The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle including several original pieces, with a new life of the author. By the Rev. John Sim |
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ON THE NEGLECT OF POETRY. |
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 | The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle |  |
182
ON THE NEGLECT OF POETRY.
Hence, vagrant Minstrel, from my thriving farm;
Far hence, nor ween to shed thy poison here:
My hinds despise thy lyre's ignoble charm;
Seek in the Sloggards bower thy ill-earn'd cheer:
There while thy idle chaunting soothes their ear,
The noxious thistle choaks their sickly corn;
Their apple boughs, ungraff'd, sour wildlings bear,
And o'er the ill-fenced dales with fleeces torn
Unguarded from the fox, their lambkins stray forlorn.
Far hence, nor ween to shed thy poison here:
My hinds despise thy lyre's ignoble charm;
Seek in the Sloggards bower thy ill-earn'd cheer:
There while thy idle chaunting soothes their ear,
The noxious thistle choaks their sickly corn;
Their apple boughs, ungraff'd, sour wildlings bear,
And o'er the ill-fenced dales with fleeces torn
Unguarded from the fox, their lambkins stray forlorn.
Such ruin withers the neglected soil
When to the song the ill-starr'd swain attends—
And well thy meed repays thy worthless toil;
Upon thy houseless head pale want descends
In bitter shower: And taunting scorn still rends,
And wakes thee trembling from thy golden dream:
In vetchy bed, or loathly dungeon ends
Thy idled life—What fitter may beseem!
Who poisons thus the fount, should drink the poison'd stream.
When to the song the ill-starr'd swain attends—
And well thy meed repays thy worthless toil;
Upon thy houseless head pale want descends
In bitter shower: And taunting scorn still rends,
And wakes thee trembling from thy golden dream:
In vetchy bed, or loathly dungeon ends
Thy idled life—What fitter may beseem!
Who poisons thus the fount, should drink the poison'd stream.
And is it thus, the heart-stung Minstrel cry'd,
While indignation shook his silver'd head,
And is it thus, the gross-fed lordling's pride,
And hind's base tongue the gentle Bard upbraid!
And must the holy song be thus repaid
By sun-bask'd ignorance, and churlish scorn!
While listless drooping in the languid shade
Of cold neglect, the sacred Bard must mourn,
Though in his hallow'd breast heaven's purest ardours burn!
While indignation shook his silver'd head,
And is it thus, the gross-fed lordling's pride,
And hind's base tongue the gentle Bard upbraid!
And must the holy song be thus repaid
By sun-bask'd ignorance, and churlish scorn!
While listless drooping in the languid shade
Of cold neglect, the sacred Bard must mourn,
Though in his hallow'd breast heaven's purest ardours burn!
Yet how sublime, O Bard, the dread behest,
The awful trust to thee by heaven assign'd!
'Tis thine to humanize the savage breast,
And form in Virtue's mould the youthful mind;
Where lurks the latent spark of generous kind,
'Tis thine to bid the dormant ember blaze:
Heroic rage with gentlest worth combin'd
Wide through the land thy forming power displays:
So spread the olive boughs beneath Dan Phœbus' rays.
The awful trust to thee by heaven assign'd!
'Tis thine to humanize the savage breast,
And form in Virtue's mould the youthful mind;
Where lurks the latent spark of generous kind,
'Tis thine to bid the dormant ember blaze:
Heroic rage with gentlest worth combin'd
183
So spread the olive boughs beneath Dan Phœbus' rays.
When heaven decreed to soothe the feuds that tore
The wolf-ey'd Baron's, whose unletter'd rage
Spurn'd the fair Muse; heaven bade on Avon's shore
A Shakespeare rise, and soothe the barbarous age:
A Shakespeare rose; the barbarous heats asswage—
At distance due how many Bards attend!
Enlarg'd and liberal from the narrow cage
Of blinded zeal new manners wide extend,
And o'er the generous breast the dews of heaven descend.
The wolf-ey'd Baron's, whose unletter'd rage
Spurn'd the fair Muse; heaven bade on Avon's shore
A Shakespeare rise, and soothe the barbarous age:
A Shakespeare rose; the barbarous heats asswage—
At distance due how many Bards attend!
Enlarg'd and liberal from the narrow cage
Of blinded zeal new manners wide extend,
And o'er the generous breast the dews of heaven descend.
And fits it you, ye sons of hallow'd power,
To hear, unmov'd, the tongue of scorn upbraid
The Muse neglected in her wintery bower;
While proudly flourishing in princely shade
Her younger sisters lift the laurel'd head.—
And shall the pencil's boldest mimic rage,
Or sofest charms, fore-doom'd in time to fade,
Shall these be vaunted o'er th'immortal page,
Where passion's living fires burn unimpair'd by age!
To hear, unmov'd, the tongue of scorn upbraid
The Muse neglected in her wintery bower;
While proudly flourishing in princely shade
Her younger sisters lift the laurel'd head.—
And shall the pencil's boldest mimic rage,
Or sofest charms, fore-doom'd in time to fade,
Shall these be vaunted o'er th'immortal page,
Where passion's living fires burn unimpair'd by age!
And shall the warbled strain or sweetest lyre,
Thrilling the palace roof at night's deep hour;
And shall the nightingales in woodland choir
The voice of heaven in sweeter raptures pour!
Ah no! their song is transient as the flower
Of April morn: In vain the shepherd boy
Sits listening in the silent autumn bower;
The year no more restores the short-liv'd joy;
And never more his harp shall Orpheus' hands employ
Thrilling the palace roof at night's deep hour;
And shall the nightingales in woodland choir
The voice of heaven in sweeter raptures pour!
Ah no! their song is transient as the flower
Of April morn: In vain the shepherd boy
Sits listening in the silent autumn bower;
The year no more restores the short-liv'd joy;
And never more his harp shall Orpheus' hands employ
Eternal silence in her cold deaf ear
Has clos'd his strain; and deep eternal night
Has o'er Appelles' tints, so bright while-ere,
Drawn her blank curtains—never to the sight
More to be given—But cloth'd in heaven's own light
Homer's bold painting shall immortal shine;
Wide o'er the world shall ever sound the might,
The raptur'd music of each deathless line:
For death nor time may touch their living souls divine.
Has clos'd his strain; and deep eternal night
Has o'er Appelles' tints, so bright while-ere,
Drawn her blank curtains—never to the sight
More to be given—But cloth'd in heaven's own light
Homer's bold painting shall immortal shine;
Wide o'er the world shall ever sound the might,
The raptur'd music of each deathless line:
For death nor time may touch their living souls divine.
And what the strain, though Perez swell the note,
High though its rapture, to the Muse of fire!
Ah! what the transient sounds, devoid of thought,
To Shakespeare's flame of ever-burning ire,
Or Milton's flood of mind, till time expire
Foredoom'd to flow; as heaven's dread energy,
Unconscious of the bounds of place—
High though its rapture, to the Muse of fire!
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To Shakespeare's flame of ever-burning ire,
Or Milton's flood of mind, till time expire
Foredoom'd to flow; as heaven's dread energy,
Unconscious of the bounds of place—
| The Poetical Works of William Julius Mickle | |