 | The Wreath of Fashion, or, The Art of Sentimental Poetry |  |
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THE WREATH of FASHION.
When first the Muse recorded Beauty's praise
In glowing numbers, and enraptur'd lays,
Sweet was the Poet's song; undeck'd by art;
For Love was Nature, and his theme the heart.
At Beauty's shrine how brightly Genius glow'd!
There, her wild wreaths luxuriant fancy strew'd;
Whose flowrets, wak'd by Love's enliv'ning ray,
Scatter'd with native sweets the artless lay.
Such were the strains th' enamour'd Ovid sung;
Such the fond lays that flow'd from Prior's tongue:
Nor of its best reward was verse beguil'd,
When Julia own'd its pow'r, and Chloe smil'd.
In glowing numbers, and enraptur'd lays,
Sweet was the Poet's song; undeck'd by art;
For Love was Nature, and his theme the heart.
At Beauty's shrine how brightly Genius glow'd!
There, her wild wreaths luxuriant fancy strew'd;
Whose flowrets, wak'd by Love's enliv'ning ray,
Scatter'd with native sweets the artless lay.
Such were the strains th' enamour'd Ovid sung;
Such the fond lays that flow'd from Prior's tongue:
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When Julia own'd its pow'r, and Chloe smil'd.
Far other lays denote the modern Bard—
Nor love his theme—nor Beauty his reward:
His temp'rate verse a gentler homage pays,
And sighs serenely for unfeeling praise.
Nor love his theme—nor Beauty his reward:
His temp'rate verse a gentler homage pays,
And sighs serenely for unfeeling praise.
This purer taste, this philosophic art,
(If thou, O Sentiment! thy aid impart)
The Muse shall sing—attend ye glitt'ring train
Of sighing Beaux, nor scorn the votive strain;
Tho' harsh the verse, tho' rude the unpolish'd lay,
Soft is the tender science they display.
(If thou, O Sentiment! thy aid impart)
The Muse shall sing—attend ye glitt'ring train
Of sighing Beaux, nor scorn the votive strain;
Tho' harsh the verse, tho' rude the unpolish'd lay,
Soft is the tender science they display.
First, for true grounds of Sentimental lore,
The scenes of modern Comedy explore;
Dramatic Homilies! devout and sage,
Stor'd with wise maxims, “both for youth and age.”
Maxims, that scorning their old homely dress,
Shift from plain proverbs to spruce sentences,
But chief, let Cumberland thy Muse direct:
High Priest of all the Tragic-comic sect!
Mid darts and flames his Lover cooly waits;
Calm as a Hero, cas'd in Hartley's plates;
'Till damp'd, and chill'd, by sentimental sighs,
Each stifled passion in a vapour dies.
The scenes of modern Comedy explore;
Dramatic Homilies! devout and sage,
Stor'd with wise maxims, “both for youth and age.”
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Shift from plain proverbs to spruce sentences,
But chief, let Cumberland thy Muse direct:
High Priest of all the Tragic-comic sect!
Mid darts and flames his Lover cooly waits;
Calm as a Hero, cas'd in Hartley's plates;
'Till damp'd, and chill'd, by sentimental sighs,
Each stifled passion in a vapour dies.
Hence form thy taste, hence strew thy temp'rate lays
With moral raptures, and sententious praise.
With moral raptures, and sententious praise.
Thus skill'd, with critic care, thy subject choose;
A kindred theme, congenial to thy Muse.
No giddy Nymph, of youth and beauty vain,
But some fair Stoic, link'd in Hymen's chain:
Serene and cold; by wise Indiff'rence led
To a rich Title, and a—sep'rate bed.
Now, sick of vanity, with grandeur cloy'd,
She leans on Sentiment, to sooth the void:
Deep in Rousseau, her purer thoughts approve
The Metaphysics of Platonic Love.
Thine be the task, with quaint, fantastic phrase,
To variegate her unimpassion'd praise.
A kindred theme, congenial to thy Muse.
No giddy Nymph, of youth and beauty vain,
But some fair Stoic, link'd in Hymen's chain:
Serene and cold; by wise Indiff'rence led
To a rich Title, and a—sep'rate bed.
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She leans on Sentiment, to sooth the void:
Deep in Rousseau, her purer thoughts approve
The Metaphysics of Platonic Love.
Thine be the task, with quaint, fantastic phrase,
To variegate her unimpassion'd praise.
Poetic Compliments from Sonnets cull—
Harmonious quibbles, logically dull!
True to their age of Paradox, they chime
Problems in verse, and sophistry in rhyme—
Yet, thro' these lymbecks, Cowley's patient Muse
From mimic sighs distill'd Castalian dews;
So Spencer toil'd, to sooth the Royal Maid;
So hapless Petrarch wept his Laura's shade.
Harmonious quibbles, logically dull!
True to their age of Paradox, they chime
Problems in verse, and sophistry in rhyme—
Yet, thro' these lymbecks, Cowley's patient Muse
From mimic sighs distill'd Castalian dews;
So Spencer toil'd, to sooth the Royal Maid;
So hapless Petrarch wept his Laura's shade.
But hence, tame Precept!—let example lead
The modish Poet to his glorious meed:
Haste, to the radiant shrine of Fashion, haste!
There, form thy genius, there, correct thy taste.
The modish Poet to his glorious meed:
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There, form thy genius, there, correct thy taste.
And lo! the glitt'ring Altar stands confest!
Loose o'er the Goddess floats her motley vest:
As Flora, gay, as Iris, wildly bright,
Its varying lustre strikes the dazzled sight.
Here, Vanity, with flow'rs and feathers crown'd,
Sports with the Seasons thro' their airy round.
Here, spurious Art and mimic Science pour
Whims of a day, and theories of an hour.
The Goddess smiles; for, lo! even Poets trace
Her local charms, her temporary grace—
Above the rest, how fondly she regards
Her fav'rite train, the Sentimental Bards!
Loose o'er the Goddess floats her motley vest:
As Flora, gay, as Iris, wildly bright,
Its varying lustre strikes the dazzled sight.
Here, Vanity, with flow'rs and feathers crown'd,
Sports with the Seasons thro' their airy round.
Here, spurious Art and mimic Science pour
Whims of a day, and theories of an hour.
The Goddess smiles; for, lo! even Poets trace
Her local charms, her temporary grace—
Above the rest, how fondly she regards
Her fav'rite train, the Sentimental Bards!
On a spruce pedestal of Wedgwood ware,
Where motley forms, and tawdry emblems glare,
Behold she consecrates to cold applause,
A Petrefaction, work'd into a Vase:
The Vase of Sentiment!—to this impart
Thy kindred coldness, and congenial art.
Here, (as in humbler scenes, from Cards and Gout,
Millar convenes her literary Rout)
With votive song, and tributary verse,
Fashion's gay train her gentle rites rehearse.
What soft poetic incense breathes around!
What soothing hymns from Adulation sound!
Where motley forms, and tawdry emblems glare,
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A Petrefaction, work'd into a Vase:
The Vase of Sentiment!—to this impart
Thy kindred coldness, and congenial art.
Here, (as in humbler scenes, from Cards and Gout,
Millar convenes her literary Rout)
With votive song, and tributary verse,
Fashion's gay train her gentle rites rehearse.
What soft poetic incense breathes around!
What soothing hymns from Adulation sound!
Here, placid Carlisle breathes his gentle line,
Or haply, gen'rous Hare, re-echoes thine:
Soft flows the lay; as when, with tears, He paid
The last sad honours to his—Spaniel's shade!
And lo! he grasps the badge of wit, a wand;
He waves it thrice, and Storer is at hand;
Famish'd as penance, as devotion pale,
Plaintive, and pert, He murmurs a Love-tale.
Fitzpatrick's Muse waits for some lucky hit;
For, still the slave of Chance, He throws at wit.
While Townshend his pathetic bow displays,
And Princely Boothby silent homage pays.
Or haply, gen'rous Hare, re-echoes thine:
Soft flows the lay; as when, with tears, He paid
The last sad honours to his—Spaniel's shade!
And lo! he grasps the badge of wit, a wand;
He waves it thrice, and Storer is at hand;
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Plaintive, and pert, He murmurs a Love-tale.
Fitzpatrick's Muse waits for some lucky hit;
For, still the slave of Chance, He throws at wit.
While Townshend his pathetic bow displays,
And Princely Boothby silent homage pays.
With chips of wit, and mutilated lays,
See Palmerston fineer his Bout's Rhimeès.
Fav'rite of ev'ry Muse, elect of Phœbus,
To string Charades, or fabricate a Rebus.
Bereft of such a guide, old Ocean, mourn
Thy fading glories, and thy laurels torn!
'Twas Palmerston repell'd each hostile wrong,
Like Ariel, wrecking Navies with—a song;
But see, by pitying Fate his loss supplied;
For Mulgrave joins where sense and Sandwich guide.
Mulgrave! whose Muse nor winds nor waves controul,
Could bravely pen Acrostics—on the Pole.
Warm with poetic fire the Northern air,
And sooth with tuneful raptures—the great Bear;
Join but his poetry to Burgoyne's prose,
Armies shall fall asleep, and Pyrates doze.
So when the rebel-winds on Neptune fell,
They sunk to rest, at sound of Triton's shell.
See Palmerston fineer his Bout's Rhimeès.
Fav'rite of ev'ry Muse, elect of Phœbus,
To string Charades, or fabricate a Rebus.
Bereft of such a guide, old Ocean, mourn
Thy fading glories, and thy laurels torn!
'Twas Palmerston repell'd each hostile wrong,
Like Ariel, wrecking Navies with—a song;
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For Mulgrave joins where sense and Sandwich guide.
Mulgrave! whose Muse nor winds nor waves controul,
Could bravely pen Acrostics—on the Pole.
Warm with poetic fire the Northern air,
And sooth with tuneful raptures—the great Bear;
Join but his poetry to Burgoyne's prose,
Armies shall fall asleep, and Pyrates doze.
So when the rebel-winds on Neptune fell,
They sunk to rest, at sound of Triton's shell.
“If Placemen thus poetic honours prize,
“Shall I be mute?” (the laureat Whitehead cries.)
“What if some rival Bard my empire share!
“Yet, yet, I tremble at the name of Clare.
“Pindar to Clare had yielded—so did I—
“Alas, can Poetry wth Poplin vie!
“Ah me! if Poets barter for applause,
“How Jerningham will thrive on flimsy gause!
“What tatter'd tinsel Luttrel will display!
“Carmarthen sattin—Carlisle paduasoy!
“Garrick will follow his old remnant trade;
“He'll buy my place with Jubilee brocade.
“While Anstey, the reversion to obtain,
“Vamps his Bath drugget, till he spoils the grain.
“Perish the thought! hence visionary fear!
“Phœbus, or Phædrus, shall old Whitehead cheer.
“Behold their nobler gift—be this preferr'd!”
—He said—and proudly brandish'd the Goat's beard,
Then dropt it in the Vase—immers'd it falls
Mid Sonnets, Odes, Acrostics, Madigrals:
A motley heap of metaphoric sighs—
Laborious griefs, and studied extasies—
Yet hence how warm each tuneful Suppliant's claim!
What palpitations for his mite of fame!
Alas! regardless of their equal toils,
Fashion still wildly scatters random smiles.
And Colman may (if Billy Woodfall's by
To prop him up) attract her vagrant eye.
“Shall I be mute?” (the laureat Whitehead cries.)
“What if some rival Bard my empire share!
“Yet, yet, I tremble at the name of Clare.
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“Alas, can Poetry wth Poplin vie!
“Ah me! if Poets barter for applause,
“How Jerningham will thrive on flimsy gause!
“What tatter'd tinsel Luttrel will display!
“Carmarthen sattin—Carlisle paduasoy!
“Garrick will follow his old remnant trade;
“He'll buy my place with Jubilee brocade.
“While Anstey, the reversion to obtain,
“Vamps his Bath drugget, till he spoils the grain.
“Perish the thought! hence visionary fear!
“Phœbus, or Phædrus, shall old Whitehead cheer.
“Behold their nobler gift—be this preferr'd!”
—He said—and proudly brandish'd the Goat's beard,
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Mid Sonnets, Odes, Acrostics, Madigrals:
A motley heap of metaphoric sighs—
Laborious griefs, and studied extasies—
Yet hence how warm each tuneful Suppliant's claim!
What palpitations for his mite of fame!
Alas! regardless of their equal toils,
Fashion still wildly scatters random smiles.
And Colman may (if Billy Woodfall's by
To prop him up) attract her vagrant eye.
Behold, one dunce, by her profound decree,
Supreme Dictator of the Coterie:
Prim, plausible, oracular, and sage,
The native Texier of the wond'ring age!
The solemn coxcomb never talks—his frown
Is constant obloquy, his smile renown:
Words would degrade this literary God:
He gives his fiat with a silent nod.
Supreme Dictator of the Coterie:
Prim, plausible, oracular, and sage,
The native Texier of the wond'ring age!
The solemn coxcomb never talks—his frown
Is constant obloquy, his smile renown:
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He gives his fiat with a silent nod.
Another's fame more gentle honour, tell;
Familiar Critic of each bright Ruelle!
Soon as the orient beam of Beauty's ray
Discloses, just at noon, the dawn of day;
And Dev'nshire wakes!—“and Piccadilly's gay;”
Perch'd at her Grace's toilet, Minim sits,
The little Scholiast of the Female Wits.
Tir'd of conjecture, and perplex'd with doubt,
To him they fly—to make a riddle out;
To pierce a paragraph's mysterious vail;
And eke out Scandal's hesitating tale.
With conscious pride the flippant Witling shares
His motley task of miscellaneous cares;
Expounds Charades, thro' close detraction pryes,
Construes initials, and the blanks supplies.
And oft, with varied art, his thoughts digress
On deeper themes—the documents of dress:
With nice discernment, to each stile of face
Adapt a ribbon, or suggest a lace;
O'er Granby's cap bid loftier feathers float,
And add new bows to Devon's petticoat.—
Familiar Critic of each bright Ruelle!
Soon as the orient beam of Beauty's ray
Discloses, just at noon, the dawn of day;
And Dev'nshire wakes!—“and Piccadilly's gay;”
Perch'd at her Grace's toilet, Minim sits,
The little Scholiast of the Female Wits.
Tir'd of conjecture, and perplex'd with doubt,
To him they fly—to make a riddle out;
To pierce a paragraph's mysterious vail;
And eke out Scandal's hesitating tale.
With conscious pride the flippant Witling shares
His motley task of miscellaneous cares;
Expounds Charades, thro' close detraction pryes,
Construes initials, and the blanks supplies.
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On deeper themes—the documents of dress:
With nice discernment, to each stile of face
Adapt a ribbon, or suggest a lace;
O'er Granby's cap bid loftier feathers float,
And add new bows to Devon's petticoat.—
Others, resolv'd more ample fame to boast,
Plant their own Laurels in the Morning Post.
Soft Evening dews refresh the tender green:
Pass but a Month, it swells each Magazine;
'Till the luxuriant bows so wildly shoot,
The Annual Register transplants the root—
But these are spurious honours, not the true,
Who shall obtain The Wreath of Fashion—who?
Plant their own Laurels in the Morning Post.
Soft Evening dews refresh the tender green:
Pass but a Month, it swells each Magazine;
'Till the luxuriant bows so wildly shoot,
The Annual Register transplants the root—
But these are spurious honours, not the true,
Who shall obtain The Wreath of Fashion—who?
The wily Charles long flourish'd o'er the rest;
Expert to argue or to flatter best:
For, born a Disputant, a Sophist bred,
His Nurse He silenc'd, and his Tutor led:
But hail'd, with filial duty's pious sense,
His Sire's best gift—delusive Eloquence.
That art to cherish, with a lavish pride
His kindred Genius ev'ry pow'r supplied:
Persuasion's breath—to swell the Statesman's sail:
Or, if his fancy veer, retard the gale.
Soft words—to mollify the Miser's breast,
And lull relenting Usury to rest.
Bright beams of wit—to still the raging Jew;
His black'ning mists dissolve to golden dew,
Teach him to dun no more, and lend anew!
Expert to argue or to flatter best:
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His Nurse He silenc'd, and his Tutor led:
But hail'd, with filial duty's pious sense,
His Sire's best gift—delusive Eloquence.
That art to cherish, with a lavish pride
His kindred Genius ev'ry pow'r supplied:
Persuasion's breath—to swell the Statesman's sail:
Or, if his fancy veer, retard the gale.
Soft words—to mollify the Miser's breast,
And lull relenting Usury to rest.
Bright beams of wit—to still the raging Jew;
His black'ning mists dissolve to golden dew,
Teach him to dun no more, and lend anew!
Here, Charles his native eloquence refin'd;
Pleas'd at the Toilet, in the Senate shin'd:
And North approv'd—and Amoret look'd kind.
'Till, fond too soon his selfish pride to trace,
He lost at once his laurels and—his place.
Pleas'd at the Toilet, in the Senate shin'd:
And North approv'd—and Amoret look'd kind.
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He lost at once his laurels and—his place.
At Fashion's shrine, behold a gentler Bard,
Gaze on the mystic Vase with fond regard—
But see, Thalia checks the doubtful thought.
“Can'st thou (she cries) with sense, with genius fraught,
“Can'st thou to Fashion's tyranny submit,
“Secure in native, independent wit?
“Or yield to Sentiment's insipid rule,
“By Taste, by Fancy, chac'd thro' Scandal's School?
“Ah, no!—be Sheridan's the comic page;
“Or let me fly with Garrick from the Stage.”
Gaze on the mystic Vase with fond regard—
But see, Thalia checks the doubtful thought.
“Can'st thou (she cries) with sense, with genius fraught,
“Can'st thou to Fashion's tyranny submit,
“Secure in native, independent wit?
“Or yield to Sentiment's insipid rule,
“By Taste, by Fancy, chac'd thro' Scandal's School?
“Ah, no!—be Sheridan's the comic page;
“Or let me fly with Garrick from the Stage.”
Haste then, my Friend, (for let me boast that name)
Haste to the op'ning path of genuine Fame:
Or, if thy Muse a gentler theme pursue,
Ah, 'tis to Love, and thy Eliza, due!
For sure the sweetest lay she well may claim,
Whose soul breathes harmony o'er all her frame;
While wedded Love, with ray serenely clear,
Beams from her eye, as from its proper sphere.
Haste to the op'ning path of genuine Fame:
Or, if thy Muse a gentler theme pursue,
Ah, 'tis to Love, and thy Eliza, due!
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Whose soul breathes harmony o'er all her frame;
While wedded Love, with ray serenely clear,
Beams from her eye, as from its proper sphere.
—But thou, for whom the Muse first tun'd the lyre,
Vot'ry of Sentiment, do thou aspire,
With studious toil, to win that bright reward,
The Wreath of Fashion for her chosen Bard.
Not rudely wove with Nature's short-liv'd store,
(The simple meed her humble Poet wore)
But spruce and trim, as suits thy kindred pow'rs,
With mimic buds, and artificial flow'rs.
Vot'ry of Sentiment, do thou aspire,
With studious toil, to win that bright reward,
The Wreath of Fashion for her chosen Bard.
Not rudely wove with Nature's short-liv'd store,
(The simple meed her humble Poet wore)
But spruce and trim, as suits thy kindred pow'rs,
With mimic buds, and artificial flow'rs.
Blest Wreath! whose flowrets dread no vulgar doom
Of fading hues, or transitory bloom;
Above the fleeting pride of Flora's day,
Thy vivid foliage never can decay!
There, vi'lets, pinks, and lilies of the vale,
Despise the sultry beam, or chilly gale;
There, fix'd as Archer's rouge, the mimic rose,
With persevering blush, for ever glows;
There, myrtles bloom, that shame the Cyprian fields;
There, bays, immortal as Parnassus yields—
Of fading hues, or transitory bloom;
Above the fleeting pride of Flora's day,
Thy vivid foliage never can decay!
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Despise the sultry beam, or chilly gale;
There, fix'd as Archer's rouge, the mimic rose,
With persevering blush, for ever glows;
There, myrtles bloom, that shame the Cyprian fields;
There, bays, immortal as Parnassus yields—
Triumphant art! Let vanquish'd nature mourn
Her lost simplicity, o'er Shenstone's urn:
With sympathetic sorrows, on his tomb
Let the pale primrose shed its wild perfume;
The cowslip droop its head; and all around
The with'ring violet strew the hallow'd ground—
For, mute the swain, and cold the hand, that wove
Their simple sweets to wreaths of artless love—
Simplicity with Shenstone died!—
Her lost simplicity, o'er Shenstone's urn:
With sympathetic sorrows, on his tomb
Let the pale primrose shed its wild perfume;
The cowslip droop its head; and all around
The with'ring violet strew the hallow'd ground—
For, mute the swain, and cold the hand, that wove
Their simple sweets to wreaths of artless love—
Simplicity with Shenstone died!—
Upon Lord Palmerston's appointment to the Treasury, Lord Mulgrave succeeded to his Place at the Admiralty Board.—“Mira canam; Sol occubuit, nox nulla secuta est.”—
Whoever has read his Lordship's verses, presented to her Majesty, with a gift of Irish Poplin, and that too on a New Year's Day, will not wonder at the jealousy and apprehension the Laureat expresses of so formidable a rival.—The recollection of the Poplin leads to a digression, in the Pindaric stile of all Laureats, on the fatal consequences that might follow from establishing Lord Clare's method of tacking a present to every Poem—but the Laureat recovers his spirits, by thinking of the last production of his own Muse—the Goat's Beard—spun from Ten lines of Phædrus, to Four Hundred of Whitehead.—
THE END.
| The Wreath of Fashion, or, The Art of Sentimental Poetry | |