The Epigoniad A Poem. In Nine Books. By William Wilkie, The Second Edition, Carefully Corrected and Improved. To which is Added, A Dream. In the Manner of Spenser. [by William Winkie] |
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 | The Epigoniad |  |
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A DREAM. In the Manner of SPENSER.
I
One ev'ning as by pleasant Forth I stray'd,In pensive mood, and meditated still
On poets learned toil, with scorn repaid
By Envy's bitter spite, and want of skill;
A cave I found, which open'd in a hill.
The floor was sand, with various shells yblended,
Through which, in slow meanders, crept a rill;
The roof, by Nature's cunning slight suspended:
Thither my steps I turn'd, and there my journey ended.
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II
Upon the ground my listless limbs I laid,Lull'd by the murmur of the passing stream:
Then sleep, soft stealing, did my eyes invade;
And waking thought, soon ended in a dream.
Transported to a region I did seem,
Which with Thessalian Tempe might compare;
Of verdant shade compos'd, and wat'ry gleam:
Not even Valdarno, thought so passing fair,
Might match this pleasant land, in all perfections rare.
III
One, like a hoary palmer, near a brook,Under an arbor, seated did appear;
A shepherd swain, attending, held a book,
And seem'd to read therein that he mote hear.
From curiosity I stepped near;
But ere I reach'd the place where they did sit,
The whisp'ring breezes wasted to my ear
The sound of rhymes which I myself had writ:
Rhymes much, alas, too mean, for such a judge unfit.
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IV
For him he seem'd who sung Achilles' rage,In lofty numbers that shall never die,
And wise Ulysses' tedious pilgrimage,
So long the sport of sharp adversity:
The praises of his merit, Fame on high,
With her shrill trump, for ever loud doth sound;
With him no bard, for excellence, can vie,
Of all that late or ancient e'er were found;
So much he doth surpass ev'n bards the most renown'd.
V
The shepherd swain invited me to comeUp to the arbor where they seated were;
For Homer call'd me: much I fear'd the doom
Which such a judge seem'd ready to declare.
As I approach'd, with meikle dread and care,
He thus address'd me: Sir, the cause explain
Why all your story here is told so bare?
Few circumstances mix'd of various grain;
Such, surely, much enrich and raise a poet's strain.
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VI
Certes, quoth I, the critics are the causeOf this, and many other mischiefs more;
Who tie the Muses to such rigid laws,
That all their songs are frivolous and poor.
They cannot now, as oft they did before,
Ere pow'rful prejudice had clipt their wings,
Nature's domain with boundless flight explore,
And traffick freely in her precious things:
Each bard now fears the rod, and trembles while he sings.
VII
Though Shakespear, still disdaining narrow rules,His bosom fill'd with Nature's sacred fire,
Broke all the cobweb limits fix'd by fools,
And left the world to blame him and admire.
Yet his reward few mortals would desire;
For, of his learned toil, the only meed
That ever I could find he did acquire,
Is that our dull, degenerate, age of lead,
Says that he wrote by chance, and that he scarce could read.
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VIII
I ween, quoth he, that poets are to blameWhen they submit to critics tyranny:
For learned wights there is no greater shame,
Than blindly with their dictates to comply.
Who ever taught the eagle how to fly,
Whose wit did e'er his airy tract define,
When with free wing he claims his native sky,
Say, will he steer his course by rule and fine?
Certes, he'd scorn the bounds that would his flight confine.
IX
Not that the Muses' art is void of rules:Many there are, I wot, and stricter far,
Than those which pedants dictate from the schools,
Who wage with wit and taste eternal war:
For foggy ignorance their sight doth mar;
Nor can their low conception ever reach
To what dame Nature, crown'd with many a star,
Explains to such as know her learned speech;
But few can comprehend the lessons she doth teach.
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X
As many as the stars that gild the sky,As many as the flow'rs that paint the ground,
In number like the insect tribes that fly,
The various forms of beauty still are found;
That with strict limits no man may them bound,
And say that this, and this alone, is right:
Experience soon such rashness would confound,
And make its folly obvious as the light;
For such presumption sure becomes not mortal wight.
XI
Therefore each bard should freely entertainThe hints which pleasing fancy gives at will;
Nor curb her sallies with too strict a rein,
Nature subjecting to her hand-maid Skill:
And you yourself in this have done but ill;
With many more, who have not comprehended
That Genius, crampt, will rarely mount the hill,
Whose forked summit with the clouds is blended:
Therefore, when next you write, let this defect be mended.
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XII
But, like a friend, who candidly reprovesFor faults and errors which he doth espy,
Each vice he freely marks; yet always loves
To mingle favor with severity.
Certes, quoth he, I cannot well deny,
That you in many things may hope to please:
You force a barbarous northern tongue to ply,
And bend it to your purposes with ease;
Tho' rough as Albion's rocks, and hoarser than her seas.
XIII
Nor are your tales, I wot, so loosely yok'd,As those which Colin Clout did tell before;
Nor with description crouded so, and choak'd,
Which, thinly spread, will always please the more.
Colin, I wot, was rich in Nature's store;
More rich than you, had more than he could use:
But mad Orlando taught him had his lore;
Whose flights, at random, oft misled his muse:
To follow such a guide, few prudent men would chuse.
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XIV
Me you have follow'd: Nature was my guide;To this the merit of your verse is owing:
And know for certain, let it check your pride,
That all you boast of is of my bestowing.
The flow'rs I see, thro' all your garden blowing,
Are mine; most part, at least: I might demand,
Might claim them, as a crop of my own sowing,
And leave but few, thin scatter'd o'er the land:
A claim so just, I wot, you could not well withstand.
XV
Certes, quoth I, that justice were full hard,Which me alone would sentence to restore;
When many a learned sage, and many a bard,
Are equally your debtors, or much more.
Let Tityrus himself produce his store,
Take what is thine, but little will remain:
Little, I wot, and that indebted sore
To Ascra's bard , and Arethusa's swain ;
And others too beside, who lent him many a strain.
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XVI
Nor could the modern bards afford to pay,Whose songs exalt the champions of the Cross:
Take from each hoard thy sterling gold away,
And little will remain but worthless dross.
Not bards alone could ill support the loss;
But sages too, whose theft suspicion shunn'd:
E'en that fly Greek , who steals and hides so close,
Were half a bankrupt, if he should refund.
While these are all forborn, shall I alone be dunn'd.
XVII
He smil'd; and from his wreath, which well could spareSuch boon, the wreath with which his locks were clad,
Pluck'd a few leaves to hide my temples bare;
The present I receiv'd with heart full glad.
Henceforth, quoth I, I never will be sad;
For now I shall obtain my share of fame:
Nor will licentious wit, or envy bad,
With bitter taunts, my verses dare to blame:
This garland shall protect them, and exalt my name.
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XVIII
But dreams are short; for as I thought to layMy limbs, at ease, upon the flow'ry ground,
And drink, with greedy ear, what he might say,
As murm'ring waters sweet, or music's sound,
My sleep departed; and I, waking, found
Myself again by Fortha's pleasant stream.
Homewards I stepp'd, in meditation drown'd,
Reflecting on the meaning of my dream;
Which let each wight interpret as him best doth seem.
FINIS.
| The Epigoniad | |