A collection of poems on various subjects including the theatre, a didactic essay; in the course of which are pointed out, the rocks and shoals to which deluded adventurers are inevitably exposed. Ornamented with cuts and illustrated with notes, original letters and curious incidental anecdotes [by Samuel Whyte] |
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 | A collection of poems on various subjects |  |
143
[Epistles]
EPISTLE I. THE REPLY CONTEMPTUOUS. TO T--- G---, A CLASS-FELLOW,
ON HIS PHILIPPIC, IN VERSE AND PROSE, AGAINST LUCAS.
SEPTEMBER VITH, MDCCL.
[_]
This is inserted merely as the first effort of the author's pen: it however proved the means of introducing him to the Doctor, and gave rise to a friendship, which subsisted, with mutual cordiality, uninterrupted till his death.
Not to extort from fools unjust applause,
Not in support of an inglorious cause,
For the jew-smiles of Alderman or Grace,
A paultry title, pension or a place;
Not for because my father, brother, friend
Were of that faction or this side commend,
Not thro' a whim of blind mistaken zeal,
A want of laurels, or perhaps—a meal;
No, not all these could influence me, in spite
Of nature and my envious stars to write:
Truth fires my mind, and urges me to engage
Thy slanderous pen, and tempt thy utmost rage;
Lucas, that injured patriot name, to screen
From foul aspersion and the attacks of spleen:
For this I first implore the tuneful Nine,
O! smile propitious on the fair design,
Nor thou, O Phoebus! needful aid refuse
To an untutor'd, unexperienc'd muse.
Not in support of an inglorious cause,
For the jew-smiles of Alderman or Grace,
A paultry title, pension or a place;
Not for because my father, brother, friend
Were of that faction or this side commend,
Not thro' a whim of blind mistaken zeal,
A want of laurels, or perhaps—a meal;
No, not all these could influence me, in spite
Of nature and my envious stars to write:
Truth fires my mind, and urges me to engage
Thy slanderous pen, and tempt thy utmost rage;
144
From foul aspersion and the attacks of spleen:
For this I first implore the tuneful Nine,
O! smile propitious on the fair design,
Nor thou, O Phoebus! needful aid refuse
To an untutor'd, unexperienc'd muse.
Honest, good natur'd, generous and brave,
To those in place respectful, not a slave,
Striving for power no more than what he should,
To do his king but first his country good:
Tho' wise not vain, tho' learned yet well bred,
The closest reasoner with the clearest head,
Where solid sense and sprightly wit unite,
The smooth-tongu'd Roman and the Stagyrite:
To error gentle, yet to vice severe,
A loving husband, and a friend sincere;
Unbigoted thro' principle or pride,
He acts with spirit yet by reason's guide;
To suffering merit gentle comfort gives,
Not with vain words but with his purse relieves;
Admires great actions whence soe'er they flow,
Nor eyes askaunt the virtues of a foe.
To those in place respectful, not a slave,
Striving for power no more than what he should,
To do his king but first his country good:
Tho' wise not vain, tho' learned yet well bred,
The closest reasoner with the clearest head,
Where solid sense and sprightly wit unite,
The smooth-tongu'd Roman and the Stagyrite:
To error gentle, yet to vice severe,
A loving husband, and a friend sincere;
Unbigoted thro' principle or pride,
He acts with spirit yet by reason's guide;
To suffering merit gentle comfort gives,
Not with vain words but with his purse relieves;
Admires great actions whence soe'er they flow,
Nor eyes askaunt the virtues of a foe.
This, the imperfect portrait of the man
Whose glorious conduct thou presum'st to scan;
His parts, his learning, morals vilify,
And all his labours impiously belie.
So Mævius erst, that Cloaca of wit,
Against the great immortal Maro writ;
Another coxcomb, to display his sense,
Arraign'd the prince of Roman eloquence;
They did it too, like thee, to get a name,
And have been damn'd two thousand years in fame.
Thus if some deathless quill thy name shall give
To future time and it so long shall live,
What vast eclat thy mention must attend!
And every Bavius will thy cause befriend;
For Grub-street authors all in this are one,
They hate a genius brighter than their own;
But, if like thine, one more profound should rise,
To raise themselves they lift it to the skies.
Fear not, thy first performance will command
Praise from all mouths, and bays from every hand;
A libel upon wisdom, honour, all
That heaven approves, or mortals heavenly call.
Whose glorious conduct thou presum'st to scan;
His parts, his learning, morals vilify,
And all his labours impiously belie.
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Against the great immortal Maro writ;
Another coxcomb, to display his sense,
Arraign'd the prince of Roman eloquence;
They did it too, like thee, to get a name,
And have been damn'd two thousand years in fame.
Thus if some deathless quill thy name shall give
To future time and it so long shall live,
What vast eclat thy mention must attend!
And every Bavius will thy cause befriend;
For Grub-street authors all in this are one,
They hate a genius brighter than their own;
But, if like thine, one more profound should rise,
To raise themselves they lift it to the skies.
Fear not, thy first performance will command
Praise from all mouths, and bays from every hand;
A libel upon wisdom, honour, all
That heaven approves, or mortals heavenly call.
But not as poet only you appear,
With equal right you take the critic chair;
Object, condemn, approve, affirm, deny,
Now pleas'd, now angry, all you know not why;
Call Digges a blockhead, let Sir Samuel pass,
Huband's your friend, but Lucas a jack-ass;
How would that Lucas weep, nay smile, to see
Even either ap'd by animals like thee!
How must he pity and detest the clime
Where idiots judge and dunces scribble rhyme.
With equal right you take the critic chair;
Object, condemn, approve, affirm, deny,
Now pleas'd, now angry, all you know not why;
Call Digges a blockhead, let Sir Samuel pass,
Huband's your friend, but Lucas a jack-ass;
How would that Lucas weep, nay smile, to see
Even either ap'd by animals like thee!
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Where idiots judge and dunces scribble rhyme.
Thy rough, bombastic, heavy manner shows
Thy pen unfit for metre or for prose;
Thy words ill-chosen, clownish, misapplied,
At once expose thy ignorance and pride;
Thy numbers are (how weak the epithet!
How short of justice!) shocking as thy wit.
Go purchase Bailey, on thy grammar pore,
Read day and night; but prithee write no more.
Yet proof to all, the more you get the whip,
Like master's top you but the sounder sleep:
Then, Muse! forbear, nor to reclaim pretend
This imp of Momus, he's too dull to mend.
Thy pen unfit for metre or for prose;
Thy words ill-chosen, clownish, misapplied,
At once expose thy ignorance and pride;
Thy numbers are (how weak the epithet!
How short of justice!) shocking as thy wit.
Go purchase Bailey, on thy grammar pore,
Read day and night; but prithee write no more.
Yet proof to all, the more you get the whip,
Like master's top you but the sounder sleep:
Then, Muse! forbear, nor to reclaim pretend
This imp of Momus, he's too dull to mend.
156
EPISTLE III. TO JOSEPH COOPER WALKER, ESQ.
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL IRISH ACADEMY, FELLOW OF THE LITERARY AND ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY OF PERTH, AND HONORARY MEMBER OF THE ETRUSCAN ACADEMY OF CORTONA, ON READING HIS MEMOIRS OF THE IRISH BARDS.
FRIDAY, MARCH XXVIITH, MDCCLXXXIX.
With keen research, and penetrating eyes,
While you pervade the shades where science lies,
And, vers'd in ancient and historic lore,
The manly records of our sires explore;
Their customs, manners, habits, language trace,
To truth add lustre, and to wisdom grace;
The hidden treasures of times past unfold,
And even their very dross transmute to gold:
While thus, when crowds, at time and health's expence,
Provoke derision, you exalt your sense;
The veil of dark antiquity remove,
Our minds irradiate, and our taste improve,
And, fill'd with patriot zeal, the deeds rehearse
Of chieftains mighty and renown'd in verse;
I, to a bard's great name who can't aspire,
Smit with congenial feelings, touch the lyre;
Call'd forth by thee my voice impartial raise,
Less to record than testify thy praise.
Thy own rich page, from imperfection free,
Embalms thy fame and needs no aid from me.
While you pervade the shades where science lies,
And, vers'd in ancient and historic lore,
The manly records of our sires explore;
Their customs, manners, habits, language trace,
To truth add lustre, and to wisdom grace;
The hidden treasures of times past unfold,
And even their very dross transmute to gold:
While thus, when crowds, at time and health's expence,
Provoke derision, you exalt your sense;
The veil of dark antiquity remove,
Our minds irradiate, and our taste improve,
And, fill'd with patriot zeal, the deeds rehearse
Of chieftains mighty and renown'd in verse;
157
Smit with congenial feelings, touch the lyre;
Call'd forth by thee my voice impartial raise,
Less to record than testify thy praise.
Thy own rich page, from imperfection free,
Embalms thy fame and needs no aid from me.
O! had I leisure for the just design,
And talents ample as the theme were mine,
Not thy bright name alone, the charter'd band,
That bless with learning's beams their native land,
And gave her claim among the nations birth,
The last in effort though not least in worth,
Should all, if minstrelsy distinction give,
While truth with merit dwells applauded live.
But worn with toil and circumscrib'd in time,
Ill suits my lot the laurel'd haunts of rhyme;
Though fancy sometimes fluttering on the wing,
Tempts my rash hand the soothing harp to string,
In ceaseless tumults each vibration drown'd,
Emits, if any, but a feeble found:
Some happier genius hence, for song admir'd,
May catch the hint, and, as of old inspir'd,
To distant ages make the worthies known,
And, with his country's glory, fix his own.
Here all my hopes and my ambition end;
Suffice it me to be approv'd thy friend.
And talents ample as the theme were mine,
Not thy bright name alone, the charter'd band,
That bless with learning's beams their native land,
And gave her claim among the nations birth,
The last in effort though not least in worth,
Should all, if minstrelsy distinction give,
While truth with merit dwells applauded live.
But worn with toil and circumscrib'd in time,
Ill suits my lot the laurel'd haunts of rhyme;
Though fancy sometimes fluttering on the wing,
Tempts my rash hand the soothing harp to string,
In ceaseless tumults each vibration drown'd,
Emits, if any, but a feeble found:
Some happier genius hence, for song admir'd,
May catch the hint, and, as of old inspir'd,
To distant ages make the worthies known,
And, with his country's glory, fix his own.
Here all my hopes and my ambition end;
Suffice it me to be approv'd thy friend.
158
EPISTLE IV. TO A LADY SOLICITING SUBSCRIPTIONS TO HER POEMS,
IN ANSWER TO A COPY OF VERSES ON THE OCCASION.
OCTOBER XXIIID, MDCCXC.
Fair sufferer! charm'd, I read thy partial lines,
Where bright the ray of native genius shines,
And from thy lips delighted more have heard,
Which beggar praise, and soar beyond reward;
But tho' thy slowing strains my pen invite,
Why should'st thou 'tempt the press? ah! wherefore write?
If gilded laurels lure thy venturous muse,
A slippery path and dangerous she pursues.
From critic rancour and the fangs of spleen
Thy gentle spirit, what, alas! shall screen?
When Milton fail'd, what merit can engage
A loose, luxurious, vain and trifling age?
The muse for Andre, hapless victim! fir'd,
With affluence bless'd, even by the foe admir'd;
What could they less, when in such charming lays,
She wreathes his urn with never-fading bays?
Siward, whose various strains the age surprise,
And show her wit as piercing as her eyes,
But envy with desert admits no truce,
Where most applause was due incurr'd abuse,
And, as if taste were from the nation fled,
Barbauld and Moore lie in the shops unread.
Where bright the ray of native genius shines,
And from thy lips delighted more have heard,
Which beggar praise, and soar beyond reward;
But tho' thy slowing strains my pen invite,
Why should'st thou 'tempt the press? ah! wherefore write?
If gilded laurels lure thy venturous muse,
A slippery path and dangerous she pursues.
From critic rancour and the fangs of spleen
Thy gentle spirit, what, alas! shall screen?
When Milton fail'd, what merit can engage
A loose, luxurious, vain and trifling age?
The muse for Andre, hapless victim! fir'd,
With affluence bless'd, even by the foe admir'd;
What could they less, when in such charming lays,
She wreathes his urn with never-fading bays?
Siward, whose various strains the age surprise,
And show her wit as piercing as her eyes,
159
Where most applause was due incurr'd abuse,
And, as if taste were from the nation fled,
Barbauld and Moore lie in the shops unread.
Would'st thou, humane the wish, improve mankind,
Restrain the froward and direct the blind,
And bid the muse, her grateful lore of old,
Bright honour's paths and virtue's charms unfold;
Arduous the task is, and, the event will prove,
Secures not friendship, nor conciliates love.
And then the sex! ye Gods! on what pretence
Can they presume to knowlege, wit or sense?
Flat usurpation! such a stumbling block
Must all the lords of the creation shock:
Not greater was his crime, who durst aspire
To steal from Heaven great Jove's authentic fire.
Are there not calls more suited to their parts,
Domestic cares and culinary arts?
And if no boys and girls you have to teaze ye,
Will nothing, cry the Dons, but scribbling please ye?
Then your kind friends, the female tribe I mean,
O lud! an authoress! almost die with spleen.
In fly-traps to catch beaux your skill exert,
For fops knit purses, or with puppies flirt;
Shine at the ball, the opera, park and play,
Revel all night, and lie in bed all day;
Those precious sciences to women known,
And in your quarrel they'll defend their own.
Superior parts obtain but cold respect,
Excite detraction and provoke neglect;
Fear shuns their walk, and hate's a-kin to fear;
A common case adduced will make it clear.
Restrain the froward and direct the blind,
And bid the muse, her grateful lore of old,
Bright honour's paths and virtue's charms unfold;
Arduous the task is, and, the event will prove,
Secures not friendship, nor conciliates love.
And then the sex! ye Gods! on what pretence
Can they presume to knowlege, wit or sense?
Flat usurpation! such a stumbling block
Must all the lords of the creation shock:
Not greater was his crime, who durst aspire
To steal from Heaven great Jove's authentic fire.
Are there not calls more suited to their parts,
Domestic cares and culinary arts?
And if no boys and girls you have to teaze ye,
Will nothing, cry the Dons, but scribbling please ye?
Then your kind friends, the female tribe I mean,
O lud! an authoress! almost die with spleen.
In fly-traps to catch beaux your skill exert,
For fops knit purses, or with puppies flirt;
Shine at the ball, the opera, park and play,
Revel all night, and lie in bed all day;
160
And in your quarrel they'll defend their own.
Superior parts obtain but cold respect,
Excite detraction and provoke neglect;
Fear shuns their walk, and hate's a-kin to fear;
A common case adduced will make it clear.
An author once, it might be you or I,
Must needs the pulse of old acquaintance try;
They met, and, as is usual among friends,
His hand the bard,—a finger he extends;—
Perchance, a tribute to the taylor due,
He forc'd a civil grin and put forth two;
Nature, howe'er the lips may play their part,
Will somewhere out, and leave unveil'd the heart.
The bard his hand, I should say finger, took,
And blithely ask'd him, how he lik'd his book?
The book! and round a vacant stare he flings,—
O yes!—your book contains some pretty things;
But with new works such trouble one receives!
It took me a full hour to cut the leaves.
The humbled author startles at the sound,
And scarce articulates, 'twas neatly bound.
I, whose quick feelings more are on the stretch,
Had turn'd upon my heel and damn'd the wretch.
Thus dunces, their own consequence to feed,
Disparage works they have not sense to read.
Must needs the pulse of old acquaintance try;
They met, and, as is usual among friends,
His hand the bard,—a finger he extends;—
Perchance, a tribute to the taylor due,
He forc'd a civil grin and put forth two;
Nature, howe'er the lips may play their part,
Will somewhere out, and leave unveil'd the heart.
The bard his hand, I should say finger, took,
And blithely ask'd him, how he lik'd his book?
The book! and round a vacant stare he flings,—
O yes!—your book contains some pretty things;
But with new works such trouble one receives!
It took me a full hour to cut the leaves.
The humbled author startles at the sound,
And scarce articulates, 'twas neatly bound.
I, whose quick feelings more are on the stretch,
Had turn'd upon my heel and damn'd the wretch.
Thus dunces, their own consequence to feed,
Disparage works they have not sense to read.
161
If thou must write and would'st thy works disperse,
Write novels, sermons, any thing but verse;
Tho' beaten paths, there's chance thou may'st succeed;
For matrons sermons, misses novels read;
And those, when sermons tire, if decent print,
A novel take, so nought immoral's in't.
The curious virgin, blooming smart sixteen,
Obtains the treasure and attacks it keen;
Each page she turns some fertile scene displays,
To fan her hopes, her vanity to raise,
And when the heroine's thrown upon the shelf,
She gives a new edition in herself.
Proof after proof imagination warms;
Young Rakehell comes dress'd in ideal charms,
And half unask'd she leaps into his arms.
But, oh! the sad reverse—perhaps a wife—
Illusion's fled and she a wretch for life.
Yet, while corruption's tide I strive to stem,
Let me not rashly in the gross condemn.
Some claim regard, and I might name a few,
By Burney written, or suppose by you:
Scarcely a reader but with interest finds
Time well employ'd with Burrowes and with Hindes,
And would'st thou with the pleasing mingle pith,
Read the Recess and draw from Charlotte Smith.
The pay of authors, not on griefs to dwell,
Their staple friends, the booksellers can tell.
Thy Johnson early was their bounty taught,
His Abyssinia bare five guineas brought!
Write novels, sermons, any thing but verse;
Tho' beaten paths, there's chance thou may'st succeed;
For matrons sermons, misses novels read;
And those, when sermons tire, if decent print,
A novel take, so nought immoral's in't.
The curious virgin, blooming smart sixteen,
Obtains the treasure and attacks it keen;
Each page she turns some fertile scene displays,
To fan her hopes, her vanity to raise,
And when the heroine's thrown upon the shelf,
She gives a new edition in herself.
Proof after proof imagination warms;
Young Rakehell comes dress'd in ideal charms,
And half unask'd she leaps into his arms.
But, oh! the sad reverse—perhaps a wife—
Illusion's fled and she a wretch for life.
Yet, while corruption's tide I strive to stem,
Let me not rashly in the gross condemn.
Some claim regard, and I might name a few,
By Burney written, or suppose by you:
Scarcely a reader but with interest finds
Time well employ'd with Burrowes and with Hindes,
And would'st thou with the pleasing mingle pith,
Read the Recess and draw from Charlotte Smith.
The pay of authors, not on griefs to dwell,
Their staple friends, the booksellers can tell.
162
His Abyssinia bare five guineas brought!
Rhyme is at best an unproductive trade,
By speedier means are princely fortunes made.
Subscriptions mammon for his favourites meant,
No poem ever yet brought cent per cent:—
There is a kind of authorship, in which
Adepts start up and instantly grow rich.
To trim thy little lamp and furnish oil,
Make use of lottery ink and study Hoyle:
Whoever in that onward track aspires,
No fund of taste, no classic lore requires,
If well he know that two and three make five,
The less his genius the more sure to thrive.
Nor rests the truth on theory alone,
Examples numerous might with ease be shown;
Friend Pope, if living, would himself allow
For one Sir Balaam there's a hundred now.
Muckworm to base usurious arts inur'd,
Bilks his frail handmaid from reproach ensur'd;
And as new claims new consequence inspires,
The Isle of Saints is now the Isle of 'Squires.
Amid the glare should worth superior shine,
Peers rank with peers, that marks a strain divine.—
The great themselves, if thou to greatness look,
Encourage Hoyle and con the lottery book.
By speedier means are princely fortunes made.
Subscriptions mammon for his favourites meant,
No poem ever yet brought cent per cent:—
There is a kind of authorship, in which
Adepts start up and instantly grow rich.
To trim thy little lamp and furnish oil,
Make use of lottery ink and study Hoyle:
Whoever in that onward track aspires,
No fund of taste, no classic lore requires,
If well he know that two and three make five,
The less his genius the more sure to thrive.
Nor rests the truth on theory alone,
Examples numerous might with ease be shown;
Friend Pope, if living, would himself allow
For one Sir Balaam there's a hundred now.
Muckworm to base usurious arts inur'd,
Bilks his frail handmaid from reproach ensur'd;
And as new claims new consequence inspires,
The Isle of Saints is now the Isle of 'Squires.
Amid the glare should worth superior shine,
Peers rank with peers, that marks a strain divine.—
The great themselves, if thou to greatness look,
Encourage Hoyle and con the lottery book.
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But if subscriptions still be thy resource,
Think not unruffl'd thou shalt run the course:
Try high and low, through court and country range,
Friendship with times, with fortunes manners change;
They, who thy warm prosperity would grace,
Touch but their purse, will curse thee to thy face.
Let those who would disarm reflection's sting
A writ of error in their conduct bring.
Think not unruffl'd thou shalt run the course:
Try high and low, through court and country range,
Friendship with times, with fortunes manners change;
They, who thy warm prosperity would grace,
Touch but their purse, will curse thee to thy face.
Let those who would disarm reflection's sting
A writ of error in their conduct bring.
Parnassus flowery haunts and Pindus' shades
Lie all deserted by the Aönian maids;
Along the banks of clear meandring stream
No favour'd poets of elysium dream;
The powers of song, that charm'd the world of yore,
Save by a few like thee, are felt no more;
Even love, inspirer of the tuneful breast,
Is lost in avarice and become a jest.
Lie all deserted by the Aönian maids;
Along the banks of clear meandring stream
No favour'd poets of elysium dream;
The powers of song, that charm'd the world of yore,
Save by a few like thee, are felt no more;
Even love, inspirer of the tuneful breast,
Is lost in avarice and become a jest.
Time was when wealth and honour crown'd the verse,
To rocks and deserts modern bards rehearse;
They might as well impress the bounding deer,
As gain attention from a modish ear.
These halcyon times Mæcenas sees more wit
In one fat haunch, than all e'er Virgil writ:
More to his gust, tho' it might task his skill,
To scan the heroics of a tavern bill;
Or quaint conceits, oft coin'd before, to coin,
A needless passport to the bumper'd wine,
Or snack a catch,—Oh! how divine they sing!
For Bourdeaux now's the Heliconian spring:
While wondering bards, who seldom get a taste,
See purse-proud vintners with their laurels grac'd.
To rocks and deserts modern bards rehearse;
They might as well impress the bounding deer,
As gain attention from a modish ear.
These halcyon times Mæcenas sees more wit
In one fat haunch, than all e'er Virgil writ:
More to his gust, tho' it might task his skill,
To scan the heroics of a tavern bill;
Or quaint conceits, oft coin'd before, to coin,
A needless passport to the bumper'd wine,
164
For Bourdeaux now's the Heliconian spring:
While wondering bards, who seldom get a taste,
See purse-proud vintners with their laurels grac'd.
Wide is the difference, to experience plain,
'Twixt talents in the pocket and the brain,
And those profusely with the first supplied
Their slender quota of the latter hide.
Full thirty suns, heaven knows! with ceaseless toil,
I have cultivated an ungrateful soil,
And my best pains to fill a leaky pate
Have been for worship oft repaid with hate:
So are the master's care and wholesome rule
Spelt and misconstru'd by the golden fool.
'Twixt talents in the pocket and the brain,
And those profusely with the first supplied
Their slender quota of the latter hide.
Full thirty suns, heaven knows! with ceaseless toil,
I have cultivated an ungrateful soil,
And my best pains to fill a leaky pate
Have been for worship oft repaid with hate:
So are the master's care and wholesome rule
Spelt and misconstru'd by the golden fool.
The muse I courted answered every end
To sooth a vacant hour and please a friend;
No interest expectation did inflame,
I lost in labour what I gain'd in fame.
My lot allows for few amusements time,
Perhaps the most excusable is rhyme.
In Bacchus orgies I can bear no part,
Nor scarcely know a diamond from a heart,
And if ambition aught on earth can raise,
'Tis to be prais'd by those deserving praise.
Hope's brightest prospects realiz'd be thine,
As every wish for thy success is mine.
To sooth a vacant hour and please a friend;
No interest expectation did inflame,
I lost in labour what I gain'd in fame.
My lot allows for few amusements time,
Perhaps the most excusable is rhyme.
In Bacchus orgies I can bear no part,
Nor scarcely know a diamond from a heart,
And if ambition aught on earth can raise,
'Tis to be prais'd by those deserving praise.
Hope's brightest prospects realiz'd be thine,
As every wish for thy success is mine.
| A collection of poems on various subjects | |