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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THE BAVIAD;
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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—
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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;
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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.
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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?”
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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,
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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!”
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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.
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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.
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“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;
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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—
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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;
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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.
| Gifford's Baviad and Maeviad | |