 | The poetical works of John Trumbull . |  |
LINES ADDRESSED TO MESSRS. DWIGHT AND BARLOW,
On the projected publication of their Poems in London.
December 1775.
You seek perhaps a flowery road to fame;
Where distant far from ocean's stormy roar,
Wind the pure vales and smiles the tranquil shore,
Where hills sublime in vernal sweetness rise,
And opening prospects charm the wand'ring eyes,
While the gay dawn, propitious on your way,
Crimsons the east and lights the orient day.
Though conscious merit claim the debt of praise;
Still sneering Folly wars with every art,
Still ambush'd Envy aims the secret dart,
Toil wins the field and hazard gains the prize.
The long, the dreary pilgrimage of fame;
Each bard invades, each judging dunce reviews,
And every critic wars with every Muse.
When famed Ulysses trod the vales of death;
Terrific voices rose, and all around
Dire forms sprang flaming from the rocking ground;
Fierce Cerberus lour'd, and yawning o'er his way,
Hell flash'd the terrors of infernal day;
The scornful fiends opposed his bold career,
And sung in shrieks the prelude of his fear.
Thus at each trembling step, the Poet hears
Dread groans and hisses murmur in his ears;
In every breeze a shaft malignant flies,
Cerberean forms in every rival rise;
There yawning wide before his path extends
Th' infernal gulph, where Critics are the fiends;
From gloomy Styx pale conflagrations gleam,
And dread oblivion rolls in Lethe's stream.
The cloud of Critics on your Muse descends!
From every side, with deadly force, shall steer
The fierce Review, the censuring Gazetteer,
Light Magazines, that pointless jests supply,
And quick Gazettes, that coin the current lie.
Each coffee-house shall catch the loud alarms,
The Temple swarm, and Grub-street wake to arms.
As vultures, sailing through the darken'd air,
Whet their keen talons, and their beaks prepare,
O'er warring armies wait th' approaching fray,
And sate their wishes on the future prey:
Each cens'rer thus the tempting lure pursues,
And hangs o'er battles of your Epic muse,
And each new bard a welcome feast proclaims.
Who read to cavil, and who write to rail;
When ardent genius pours the bold sublime,
Carp at the style, or nibble at the rhyme;
Misstate your thoughts, misconstrue your design,
And cite, as samples, every feebler line?
To praise your muse be your admirer's care;
Her faults alone the critics make their share.
Where you succeed, beyond their sphere you've flown,
But where you fail, the realm is all their own.
By right they claim whatever faults are found,
For nonsense trespasses on critic ground;
By right they claim the blunders of your lays,
As lords of manors seize on waifs and strays.
And scorn the censures of the envious throng;
Prove to the world, in these new-dawning skies,
What genius kindles and what arts arise;
What fav'ring Muses lent their willing aid,
As gay through Pindus' flowery paths you stray'd;
While in your strains the purest morals flow'd,
Rules to the great, and lessons to the good.
Your country's heroes claim the debt of praise;
Fame shall assent, and future years admire
Barlow's strong flight, and Dwight's Homeric fire.
Dwight's Conquest of Canaan, and Barlow's Vision of Columbus, afterwards enlarged and entitled, The Columbiad. This designed publication was prevented by the revolutionary war.
Great-Britain.—See the British Reviewers, for the fulfilment of this prediction.
The English scribblers began their abuse, by asserting that all the Americans were cowards. Subsequent events have taught them a reverent silence on that topic. They now labour, with equal wit and eloquence, to prove our universal ignorance and stupidity.— The present writers in the Quarterly Review have made it the vehicle of insult and slander upon our genius and manners. Whether they will be more successful with the pen than with the sword, in prostrating America at their feet, Time, the ancient arbiter, will determine in due season.
| The poetical works of John Trumbull . | |