Gifford's Baviad and Maeviad Pasquin v. Faulder: Epistle to Peter Pindar: To which is prefixed the author's memoir of his own life [by William Gifford] |
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 | Gifford's Baviad and Maeviad |  |
THE BAVIAD;
A PARAPHRASTIC IMITATION OF THE FIRST SATIRE OF PERSIUS.
Impune ergo mihi recitaverit ille Sonettas,
Hic Elegos!
Hic Elegos!
P.
When I look round on man, and find how vain
His passions—
F.
Save me from this canting strain!
Why, who will read it?
P.
This, my friend, to me?
F.
None, by my life.
P.
What! none? Sure, two or three—
F.
No, no; not one. 'Tis sad; but—
P.
“Sad, but!”—Why?
Pity is insult here. I care not, I,
Tho' Boswell, of a song and supper vain,
12
13
To praise Miles Andrews' verse, and censure mine—
14
Bestow, as fashion prompts, the laurel crown;
But do not Thou, who mak'st a fair pretence,
To that best boon of Heav'n, to Common Sense,
Resign thy judgment to the rout, and pay
Knee-worship to the idol of the day:
For all are—
F.
What? Speak freely; let me know.
P.
O might I! durst I! Then—but let it go:
Yet, when I view the follies that engage,
The full-grown children of this piping age;
15
O'er love-lorn oxen and deserted sheep;
See Cowley frisk it to one ding-dong chime,
And weekly cuckold her poor spouse in rhyme;
See Thrale's grey widow with a satchel roam,
And bring, in pomp, her labour'd nothings home;
See Robinson forget her state, and move
On crutches tow'rds the grave, to “Light o'Love;”
See Parsons, while all sound advice he scorns,
Mistake two soft excrescences for horns;
16
Lay bare his forehead, and expose his brains:
I scarce can rule my spleen—
17
Forbear, forbear:
And what the great delight in, learn to spare.
P.
It must not, cannot be; for I was born,
To brand obtrusive ignorance with scorn;
On bloated pedantry to pour my rage,
And hiss preposterous fustian from the stage.
To brand obtrusive ignorance with scorn;
On bloated pedantry to pour my rage,
And hiss preposterous fustian from the stage.
Lo, Della Crusca! In his closet pent,
He toils to give the crude conception vent.
Abortive thoughts, that right and wrong confound,
Truth sacrificed to letters, sense to sound,
False glare, incongruous images, combine;
And noise and nonsense clatter through the line.
'Tis done. Her house the generous Piozzi lends,
And thither summons her blue stocking friends;
The summons her blue-stocking friends obey,
Lured by the love of poetry—and Tea.
The Bard steps forth, in birth-day splendour drest,
His right hand graceful waving o'er his breast;
His left extending, so that all may see,
A roll inscribed “The Wreath of Liberty.”
So forth he steps, and with complacent air,
Bows round the circle, and assumes the chair;
With lemonade he gargles next his throat,
Then sweetly preludes to the liquid note:
And now 'tis silence all. “Genius or Muse”—
Thus while the flowery subject he pursues,
A wild delirium round the assembly flies;
Unusual lustre shoots from Emma's eyes,
Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands,
And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands.
He toils to give the crude conception vent.
18
Truth sacrificed to letters, sense to sound,
False glare, incongruous images, combine;
And noise and nonsense clatter through the line.
19
And thither summons her blue stocking friends;
The summons her blue-stocking friends obey,
Lured by the love of poetry—and Tea.
The Bard steps forth, in birth-day splendour drest,
His right hand graceful waving o'er his breast;
His left extending, so that all may see,
A roll inscribed “The Wreath of Liberty.”
So forth he steps, and with complacent air,
Bows round the circle, and assumes the chair;
With lemonade he gargles next his throat,
Then sweetly preludes to the liquid note:
And now 'tis silence all. “Genius or Muse”—
Thus while the flowery subject he pursues,
20
Unusual lustre shoots from Emma's eyes,
Luxurious Arno drivels as he stands,
And Anna frisks, and Laura claps her hands.
O wretched man! And dost thou toil to please,
At this late hour, such prurient ears as these?
Is thy poor pride contented to receive
Such transitory fame as fools can give?
Fools, who unconscious of the critics' laws,
Rain in such show'rs their indistinct applause.
That Thou, even Thou, who liv'st upon renown,
And, with eternal puffs, insult'st the town,
Art forced at length to check the idiot roar,
And cry, “For heav'n's sweet sake, no more, no more!”
“But why (thou say'st) why am I learn'd, why fraught
“With all the priest and all the sage have taught,
“If the huge mass within my bosom pent,
“Must struggle there, despairing of a vent?”
Thou learn'd! Alas, for learning! She is sped.
And hast thou dimm'd thy eyes, and rack'd thy head,
And broke thy rest for this, for this alone?
And is thy knowledge nothing if not known?
O lost to sense!—But still, thou criest, 'tis sweet,
To hear “That's He!” from every one we meet;
That's He whom critic Bell declares divine,
For whom the fair diurnal laurels twine;
Whom Magazines, Reviews, conspire to praise,
And Greathead calls, the Homer of our days.
At this late hour, such prurient ears as these?
Is thy poor pride contented to receive
Such transitory fame as fools can give?
Fools, who unconscious of the critics' laws,
Rain in such show'rs their indistinct applause.
That Thou, even Thou, who liv'st upon renown,
And, with eternal puffs, insult'st the town,
Art forced at length to check the idiot roar,
And cry, “For heav'n's sweet sake, no more, no more!”
“But why (thou say'st) why am I learn'd, why fraught
“With all the priest and all the sage have taught,
“If the huge mass within my bosom pent,
“Must struggle there, despairing of a vent?”
21
And hast thou dimm'd thy eyes, and rack'd thy head,
And broke thy rest for this, for this alone?
And is thy knowledge nothing if not known?
O lost to sense!—But still, thou criest, 'tis sweet,
To hear “That's He!” from every one we meet;
That's He whom critic Bell declares divine,
For whom the fair diurnal laurels twine;
Whom Magazines, Reviews, conspire to praise,
And Greathead calls, the Homer of our days.
F.
And is it nothing, then, to hear our name,
Thus blazon'd by the general voice of fame?
P.
Nay, it were every thing, did that dispense
The sober verdict found by taste and sense:
But mark our jury. O'er the flowing bowl,
When wine has drown'd all energy of soul,
Ere Faro comes, (a dreary interval!)
For some fond fashionable lay they call.
Here the spruce ensign, tottering on his chair,
With lisping accent, and affected air,
Recounts the wayward fate of that poor poet,
Who born for anguish, and disposed to shew it,
Did yet so awkwardly his means employ,
That gaping fiends mistook his grief for joy!
The sober verdict found by taste and sense:
But mark our jury. O'er the flowing bowl,
When wine has drown'd all energy of soul,
22
For some fond fashionable lay they call.
Here the spruce ensign, tottering on his chair,
With lisping accent, and affected air,
Recounts the wayward fate of that poor poet,
Who born for anguish, and disposed to shew it,
Did yet so awkwardly his means employ,
That gaping fiends mistook his grief for joy!
Lost in amaze at language so divine,
The audience hiccup, and exclaim, “Damn'd fine!”
And are not now the author's ashes blest?
Lies not the turf now lightly on his breast?
Do not sweet violets now around him bloom?
Laurels now burst spontaneous from his tomb?—
The audience hiccup, and exclaim, “Damn'd fine!”
And are not now the author's ashes blest?
Lies not the turf now lightly on his breast?
Do not sweet violets now around him bloom?
Laurels now burst spontaneous from his tomb?—
F.
This is mere mockery: and (in your ear)
Reason is ill refuted by a sneer.
Is praise an evil? Is there to be found,
One, so indifferent to its soothing sound,
As not to wish hereafter to be known,
And make a long futurity his own?
Rather than—
P.
—With 'Squire Jerningham descend
To pastry cooks and moths, “and there an end!”
To pastry cooks and moths, “and there an end!”
23
O thou, who deign'st this homely scene to share,
Thou know'st, when chance (tho' this indeed be rare)
With random gleams of wit has graced my lays,
Thou know'st too well how I have relish'd praise.
Not mine the soul which pants not after fame:—
Ambitious of a poet's envied name,
I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to prove,
The grateful influence of the stream I love.
Thou know'st, when chance (tho' this indeed be rare)
With random gleams of wit has graced my lays,
Thou know'st too well how I have relish'd praise.
Not mine the soul which pants not after fame:—
Ambitious of a poet's envied name,
I haunt the sacred fount, athirst to prove,
The grateful influence of the stream I love.
24
And yet, my friend—though still, at praise bestow'd,
Mine eye has glisten'd, and my cheek has glow'd,
Yet, when I prostitute the lyre to gain
The Euges which await the modish strain,
May the sweet Muse my grovelling hopes withstand,
And tear the strings indignant from my hand!
Nor think that, while my verse too much I prize,
Too much th' applause of fashion I despise;
For mark to what 'tis given, and then declare,
Mean tho' I am, if it be worth my care.
—Is it not giv'n to Este's unmeaning dash,
To Topham's fustian, Reynolds' flippant trash,
To Morton's catch-word, Greathead's ideot line,
And Holcroft's Shug-lane cant, and Merry's Moorfields whine,
Mine eye has glisten'd, and my cheek has glow'd,
Yet, when I prostitute the lyre to gain
The Euges which await the modish strain,
May the sweet Muse my grovelling hopes withstand,
And tear the strings indignant from my hand!
Nor think that, while my verse too much I prize,
Too much th' applause of fashion I despise;
For mark to what 'tis given, and then declare,
Mean tho' I am, if it be worth my care.
—Is it not giv'n to Este's unmeaning dash,
To Topham's fustian, Reynolds' flippant trash,
To Morton's catch-word, Greathead's ideot line,
And Holcroft's Shug-lane cant, and Merry's Moorfields whine,
25
Skill'd in one useful science, at the least,
The great man comes, and spreads a sumptuous feast:
Then, when his guests behold the prize at stake,
And thirst and hunger only, are awake,
My friends, he cries, what think the galleries, pray,
And what the boxes, of my last new play?
Speak freely;—tell me all:—come, be sincere;
For truth, you know, is music to my ear.
They speak! alas, they cannot. But shall I?
I, who receive no bribe? who dare not lie?
This, then:—“That worse was never writ before,
“Nor worse will be, till—thou shalt write once more.”
The great man comes, and spreads a sumptuous feast:
Then, when his guests behold the prize at stake,
And thirst and hunger only, are awake,
My friends, he cries, what think the galleries, pray,
And what the boxes, of my last new play?
Speak freely;—tell me all:—come, be sincere;
For truth, you know, is music to my ear.
26
I, who receive no bribe? who dare not lie?
This, then:—“That worse was never writ before,
“Nor worse will be, till—thou shalt write once more.”
Blest be “two-headed Janus!” though inclined,
No waggish stork can peck at him behind;
He no wry mouth, no lolling tongue can fear,
Nor the brisk twinkling of an ass's ear:
But you, ye St. Johns, curs'd with one poor head,
Alas! what mockeries have not ye to dread!
No waggish stork can peck at him behind;
He no wry mouth, no lolling tongue can fear,
Nor the brisk twinkling of an ass's ear:
But you, ye St. Johns, curs'd with one poor head,
Alas! what mockeries have not ye to dread!
Hear now our guests.—The critics, Sir! they cry—
Merit like yours, the critics may defy:
But this, indeed, they say—“Your varied rhymes,
“At once the boast and envy of the times,
“In every page, song, sonnet, what you will,
“Shew boundless genius, and unrivall'd skill.
Merit like yours, the critics may defy:
But this, indeed, they say—“Your varied rhymes,
“At once the boast and envy of the times,
“In every page, song, sonnet, what you will,
“Shew boundless genius, and unrivall'd skill.
“If comedy be yours, the searching strain,
“Blends such sweet pleasure with corrective pain,
“That e'en the guilty at their sufferings smile,
“And bless the lancet, tho' they bleed the while.
“If tragedy, th' impassion'd numbers flow
“In all the sad variety of woe,
“With such a liquid lapse, that they betray
“The breast unwares, and steal the soul away.”
“Blends such sweet pleasure with corrective pain,
“That e'en the guilty at their sufferings smile,
“And bless the lancet, tho' they bleed the while.
27
“In all the sad variety of woe,
“With such a liquid lapse, that they betray
“The breast unwares, and steal the soul away.”
Thus fool'd, the moon-struck tribe, whose best essays,
Sunk in acrostics, riddles, roundelays,
To loftier labours now pretend a call,
And bustle in heroics, one and all.
Ev'n Bertie burns of gods and chiefs to sing—
Bertie, who lately twitter'd to the string
His namby-pamby madrigals of love,
In the dark dingles of a glittering grove,
Where airy lays, woven by the hand of morn,
Were hung to dry upon a cobweb thorn!
Sunk in acrostics, riddles, roundelays,
To loftier labours now pretend a call,
And bustle in heroics, one and all.
Ev'n Bertie burns of gods and chiefs to sing—
Bertie, who lately twitter'd to the string
His namby-pamby madrigals of love,
In the dark dingles of a glittering grove,
Where airy lays, woven by the hand of morn,
Were hung to dry upon a cobweb thorn!
Happy the soil, where bards like mushrooms rise,
And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies!
Happier the bards, who, write whate'er they will,
Find gentle readers to admire them still!
And ask no culture but what Byshe supplies!
Happier the bards, who, write whate'er they will,
Find gentle readers to admire them still!
Some love the verse that like Maria's flows,
No rubs to stagger, and no sense to pose;
Which read, and read, you raise your eyes in doubt,
And gravely wonder—what it is about.
These fancy “Bell's Poetics” only sweet,
And intercept his hawkers in the street;
There, smoking hot, inhale Mit Yenda's strains,
And the rank fume of Tony Pasquin's brains.
Others, like Kemble, on black letter pore,
And what they do not understand, adore;
Buy at vast sums the trash of ancient days,
And draw on prodigality for praise.
These, when some lucky hit, or lucky price,
Has bless'd them with “The Boke of gode advice
For ekes and algates only deign to seek,
And live upon a whilome for a week.
No rubs to stagger, and no sense to pose;
28
And gravely wonder—what it is about.
These fancy “Bell's Poetics” only sweet,
And intercept his hawkers in the street;
There, smoking hot, inhale Mit Yenda's strains,
And the rank fume of Tony Pasquin's brains.
29
And what they do not understand, adore;
Buy at vast sums the trash of ancient days,
And draw on prodigality for praise.
These, when some lucky hit, or lucky price,
Has bless'd them with “The Boke of gode advice
For ekes and algates only deign to seek,
And live upon a whilome for a week.
And can we, when such mope-eyed dolts are placed,
By thoughtless fashion, on the throne of taste—
Say, can we wonder whence this jargon flows,
This motley fustian, neither verse nor prose,
This old, new, language which defiles our page;
The refuse and the scum of every age?
By thoughtless fashion, on the throne of taste—
30
This motley fustian, neither verse nor prose,
This old, new, language which defiles our page;
The refuse and the scum of every age?
Lo, Beaufoy tells of Afric's barren sand,
In all the flowery phrase of fairy land:
There Fezzan's thrum-capp'd tribes, Turks, Christians, Jews,
Accommodate, ye gods! their feet with shoes;
There meagre shrubs inveterate mountains grace,
And brushwood breaks the amplitude of space.
Perplex'd with terms so vague and undefined,
I blunder on; till wilder'd, giddy, blind,
Where'er I turn, on clouds I seem to tread;
And call for Mandeville, to ease my head.
In all the flowery phrase of fairy land:
There Fezzan's thrum-capp'd tribes, Turks, Christians, Jews,
Accommodate, ye gods! their feet with shoes;
31
And brushwood breaks the amplitude of space.
Perplex'd with terms so vague and undefined,
I blunder on; till wilder'd, giddy, blind,
Where'er I turn, on clouds I seem to tread;
And call for Mandeville, to ease my head.
Oh for the good old times! When all was new,
And every hour brought prodigies to view,
Our sires in unaffected language told,
Of streams of amber, and of rocks of gold:
Full of their theme, they spurn'd all idle art;
And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.
Now all is changed! We fume and fret, poor elves,
Less to display our subject, than ourselves:
Whate'er we paint—a grot, a flower, a bird,
Heavens, how we sweat! laboriously absurd!
Words of gigantic bulk, and uncouth sound,
In rattling triads the long sentence bound;
While points with points, with periods periods jar,
And the whole work seems one continued war!
Is not this sad?
And every hour brought prodigies to view,
Our sires in unaffected language told,
Of streams of amber, and of rocks of gold:
Full of their theme, they spurn'd all idle art;
And the plain tale was trusted to the heart.
Now all is changed! We fume and fret, poor elves,
Less to display our subject, than ourselves:
Whate'er we paint—a grot, a flower, a bird,
Heavens, how we sweat! laboriously absurd!
Words of gigantic bulk, and uncouth sound,
In rattling triads the long sentence bound;
While points with points, with periods periods jar,
And the whole work seems one continued war!
Is not this sad?
F.
“'Tis pitiful, heav'n knows,
“'Tis wond'rous pitiful.” E'en take the prose;
But for the poetry—oh, that, my friend,
I still aspire—nay, smile not,—to defend.
You praise our sires, but, though they wrote with force,
Their rhymes were vicious, and their diction coarse;
32
For that, and more, by sweetness all our own.
For instance—“Hasten to the lawny vale,
“Where yellow morning breathes her saffron gale,
“And bathes the landscape—”
P.
Pshaw; I have it here.
“A voice seraphic grasps my listening ear:
“Wond'ring I gaze; when lo! methought afar,
“More bright than dauntless day's imperial star,
“A godlike form advances.”
F.
You suppose
These lines, perhaps, too turgid; what of those?
“The mighty mother—”
P.
Now 'tis plain you sneer,
For Weston's self could find no semblance here:
Weston! who slunk from truth's imperious light,
Swells, like a filthy toad, with secret spite,
And, envying the fame he cannot hope,
Spits his black venom at the dust of Pope.
—Reptile accurs'd!—O memorable long,
If there be force in virtue or in song,
O injured bard! accept the grateful strain,
Which I, the humblest of the tuneful train,
With glowing heart, yet trembling hand, repay,
For many a pensive, many a sprightly lay!
So may thy varied verse, from age to age,
Inform the simple, and delight the sage;
While canker'd Weston, and his loathsome rhymes,
Stink in the nose of all succeeding times!
For Weston's self could find no semblance here:
33
Swells, like a filthy toad, with secret spite,
And, envying the fame he cannot hope,
Spits his black venom at the dust of Pope.
—Reptile accurs'd!—O memorable long,
If there be force in virtue or in song,
O injured bard! accept the grateful strain,
Which I, the humblest of the tuneful train,
With glowing heart, yet trembling hand, repay,
For many a pensive, many a sprightly lay!
So may thy varied verse, from age to age,
Inform the simple, and delight the sage;
While canker'd Weston, and his loathsome rhymes,
Stink in the nose of all succeeding times!
Enough. But where (for these, you seem to say,
Are samples of the high, heroic lay)
Where are the soft, the tender strains, which call
For the moist eye, bow'd head, and lengthen'd drawl?
Lo! here—“Can'st thou, Matilda, urge my fate,
“And bid me mourn thee?—yes, and mourn too late!
“O rash, severe decree! my maddening brain
“Cannot the ponderous agony sustain;
“But forth I rush, from vale to mountain run,
“And with my mind's thick gloom obscure the “sun.”
Are samples of the high, heroic lay)
34
For the moist eye, bow'd head, and lengthen'd drawl?
Lo! here—“Can'st thou, Matilda, urge my fate,
“And bid me mourn thee?—yes, and mourn too late!
“O rash, severe decree! my maddening brain
“Cannot the ponderous agony sustain;
“But forth I rush, from vale to mountain run,
“And with my mind's thick gloom obscure the “sun.”
Heavens! if our ancient vigour were not fled,
Could verse like this be written? or be read?
Verse! that's the mellow fruit of toil intense,
Inspired by genius, and inform'd by sense;
This, the abortive progeny of Pride,
And Dulness, gentle pair, for aye allied;
Begotten without thought, born without pains,
The ropy drivel of rheumatic brains.
Could verse like this be written? or be read?
Verse! that's the mellow fruit of toil intense,
Inspired by genius, and inform'd by sense;
35
And Dulness, gentle pair, for aye allied;
Begotten without thought, born without pains,
The ropy drivel of rheumatic brains.
F.
So let it be: and yet, methinks, my friend,
Silence were wise, where satire will not mend.
Why wound the feelings of our noble youth,
And grate their tender ears with odious truth?
They cherish Arno and his flux of song,
And hate the man who tells 'em they are wrong.
36
With cold respect, will freeze you from his board,
And his Grace cry, “Hence with that sapient sneer!
“Hence! we desire no currish critic here.”
P.
Enough. Thank heaven! my error now I see,
And all shall be divine, henceforth, for me:
Yes, Andrews' doggrel, Greathead's idiot line,
And Morton's catch-word, all, forsooth, divine!
F.
'Tis well. Here let th' indignant stricture cease,
And Leeds at length enjoy his fool in peace.
37
Come then, around their works a circle draw,
And near it plant the dragons of the law,
With labels writ, “Critics, far hence remove,
“Nor dare to censure what the great approve.”
I go. Yet Hall could lash with noble rage,
The purblind patron of a former age;
And laugh to scorn th' eternal sonnetteer,
Who made goose-pinions and white rags so dear.
Yet Oldham, in his rude, unpolish'd strain,
Could hiss the clamorous, and deride the vain,
Who bawl'd their rhymes incessant thro' the town,
Or bribed the hawkers for a day's renown.
Whate'er the theme, with honest warmth they wrote,
Nor cared what Mutius of their freedom thought:
Yet prose was venial in that happy time,
And life had other business than to rhyme.
And near it plant the dragons of the law,
With labels writ, “Critics, far hence remove,
“Nor dare to censure what the great approve.”
I go. Yet Hall could lash with noble rage,
The purblind patron of a former age;
And laugh to scorn th' eternal sonnetteer,
Who made goose-pinions and white rags so dear.
Yet Oldham, in his rude, unpolish'd strain,
Could hiss the clamorous, and deride the vain,
Who bawl'd their rhymes incessant thro' the town,
Or bribed the hawkers for a day's renown.
Whate'er the theme, with honest warmth they wrote,
Nor cared what Mutius of their freedom thought:
Yet prose was venial in that happy time,
And life had other business than to rhyme.
And may not I—now this pernicious pest,
This metromania, creeps thro' every breast;
Now fools and children void their brains by loads,
And itching grandams spawl lascivious odes;
Now lords and dukes, curs'd with a sickly taste,
While Burns' pure healthful nurture runs to waste,
Lick up the spittle of the bed-rid muse,
And riot on the sweepings of the stews;
Say, may not I expose—
This metromania, creeps thro' every breast;
38
And itching grandams spawl lascivious odes;
Now lords and dukes, curs'd with a sickly taste,
While Burns' pure healthful nurture runs to waste,
Lick up the spittle of the bed-rid muse,
And riot on the sweepings of the stews;
Say, may not I expose—
F.
No—'tis unsafe:
Prudence, my friend.
P.
What! not deride? not laugh?
Well! thought at least is free—
F.
O yet forbear.
P.
Nay, then, I'll dig a pit, and bury there,
The dreadful truth which so alarms thy fears:
The town, the town, good pit, has asses ears!
Thou think'st, perhaps, this wayward fancy strange;
So think thou still: yet would not I exchange
The secret humour of this simple hit
For all the Albums that were ever writ.
Of this, no more.—O thou (if yet there be,
One bosom from this vile infection free),
Thou who canst thrill with joy, or glow with ire,
As the great masters of the song inspire,
Canst bend enraptured o'er the magic page,
Where desperate ladies desperate lords engage,
Gnomes, Sylphs, and Gods, the fierce contention share,
And heaven and earth hang trembling on a hair:
Canst quake with horror, when Emilia's charms
Against a brother point a brother's arms;
39
While hour on hour flits unperceived away—
Approach: 'twixt hope and fear I wait. O deign,
To cast a glance on this incondite strain:
Here, if thou find one thought but well exprest,
One sentence, higher finish'd than the rest,
Such as may win thee to proceed awhile,
And smooth thy forehead with a gracious smile,
I ask no more. But far from me the throng,
Who fancy fire in Laura's vapid song,
Who Anna's bedlam-rant for sense can take,
And over Edwin's mewlings keep awake;
40
These long-ear'd judges of the Phrygian race,
41
And hate the laurel by their followers worn!
Let such (a task congenial to their powers),
At sales and auctions waste the morning hours,
While the dull noon away in Rumford's fane,
And snore the evening out at Drury-lane.
51
THE MÆVIAD.
Yes, I did say that Crusca's “true sublime”
Lack'd taste, and sense, and every thing but rhyme;
That Arno's “easy strains” were coarse and rough,
And Edwin's “matchless numbers” woeful stuff.
And who—forgive, O gentle Bell! the word,
For it must out—who, prithee, so absurd,
So mulishly absurd, as not to join,
In this, with me; save always thee, and thine!
Yet still, the soul of candour! I allow'd,
Their jingling elegies amused the crowd;
That lords hung blubbering o'er each woeful line,
That lady-critics wept, and cried, “divine!”
That love-lorn priests reclined the pensive head,
And sentimental ensigns, as they read,
Wiped the sad drops of pity from their eye,
And burst between a hiccup and a sigh.
Yet, not content, like horse-leeches they come,
And split my head with one eternal hum
For “more! more! more!” Away! for should I grant
The full, the unreserv'd applause, ye want,
St. John might then my partial voice accuse,
And claim my suffrage for his tragic muse;
And Greathead, rising from his short disgrace,
Fling the forgotten “Regent” in my face;
Bid me my censure, as I may, deplore,
And like my brother critics, cry “Encore!”
Alas! my learned friends, for such ye are,
As Bell will say, or, if ye ask it, swear;
'Tis not enough (though this be somewhat too,
And more, perhaps, than Jerningham can do)
'Tis not enough to dole out Ahs! and Ohs!
Through Kemble's thorax, or through Bensley's nose,
To croud our stage with scaffolds, or to fright
Our wives with rapes, repeated thrice a night;
Judges—Not such as, self-created, sit
On that tremendous bench which skirts the pit,
Where idle Thespis nods, while Arno dreams
Of Nereids “purling in ambrosial streams;”
Where Este in rapture cons fantastic airs,
“Old Pistol new-revived” in Topham stares,
And Boswell, aping, with preposterous pride,
Johnson's worst frailties, rolls from side to side,
His heavy head from hour to hour erects,
Affects the fool, and is what he affects.—
Judges of truth and sense, yet more demand
That art to nature lend a helping hand!
That fables well devised, be simply told,
Correct if new, and probable if old.
Lack'd taste, and sense, and every thing but rhyme;
That Arno's “easy strains” were coarse and rough,
And Edwin's “matchless numbers” woeful stuff.
And who—forgive, O gentle Bell! the word,
For it must out—who, prithee, so absurd,
So mulishly absurd, as not to join,
In this, with me; save always thee, and thine!
52
Their jingling elegies amused the crowd;
That lords hung blubbering o'er each woeful line,
That lady-critics wept, and cried, “divine!”
That love-lorn priests reclined the pensive head,
And sentimental ensigns, as they read,
Wiped the sad drops of pity from their eye,
And burst between a hiccup and a sigh.
Yet, not content, like horse-leeches they come,
And split my head with one eternal hum
For “more! more! more!” Away! for should I grant
The full, the unreserv'd applause, ye want,
St. John might then my partial voice accuse,
And claim my suffrage for his tragic muse;
And Greathead, rising from his short disgrace,
Fling the forgotten “Regent” in my face;
53
And like my brother critics, cry “Encore!”
54
As Bell will say, or, if ye ask it, swear;
'Tis not enough (though this be somewhat too,
And more, perhaps, than Jerningham can do)
55
Through Kemble's thorax, or through Bensley's nose,
To croud our stage with scaffolds, or to fright
Our wives with rapes, repeated thrice a night;
Judges—Not such as, self-created, sit
On that tremendous bench which skirts the pit,
56
Of Nereids “purling in ambrosial streams;”
Where Este in rapture cons fantastic airs,
“Old Pistol new-revived” in Topham stares,
And Boswell, aping, with preposterous pride,
Johnson's worst frailties, rolls from side to side,
His heavy head from hour to hour erects,
Affects the fool, and is what he affects.—
Judges of truth and sense, yet more demand
That art to nature lend a helping hand!
That fables well devised, be simply told,
Correct if new, and probable if old.
When Mason leads Elfrida forth to view,
Adorn'd with virtues which she never new,
I feel for every tear; while, borne along
By the full tide of unresisted song,
I stop not to inquire if all be just;
But take her goodness, as her grief, on trust
'Till calm reflection checks me, and I see
The heroine as she was, and ought to be,
A bold, bad woman, wading to the throne,
Thro' seas of blood, and crimes till then unknown:
Then, then I hate the magic that deceived,
And blush to think how fondly I believed.
Not so, when Edgar, made, in some strange plot,
The hero of a day that knew him not,
Struts from the field his enemy had won,
On stately stilts, exulting and undone!
Here I can only pity, only smile;
Where not one grace, one elegance of style,
Redeems the audacious folly of the rest,
Truth sacrificed, and history made a jest.
Adorn'd with virtues which she never new,
I feel for every tear; while, borne along
By the full tide of unresisted song,
I stop not to inquire if all be just;
But take her goodness, as her grief, on trust
'Till calm reflection checks me, and I see
The heroine as she was, and ought to be,
A bold, bad woman, wading to the throne,
Thro' seas of blood, and crimes till then unknown:
57
And blush to think how fondly I believed.
Not so, when Edgar, made, in some strange plot,
The hero of a day that knew him not,
Struts from the field his enemy had won,
On stately stilts, exulting and undone!
Here I can only pity, only smile;
Where not one grace, one elegance of style,
Redeems the audacious folly of the rest,
Truth sacrificed, and history made a jest.
Let this, Ye Cruscans, if your heads be made
“Of penetrable stuff,” let this persuade
Your husky tribes their wanderings to restrain;
Nor hope what taste and Mason fail'd to gain.
“Of penetrable stuff,” let this persuade
Your husky tribes their wanderings to restrain;
Nor hope what taste and Mason fail'd to gain.
58
Then let your style be brief, your meaning clear,
Nor like Lorenzo, tire the labouring ear
With a wild waste of words; sound without sense,
And all the florid glare of impotence.
Still with your characters your language change,
From grave to gay, as nature dictates, range;
Now droop in all the plaintiveness of woe,
Now in glad numbers light and airy flow;
Now shake the stage with guilt's alarming tone,
And make the aching bosom all your own;
Now—But I sing in vain; from first to last,
Your joy is fustian, and your grief bombast:
Rhetoric has banish'd reason; kings and queens,
Vent in hyberboles their royal spleens;
Guardsmen in metaphors express their hopes,
And “maidens, in white linen,” howl in tropes.
Nor like Lorenzo, tire the labouring ear
With a wild waste of words; sound without sense,
And all the florid glare of impotence.
Still with your characters your language change,
From grave to gay, as nature dictates, range;
Now droop in all the plaintiveness of woe,
Now in glad numbers light and airy flow;
Now shake the stage with guilt's alarming tone,
And make the aching bosom all your own;
Now—But I sing in vain; from first to last,
Your joy is fustian, and your grief bombast:
Rhetoric has banish'd reason; kings and queens,
Vent in hyberboles their royal spleens;
Guardsmen in metaphors express their hopes,
And “maidens, in white linen,” howl in tropes.
Reverent I greet the bards of other days:
Blest be your names, and lasting be your praise!
From nature's varied face ye wisely drew,
And following ages own'd the copies true.
O! had our sots, who rhyme with headlong haste,
And think reflection still a foe to taste,
But brains your pregnant scenes to understand,
And give us truth, tho' but at second hand,
'Twere something yet! But no; they never look—
Shall souls of fire, they cry, a tutor brook?
Forbid it, inspiration! Thus, your pain
Is void, and ye have lived, for them, in vain;
In vain, for Crusca and his skipping school,
Cobbe, Reynolds, Andrews, and that Nobler Fool;
Who nought but Laura's tinkling trash admire,
And the mad jangle of Matilda's lyre.
Blest be your names, and lasting be your praise!
From nature's varied face ye wisely drew,
And following ages own'd the copies true.
59
And think reflection still a foe to taste,
But brains your pregnant scenes to understand,
And give us truth, tho' but at second hand,
'Twere something yet! But no; they never look—
Shall souls of fire, they cry, a tutor brook?
Forbid it, inspiration! Thus, your pain
Is void, and ye have lived, for them, in vain;
In vain, for Crusca and his skipping school,
Cobbe, Reynolds, Andrews, and that Nobler Fool;
Who nought but Laura's tinkling trash admire,
And the mad jangle of Matilda's lyre.
60
But Crusca still has merit, and may claim,
No humble station, in the ranks of fame;
He taught us first the language to refine,
To crowd with beauties every sparkling line,
Old phrases with new meanings to dispense,
Amuse the fancy,—and confound the sense!
O, void of reason! Is it thus you praise,
A linsey-woolsey song, fram'd with such ease,
Such vacancy of thought, that every line
Might tempt e'en Vaughan to whisper, “this is mine!”
No humble station, in the ranks of fame;
61
To crowd with beauties every sparkling line,
62
Amuse the fancy,—and confound the sense!
O, void of reason! Is it thus you praise,
A linsey-woolsey song, fram'd with such ease,
Such vacancy of thought, that every line
Might tempt e'en Vaughan to whisper, “this is mine!”
Vaughan! well remember'd. He, good man, complains
That I affix'd his name to Edwin's strains:
'Tis just—for what three kindred souls have done,
Is most unfairly charged, I ween, on one.
Pardon, my learned friend! With wat'ry eyes,
Thy growing fame to truth I sacrifice;
To many a sonnet call thy claims in doubt,
And, “at one entrance, shut thy glory out.”
Yet mewl thou still. Shall my lord's dormouse die,
And low in dust without a requiem lie!
No, mewl thou still: and while thy d---'s join
Their melancholy symphonies to thine,
My righteous verse shall labour to restore
The well-earn'd fame it robb'd them of before:
Edwin, whatever elegies of woe
Drop from the gentle mouths of Vaughan and Co.
To this or that, henceforth no more confined,
Shall, like a surname, take in all the kind.
That I affix'd his name to Edwin's strains:
'Tis just—for what three kindred souls have done,
Is most unfairly charged, I ween, on one.
63
Thy growing fame to truth I sacrifice;
To many a sonnet call thy claims in doubt,
And, “at one entrance, shut thy glory out.”
Yet mewl thou still. Shall my lord's dormouse die,
And low in dust without a requiem lie!
No, mewl thou still: and while thy d---'s join
Their melancholy symphonies to thine,
My righteous verse shall labour to restore
The well-earn'd fame it robb'd them of before:
Edwin, whatever elegies of woe
Drop from the gentle mouths of Vaughan and Co.
To this or that, henceforth no more confined,
Shall, like a surname, take in all the kind.
Right! cry the brethren. When the heaven-born muse,
Shames her descent, and for low earthly views,
Hums o'er a beetle's bier the doleful stave,
Or sits chief mourner at a May-bug's grave,
Satire should scourge her from the vile employ,
And bring her back to friendship, love, and joy.
But spare Cesario, Carlos, Adelaide,
The truest poetess! the truest maid!
Lorenzo, Reuben, spare: far be the thought
Of interest, far from them. Unbribed, unbought,
They pour “from their big breast's prolific zone,
“A proud, poetic fervour, only known
“To soul's like theirs;” As Anna's youth inspires,
As Laura's graces kindle fierce desires,
As Henriet—For heaven's sake, not so fast.
I too, my masters, ere my teeth were cast,
Had learn'd, by rote, to rave of Delia's charms,
To die of transports found in Chloe's arms,
Coy Daphne with obstreperous plaints to woo,
And curse the cruelty of—G--- knows who.
When Phœbus (not the Power that bade thee write,
For he, dear Dapper! was a lying sprite)
One morn, when dreams are true, approach'd my side,
And, frowning on my tuneful lumber, cried,
“Lo! every corner with soft sonnets cramm'd,
And high-born odes, ‘works damn'd, or to be damn'd!’
And is thy active folly adding more,
To this most worthless, most superfluous store?
O impotence of toil! thou might'st as well,
Give sense to Este, or modesty to Bell.
Forbear, forbear:—What tho' thou can'st not claim
The sacred honours of a POET's name,
Due to the few alone, whom I inspire
With lofty rapture, with ethereal fire?
Yet mayst thou arrogate the humble praise
Of reason's bard, if, in thy future lays,
Plain sense and truth, (and surely these are thine,)
Correct thy wanderings, and thy flights confine.”
Here ceased the God and vanish'd. Forth I sprang,
While in my ear the voice divine yet rang,
Seiz'd every rag and scrap, approach'd the fire,
And saw whole Albums in the blaze expire.
Shames her descent, and for low earthly views,
Hums o'er a beetle's bier the doleful stave,
Or sits chief mourner at a May-bug's grave,
Satire should scourge her from the vile employ,
And bring her back to friendship, love, and joy.
64
The truest poetess! the truest maid!
65
Of interest, far from them. Unbribed, unbought,
66
“A proud, poetic fervour, only known
67
As Laura's graces kindle fierce desires,
68
I too, my masters, ere my teeth were cast,
Had learn'd, by rote, to rave of Delia's charms,
To die of transports found in Chloe's arms,
Coy Daphne with obstreperous plaints to woo,
And curse the cruelty of—G--- knows who.
When Phœbus (not the Power that bade thee write,
For he, dear Dapper! was a lying sprite)
One morn, when dreams are true, approach'd my side,
And, frowning on my tuneful lumber, cried,
“Lo! every corner with soft sonnets cramm'd,
And high-born odes, ‘works damn'd, or to be damn'd!’
And is thy active folly adding more,
To this most worthless, most superfluous store?
69
Give sense to Este, or modesty to Bell.
Forbear, forbear:—What tho' thou can'st not claim
The sacred honours of a POET's name,
Due to the few alone, whom I inspire
With lofty rapture, with ethereal fire?
Yet mayst thou arrogate the humble praise
Of reason's bard, if, in thy future lays,
Plain sense and truth, (and surely these are thine,)
Correct thy wanderings, and thy flights confine.”
Here ceased the God and vanish'd. Forth I sprang,
While in my ear the voice divine yet rang,
Seiz'd every rag and scrap, approach'd the fire,
And saw whole Albums in the blaze expire.
Then shame ensued, and vain regret, to have spent
So many hours, (hours, which I yet lament,)
In thriftless industry; and year on year
Inglorious roll'd, while diffidence, and fear,
Represt my voice—unheard till Anna came,
What! throb'st thou YET, my bosom, at the name?
And chased the oppressive doubts which round me clung,
And fired my breast, and loosen'd all my tongue.
Even then, (admire, John Bell! my simple ways),
No heaven and hell danced madly thro' my lays,
No oaths, no execrations; all was plain:
Yet, trust me, while thy “ever-jingling train”
Chime their sonorous woes with frigid art,
And shock the reason, and revolt the heart;
My hopes, and fears, in nature's language drest,
Awaken'd love in many a gentle breast.
So many hours, (hours, which I yet lament,)
In thriftless industry; and year on year
Inglorious roll'd, while diffidence, and fear,
Represt my voice—unheard till Anna came,
What! throb'st thou YET, my bosom, at the name?
And chased the oppressive doubts which round me clung,
And fired my breast, and loosen'd all my tongue.
Even then, (admire, John Bell! my simple ways),
No heaven and hell danced madly thro' my lays,
No oaths, no execrations; all was plain:
Yet, trust me, while thy “ever-jingling train”
Chime their sonorous woes with frigid art,
And shock the reason, and revolt the heart;
70
Awaken'd love in many a gentle breast.
How oft, O Dart! what time the faithful pair
Walk'd forth, the fragrant hour of eve to share,
On thy romantic banks; have my wild strains,
(Not yet forgot amidst my native plains,)
While thou hast sweetly gurgled down the vale,
Fill'd up the pause of love's delightful tale!
While, ever as she read, the conscious maid,
By faultering voice and downcast looks betray'd,
Would blushing on her lover's neck recline,
And with her finger—point the tenderest line.
But these are past: and, mark me, Laura! Time,
Which made what then was venial, now a crime,
To more befitting cares my thoughts confined,
And drove, with youth, its follies from my mind.
Since this, while Merry and his nurslings die,
Thrill'd by the liquid peril of an eye;
Gasp at a recollection, and drop down,
At the long streamy lightning of a frown;
I sooth, as humour prompts, my idle vein,
In frolick verse, that cannot hope to gain
Admission to the Album, or be seen,
In L---'s Review, or Urban's Magazine.
Walk'd forth, the fragrant hour of eve to share,
On thy romantic banks; have my wild strains,
(Not yet forgot amidst my native plains,)
71
Fill'd up the pause of love's delightful tale!
72
By faultering voice and downcast looks betray'd,
73
And with her finger—point the tenderest line.
But these are past: and, mark me, Laura! Time,
Which made what then was venial, now a crime,
To more befitting cares my thoughts confined,
And drove, with youth, its follies from my mind.
Since this, while Merry and his nurslings die,
74
Gasp at a recollection, and drop down,
At the long streamy lightning of a frown;
I sooth, as humour prompts, my idle vein,
In frolick verse, that cannot hope to gain
Admission to the Album, or be seen,
In L---'s Review, or Urban's Magazine.
O, for thy spirit, Pope! Yet why? My lays,
Which wake no envy, and invite no praise,
Half-creeping, and half-flying, yet suffice
To stagger impudence, and ruffle vice.
An hour may come, so I delight to dream
When slowly wandering by thy sacred stream
Majestic Thames! I leave the world behind,
And give to fancy all th' enraptured mind;
An hour may come, when I shall strike the lyre
To nobler themes: then, then, the chords inspire
With thy own harmony, most sweet, most strong,
And guide my hand thro' all the maze of song!
Till then, enough for me, in such rude strains
As mother-wit can give, and those small pains
A vacant hour allows, to range the town,
And hunt the clamorous brood of Folly down;
Force every head, in Este's despite, to wear
The cap and bells, by nature planted here,
Muffle the rattle, seize the slavering sholes,
And drive them, scourg'd and whimpering, to their holes.
Which wake no envy, and invite no praise,
Half-creeping, and half-flying, yet suffice
To stagger impudence, and ruffle vice.
An hour may come, so I delight to dream
When slowly wandering by thy sacred stream
Majestic Thames! I leave the world behind,
And give to fancy all th' enraptured mind;
An hour may come, when I shall strike the lyre
To nobler themes: then, then, the chords inspire
With thy own harmony, most sweet, most strong,
And guide my hand thro' all the maze of song!
Till then, enough for me, in such rude strains
As mother-wit can give, and those small pains
A vacant hour allows, to range the town,
And hunt the clamorous brood of Folly down;
Force every head, in Este's despite, to wear
The cap and bells, by nature planted here,
Muffle the rattle, seize the slavering sholes,
And drive them, scourg'd and whimpering, to their holes.
75
Burgoyne, perhaps, unchill'd by creeping age,
May yet arise, and vindicate the stage;
The reign of nature and of sense restore,
And be—whatever Terence was before.
And you, too, whole Menander! who combine,
With his pure language, and his flowing line,
The soul of Comedy; may steal an hour
From the fond chace of still-escaping power,
The poet and the sage again unite,
And sweetly blend instruction with delight.
May yet arise, and vindicate the stage;
The reign of nature and of sense restore,
And be—whatever Terence was before.
And you, too, whole Menander! who combine,
With his pure language, and his flowing line,
The soul of Comedy; may steal an hour
From the fond chace of still-escaping power,
The poet and the sage again unite,
And sweetly blend instruction with delight.
And yet Elfrida's bard, tho' time has shed
The snow of age too deeply round his head,
Feels the kind warmth, the fervour, which inspired
His youthful breast, still glow uncheck'd, untired:
And yet, tho' like the bird of eve, his song
“Fit audience finds not” in the giddy throng,
The notes, tho' artful wild, tho' numerous chaste,
Fill with delight the sober ear of taste.
The snow of age too deeply round his head,
Feels the kind warmth, the fervour, which inspired
His youthful breast, still glow uncheck'd, untired:
And yet, tho' like the bird of eve, his song
“Fit audience finds not” in the giddy throng,
The notes, tho' artful wild, tho' numerous chaste,
Fill with delight the sober ear of taste.
But these, and more I could with honour name,
Too proud to stoop, like me, to vulgar game,
Subjects, more worthy of their daring, chuse,
And leave at large the abortions of the Muse.
Proud of their privilege, the innumerous spawn,
From bogs and fens, the mire of Pindus, drawn,
New vigour feel, new confidence assume,
And swarm like Pharoah's frogs, in every room.
Too proud to stoop, like me, to vulgar game,
Subjects, more worthy of their daring, chuse,
And leave at large the abortions of the Muse.
76
From bogs and fens, the mire of Pindus, drawn,
New vigour feel, new confidence assume,
And swarm like Pharoah's frogs, in every room.
Sick of th' eternal croak, which, ever near,
Beat like the death-watch on my tortured ear;
And sure, too sure, that many a genuine child
Of truth and nature, check'd his wood-notes wild
(Dear to the feeling heart,) in doubt to win
The vacant wanderer, mid the unceasing din
Of this hoarse rout; I seized at length the wand;
Resolv'd, tho' small my skill, tho' weak my hand,
The mischief, in its progress, to arrest,
And exorcise the soil of such a pest.
Beat like the death-watch on my tortured ear;
And sure, too sure, that many a genuine child
Of truth and nature, check'd his wood-notes wild
(Dear to the feeling heart,) in doubt to win
The vacant wanderer, mid the unceasing din
Of this hoarse rout; I seized at length the wand;
Resolv'd, tho' small my skill, tho' weak my hand,
The mischief, in its progress, to arrest,
And exorcise the soil of such a pest.
Hence! in the name—I scarce had spoke, when lo!
Reams of outrageous sonnets, thick as snow,
Flew round my head; yet, in my cause secure,
“Pour on,” I cried, “pour on, I will endure.”—
Reams of outrageous sonnets, thick as snow,
Flew round my head; yet, in my cause secure,
“Pour on,” I cried, “pour on, I will endure.”—
77
What! shall I shrink, because the noble train,
Whose judgment I impugn, whose taste arraign,
Alive, and trembling for their favourite's fate,
Pursue my verse with unrelenting hate!
No:—save me from their praise, and I can sit
Calm, unconcern'd, the butt of Andrews' wit,
And Topham's sense; perversely gay can smile,
While Este, the zany, in his motley style,
Calls barbarous names; while Bell and Boaden rave,
And Vaughan, a brother blockhead's verse to save,
Toils day by day my character to draw,
And heaps upon me every thing—but law.
Whose judgment I impugn, whose taste arraign,
78
Pursue my verse with unrelenting hate!
79
Calm, unconcern'd, the butt of Andrews' wit,
And Topham's sense; perversely gay can smile,
While Este, the zany, in his motley style,
Calls barbarous names; while Bell and Boaden rave,
And Vaughan, a brother blockhead's verse to save,
80
And heaps upon me every thing—but law.
But do I then (abjuring every aim),
All censure slight, and all applause disclaim?
Not so: where judgment holds the rod, I bow
My humbled neck, awed by her angry brow;
Where taste and sense approve, I feel a joy,
Dear to my heart, and mixed with no alloy.
All censure slight, and all applause disclaim?
Not so: where judgment holds the rod, I bow
My humbled neck, awed by her angry brow;
Where taste and sense approve, I feel a joy,
Dear to my heart, and mixed with no alloy.
I write not to the modish herd: my days,
Spent in the tranquil shades of letter'd ease,
Ask no admiring stare from those I meet,
No loud “that's he!” to make their passage sweet:
Pleased to steal softly by, unmark'd, unknown,
I leave the world to Holcroft, Pratt, and Vaughan.
Spent in the tranquil shades of letter'd ease,
Ask no admiring stare from those I meet,
No loud “that's he!” to make their passage sweet:
Pleased to steal softly by, unmark'd, unknown,
I leave the world to Holcroft, Pratt, and Vaughan.
81
Of these enough. Yet may the few I love,
(For who would sing in vain?) my verse approve;
Chief thou, my friend! who, from my earliest years,
Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares.
(For who would sing in vain?) my verse approve;
Chief thou, my friend! who, from my earliest years,
Hast shared my joys, and more than shared my cares.
Sure, if our fates hang on some hidden Power,
And take their colour from the natal hour,
Then, Ireland! the same planet on us rose,
Such the strong sympathies our lives disclose!
Thou know'st how soon we felt this influence bland,
And sought the brook and coppice, hand in hand,
And shaped rude bows, and uncouth whistles blew,
And paper kites (a last, great effort) flew;
And when the day was done, retired to rest
Sleep on our eyes, and sunshine in our breast.
And take their colour from the natal hour,
Then, Ireland! the same planet on us rose,
Such the strong sympathies our lives disclose!
82
And sought the brook and coppice, hand in hand,
83
And paper kites (a last, great effort) flew;
And when the day was done, retired to rest
Sleep on our eyes, and sunshine in our breast.
In riper years, again together thrown,
Our studies, as our sports before, were one.
Together we explored the stoic page
Of the Ligurian, stern tho' beardless sage!
Or traced the Aquinian thro' the Latine road,
And trembled at the lashes he bestow'd.
Together too, when Greece unlock'd her stores,
We roved, in thought, o'er Troy's devoted shores,
Or follow'd, while he sought his native soil,
“That old man eloquent,” from toil to toil;
Lingering, with good Alcinöus, o'er the tale,
Till the east redden'd, and the stars grew pale.
Our studies, as our sports before, were one.
Together we explored the stoic page
Of the Ligurian, stern tho' beardless sage!
Or traced the Aquinian thro' the Latine road,
And trembled at the lashes he bestow'd.
Together too, when Greece unlock'd her stores,
We roved, in thought, o'er Troy's devoted shores,
Or follow'd, while he sought his native soil,
“That old man eloquent,” from toil to toil;
Lingering, with good Alcinöus, o'er the tale,
Till the east redden'd, and the stars grew pale.
84
So past our life; till fate, severely kind,
Tore us apart, and land and sea disjoin'd,
For many a year: Now met, to part no more,
The ascendant Power, confess'd so strong of yore,
Stronger by absence, every thought controls,
And knits, in perfect unity, our souls.
Tore us apart, and land and sea disjoin'd,
For many a year: Now met, to part no more,
The ascendant Power, confess'd so strong of yore,
Stronger by absence, every thought controls,
And knits, in perfect unity, our souls.
O, Ireland! if the verse, which thus essays
To trace our lives “e'en from our boyish days,”
Delight thy ear, the world beside may rail—
I care not—at the uninteresting tale:
I only seek, in language void of art,
To ope my breast, and pour out all my heart;
And, boastful of thy various worth, to tell,
How long we loved, and thou canst add, how well!
To trace our lives “e'en from our boyish days,”
Delight thy ear, the world beside may rail—
I care not—at the uninteresting tale:
I only seek, in language void of art,
To ope my breast, and pour out all my heart;
And, boastful of thy various worth, to tell,
How long we loved, and thou canst add, how well!
Thou too, my Hoppner! if my wish avail'd,
Should'st praise the strain that but for thee had fail'd:
Thou know'st, when Indolence possess'd me all,
How oft I roused at thy inspiring call;
Burst from the Syren's fascinating power,
And gave the Muse thou lov'st, one studious hour.
Should'st praise the strain that but for thee had fail'd:
85
How oft I roused at thy inspiring call;
Burst from the Syren's fascinating power,
And gave the Muse thou lov'st, one studious hour.
86
Proud of thy friendship, while the voice of fame,
Pursues thy merits, with a loud acclaim,
I share the triumph; not unpleased to see
Our kindred destinies:—for thou, like me,
Wast thrown too soon on the world's dangerous tide,
To sink or swim, as chance might best decide.—
Me, all to weak too gain the distant land,
The waves had whelm'd, but that an outstretch'd hand
Kindly upheld, when now with fear unnerv'd:—
And still protects the life it then preserv'd.
Thee, powers untried, perhaps unfelt before,
Enabled, tho' with pain, to reach the shore,
While West stood by, the doubtful strife to view,
Nor lent a friendly arm to help thee through.
Nor ceased the struggle there; Hate, ill-supprest,
Her vantage took of thy ingenuous breast,
Where saving wisdom yet had placed no screen,
And every word, and every thought, was seen,
To darken all thy life—'Tis past: more bright,
Thro' the disparting gloom, thou strik'st the sight;
While baffled malice hastes thy powers to own,
And wonders at the worth, so long unknown!
Pursues thy merits, with a loud acclaim,
I share the triumph; not unpleased to see
Our kindred destinies:—for thou, like me,
87
To sink or swim, as chance might best decide.—
Me, all to weak too gain the distant land,
The waves had whelm'd, but that an outstretch'd hand
88
And still protects the life it then preserv'd.
Thee, powers untried, perhaps unfelt before,
Enabled, tho' with pain, to reach the shore,
While West stood by, the doubtful strife to view,
Nor lent a friendly arm to help thee through.
Nor ceased the struggle there; Hate, ill-supprest,
Her vantage took of thy ingenuous breast,
Where saving wisdom yet had placed no screen,
And every word, and every thought, was seen,
To darken all thy life—'Tis past: more bright,
Thro' the disparting gloom, thou strik'st the sight;
While baffled malice hastes thy powers to own,
And wonders at the worth, so long unknown!
89
I too, whose voice no claims but truth's e'er moved,
Who long have seen thy merits, long have loved,
Yet loved in silence, lest the rout should say,
Too-partial friendship tuned th' applausive lay;
Now, now, that all conspire thy name to raise,
May join the shout of unsuspected praise.
Who long have seen thy merits, long have loved,
Yet loved in silence, lest the rout should say,
Too-partial friendship tuned th' applausive lay;
Now, now, that all conspire thy name to raise,
May join the shout of unsuspected praise.
Go then, since the long struggle now is o'er,
And envy can obstruct thy fame no more,
With ardent hand thy magic toil pursue,
And pour fresh wonders on the raptured view.—
One sun is set, one glorious sun, whose rays,
Long gladden'd Britain, with no common blaze:
O, may'st thou soon (for clouds begin to rise)
Assert his station in the Eastern skies,
Glow with his fires, and give the world to see,
Another Reynolds risen, My Friend, in thee!
And envy can obstruct thy fame no more,
With ardent hand thy magic toil pursue,
And pour fresh wonders on the raptured view.—
One sun is set, one glorious sun, whose rays,
Long gladden'd Britain, with no common blaze:
O, may'st thou soon (for clouds begin to rise)
Assert his station in the Eastern skies,
Glow with his fires, and give the world to see,
Another Reynolds risen, My Friend, in thee!
But whither roves the Muse? I but design'd,
To note the few whose praise delights my mind;
But friendship's power has drawn the verse astray,
Wide from its aim, a long, but flowery way.
Yet one remains, one name for ever dear,
With whom, conversing many a happy year,
I mark'd with secret joy the opening bloom
Of Virtue, prescient of the fruits to come,
Truth, honour, rectitude—O! while thy breast,
My Belgrave! of its every wish possest,
Swells with its recent transports, recent fears,
And tenderest titles strike, yet charm thy ears,
Say, wilt thou from thy feelings pause awhile,
To view my humble labours with a smile?
Thou wilt: for still 'tis thy delight to praise,
And still thy fond applause has crown'd my lays.
To note the few whose praise delights my mind;
But friendship's power has drawn the verse astray,
Wide from its aim, a long, but flowery way.
Yet one remains, one name for ever dear,
With whom, conversing many a happy year,
I mark'd with secret joy the opening bloom
Of Virtue, prescient of the fruits to come,
Truth, honour, rectitude—O! while thy breast,
My Belgrave! of its every wish possest,
Swells with its recent transports, recent fears,
And tenderest titles strike, yet charm thy ears,
Say, wilt thou from thy feelings pause awhile,
To view my humble labours with a smile?
90
And still thy fond applause has crown'd my lays.
Here then I rest; sooth'd with the hope to prove
The approbation of “the few I love,”
Join'd (for ambitious thoughts will sometimes rise)
To the kind suff'rance of the good and wise.
Thus happy—I can leave, with tranquil breast,
Fashion's loud praise to Laura and the rest,
Who rhyme and rattle, innocent of thought,
Nor know that nothing can proceed from nought.
Thus happy—I can view, unruffled, Miles,
Twist, into splay-foot doggrel, all St. Giles,
Edwin spin paragraphs with Vaughan's whole skill,
Este, rapt in nonsense, gnaw his grey-goose quill,
Merry in dithyrambics rave his wrongs,
And Weston, foaming from Pope's odious songs,
“Much-injured Weston,” vent in odes his grief,
And fly to Urban for a short relief.
The approbation of “the few I love,”
Join'd (for ambitious thoughts will sometimes rise)
To the kind suff'rance of the good and wise.
Thus happy—I can leave, with tranquil breast,
Fashion's loud praise to Laura and the rest,
Who rhyme and rattle, innocent of thought,
Nor know that nothing can proceed from nought.
Thus happy—I can view, unruffled, Miles,
Twist, into splay-foot doggrel, all St. Giles,
Edwin spin paragraphs with Vaughan's whole skill,
Este, rapt in nonsense, gnaw his grey-goose quill,
Merry in dithyrambics rave his wrongs,
And Weston, foaming from Pope's odious songs,
“Much-injured Weston,” vent in odes his grief,
And fly to Urban for a short relief.
131
EPISTLE TO PETER PINDAR.
While many a Noble Name to virtue dear,
Delights the public eye, the public ear,
And fills thy canker'd breast with such annoy,
As Satan felt from innocence and joy;
Why, Peter, leave the hated object free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?
Delights the public eye, the public ear,
And fills thy canker'd breast with such annoy,
As Satan felt from innocence and joy;
Why, Peter, leave the hated object free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?
While pure Religion's beam, bane to thy sight,
O'er many a mitre sheds distinguish'd light,
And Prelates, in the path their Saviour trod,
In trembling hope, “walk humbly with their God;”
Why, Peter, leave the hated objects free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?
O'er many a mitre sheds distinguish'd light,
And Prelates, in the path their Saviour trod,
In trembling hope, “walk humbly with their God;”
Why, Peter, leave the hated objects free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?
While, with a radiance yet to courts unknown,
Calm, steady dignity surrounds the throne,
And the tried worth, the virtues of thy King,
Deep in thy soul infix the mortal sting;
Why, Peter, leave the hated object free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?
Calm, steady dignity surrounds the throne,
And the tried worth, the virtues of thy King,
Deep in thy soul infix the mortal sting;
Why, Peter, leave the hated object free,
And vent, poor driveller, all thy spite on me?
Alas! scarce enter'd on the rolls of fame,
And but to one loved circle known by name,
What can I stead thee? Thou mayst toil and strain,
Ransack, for filth, thy heart; for lies, thy brain;
Rave, storm!—'tis fruitless all. Of this, be sure,
Abuse of me, will ne'er “one sprat” procure;
Bribe one night-cellar to invite thee in,
Purchase one draught of gun-powder and gin;
Seduce one brothel to display its charms,
Nor lure one hobbling strumpet to thy arms.
And but to one loved circle known by name,
132
Ransack, for filth, thy heart; for lies, thy brain;
Rave, storm!—'tis fruitless all. Of this, be sure,
Abuse of me, will ne'er “one sprat” procure;
Bribe one night-cellar to invite thee in,
Purchase one draught of gun-powder and gin;
Seduce one brothel to display its charms,
Nor lure one hobbling strumpet to thy arms.
False fugitive! back to thy vomit flee—
Troll the lascivious song, the fulsome glee;
Truck praise for lust, hunt infant genius down,
Strip modest merit of its last half-crown;
Blow from thy mildew'd lips, on virtue blow,
And blight the goodness thou can'st never know:
'Tis well. But why on me?—While every tongue,
Of thy rank slanders, ranker life, yet rung,
Pronounced thy name with mingled hate and dread,
And pour'd its whole abhorrence on thy head;
I spoke not:—ne'er did aught of thee, or thine,
Profane, thank Heaven! one thought, one word of mine.
True; when I heard thy deep-detested name,
A shivering horror crept through all my frame,
A damp, cold, chill, as if a snake or toad
Had started unawares across my road;
Yet I kept silence: still thy spleen, or pride,
(Thy better demon absent from thy side,)
Urg'd thee to new assaults. Fool! there's a Time,
When slowness to resist, becomes a crime;
'Tis here! the hour of suff'rance now is o'er,
And scorn shall screen thee from my arm no more.
Troll the lascivious song, the fulsome glee;
Truck praise for lust, hunt infant genius down,
Strip modest merit of its last half-crown;
Blow from thy mildew'd lips, on virtue blow,
And blight the goodness thou can'st never know:
'Tis well. But why on me?—While every tongue,
Of thy rank slanders, ranker life, yet rung,
Pronounced thy name with mingled hate and dread,
And pour'd its whole abhorrence on thy head;
I spoke not:—ne'er did aught of thee, or thine,
Profane, thank Heaven! one thought, one word of mine.
True; when I heard thy deep-detested name,
A shivering horror crept through all my frame,
A damp, cold, chill, as if a snake or toad
Had started unawares across my road;
Yet I kept silence: still thy spleen, or pride,
(Thy better demon absent from thy side,)
Urg'd thee to new assaults. Fool! there's a Time,
When slowness to resist, becomes a crime;
'Tis here! the hour of suff'rance now is o'er,
And scorn shall screen thee from my arm no more.
133
Unhappy dotard, see! thy hairs are gray—
In fitter lists thy waning strength display;
Go, dip thy trembling hands in coward gore,
And hew down West's and Copley's by the score;
But touch not me,—or, to thy peril know,
I give no easy conquest to the foe:
Come then, all filth, all venom as thou art,
Rage in thy eye, and rancour in thy heart,
Come with thy boasted arms, spite, malice, lies,
Smut, scandal, execrations, blasphemies;
I brave them all. Lo, here I fix my stand,
And dare the utmost of thy tongue and hand;
Prepared each threat to baffle, or to spurn,
Each blow, with tenfold vigour, to return.—
In fitter lists thy waning strength display;
Go, dip thy trembling hands in coward gore,
And hew down West's and Copley's by the score;
But touch not me,—or, to thy peril know,
I give no easy conquest to the foe:
Come then, all filth, all venom as thou art,
Rage in thy eye, and rancour in thy heart,
Come with thy boasted arms, spite, malice, lies,
Smut, scandal, execrations, blasphemies;
I brave them all. Lo, here I fix my stand,
And dare the utmost of thy tongue and hand;
Prepared each threat to baffle, or to spurn,
Each blow, with tenfold vigour, to return.—
But what is he, that with a Mohawk's air,
“Cries havock, and lets slip the dogs of war?”
A bloated mass, a gross, blood-bolter'd clod,
A foe to man, a renegade from God,
From noxious childhood to pernicious age,
Separate to infamy, in every stage.
“Cries havock, and lets slip the dogs of war?”
A bloated mass, a gross, blood-bolter'd clod,
A foe to man, a renegade from God,
From noxious childhood to pernicious age,
Separate to infamy, in every stage.
Cornwall remembers yet his first employ,
And shuddering tells, with what infernal joy,
His little tongue in blasphemies was loos'd,
His little hands in deeds of horror us'd;
While mangled insects strew'd his cradle o'er,
And limbs of birds distain'd his bib with gore.
And shuddering tells, with what infernal joy,
His little tongue in blasphemies was loos'd,
His little hands in deeds of horror us'd;
While mangled insects strew'd his cradle o'er,
And limbs of birds distain'd his bib with gore.
Anon, on stronger animals he flew,
For with his growth his savage passions grew;
And oft, what time his violence fail'd to kill,
He mix'd the insidious dose with wicked skill;
Saw with wild joy, in pangs till then untried,
Cats, dogs, expire; and curs'd them as they died!
For with his growth his savage passions grew;
And oft, what time his violence fail'd to kill,
He mix'd the insidious dose with wicked skill;
134
Cats, dogs, expire; and curs'd them as they died!
With riper years a different scene began,
And his hate turn'd from animals to man:
Then letters, libels, flew on secret wings,
And wide around infix'd their venom'd stings;
All fear'd, where none could ward the coming blow,
And each man eyed his neighbour as his foe:
Till dragg'd to day, the lurking caitiff stood,
Th' accursed cause of many a fatal feud,
And begg'd for mercy in so sad a strain,
So wept, so trembled, that the injured train,
Who, crawling at their feet a miscreant saw,
Too mean for punishment, too poor for law,
O'erlook'd ('twas all they could) his num'rous crimes,
And shipp'd him off “to ape and monkey climes.”
And his hate turn'd from animals to man:
Then letters, libels, flew on secret wings,
And wide around infix'd their venom'd stings;
All fear'd, where none could ward the coming blow,
And each man eyed his neighbour as his foe:
Till dragg'd to day, the lurking caitiff stood,
Th' accursed cause of many a fatal feud,
And begg'd for mercy in so sad a strain,
So wept, so trembled, that the injured train,
Who, crawling at their feet a miscreant saw,
Too mean for punishment, too poor for law,
O'erlook'd ('twas all they could) his num'rous crimes,
And shipp'd him off “to ape and monkey climes.”
There, while the negroes view'd, with strong disgust,
This prodigy of drunkenness and lust
Explore the darkest cells, the dirtiest styes,
And roll in filth at which their gorge would rise;
He play'd one master-trick to crown the whole,
And took, O Heavens! the sacerdotal stole!—
How shook the altar when he first drew near,
Hot from debauch, and with a shameless leer,
Pour'd stammering forth the yet unhallow'd prayers,
Mix'd with convulsive sobs, and noisome airs!—
Then rose the people, passive now no more,
And from his limbs the sacred vestments tore;
Dragg'd him with groans, shouts, hisses, to the main,
And sent him—to annoy these realms again.
This prodigy of drunkenness and lust
Explore the darkest cells, the dirtiest styes,
And roll in filth at which their gorge would rise;
He play'd one master-trick to crown the whole,
And took, O Heavens! the sacerdotal stole!—
How shook the altar when he first drew near,
Hot from debauch, and with a shameless leer,
Pour'd stammering forth the yet unhallow'd prayers,
Mix'd with convulsive sobs, and noisome airs!—
135
And from his limbs the sacred vestments tore;
Dragg'd him with groans, shouts, hisses, to the main,
And sent him—to annoy these realms again.
Cornwall, that fondly deem'd herself reliev'd,
Ill-fated land! once more the pest received;
But, wary and forwarn'd, observ'd his course,
And track'd each libel to its proper source;
Till indignation, wide and wider spread,
Burst in one dreadful tempest on his head.
Ill-fated land! once more the pest received;
But, wary and forwarn'd, observ'd his course,
And track'd each libel to its proper source;
Till indignation, wide and wider spread,
Burst in one dreadful tempest on his head.
Then hasty flight ensued!—'Twere long to trace
His mazes, as he slunk from place to place;
To count, whene'er unearth'd, what pumps he bore,
What horse-ponds, till the country he forswore,
And, chased by public vengeance up and down,
(Hopeless of shelter,) fled at length to Town;
Compell'd in crowds to hide his hated head,
And spunge on dirty whores for dirty bread.
[OMITTED]
His mazes, as he slunk from place to place;
To count, whene'er unearth'd, what pumps he bore,
What horse-ponds, till the country he forswore,
And, chased by public vengeance up and down,
(Hopeless of shelter,) fled at length to Town;
Compell'd in crowds to hide his hated head,
And spunge on dirty whores for dirty bread.
Lo, here the reptile! who from some dark cell,
Where all his veins with native poison swell,
Crawls forth, a slimy toad, and spits, and spues,
The crude abortions of his loathsome muse,
On all that Genius, all that Worth holds dear,
Unsullied rank, and piety sincere;
While idiot mirth the base defilement lauds,
And malice, with averted face, applauds!
Where all his veins with native poison swell,
Crawls forth, a slimy toad, and spits, and spues,
The crude abortions of his loathsome muse,
On all that Genius, all that Worth holds dear,
Unsullied rank, and piety sincere;
136
And malice, with averted face, applauds!
Lo, here the brutal sot! who, drench'd with gin,
Lashes his wither'd nerves to tasteless sin;
Squeals out (with oaths and blasphemies between)
The impious song, the tale, the jest obscene;
And careless views, amidst the barbarous roar,
His few grey hairs strew, one by one, the floor!
Lashes his wither'd nerves to tasteless sin;
Squeals out (with oaths and blasphemies between)
The impious song, the tale, the jest obscene;
And careless views, amidst the barbarous roar,
His few grey hairs strew, one by one, the floor!
Lo, here the wrinkled profligate! who stands
On nature's verge, and from his leprous hands
Shakes tainted verse; who bids us, with the price
Of rancorous falsehoods, pander to his vice;
Give him to live the future as the past,
And in pollution wallow to the last!
On nature's verge, and from his leprous hands
Shakes tainted verse; who bids us, with the price
Of rancorous falsehoods, pander to his vice;
Give him to live the future as the past,
And in pollution wallow to the last!
Enough!—Yet, Peter! mark my parting lay—
See! thy last sands are fleeting fast away;
And, what should more thy sluggish soul appal,
Thy limbs shrink up!—the writing on the wall!—
O check, a moment check, the obstreperous din
Of guilty joy, and hear the voice within,
The small, still voice of conscience, hear it cry,
An Atheist thou may'st live, but cans't not die!
See! thy last sands are fleeting fast away;
And, what should more thy sluggish soul appal,
Thy limbs shrink up!—the writing on the wall!—
O check, a moment check, the obstreperous din
Of guilty joy, and hear the voice within,
The small, still voice of conscience, hear it cry,
An Atheist thou may'st live, but cans't not die!
Give then, poor tinkling bellman of four-score,
Give thy lewd rhymes, thy lewder converse o'er,
Thy envy, hate;—and, while thou yet hast power,
On other thoughts employ the unvalued hour;
Lest, as from crazy eld's diseaseful bed,
Thou lift'st, to spit at heaven, thy palsied head,
The blow arrive; and thou, reduced by fate,
To change thy frenzy for despair too late,
Close thy dim eyes a moment in the tomb,
To wake for ever in the world to come,
Wake to meet HIM whose “Ord'nance thou hast slaved,”
Whose Mercy slighted, and whose Justice braved!
Give thy lewd rhymes, thy lewder converse o'er,
Thy envy, hate;—and, while thou yet hast power,
On other thoughts employ the unvalued hour;
Lest, as from crazy eld's diseaseful bed,
Thou lift'st, to spit at heaven, thy palsied head,
137
To change thy frenzy for despair too late,
Close thy dim eyes a moment in the tomb,
To wake for ever in the world to come,
Wake to meet HIM whose “Ord'nance thou hast slaved,”
Whose Mercy slighted, and whose Justice braved!
For me—why should'st thou with abortive toil,
Waste the poor remnant of thy sputtering oil,
In filth and falsehood? Ignorant and absurd!
Pause from thy pains, and take my closing word;
Thou canst not think, nor have I power to tell,
How much I scorn and loath thee—so, farewell!
Waste the poor remnant of thy sputtering oil,
In filth and falsehood? Ignorant and absurd!
Pause from thy pains, and take my closing word;
Thou canst not think, nor have I power to tell,
How much I scorn and loath thee—so, farewell!
END OF EPISTLE TO PETER PINDAR.
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