 | Poems by Dr. Roberts of Eton College |  |
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A POETICAL EPISTLE, TO CHRISTOPHER ANSTEY, Esq; ON THE ENGLISH POETS,
CHIEFLY THOSE, WHO HAVE WRITTEN IN BLANK VERSE.
Si sapis, ad numeros exige quidque suos.
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No not in rhyme. I hate that iron chain,
Forg'd by the hand of some rude Goth, which cramps
Reluctant Genius, and with many a fold
Fast binds him to the ground. Shall the quick thought,
That darts from world to world, and traverses
The realms of time, and space, all fancy-free,
Check'd in his rapid course, obey the call
Of some barbarian, who by sound enslav'd,
And deaf to manly melody, proclaims,
“No farther shalt thou go”? Pent in his cage
The imprison'd eagle sits, and beats his bars;
His eye is rais'd to heaven. Tho many a moon
Has seen him pine in sad captivity,
Still to the thunderer's throne he longs to bear
The bolt of vengeance; still he thirsts to dip
His daring pinions in the fount of light.
Forg'd by the hand of some rude Goth, which cramps
Reluctant Genius, and with many a fold
Fast binds him to the ground. Shall the quick thought,
That darts from world to world, and traverses
The realms of time, and space, all fancy-free,
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Of some barbarian, who by sound enslav'd,
And deaf to manly melody, proclaims,
“No farther shalt thou go”? Pent in his cage
The imprison'd eagle sits, and beats his bars;
His eye is rais'd to heaven. Tho many a moon
Has seen him pine in sad captivity,
Still to the thunderer's throne he longs to bear
The bolt of vengeance; still he thirsts to dip
His daring pinions in the fount of light.
Go, mark the letter'd sons of Gallia's clime,
Where critic rules, and custom's tyrant law,
Have fetter'd the free verse. On the pall'd ear
The drowsy numbers, regularly dull,
Close in slow tedious unison. Not so
The bard of Eden; to the Grecian lyre
He tun'd his verse; he lov'd the genuine muse,
That from the top of Athos circled all
The clustering islands of the Ægean deep,
Or roam'd o'er fair Ionia's winding shore.
Where critic rules, and custom's tyrant law,
Have fetter'd the free verse. On the pall'd ear
The drowsy numbers, regularly dull,
Close in slow tedious unison. Not so
The bard of Eden; to the Grecian lyre
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That from the top of Athos circled all
The clustering islands of the Ægean deep,
Or roam'd o'er fair Ionia's winding shore.
Poet of other times, to thee I bow
With lowliest reverence. Oft thou tak'st my soul,
And waftst it by thy potent harmony
To that empyreal mansion, where thine ear
Caught the soft warblings of a Seraph's harp,
What time the nightly visitant unlock'd
The gates of heaven, and to thy mental sight
Display'd celestial scenes. She from thy lyre
With indignation tore the tinkling bells,
And tun'd it to sublimest argument.
Sooner the bird, that ushering in the spring
Strikes the same notes with one unvarying pause,
Shall vye with Philomel, when she pursues
Her evening song thro every winding maze
Of melody, than rhyme shall sooth the soul
With music sweet as thine. With vigilant eye,
And cautious step, as fearing to be left,
Thee Philips watches, and with taste refin'd
Each precept culling from the Mantuan page,
Disdains the Gothic bond. Silurian wines,
Ennobled by his song, no more shall yield
To Setin, or the strong Falernian juice,
Beverage of Latian chiefs. Next Thompson came:
He, curious bard, examin'd every drop
That glistens on the thorn; each leaf survey'd
Which Autumn from the rustling forest shakes,
And mark'd its shape, and trac'd in the rude wind
Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand
A pencil, dip'd in her own colours, plac'd,
With which the ever-faithful copyist drew
Each feature in proportion just. Had Art
But soften'd the hard lines, and mellow'd down
The glaring tints, not Mincio's self would roll
A prouder stream than Caledonian Tweed.
With lowliest reverence. Oft thou tak'st my soul,
And waftst it by thy potent harmony
To that empyreal mansion, where thine ear
Caught the soft warblings of a Seraph's harp,
What time the nightly visitant unlock'd
The gates of heaven, and to thy mental sight
Display'd celestial scenes. She from thy lyre
With indignation tore the tinkling bells,
And tun'd it to sublimest argument.
Sooner the bird, that ushering in the spring
Strikes the same notes with one unvarying pause,
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Her evening song thro every winding maze
Of melody, than rhyme shall sooth the soul
With music sweet as thine. With vigilant eye,
And cautious step, as fearing to be left,
Thee Philips watches, and with taste refin'd
Each precept culling from the Mantuan page,
Disdains the Gothic bond. Silurian wines,
Ennobled by his song, no more shall yield
To Setin, or the strong Falernian juice,
Beverage of Latian chiefs. Next Thompson came:
He, curious bard, examin'd every drop
That glistens on the thorn; each leaf survey'd
Which Autumn from the rustling forest shakes,
And mark'd its shape, and trac'd in the rude wind
Its eddying motion. Nature in his hand
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With which the ever-faithful copyist drew
Each feature in proportion just. Had Art
But soften'd the hard lines, and mellow'd down
The glaring tints, not Mincio's self would roll
A prouder stream than Caledonian Tweed.
Nor boast wild Scotia's hills, and pleasant vales,
One bard of freedom only. While the North
Turns his broad canvass, his Siberian van,
Winnowing the noxious air; while luxury breathes
Delicious odours o'er her treacherous meal;
While labour strings the nerves, and warms the blood;
While social sympathy dissolves the soul
In pity, or in love, shall Armstrong please.
One bard of freedom only. While the North
Turns his broad canvass, his Siberian van,
Winnowing the noxious air; while luxury breathes
Delicious odours o'er her treacherous meal;
While labour strings the nerves, and warms the blood;
While social sympathy dissolves the soul
In pity, or in love, shall Armstrong please.
Sweet is the sound, when down the sloping side
Of some green hill, or on the scented herb
Steep'd in Aurora's aromatic dews,
The full-voic'd choir their emulative notes
Tune to the jocund horn. Whoe'er thou art
Whom now on downy couch dull sloth detains,
Hark to the poet's song. Chaste Dian's bard,
Avonian Somerville, thro many a wood,
Down many a craggy steep, shall hurry on
Thy glowing fancy. He shall shew thee where
The amphibious otter, where the wily fox
Hides his proscribed head. Fresh from the chace
Oft shall some hunter o'er full bowls record
His verse, and with the faithful image fir'd
Exalt his loud-ton'd voice. The ecchoing hall,
Where blaze the roots of elm, or oak, where round
Hang all the shaggy trophies of the field,
Shall ring responsive to the vocal strain.
Of some green hill, or on the scented herb
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The full-voic'd choir their emulative notes
Tune to the jocund horn. Whoe'er thou art
Whom now on downy couch dull sloth detains,
Hark to the poet's song. Chaste Dian's bard,
Avonian Somerville, thro many a wood,
Down many a craggy steep, shall hurry on
Thy glowing fancy. He shall shew thee where
The amphibious otter, where the wily fox
Hides his proscribed head. Fresh from the chace
Oft shall some hunter o'er full bowls record
His verse, and with the faithful image fir'd
Exalt his loud-ton'd voice. The ecchoing hall,
Where blaze the roots of elm, or oak, where round
Hang all the shaggy trophies of the field,
Shall ring responsive to the vocal strain.
107
As when red lightning cleaves the clouded sky,
Trees, rocks, and verdant fields, and straw-roof'd cots,
At once are open'd on the traveller's view
Wandering at latest eve; but soon again
The pierc'd cloud closes, and each object sinks
In darkness, as before; so burst thy strains,
And cast a transient gleam, O musing Young,
O'er black obscurity. Poet of night,
How shall I stile thee? for thy cadence now
Grates discord on mine ear, now sweetly flows
Harmonious: oft with wonder have I sought
What mean thy words ambiguous; oft my soul,
Sooth'd by thy pensive minstrelsy, forgets
Her peevish censure. Polish what is rude,
Illumine what is dark, whate'er is low
Exalt, and many a muse of fairer fame
To thee shall bend the laurels of her brow.
Trees, rocks, and verdant fields, and straw-roof'd cots,
At once are open'd on the traveller's view
Wandering at latest eve; but soon again
The pierc'd cloud closes, and each object sinks
In darkness, as before; so burst thy strains,
And cast a transient gleam, O musing Young,
O'er black obscurity. Poet of night,
How shall I stile thee? for thy cadence now
Grates discord on mine ear, now sweetly flows
Harmonious: oft with wonder have I sought
What mean thy words ambiguous; oft my soul,
Sooth'd by thy pensive minstrelsy, forgets
Her peevish censure. Polish what is rude,
Illumine what is dark, whate'er is low
108
To thee shall bend the laurels of her brow.
Come, Akenside, come with thine Attic urn
Fill'd from Ilyssus by a Naïd's hand.
Thy harp was tun'd to freedom: strains like thine,
When Asia's lord bor'd the huge mountain's side,
And bridg'd the sea, to battle rous'd the tribes
Of ancient Greece: the sons of Cecrops rais'd
Minerva's ægis; Lacedæmon sent
Her hardy veterans from their frugal board,
Thy troops, Leonidas; whose glorious death
Stands ay renown'd, fit theme, in British song.
Fill'd from Ilyssus by a Naïd's hand.
Thy harp was tun'd to freedom: strains like thine,
When Asia's lord bor'd the huge mountain's side,
And bridg'd the sea, to battle rous'd the tribes
Of ancient Greece: the sons of Cecrops rais'd
Minerva's ægis; Lacedæmon sent
Her hardy veterans from their frugal board,
Thy troops, Leonidas; whose glorious death
Stands ay renown'd, fit theme, in British song.
Tell me, O Mason, will thy liberal soul
With tame submission hug the chain, and brook
Barbarian bondage? Shall the Muse, who led
Thy youthful steps thro every bosky bourn
That skirts wide Harewood's forest, and before
Thy raptur'd eye rais'd Mona's central oak,
Haunt of the Druids old, implore in vain?
Wilt thou not join, and from her gall'd feet shake
The Northern shackle? So to every walk
That thro thy garden weaves its mazy path,
To every opening glade, each odorous shrub
That scents the horizon round, shall she conduct
Her musing votary; so shall she unfold
Rude nature polish'd, not subdued, by art,
Scenes, where thy fancy roves; and all her flowers
Steep in the living fountains of the spring,
To wreathe a chaplet for her poet's brow.
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Barbarian bondage? Shall the Muse, who led
Thy youthful steps thro every bosky bourn
That skirts wide Harewood's forest, and before
Thy raptur'd eye rais'd Mona's central oak,
Haunt of the Druids old, implore in vain?
Wilt thou not join, and from her gall'd feet shake
The Northern shackle? So to every walk
That thro thy garden weaves its mazy path,
To every opening glade, each odorous shrub
That scents the horizon round, shall she conduct
Her musing votary; so shall she unfold
Rude nature polish'd, not subdued, by art,
Scenes, where thy fancy roves; and all her flowers
Steep in the living fountains of the spring,
To wreathe a chaplet for her poet's brow.
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Would I could name thee, Gray! but Ode is thine,
And plaintive Elegy. Not Pindar soars
On bolder wing—But hark! what means that bell
At this still hour slow rising on mine ear?
It is the voice of death Even while I write,
Cold icy dew-drops chill thy languid limbs,
And life's short date is out. From these high spires,
“These antique towers, that crown the watry glade,”
These fields, that ecchoed to thy moral muse,
Warbling in childhood's happiest hour, accept
This boon; and, O sweet melancholy bard,
Rest to thy cares, and mercy to thy soul!
And plaintive Elegy. Not Pindar soars
On bolder wing—But hark! what means that bell
At this still hour slow rising on mine ear?
It is the voice of death Even while I write,
Cold icy dew-drops chill thy languid limbs,
And life's short date is out. From these high spires,
“These antique towers, that crown the watry glade,”
These fields, that ecchoed to thy moral muse,
Warbling in childhood's happiest hour, accept
This boon; and, O sweet melancholy bard,
Rest to thy cares, and mercy to thy soul!
Return, my Muse; thy wild, unfetter'd strains,
Suit not the mournful dirge. Rhyme tunes the pipe
Of querulous elegy; 'tis rhyme confines
The lawless numbers of the lyric song.
Who shall deny the quick-retorted sound
To satire, when with this she points her scorn,
Darts her keen shaft, or whets her venom'd fang?
Pent in the close of some strong period stands
The victim's blasted name: The kindred note
First stamps it on the ear; then oft recalls
To memory, what were better wrapt at once
In dark oblivion. Still unrivall'd here
Pope thro his rich dominion reigns alone:
Pope, whose immortal strains Thames ecchoes yet
Thro all his winding banks. He smooth'd the verse,
Tun'd its soft cadence to the classic ear,
And gave to rhyme the dignity of song.
Suit not the mournful dirge. Rhyme tunes the pipe
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The lawless numbers of the lyric song.
Who shall deny the quick-retorted sound
To satire, when with this she points her scorn,
Darts her keen shaft, or whets her venom'd fang?
Pent in the close of some strong period stands
The victim's blasted name: The kindred note
First stamps it on the ear; then oft recalls
To memory, what were better wrapt at once
In dark oblivion. Still unrivall'd here
Pope thro his rich dominion reigns alone:
Pope, whose immortal strains Thames ecchoes yet
Thro all his winding banks. He smooth'd the verse,
Tun'd its soft cadence to the classic ear,
And gave to rhyme the dignity of song.
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As when the chearful bells some wake proclaim,
The village maid loads not her head with gems,
Ruby, or diamond, but from every field
Culls daffadills, and harebells, sprent with dew,
Her loveliest ornaments, in humble stile
Let Pastoral appear. Let rhyme supply
The majesty of nobler sentiment,
Which ill might suit the peasant. Gay felt this;
And banish'd from his woods Arcadian swains,
And mark'd the manners of the British hind,
And uncouth dialect. He too could veil
In fable's mystic garb the form of truth;
And by his sprightly tale could often draw
The tear of laughter even from the dim eye
Of churlish gravity. Nor be forgot
The grotesque mirth of Butler's errant Knight,
Nor Swift, strange child of fancy, and of spleen,
Nor he, whose labour'd line flows smoothly on,
The gallant, easy Prior. Subjects light,
Swoln by heroic phrase, like some poor slave,
Who, robed in royal mantle, struts his hour,
Betray their base original the more.
The village maid loads not her head with gems,
Ruby, or diamond, but from every field
Culls daffadills, and harebells, sprent with dew,
Her loveliest ornaments, in humble stile
Let Pastoral appear. Let rhyme supply
The majesty of nobler sentiment,
Which ill might suit the peasant. Gay felt this;
And banish'd from his woods Arcadian swains,
And mark'd the manners of the British hind,
And uncouth dialect. He too could veil
In fable's mystic garb the form of truth;
And by his sprightly tale could often draw
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Of churlish gravity. Nor be forgot
The grotesque mirth of Butler's errant Knight,
Nor Swift, strange child of fancy, and of spleen,
Nor he, whose labour'd line flows smoothly on,
The gallant, easy Prior. Subjects light,
Swoln by heroic phrase, like some poor slave,
Who, robed in royal mantle, struts his hour,
Betray their base original the more.
Pardon, my Anstey, that I name thee last,
Tho last, not least in fame. For thee the Muse
Reserv'd a secret spot, unknown before,
And smiled, and bade thee fix thy banner there,
As erst Columbus on his new-found world
Display'd the Iberian ensign. Graceful sit
Thy golden chains, and easy flows the rhyme
Spontaneous. While old Bladud's sceptre guards
His medicinal stream, shall Simkin raise
Loud peals of merriment. Thou too canst soar
To nobler heights, and deck the fragrant earth
“Where generous Russel lies.” With thee, my friend,
Oft have I stray'd from morn to latest eve,
And stoln from balmy sleep the midnight hour
To court the Latian Mufe. Tho other cares
Tore me from that sweet social intercourse,
I cannot but remember how I rov'd
By Cadmus, sedgy stream, and on the pipe,
The rustic pipe , while yet it breath'd thy lips,
Essay'd alternate strains. Accept this verse,
Pledge of remembrance dear, and faithful love.
Tho last, not least in fame. For thee the Muse
Reserv'd a secret spot, unknown before,
And smiled, and bade thee fix thy banner there,
As erst Columbus on his new-found world
Display'd the Iberian ensign. Graceful sit
Thy golden chains, and easy flows the rhyme
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His medicinal stream, shall Simkin raise
Loud peals of merriment. Thou too canst soar
To nobler heights, and deck the fragrant earth
“Where generous Russel lies.” With thee, my friend,
Oft have I stray'd from morn to latest eve,
And stoln from balmy sleep the midnight hour
To court the Latian Mufe. Tho other cares
Tore me from that sweet social intercourse,
I cannot but remember how I rov'd
By Cadmus, sedgy stream, and on the pipe,
The rustic pipe , while yet it breath'd thy lips,
Essay'd alternate strains. Accept this verse,
Pledge of remembrance dear, and faithful love.
This was written at the time of Mr. Gray's death. He was buried at Stoke, about three miles from Eton College.
| Poems by Dr. Roberts of Eton College | |