The Poetical Works of Anna Seward With Extracts from her Literary Correspondence. Edited by Walter Scott ... In Three Volumes |
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VERSES
TO
Mr. HAYLEY,
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| III. |
 | The Poetical Works of Anna Seward |  |
307
VERSES TO Mr. HAYLEY,
CONCERNING UNPUBLISHED REMAINS OF OSSIAN.
Here are verses that greet you in strange motley dress,
Gay Boothby's arch fragment ek'd out by A.S.
Gay Boothby's arch fragment ek'd out by A.S.
“Sweet Bard of these times, whose poems are verse,
“No fragment have I of Gallic, or Erse,
“Of old Ossian's old raiment if more we must see,
“Not a rag of his cloak e'er descended to me;
“And, if I durst say so, I dont much repine,
“For these Epics in prose are no favourites of mine;
“'Tis the sun, who obscur'd in a mist, dimly gleams,
“Depriv'd of his ardour, and shorn of his beams;
“'Tis the glimmering twilight, where all is confus'd,
“And the uncertain sight with vain phantoms abus'd;
“'Tis”—Yes, I'll tell you what 'tis, gentle Sir, on my word,
It is effrontery matchless, and worse than absurd,
When on crack'd bells of wit your few changes you ring all,
When pigmies, like you, dare attack Giant Fingal.
“No fragment have I of Gallic, or Erse,
“Of old Ossian's old raiment if more we must see,
“Not a rag of his cloak e'er descended to me;
308
“For these Epics in prose are no favourites of mine;
“'Tis the sun, who obscur'd in a mist, dimly gleams,
“Depriv'd of his ardour, and shorn of his beams;
“'Tis the glimmering twilight, where all is confus'd,
“And the uncertain sight with vain phantoms abus'd;
“'Tis”—Yes, I'll tell you what 'tis, gentle Sir, on my word,
It is effrontery matchless, and worse than absurd,
When on crack'd bells of wit your few changes you ring all,
When pigmies, like you, dare attack Giant Fingal.
Immers'd in Low Latin,
High German, and Dutch,
On the claims of the Poet how dar'd you to touch?
And to write too in rhyme your impertinent letter!
Pity those who judge others dont know themselves better!
Pray, Sir, when you call on your elegant muse,
Is it Danish, or Swedish, or Polish, you use?
Hedwigia, Rotbollio, Bauxbamia, Serckæa,
Wackendorffia, Zuzyigium, Schwalbea, Zægæa?
Such horrible jargon the Muses would drive all,
As the smell of the fish did Tobit's black rival:
Yet that was a simile vended in haste,
For 'tis thou art the fiend on the bride-bed of Taste,
And ne'er shall that virgin an happy wife be,
Till Genius, her bridegroom, shall drive away thee.
To consummate their loves in the temple of Fame,
That bridegroom, from Scotia's bleak scenery, came;
Strong in youth, though four centuries o'er him had roll'd,
For Genius poetic can never grow old:
Rich in beauty, tho' sombre the hue of each grace,
For the sweetness is shaded that smiles on his face;
His harp the free hand of Sublimity strung,
And Pathos distill'd all her balm on his tongue;
Mighty Nature his pencil so exquisite made,
That it softens each light, as it mellows each shade;
Brings the object so full and distinct on the eye,
As shines the green vale, or as darkens the sky,
That rapt we can suffer no thought intervene,
But stand in the desert, and view the lone scene.
Heretic decisions thus bronzing thy brow,
Assuredly, Boothby, the demon art thou;
The dose Asmodean I long to see given,
Till from chamber poetic thou fairly art driven;
So for Ossian's high claim, when you, demon-like, mock it,
May a shoal of rank herrings be stuff'd in your pocket!
On the claims of the Poet how dar'd you to touch?
And to write too in rhyme your impertinent letter!
Pity those who judge others dont know themselves better!
Pray, Sir, when you call on your elegant muse,
Is it Danish, or Swedish, or Polish, you use?
Hedwigia, Rotbollio, Bauxbamia, Serckæa,
Wackendorffia, Zuzyigium, Schwalbea, Zægæa?
309
As the smell of the fish did Tobit's black rival:
Yet that was a simile vended in haste,
For 'tis thou art the fiend on the bride-bed of Taste,
And ne'er shall that virgin an happy wife be,
Till Genius, her bridegroom, shall drive away thee.
To consummate their loves in the temple of Fame,
That bridegroom, from Scotia's bleak scenery, came;
Strong in youth, though four centuries o'er him had roll'd,
For Genius poetic can never grow old:
Rich in beauty, tho' sombre the hue of each grace,
For the sweetness is shaded that smiles on his face;
His harp the free hand of Sublimity strung,
And Pathos distill'd all her balm on his tongue;
Mighty Nature his pencil so exquisite made,
That it softens each light, as it mellows each shade;
Brings the object so full and distinct on the eye,
As shines the green vale, or as darkens the sky,
That rapt we can suffer no thought intervene,
But stand in the desert, and view the lone scene.
Heretic decisions thus bronzing thy brow,
Assuredly, Boothby, the demon art thou;
The dose Asmodean I long to see given,
Till from chamber poetic thou fairly art driven;
So for Ossian's high claim, when you, demon-like, mock it,
May a shoal of rank herrings be stuff'd in your pocket!
Mr Hayley had heard that Mr Boothby (since, Sir Brooke Boothby) was in possession of such morceaus, and applied to him on the subject. The above lines were written extempore after supper, by Sir Brooke, and the author of this Miscellany, about the year 1784.
| The Poetical Works of Anna Seward | |