The Age Reviewed A Satire: In two parts: Second edition, revised and corrected [by Robert Montgomery] |
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Thy Wretch of Antioch, and Jerusalem's fall,—
Belshazzar's feast,—Where, Milman, are they all?
Oh! give us Nature; not mere tuneful skill,
And lifeless splendour, where the passion's still;—
Breathe out the vigour of the feeling free,
Excite—or who will find the bard in thee?
Think'st thou, the Muse is trotted forth with art?
That wordy “Boleyn” can commove the heart?—
Here bathos welters in the metal wine,
And voided rheum slabbers on the line;
Here Pity pales blue Pestilence's cheek,
And Boleyn, like a plumeless angel's weak!—
Wake, hell! —lift up thy blackest blackness, when,
A doubtful Boleyn sanctifies the pen!—
Milman, though Heber puffed thy plastered plays,
They melt no heart—deserve no poet's bays.
Belshazzar's feast,—Where, Milman, are they all?
Oh! give us Nature; not mere tuneful skill,
And lifeless splendour, where the passion's still;—
Breathe out the vigour of the feeling free,
Excite—or who will find the bard in thee?
Think'st thou, the Muse is trotted forth with art?
That wordy “Boleyn” can commove the heart?—
Here bathos welters in the metal wine,
And voided rheum slabbers on the line;
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And Boleyn, like a plumeless angel's weak!—
Wake, hell! —lift up thy blackest blackness, when,
A doubtful Boleyn sanctifies the pen!—
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They melt no heart—deserve no poet's bays.
“Wake, hell! lift up thy gates; and ye that tenant
The deepest, darkest, most infuriate pit
The abyss of all abysses, blackest blackness.” ------
Anne Boleyn.
Shall meet Bombastes face to face!”
Those candid superfluities.” ------
Did almost void their rheum on me.”
Scuto Herc. “An angel, by Heaven's providence unplumed.”
The deepest, darkest, most infuriate pit
The abyss of all abysses, blackest blackness.” ------
Anne Boleyn.
This puts one in mind of a character in the farce, who stalks tumidly over the stage, and bellows out—
“Whoever dares these boots displace,Shall meet Bombastes face to face!”
Juvenal would have called it a poetical tempest—“poetica surget tempestas.”
“Go coin those wines, barter for homelia cates,Those candid superfluities.” ------
What an admirable speech this would be, in the mouth of Brummel to his man John!—but, presently we have something of nasty nature:—
“------ Some did spurn at me,Did almost void their rheum on me.”
Doubtless this was suggested by that beautiful line of Hesiod's.—
Της εκ μεν ρινων μυξαι ρεον—Scuto Herc. “An angel, by Heaven's providence unplumed.”
Truly, Anne Boleyn was an angel!!—I wonder what Queen Catherine called her?
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