 | An epistle to Walter Scott |  |
1
AN EPISTLE TO WALTER SCOTT.
[_]
Written at Pittsburgh, during the sitting of the term, by H.H. Brackenridge, Sept. 9th, 1811, on reading “The Lady of the Lake”—Taken up by chance
Full many a rounded year has cast
A shade upon the period past,
Since Scotia on maternal lap
Received me There, upon the map,
I see Kintyre; there was I born
Hard fate to be so rudely torn
By poverty and need of change,
Away to this a foreign range,
With parents whom Culloden muir
And other troubles had made poor
But early mem'ry paints me well
The Bellivullan hill and dale;
The bracken green, the heather blue,
And gowan of a golden hue;
And though se-join'd by length of wave,
I feel a charm some fairy gave
To bind me to my natal soil,
And think upon that distant isle:
An isle where charm of verse is found
To make it an enchanted ground.
For most the ballad and the rhyme
Imparts a charm to every clime:
And not the deeds that men have done
So much the listening ear has won,
As magick of that art divine,
Which springs from the harmonious nine.
Oh give me Burns: oh give me Scott;
I want no more when these I've got,
To make a rock of any sea
Immortal by such minstrelsy.
A shade upon the period past,
Since Scotia on maternal lap
Received me There, upon the map,
I see Kintyre; there was I born
Hard fate to be so rudely torn
By poverty and need of change,
Away to this a foreign range,
With parents whom Culloden muir
And other troubles had made poor
But early mem'ry paints me well
The Bellivullan hill and dale;
The bracken green, the heather blue,
And gowan of a golden hue;
And though se-join'd by length of wave,
I feel a charm some fairy gave
To bind me to my natal soil,
And think upon that distant isle:
An isle where charm of verse is found
To make it an enchanted ground.
For most the ballad and the rhyme
2
And not the deeds that men have done
So much the listening ear has won,
As magick of that art divine,
Which springs from the harmonious nine.
Oh give me Burns: oh give me Scott;
I want no more when these I've got,
To make a rock of any sea
Immortal by such minstrelsy.
Who now need ask, where are the nine,
That sang the tale of Troy divine;
Or later, in Italian day
Gave to the Mantuan his lay?
These fairy footsteps here I trace
On lands from whence have sprung my race.
Here heights are sung, unknown before,
But by traditionary lore.
Who would have thought that Thule's isle
Would be the seat of song erewhile;
And lyrick fire, and epick swell
Come with Apollo here to dwell?
That sang the tale of Troy divine;
Or later, in Italian day
Gave to the Mantuan his lay?
These fairy footsteps here I trace
On lands from whence have sprung my race.
Here heights are sung, unknown before,
But by traditionary lore.
Who would have thought that Thule's isle
Would be the seat of song erewhile;
And lyrick fire, and epick swell
Come with Apollo here to dwell?
Ah me! that cannot nearer be
To hear such native melody!
Here by Ohio's stream my pen
Gives image to a sort of strain
Which feeling prompts, but Genius none,
So gifted to a favourite son.
My gift is only to admire;
In madness I attempt the lyre,
At hearing this celestial sound
From Scotia's hills and distant bound.
Of this I dream, and when awake,
I read the Lady of the Lake;
Or throw it by to gain the power
Of sense and motion for an hour;
For such excess too long to bear
Incapable our natures are;
And the delirium must have stay,
Or springs of human frame give way.
To hear such native melody!
Here by Ohio's stream my pen
Gives image to a sort of strain
Which feeling prompts, but Genius none,
So gifted to a favourite son.
My gift is only to admire;
In madness I attempt the lyre,
At hearing this celestial sound
3
Of this I dream, and when awake,
I read the Lady of the Lake;
Or throw it by to gain the power
Of sense and motion for an hour;
For such excess too long to bear
Incapable our natures are;
And the delirium must have stay,
Or springs of human frame give way.
Here silly hills, and untaught wood,
Because a little of that blood,
Address me, or I think address
The lonely weeping wilderness.
Have you not something of that vein,
A little of the minstrel strain,
To give us also here a name,
And taste of an immortal fame.
Ah! lonely bowers you gave me shade,
But such return cannot be made;
Sweet waters, you must trickle on
Till some more favour'd muse's son
Shall sing of you like Walter Scott
And to immortal change your lot!
Through many ages cast your glance;
Perhaps a thousand years at once;
A lesser time will be too soon
For nature to dispense such boon;
As comets centuries require
To pass off and recruit their fire.
Who knows but this epistle may
To you attract a poet's lay;
To put in verse some height, some stream
Just incidental in his theme.
Oh! might my name of Bracken born
Some ridge where infant lay forlorn
Or peasant built his hamlet drear
Attain the sanctity to hear
It named in one immortal line,
Which turns a harsh word to divine!
But this too much; I cannot claim
The meed of such advance to fame,
So far secluded from my race,
And cut off from romantick base.
It can't be said that such a dale
Where deeds were done, is where I dwell;
Or that I vegetate among
The hills which once were hills of song.
Here neighbouring to the savage tread
Inglorious I must bend my head,
And think of something else than fame;
Though in my bosom burns the flame
That in a happier age and clime
Might have attempted lofty rhyme.
Because a little of that blood,
Address me, or I think address
The lonely weeping wilderness.
Have you not something of that vein,
A little of the minstrel strain,
To give us also here a name,
And taste of an immortal fame.
Ah! lonely bowers you gave me shade,
But such return cannot be made;
Sweet waters, you must trickle on
Till some more favour'd muse's son
Shall sing of you like Walter Scott
And to immortal change your lot!
Through many ages cast your glance;
Perhaps a thousand years at once;
A lesser time will be too soon
For nature to dispense such boon;
As comets centuries require
To pass off and recruit their fire.
Who knows but this epistle may
To you attract a poet's lay;
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Just incidental in his theme.
Oh! might my name of Bracken born
Some ridge where infant lay forlorn
Or peasant built his hamlet drear
Attain the sanctity to hear
It named in one immortal line,
Which turns a harsh word to divine!
But this too much; I cannot claim
The meed of such advance to fame,
So far secluded from my race,
And cut off from romantick base.
It can't be said that such a dale
Where deeds were done, is where I dwell;
Or that I vegetate among
The hills which once were hills of song.
Here neighbouring to the savage tread
Inglorious I must bend my head,
And think of something else than fame;
Though in my bosom burns the flame
That in a happier age and clime
Might have attempted lofty rhyme.
But thou, celestial, take thy course
With fancy's pinion, reason's force;
Go on; enjoy increasing fame,
Now equal with a Milton's name;
Or him that sang the fairy-queen;
Or other Southren that has been.
Not Shakespeare would himself disdain
The rivalship of such a strain.
With fancy's pinion, reason's force;
Go on; enjoy increasing fame,
Now equal with a Milton's name;
Or him that sang the fairy-queen;
Or other Southren that has been.
Not Shakespeare would himself disdain
The rivalship of such a strain.
5
Oh! for a theme of ampler space,
Whereon eternal lines to trace;
Embracing sea and continent,
And not within an island pent;
A stage commensurate with power
Of bard and sacred orator!
But this would kind of treason be
To isle of my nativity,
Which claims and has a right to claim
Her bard for her own sep'rate fame;
Since other lands no mention make
Of genius which did here awake;
Or deeds which heroes here have done
However meriting renown?
Much merit here of feeling heart
To make the breast heave, and tear start
Remains unsung; and valour's prize
The golden hair and sky-blue eyes.
Hence I retract the wish, resign;
To Scotia give that harp of thine
To which all melodies are known
That harp has rung or pipe has blown;
Like thine own bard, thy Allan Banc
So full, so various is thy strain;
In torrent numbers, flood of sense
In bounds which judgement well restrains.
Whereon eternal lines to trace;
Embracing sea and continent,
And not within an island pent;
A stage commensurate with power
Of bard and sacred orator!
But this would kind of treason be
To isle of my nativity,
Which claims and has a right to claim
Her bard for her own sep'rate fame;
Since other lands no mention make
Of genius which did here awake;
Or deeds which heroes here have done
However meriting renown?
Much merit here of feeling heart
To make the breast heave, and tear start
Remains unsung; and valour's prize
The golden hair and sky-blue eyes.
Hence I retract the wish, resign;
To Scotia give that harp of thine
To which all melodies are known
That harp has rung or pipe has blown;
Like thine own bard, thy Allan Banc
So full, so various is thy strain;
In torrent numbers, flood of sense
In bounds which judgement well restrains.
No fear of a short liv'd renown,
Or fading to thy ivy-crown;
For should some hidden fire or force
Of ocean in his changing course
Unfix Benledi from his stance,
Yet time at thee shall break his lance;
Or miss his aim and level wide
At thy more solid pyramid!
Go on; add lustre to my earth
So honoured by thy magick birth;
For not of mortal art thou born,
O darling son of orient morn!
Go on—and fill the rising gale
With Scotia's early lore and tale;
Make vocal and give life in turn
To every mountain, glen and burn;
As erst in Grecia did the god
Of poesy, his dear abode,
Attended by the sister choir,
That hymned the song or tuned the lyre;
For of Castalia ev'ry dream
Is found, in thy Loch Katrine theme;
And Pindus rises to our view
When that we think of Benvenue;
Or we forget all other song,
Thy inspiration pours so strong.
Or fading to thy ivy-crown;
For should some hidden fire or force
Of ocean in his changing course
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Yet time at thee shall break his lance;
Or miss his aim and level wide
At thy more solid pyramid!
Go on; add lustre to my earth
So honoured by thy magick birth;
For not of mortal art thou born,
O darling son of orient morn!
Go on—and fill the rising gale
With Scotia's early lore and tale;
Make vocal and give life in turn
To every mountain, glen and burn;
As erst in Grecia did the god
Of poesy, his dear abode,
Attended by the sister choir,
That hymned the song or tuned the lyre;
For of Castalia ev'ry dream
Is found, in thy Loch Katrine theme;
And Pindus rises to our view
When that we think of Benvenue;
Or we forget all other song,
Thy inspiration pours so strong.
So far removed, what the reward
Can we bestow upon the bard?
Our praise is vain; what winds will bear
Encomium to a distant ear?
Or will it please, so little skill
Have we, however the good will.
All we can do, we bid the sun
When he his weary course has run,
And in the orient brings the day,
To halt a little at thy lay,
And see if not his beams appear
More cheering when he climbs the sphere;
For joy of heart lights up a grace
And dances in the human face?
And why not morning at her dawn
More sprightly look upon the lawn;
And birds in melody repay
With sweeter imitative lay?
Though not, thou bird of scarlet wing
Canst thou a tale of Marmion sing?
Though carol sweet and matin voice
Is charming at our early rise:
Thy Border minstrelsy fall short;
Thy lay is not of such a sort
Articulate as tongue of men.
Can we bestow upon the bard?
Our praise is vain; what winds will bear
Encomium to a distant ear?
Or will it please, so little skill
Have we, however the good will.
All we can do, we bid the sun
When he his weary course has run,
And in the orient brings the day,
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And see if not his beams appear
More cheering when he climbs the sphere;
For joy of heart lights up a grace
And dances in the human face?
And why not morning at her dawn
More sprightly look upon the lawn;
And birds in melody repay
With sweeter imitative lay?
Though not, thou bird of scarlet wing
Canst thou a tale of Marmion sing?
Though carol sweet and matin voice
Is charming at our early rise:
Thy Border minstrelsy fall short;
Thy lay is not of such a sort
Articulate as tongue of men.
What sound is that I hear again,
That winds across th' Atlantick bear
In harmony to ev'ry ear?
With gratulation welcome sped
It trembles on the mountain heed,
Which starts to higher majesty,
When rapturous strains like these pass by.
Sit down thou ridge in lower stile;
I also wish to hear awhile;
Depress thy erst aspiring head;
Be level with the ocean bed;
That no impediment may be
To this the coming minstrelsy,
The vision of Sir Roderick
sung
These woods and solitudes among:
That winds across th' Atlantick bear
In harmony to ev'ry ear?
With gratulation welcome sped
It trembles on the mountain heed,
Which starts to higher majesty,
When rapturous strains like these pass by.
Sit down thou ridge in lower stile;
I also wish to hear awhile;
Depress thy erst aspiring head;
Be level with the ocean bed;
That no impediment may be
To this the coming minstrelsy,
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These woods and solitudes among:
Sole Poet of the present age,
At once the Poet and the Sage,
Accept this distant homage given
To sounds that well deserve a heaven;
Original, of vigour born,
And dress'd in splendour of the morn,
With all the witches of shade,
And spell unseen upon us laid.
What is this spell? It is the charm
Of manners from the pencil warm:
And moral observations true,
Of passions which the world subdue,
With drapery that must beguile
Attention by the form and stile.
At once the Poet and the Sage,
Accept this distant homage given
To sounds that well deserve a heaven;
Original, of vigour born,
And dress'd in splendour of the morn,
With all the witches of shade,
And spell unseen upon us laid.
What is this spell? It is the charm
Of manners from the pencil warm:
And moral observations true,
Of passions which the world subdue,
With drapery that must beguile
Attention by the form and stile.
But now no more; enough, enough,
Of these prosaick numbers rough:
We cease th' attempt, since it requires
A poet to tell, a poet's fires.
Of these prosaick numbers rough:
We cease th' attempt, since it requires
A poet to tell, a poet's fires.
END.
| An epistle to Walter Scott | |