or dream
On listless Satisfaction's torpid stream,
But dares alone in vent'rous bark to ride
Down turbulent Delight's tempestuous tide;
While thoughts encount'ring thoughts in conflict fierce
Tumultuous rush, and labour into verse,
Then, as the swelling numbers round him roll,
Stamps on th'immortal page the visions of the soul.
OCTAVIUS.
Nay, if you feed on this cælestial strain,
You may with Gods hold converse, not with men:
Sooner the people's right shall Horsley teach,
In judgment delicate, with prudence preach,
And o'er his bosom broad forget to spread
Bath's dangling pride, and Ribband rosy-red;
Friend of the Church the pious Grafton prove;
Or Sutton cease to claim the publick love,
And e'er forego, from dignity of place,
His polish'd mind and reconciling grace;
Or Yorke, regardless of his sacred trust,
To unobtrusive merit be unjust;
Porteous, the royal prelate, firm to truth,
Forget the primal patron of his youth;
Moore to his synod call of unction full;
Or Barrington be meek; or Watson dull.
Sooner Stentorian Davies cease to talk,
And for his Eton quit his Bond-street walk;
Sumner drink deep of the Castalian spring;
Or Langford leave off preaching to the King;
Or good Palæmon, worn with classick toil,
Complain of plants ungrateful to the soil;
Or Warren in his well-curv'd palm confound
An ancient guinea with a modern pound;
Sooner one Prelate hate th'unequal glass,
And round his table let the Claret pass;
O'er his true church the crafty St. Pol sleep;
Or bounds with Hereticks John Milner keep;
Or Wilberforce range lawless through the town;
Or Mingay be the glory of his gown;
Or Erskine cease from impotent grimace,
And his appeals to God, his prime disgrace;
Or Grafton's virtues, to their latest day,
Expire in Junius, and revive in Gray;
Sooner the black weird Brother of the Heath
With spells appall an innocent Macbeth;
Or, by the wayward justice of the land,
Great Mansfield fall by an Attorney's hand;
Or one mean cause the virtuous Scott maintain,
Turn law to trade, or deem religion vain;
Or Rose with coy submission, modest grace,
Rise to explain his sinecures and place;
Or the Bank bow to Pitt's imperial creed;
Or Dramatists to publick trust succeed;
Sooner to France Thames roll his current strong,
Than men love verse, high fancy, or the song.
You may with Gods hold converse, not with men:
Sooner the people's right shall Horsley teach,
In judgment delicate, with prudence preach,
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Bath's dangling pride, and Ribband rosy-red;
Friend of the Church the pious Grafton prove;
Or Sutton cease to claim the publick love,
And e'er forego, from dignity of place,
His polish'd mind and reconciling grace;
Or Yorke, regardless of his sacred trust,
To unobtrusive merit be unjust;
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Forget the primal patron of his youth;
Moore to his synod call of unction full;
Or Barrington be meek; or Watson dull.
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And for his Eton quit his Bond-street walk;
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Or Mingay be the glory of his gown;
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Turn law to trade, or deem religion vain;
Or Rose with coy submission, modest grace,
Rise to explain his sinecures and place;
Or the Bank bow to Pitt's imperial creed;
Or Dramatists to publick trust succeed;
Sooner to France Thames roll his current strong,
Than men love verse, high fancy, or the song.
Taught by the muse, and by her wisdom wise,
Think not, a Poet's name I lightly prize:
But in the wane of Empires (mark the hour)
Vice and the Sword consolidate all pow'r;
Laws pass their bounds; few statesmen stand erect;
All in their country's name, themselves protect;
The publick hopes with publick credit sink—
At such an hour, when men to madness think,
What is a Poet, what is fiction's strain?
Junius might probe a Nation's wounds in vain.
As from a diamond globe, with rays condense,
'Tis Satire gives the strongest light to sense,
To thought compression, vigour to the soul,
To language bounds, to fancy due controul,
To truth the splendour of her awful face,
To learning dignity, to virtue grace,
To conscience stings beneath the cap or crown,
To vice that terror she will feel and own.
Think not, a Poet's name I lightly prize:
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Vice and the Sword consolidate all pow'r;
Laws pass their bounds; few statesmen stand erect;
All in their country's name, themselves protect;
The publick hopes with publick credit sink—
At such an hour, when men to madness think,
What is a Poet, what is fiction's strain?
Junius might probe a Nation's wounds in vain.
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'Tis Satire gives the strongest light to sense,
To thought compression, vigour to the soul,
To language bounds, to fancy due controul,
To truth the splendour of her awful face,
To learning dignity, to virtue grace,
To conscience stings beneath the cap or crown,
To vice that terror she will feel and own.
But if in love with fiction still, at Court
Present in verse some new Finance Report,
How taxes, funds, and debts shall disappear,
Or in the fiftieth or five-hundredth year.
Or tread the maze of picturesque delight,
From Holwood paint with Pitt the prospect bright;
Without one “line of boundary” to speech,
The summit of conceit with Gilpin reach.
In Desolation's dread partitions felt,
With dip, and bole, grand masses, burst, and belt,
With shudders tremulous explore your way,
Through plashy inundations led astray;
Till tir'd and jaded with the coxcomb strains,
Homeward you steal “through Surry's quiet lanes,”
Renounce all Gilpin's jargon, said or sung,
And talk of Nature's works in Nature's tongue.
But still keep Method.
Present in verse some new Finance Report,
How taxes, funds, and debts shall disappear,
Or in the fiftieth or five-hundredth year.
Or tread the maze of picturesque delight,
From Holwood paint with Pitt the prospect bright;
Without one “line of boundary” to speech,
The summit of conceit with Gilpin reach.
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With dip, and bole, grand masses, burst, and belt,
With shudders tremulous explore your way,
Through plashy inundations led astray;
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Homeward you steal “through Surry's quiet lanes,”
Renounce all Gilpin's jargon, said or sung,
And talk of Nature's works in Nature's tongue.
But still keep Method.
AUTHOR.
Method?
OCTAVIUS.
Yes: 'tis plain,
Connection, order, method you disdain:
Be regular: from A to B proceed;
I hate your zig-zag verse, and wanton heed.
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Say then, a simple Story shall I tell?
A man of method is the theme.
OCTAVIUS.
'Tis well.
AUTHOR.
There liv'd a Scholar late, of London fame,
A Doctor, and Morosophos his name:
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Far from a Newton, and not quite a Vince;
In metaphysicks bold would spread his sails,
And with Monboddo still believ'd in tails;
At anatomick lore would sometimes peep,
And call Earle useful, Abernethy deep;
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A Dilettante in Divinity;
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Through science by the alphabet he ran.
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He took, not e'en in thought inclin'd to rove,
A wife for regularity, not love.
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Some say, he had a method in his dreams.
Three sessions in the House he daily toil'd,
In every plan, in every motion foil'd,
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“I'll move myself, the House I move no more;”
Then penn'd to Pitt his monitory strain,
As Murray, clear, and as fond Randolph, plain.
Resolv'd on ease, his travels were at home,
And Lum'sden taught him to converse of Rome:
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He lov'd, the pride of Chambers and of Soane.
But late, by Carter's holy pencil won,
Wyatt and Gothick heresy would shun;
And oft in thought, by antique pavements laid,
With Lysons guide the military spade;
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With little Daniel went his twelve miles round.
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So regular, you might have thought him bail'd.
With Jones a linguist, Sanscrit, Greek, or Manks,
And could with Watson play some chemick pranks;
Yet far too wise to roast a diamond whole,
And for a treasure find at last a coal.
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Will Pitt, with honest Harry, lov'd his port;
The Bengal Squad he fed, though wondrous nice,
Baring his currie took, and Scott his rice.
In Scrip: not Hemings' self more vers'd than he,
The Solomons, or Nathan, or E. P.;
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(Not your damn'd dollars, or Bank-paper trash)
Nor tax, nor loan he fear'd, at table free,
And drank the Minister with three times three;
Till with a pun old Caleb crown'd the whole,
“Consols, and not philosophy, console.”
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And would at times regale you with a song:
But seldom that; in musick though a prig,
The little Doctor swell'd and look'd so big:
Nay to Greek notes would trill a Grecian ode,
In diatonick kind and Lydian mode,
And then with Burney, as his fit grew warmer,
Convers'd of Stentor the great throat-performer;
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Play'd some French General's obligato part.
Banks gave him morning lessons how to dress,
And Morgan whisper'd courage and finesse.
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Something between a Jerningham and Knight:
He dealt in tragick, epick, critick lore,
With half, whole plans, and episodes in store,
Method was all; yet would he seldom write,
He fear'd the ground-plot wrong, or—out of sight.
At last the Doctor gave his friends a work!
(Not verse, like Cowper, or high prose, like Burke,)
Chambers abridg'd! in sooth 'twas all he read,
From fruitful A to unproductive Zed.
OCTAVIUS.
What then? for ever shall we wildly stray,
And pluck each hare-bell in the flow'ry way,
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Stoop to each golden apple in the course?
I never can with argument dispense;
Pope gave the verse, but Warburton the sense.
AUTHOR.
'Tis true; by plan and syllabus confin'd,
Knight thus composes first the reader's mind.
To rouse attention is the poet's art,
Knight calls to sleep, and acts a civil part,
Save to his view when foul Priapus rose,
He wak'd to lust, in stimulating prose.
But though that Garden-God forsaken dies;
Another Cleland see in Lewis rise.
Why sleep the ministers of truth and law?
Has the State no controul, no decent awe,
While each with each in madd'ning orgies vie,
Pandars to lust and licens'd blasphemy?
Can Senates hear without a kindred rage?
Oh may a poet's light'ning blast the page,
Nor with the bolt of Nemesis in vain
Supply the laws, that wake not to restrain.
Knight thus composes first the reader's mind.
To rouse attention is the poet's art,
Knight calls to sleep, and acts a civil part,
Save to his view when foul Priapus rose,
He wak'd to lust, in stimulating prose.
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Another Cleland see in Lewis rise.
Why sleep the ministers of truth and law?
Has the State no controul, no decent awe,
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Pandars to lust and licens'd blasphemy?
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Oh may a poet's light'ning blast the page,
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Supply the laws, that wake not to restrain.
Is ignorance the plea? since Blackstone drew
The lucid chart, each labyrinth has a clue,
Each law an index: students aptly turn
To Williams, Hale, judicious Cox, and Burn;
Obscenity has now her code and priest,
While Anarchy prepares the dire Digest.
The lucid chart, each labyrinth has a clue,
Each law an index: students aptly turn
To Williams, Hale, judicious Cox, and Burn;
Obscenity has now her code and priest,
While Anarchy prepares the dire Digest.
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Methinks as in a theatre I stand,
Where Vice and Folly saunter hand in hand,
With each strange form in motley masquerade;
Featur'd grimace, and impudence pourtray'd;
While Virtue, hov'ring o'er th'unhallow'd room,
Seems a dim speck through Sin's surrounding gloom.
As through the smoak-soil'd glass we spy from far
The circling radiance of the Sirian Star,
Faint wax the beams, if strong the fumy tint,
Till the star fades, a mathematick point.
Where Vice and Folly saunter hand in hand,
With each strange form in motley masquerade;
Featur'd grimace, and impudence pourtray'd;
While Virtue, hov'ring o'er th'unhallow'd room,
Seems a dim speck through Sin's surrounding gloom.
As through the smoak-soil'd glass we spy from far
The circling radiance of the Sirian Star,
Faint wax the beams, if strong the fumy tint,
Till the star fades, a mathematick point.
Sure from the womb I was untimely torn,
Or in some rude inclement season born;
The State turns harsh on fortune's grating hinge,
And I untaught to beg, or crouch, or cringe.
For me the fates no golden texture weave,
Though happier far to give than to receive:
Yet with unvaulting sober wishes blest,
Ambition fled with envy from my breast;
For friendship form'd, I feel, in realms above,
My Saturn temper'd by the beam of Jove.
I cannot, will not, stoop with boys to rise,
And seize on Pitt, like Canning, by surprise,
Be led through Treasury vaults in airy dance,
And flatter'd into insignificance.
I cannot, will not, in a college gown,
Vent my first nonsense on a patient town,
Quit the dull Cam, and ponder in the park
A six-weeks Epick, or a Joan of Arc.
I leave these early transports, and the calm
Complacence, and the softly trickling balm
Self-consolation sheds! more sweet than all
Burke felt in senates, or Impeachment's Hall;
Borne to that course, where thund'ring from afar
The Great Auruncian drove his primal car,
Or in some rude inclement season born;
The State turns harsh on fortune's grating hinge,
And I untaught to beg, or crouch, or cringe.
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Though happier far to give than to receive:
Yet with unvaulting sober wishes blest,
Ambition fled with envy from my breast;
For friendship form'd, I feel, in realms above,
My Saturn temper'd by the beam of Jove.
I cannot, will not, stoop with boys to rise,
And seize on Pitt, like Canning, by surprise,
Be led through Treasury vaults in airy dance,
And flatter'd into insignificance.
I cannot, will not, in a college gown,
Vent my first nonsense on a patient town,
Quit the dull Cam, and ponder in the park
A six-weeks Epick, or a Joan of Arc.
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Complacence, and the softly trickling balm
Self-consolation sheds! more sweet than all
Burke felt in senates, or Impeachment's Hall;
Borne to that course, where thund'ring from afar
The Great Auruncian drove his primal car,
E'en now, when all I view afflicts my sight,
All that Horne Tooke can plot, or Godwin write;
Now when Translation to a pest is grown,
And Holcroft to French treason adds his own;
When Gallick Diderot in vain we shun,
His blasted pencil, Fatalist, and Nun;
When St. Pol sounds the sacring bell, that calls
His Priests en masse from Charles's ruin'd walls;
When Thelwall, for the season, quits the Strand
To organize revolt by sea and land;
When Barristers turn authors; authors prate;
Charles Fox allegiance dares to calculate,
And with his sulph'rous torch relumes the pile
With unaverted face, and ghastly smile;
Now when, beneath the dread fraternal frown,
The harp revers'd grates discord on the Crown;
When Transatlantick Emigrants can roam
But to return, and praise our English home;
Now, when the French defend us in disgrace,
French swords, French fraud, French priests, and French grimace;
When England changes arms—at such a view
Must I find method, verse, and patience too?
My verse, the thunder of a Patriot's voice,
Cries loud to all who England make their choice,
“Throw wide that portal; let no Roman wait,
“But march with Priestley through the dextral gate.
All that Horne Tooke can plot, or Godwin write;
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When Gallick Diderot in vain we shun,
His blasted pencil, Fatalist, and Nun;
When St. Pol sounds the sacring bell, that calls
His Priests en masse from Charles's ruin'd walls;
When Thelwall, for the season, quits the Strand
To organize revolt by sea and land;
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Charles Fox allegiance dares to calculate,
And with his sulph'rous torch relumes the pile
With unaverted face, and ghastly smile;
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The harp revers'd grates discord on the Crown;
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French swords, French fraud, French priests, and French grimace;
When England changes arms—at such a view
Must I find method, verse, and patience too?
My verse, the thunder of a Patriot's voice,
Cries loud to all who England make their choice,
“Throw wide that portal; let no Roman wait,
“But march with Priestley through the dextral gate.
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Talk thus, e'en Horsley shall applaud: proceed.
AUTHOR.
The tears that Britain sheds, her wounds that bleed,
Call for a fost'ring hand, the balm of Peace;
Not stypticks, which the sanguine tide increase,
Such as State-quacks, or Barristers expose
For fame and sale, and sleeping might disclose.
In state affairs all Barristers are dull,
And Erskine nods, the opium in his skull.
Call for a fost'ring hand, the balm of Peace;
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Such as State-quacks, or Barristers expose
For fame and sale, and sleeping might disclose.
In state affairs all Barristers are dull,
And Erskine nods, the opium in his skull.
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Saw'st thou, (or did my troubled fancy dream?)
High o'er yon cliff, in majesty supreme,
Vengeance his attribute, (and, as he trod,
The conscious waves roll'd back!) the passing God,
That shook old Ocean's empire? from beneath
Strange threat'ning notes in hollow murmurs breathe,
Hoarse through the deafen'd shrouds! But hush'd the blast,
The Trident is confirm'd: the dream is past.
High o'er yon cliff, in majesty supreme,
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The conscious waves roll'd back!) the passing God,
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Strange threat'ning notes in hollow murmurs breathe,
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The Trident is confirm'd: the dream is past.
Oh, strong against ourselves, and rashly bold!
No voice, as in the Hebrew fane of old,
From Britain's center to her utmost bounds,
From parting angels in sad accent sounds;
Paine may blaspheme, Tone, Tooke, and Thelwall mourn,
Our Ark is still by hallow'd hands upborne!
I too will call, loud through the gathering storm,
Godwin and Volney, Ruin and Reform;
The Sophists unabash'd yet rear their head,
Their colours gaudy, though but idly spread.
Better be dull than wicked; from the heart
The life-springs issue, and their force impart.
Better to write stark nonsense; better preach
With silky voice, and sacred flow'rs of speech,
In soft probation for a Foundling's gown,
To please some guardian Midas of the town,
Who gives his vote from judgment and from taste;
Better with Warner move with measur'd haste
To lend new pleasure to a pedant's ear,
Appeal to Bryant, nor his judgment fear;
Better to state-arithmetick be bred,
Tell Jacobins and Tories by the head;
Prove that no dogs, as through the streets they range,
Give bone for bone in regular exchange;
Or frame, with Marsh, strange theorems to try
Some manuscript's divine identity;
With Hargrave to the Peers approach with awe,
And sense and grammar sink in Yorke and law;
With Pitt and Fox some Mantuan strain rehearse,
In school-boy contest for a hackney'd verse;
Better be White, though dubious of my fame,
Or wisely sink my own in Homer's name;
Better to disappoint the publick hope,
Like Warton driveling on the page of Pope;
While o'er the ground that Warburton once trod,
The Winton Pedant shakes his little rod,
Content his own stale scraps to steal or glean,
Hash'd up and season'd with an old man's spleen;
Nor e'en the Bard's deformity can 'scape,
“His pictur'd person and his libel'd shape;”
Ah, better to unlearn'd oblivion hurl'd,
Then give to Perry what I owe the world;
And idly busy, in my choice perplext,
Throw years of labour on a single text,
(Alike to me, encas'd in Grecian bronze,
Koran or Vulgate, Veda, Priest, or Bonze)
And lend to truth itself unhallow'd aid,
In all the rashness of a scholar's trade,
And fall, like Porson.
No voice, as in the Hebrew fane of old,
From Britain's center to her utmost bounds,
From parting angels in sad accent sounds;
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Our Ark is still by hallow'd hands upborne!
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Better to state-arithmetick be bred,
Tell Jacobins and Tories by the head;
Prove that no dogs, as through the streets they range,
Give bone for bone in regular exchange;
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Some manuscript's divine identity;
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And sense and grammar sink in Yorke and law;
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In school-boy contest for a hackney'd verse;
Better be White, though dubious of my fame,
Or wisely sink my own in Homer's name;
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Like Warton driveling on the page of Pope;
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The Winton Pedant shakes his little rod,
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Hash'd up and season'd with an old man's spleen;
Nor e'en the Bard's deformity can 'scape,
“His pictur'd person and his libel'd shape;”
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OCTAVIUS.
You may spare your pains,
He gives no ear to any modern strains,
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AUTHOR.
Censure or praise let others seek or fear:
Look at my verse, the superscription there,
The cause that I defend: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,
The statesman's, and the peasant's. In my line,
All find in me a patron and a friend,
Unseen, unknown, unshaken to the end.
Yes, from the depths of Pindus shall my rhymes,
Through this mis-order'd world, these lawless times,
Be heard in Albion and her inmost state;
All that the good revere and bad men hate,
In spirit and in substance, as of old,
The Muse in her Asbestos shall enfold.
Look at my verse, the superscription there,
The cause that I defend: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,
The statesman's, and the peasant's. In my line,
All find in me a patron and a friend,
Unseen, unknown, unshaken to the end.
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Through this mis-order'd world, these lawless times,
Be heard in Albion and her inmost state;
All that the good revere and bad men hate,
In spirit and in substance, as of old,
The Muse in her Asbestos shall enfold.
This is my Method.—Though I sometimes stray
From Euclid's rigid rules to fancy's way,
Yet have I mus'd on Granta's willowy strand,
The sage of Alexandria in my hand,
And mark'd his symbols deep; while o'er my ear
Truth pour'd her strain in harmony severe.
I sought the Stagirite; and could divide
(No Scotchman near, no Gillies by my side)
His sober sense from pride of intellect,
What Locke confirm'd, or warn'd me to reject,
Thence soaring on the balanc'd wings of thought,
(As Kepler hinted, but as Newton taught)
My mind in calm ascension to the height
Of the world's temple, through th'abyss of light,
Mid wand'ring fires and every starr'd abode,
Explor'd the works and wonders of the God,
Who fix'd the laws of order, time and place,
In his own great sensorium boundless space.
The Chemist's magick flame, the curious sport
Amber first gave, would oft my fancy court,
Led through creation's consecrated range,
Each flower, and plant, and stem, with every change
Of vegetative life, in order brought,
I magnified Linnæus as I thought;
But spurn'd unfeeling science, cruel tales
Of Virgin rabbets, and of headless snails,
And through the realms of Nature as I trod,
Bow'd at the throne, and saw the pow'r, of God.
In morals, in religion, in the state,
In science, without order, all I hate.
From Euclid's rigid rules to fancy's way,
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The sage of Alexandria in my hand,
And mark'd his symbols deep; while o'er my ear
Truth pour'd her strain in harmony severe.
I sought the Stagirite; and could divide
(No Scotchman near, no Gillies by my side)
His sober sense from pride of intellect,
What Locke confirm'd, or warn'd me to reject,
Thence soaring on the balanc'd wings of thought,
(As Kepler hinted, but as Newton taught)
My mind in calm ascension to the height
Of the world's temple, through th'abyss of light,
Mid wand'ring fires and every starr'd abode,
399
Who fix'd the laws of order, time and place,
In his own great sensorium boundless space.
The Chemist's magick flame, the curious sport
Amber first gave, would oft my fancy court,
Led through creation's consecrated range,
Each flower, and plant, and stem, with every change
Of vegetative life, in order brought,
I magnified Linnæus as I thought;
But spurn'd unfeeling science, cruel tales
Of Virgin rabbets, and of headless snails,
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In science, without order, all I hate.
OCTAVIUS.
Speak then, the hour demands; Is Learning fled?
Spent all her vigour, all her spirit dead?
Have Gallick arms and unrelenting war
Borne all her trophies from Britannia far?
Shall nought but ghosts and trinkets be display'd,
Since Walpole ply'd the virtuoso's trade,
Bade sober truth revers'd for fiction pass,
And mus'd o'er Gothick toys through Gothick glass?
Since states, and words, and volumes, all are new,
Armies have skeletons, and sermons too;
403
Simeon by Cam, or Wyndham on the Rhine.
Where is Invention? is the modern store,
The same that old Chaldæa knew before;
All that the Gallick sage, with ill-starr'd wit,
Kens from his ancient telescopick pit?
AUTHOR.
All is not lost: the spirit shall revive:
Lowth yet instructs, and Blayney's labours live;
With all who wander by the sacred fount,
(A chosen band!) encircling Sion's mount,
Fast by the fanes and oracles of God,
And mark, with King, where waves his awful rod.
The truth of evidence, the moral strain,
Nor Hurd has preach'd, nor Paley taught in vain;
Socinus droops, and baffled Priestley flies,
And at the strength of Horsley shrinks, and dies;
Nor second stand in theologick fame
Sagacious Hey, and Rennell's learned name,
And Douglas, hail'd afar from earliest youth
Great victor in the well-fought field of truth.
To me, all heedless of proud fashion's sneer,
Maurice is learn'd, and Wilberforce sincere,
(Though on his page some pause in sacred doubt)
As Gisborne serious, and as Pott devout.
Nor yet ungrac'd may Sulivan remain,
Serene in fancy, nor in science vain;
But still, though oft his various works I scan,
I quit the volume, when I find the man.
Lowth yet instructs, and Blayney's labours live;
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(A chosen band!) encircling Sion's mount,
Fast by the fanes and oracles of God,
And mark, with King, where waves his awful rod.
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And Douglas, hail'd afar from earliest youth
Great victor in the well-fought field of truth.
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Maurice is learn'd, and Wilberforce sincere,
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As Gisborne serious, and as Pott devout.
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Serene in fancy, nor in science vain;
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I quit the volume, when I find the man.
Herschell, with ampler mind and magick glass,
Mid worlds and worlds revolving as they pass,
Pours the full cluster'd radiance from on high,
That fathomless abyss of Deity.
Who in the depth abstruse of intellect
A greater now than Waring shall expect?
Lo, where Philosophy extends her sway,
Guides future Navies o'er the trackless way,
More voluble and firm; so, strong in thought,
The royal Synod Atwood sate and taught.
Who may forget thee, Beattie? rustick Burns,
And all his artless wood-notes Scotland mourns.
With England's Bard, with Cowper, who shall vie?
Original in strength and dignity,
With more than painter's fancy blest, with lays
Holy, as saints to heav'n expiring raise.
See, with the fire of youth how art combines,
When Milton's muse with Westall's pencil joins!
For Athens Cumberland seems born alone,
To bid her comick Patriot be our own.
High from the climes of Latium's happier day
The Muse on Roscoe darts her noontide ray;
And with each soft, each reconciling pow'r,
Sheds gleams of peace on Melmoth's closing hour;
Bright to the goal in their sublime career
Bryant and Burke the torch triumphant bear;
While Granta hails (what need the Sage to name?)
Her lov'd Iapis on the banks of Cam.
Mid worlds and worlds revolving as they pass,
415
That fathomless abyss of Deity.
Who in the depth abstruse of intellect
A greater now than Waring shall expect?
Lo, where Philosophy extends her sway,
Guides future Navies o'er the trackless way,
More voluble and firm; so, strong in thought,
The royal Synod Atwood sate and taught.
Who may forget thee, Beattie? rustick Burns,
And all his artless wood-notes Scotland mourns.
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Original in strength and dignity,
With more than painter's fancy blest, with lays
Holy, as saints to heav'n expiring raise.
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When Milton's muse with Westall's pencil joins!
For Athens Cumberland seems born alone,
To bid her comick Patriot be our own.
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The Muse on Roscoe darts her noontide ray;
And with each soft, each reconciling pow'r,
Sheds gleams of peace on Melmoth's closing hour;
Bright to the goal in their sublime career
Bryant and Burke the torch triumphant bear;
419
Her lov'd Iapis on the banks of Cam.
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Whence is that groan? no more Britannia sleeps,
But o'er her lost Musæus bends and weeps.
Lo, every Grecian, every British Muse
Scatters the recent flow'rs, and gracious dews,
Where Mason lies; he sure their influence felt,
And in his breast each soft affection dwelt,
That love and friendship know; each sister art,
With all that Colours, and that Sounds impart,
All that the sylvan theatre can grace,
All in the soul of Mason “found their place!”
Low sinks the laurell'd head; in Mona's land
I see them pass, 'tis Mador's drooping band,
To harps of woe in holiest obsequies,
“In yonder grave, they chant, our Druid lies!”
But o'er her lost Musæus bends and weeps.
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Scatters the recent flow'rs, and gracious dews,
Where Mason lies; he sure their influence felt,
And in his breast each soft affection dwelt,
That love and friendship know; each sister art,
With all that Colours, and that Sounds impart,
All that the sylvan theatre can grace,
All in the soul of Mason “found their place!”
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I see them pass, 'tis Mador's drooping band,
To harps of woe in holiest obsequies,
“In yonder grave, they chant, our Druid lies!”
He too, whom Indus and the Ganges mourn,
The glory of their banks, from Isis torn,
In learning's strength is fled, in judgment's prime,
In science temp'rate, various, and sublime;
To him familiar every legal doom,
The courts of Athens, or the halls of Rome,
Or Hindoo Vedas taught; for him the Muse
Distill'd from every flow'r Hyblæan dews;
Firm, when exalted, in demeanour grave,
Mercy and truth were his, he lov'd to save.
His mind collected; at opinion's shock
Jones stood unmov'd, and from the Christian rock,
Cœlestial brightness beaming on his breast,
He saw the Star, and worshipp'd in the East.
The glory of their banks, from Isis torn,
In learning's strength is fled, in judgment's prime,
In science temp'rate, various, and sublime;
To him familiar every legal doom,
The courts of Athens, or the halls of Rome,
Or Hindoo Vedas taught; for him the Muse
Distill'd from every flow'r Hyblæan dews;
Firm, when exalted, in demeanour grave,
Mercy and truth were his, he lov'd to save.
His mind collected; at opinion's shock
Jones stood unmov'd, and from the Christian rock,
Cœlestial brightness beaming on his breast,
He saw the Star, and worshipp'd in the East.
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Thou too, Octavius, that dread hour must feel,
Nor eloquence, nor wit, nor patriot zeal,
Nor piety sincere without the show,
Nor every grace Pierian pow'rs bestow
From pure Ilyssus and the Latian shore,
What Swift, or great Erasmus felt before,
May save thee!—yet, yet long, so friendship calls,
May guardian angels hover round the walls,
Where love and virtue fix their blest abode,
Friend of thy country, servant of thy God!
Nor eloquence, nor wit, nor patriot zeal,
Nor piety sincere without the show,
Nor every grace Pierian pow'rs bestow
From pure Ilyssus and the Latian shore,
What Swift, or great Erasmus felt before,
May save thee!—yet, yet long, so friendship calls,
May guardian angels hover round the walls,
Where love and virtue fix their blest abode,
Friend of thy country, servant of thy God!
Octavius yes, it is, it shall be mine,
With praise appropriate still to grace my line;
To mark where Genius soars, beyond controul,
With Mantuan judgment and the Theban soul,
Correct, majestick, copious, full, and strong,
In arts, in arms, in eloquence, or song;
Still proud to vindicate unseen, unknown,
The State, the Laws, the Altar, and the Throne.
With praise appropriate still to grace my line;
424
With Mantuan judgment and the Theban soul,
425
In arts, in arms, in eloquence, or song;
Still proud to vindicate unseen, unknown,
The State, the Laws, the Altar, and the Throne.
OCTAVIUS.
Here close the strain: and o'er your studious hour
May truth preside and virtue's holiest pow'r!
Still be your knowledge temp'rate and discreet,
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