The pursuits of literature A satirical poem in four dialogues, with notes. The seventh edition, revised [by T. J. Mathias] |
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Ψμεις, ω παντα εν πασι φυσει και παιδεια χρηστοι, και
μετριοι, και φιλανθρωποι, και της Βασιλειας αξιοι, τουτοις τοις
λογοις επινευσατε.
Athenagoræ Atheniensis Legatio Imperatoribus Antonino et Commodo.—ad fin.
Op. Justin. Martyr. Ed. Paris. 1636. pag. 39.
45
THE PURSUITS OF LITERATURE.
A SATIRICAL POEM.
DIALOGUE THE FIRST. THE AUTHOR AND OCTAVIUS.
Audaci quicunque afflate Cratino,
Iratum Eupolidem prægrandi cum sene palles,
Aspice et hæc, si forte aliquid decoctius audis;
Inde vaporatâ lector mihi feryeat aure.
PERS. SAT. 1.
Iratum Eupolidem prægrandi cum sene palles,
Aspice et hæc, si forte aliquid decoctius audis;
Inde vaporatâ lector mihi feryeat aure.
PERS. SAT. 1.
THE AUTHOR.
I who once deem'd my race of labour run,
And camps, and courts, and crowds, and senates shun,
Still to the publick raise no venal voice,
In the full freedom of a Briton's choice,
Through tracts aloft on daring pinions rove,
Where'er by duty borne, or led by love.
And camps, and courts, and crowds, and senates shun,
Still to the publick raise no venal voice,
In the full freedom of a Briton's choice,
Through tracts aloft on daring pinions rove,
Where'er by duty borne, or led by love.
46
Yet not unconscious of this awful age,
I mark what new conflicting systems rage,
Systems which laugh to scorn th'avenging rod,
And hurl defiance to the throne of God;
Shake pestilence abroad with madd'ning sweep,
And grant no pause—but everlasting sleep!
Blood-guiltiness, their crime; with hell they cope;
No flesh, no spirit now must rest in hope,
But under foliage dark, and cypress gloom,
The sculptur'd mock'ry marks and seals the tomb.
I mark what new conflicting systems rage,
Systems which laugh to scorn th'avenging rod,
And hurl defiance to the throne of God;
Shake pestilence abroad with madd'ning sweep,
And grant no pause—but everlasting sleep!
Blood-guiltiness, their crime; with hell they cope;
No flesh, no spirit now must rest in hope,
But under foliage dark, and cypress gloom,
The sculptur'd mock'ry marks and seals the tomb.
New lights on all, but on the Poet, rise;
Still can he smile, and with no murm'ring sighs
Can own well-pleas'd, that now the meanest bard,
Bavius, or Maro, finds the same regard.
Not as Mæcenas once with partial ray
Illum'd the rising glories of his day;
Whose orb the Mantuan plains alone would warm,
Or beam propitious on the Sabine farm.
Still can he smile, and with no murm'ring sighs
Can own well-pleas'd, that now the meanest bard,
Bavius, or Maro, finds the same regard.
47
Illum'd the rising glories of his day;
Whose orb the Mantuan plains alone would warm,
Or beam propitious on the Sabine farm.
OCTAVIUS.
Why should you write? the world is now so fickle
Scarce is there room for Sheridan and Tickell;
48
The loud Laurentian trumpet through the land
Sound Pitt, and Prettyman, and Rose, and Rolle,
With strength of Stentor, but Mezentian soul;
The Doctor may for Fox and Portland vouch,
With spectacles on nose, but empty pouch.
49
Or why to genius give one victim more?
AUTHOR.
Forgive me: all conspire to waste my time;
Languor, and care, and solitude, and rhyme:
Now while each Sage, to fame and science known,
Or leaves the field of life, or listless grown,
Reviews his trophies with an idle pride,
Sick of the dunces rising at his side.
50
He writes on all things, but on nothing well;
51
Air, books, or water makes with equal ease.
May not I strive amid this motley throng,
All pale and pensive as I muse along?
OCTAVIUS.
Say, would your thought to Homer's pomp aspire,
Or wake to loftiest rapture Pindar's lyre?
Go then and view, since clos'd his cloister'd day,
The self-supported melancholy Gray:
Dark was his morn of life, and bleak the spring,
Without one fost'ring ray from Britain's king.
Granta's dull abbots cast a side-long glance,
And Levite gownsmen hugg'd their ignorance.
With his high spirit strove the master bard,
And was his own exceeding great reward;
Years without hope in tardy progress pass,
'Till some few grains yet ling'ring in his glass,
He rose late-heeded by patrician care,
Though private friendship help'd him to the chair.
Or wake to loftiest rapture Pindar's lyre?
52
The self-supported melancholy Gray:
53
Without one fost'ring ray from Britain's king.
Granta's dull abbots cast a side-long glance,
And Levite gownsmen hugg'd their ignorance.
With his high spirit strove the master bard,
And was his own exceeding great reward;
Years without hope in tardy progress pass,
'Till some few grains yet ling'ring in his glass,
He rose late-heeded by patrician care,
Though private friendship help'd him to the chair.
Saw you not Mason stand with down-cast eye,
While great Augustus pass'd unconscious by?
'Till wrapt in terrors of avenging night,
He starts Macgreggor with dilated might.
While great Augustus pass'd unconscious by?
54
He starts Macgreggor with dilated might.
Have you not seen neglected Penrose bloom,
Then sink unhonour'd in a village tomb?
Content a curate's humble path he trod,
Now, with the poor in spirit, rests with God.
Then sink unhonour'd in a village tomb?
Content a curate's humble path he trod,
Now, with the poor in spirit, rests with God.
55
To worth untitled would your fancy turn?
The Muse all friendless wept o'er Mickle's urn:
Mickle, who bade the strong poetick tide
Roll o'er Britannia's shores in Lusitanian pride.
The Muse all friendless wept o'er Mickle's urn:
Mickle, who bade the strong poetick tide
Roll o'er Britannia's shores in Lusitanian pride.
AUTHOR.
Then I must suit the temper of these times,
Degraded now to mere historick rhymes;
And last be hail'd in some sagacious page,
The finest, brightest poet of the age,
And that with grave solemnity so sad,
Faith, 'tis enough to make poor Hayley mad.
No: though in vain I may attempt to please,
I'll write with learning what I think with ease.
Degraded now to mere historick rhymes;
And last be hail'd in some sagacious page,
The finest, brightest poet of the age,
And that with grave solemnity so sad,
Faith, 'tis enough to make poor Hayley mad.
56
I'll write with learning what I think with ease.
What?—from the Muse, by cryptogamick stealth
Must I purloin her native sterling wealth?
In filmy, gawzy, gossamery lines,
With lucid language, and most dark designs,
In sweet tetrandryan, monogynian strains,
Pant for a pystill in botanick pains;
On the luxurious lap of Flora thrown,
On beds of yielding vegetable down,
Raise lust in pinks; and with unhallow'd fire
Bid the soft virgin violet expire?
Must I purloin her native sterling wealth?
57
With lucid language, and most dark designs,
In sweet tetrandryan, monogynian strains,
Pant for a pystill in botanick pains;
On the luxurious lap of Flora thrown,
On beds of yielding vegetable down,
Raise lust in pinks; and with unhallow'd fire
Bid the soft virgin violet expire?
Is it for me to creep, or soar, or doze,
In modish song, or fashionable prose?
To pen with garreteers obscure and shabby,
Inscriptive nonsense in a fancied Abbey;
Or some Warkworthian hermit tale endite,
Such ditties as our gossip spinsters write?
In modish song, or fashionable prose?
58
Inscriptive nonsense in a fancied Abbey;
Or some Warkworthian hermit tale endite,
Such ditties as our gossip spinsters write?
Or must I tempt some Novel's lulling theme,
Bid the bright eye o'er Celestina stream;
With fabled knights, and tales of slighted love,
Such as our Spanish Cato might approve?
Bid the bright eye o'er Celestina stream;
59
Such as our Spanish Cato might approve?
60
In Travels for the Heart, and not the head,
From post to pillar, and from board to bed,
Through climes of various woe the pilgrim lead,
'Till Charlotte droops, and master misses bleed.
From post to pillar, and from board to bed,
61
'Till Charlotte droops, and master misses bleed.
OCTAVIUS.
If these disgust, to serious cares attend,
And make serene Philosophy your friend.
Pen some choice Fragment in the genuine taste,
Each pow'r combin'd of wit and learning waste;
Smart and concise, with deepest meaning fraught,
Neat be the types, and the vignettes high wrought;
With frontispiece to catch the gazer's eye,
Treason, the pile; the basis blasphemy:
Free from dull order, decency, and rule,
With dogmas fresh from the Sans Souci school;
With definitions vague and terms mysterious,
Seeming humility, but tone imperious,
Mankind's meek friend, and Nature's gentle Sage,
The Priest of Reason in her chosen age;
Then bending low, with equal reverence search
The storied portico, and sainted church,
Till, wheedling round with metaphysick art,
You steal Religion from the unguarded heart,
And in the see-saw undulating play,
The moral chorus dies in words away.
And make serene Philosophy your friend.
Pen some choice Fragment in the genuine taste,
Each pow'r combin'd of wit and learning waste;
62
Neat be the types, and the vignettes high wrought;
63
Treason, the pile; the basis blasphemy:
64
With dogmas fresh from the Sans Souci school;
With definitions vague and terms mysterious,
Seeming humility, but tone imperious,
Mankind's meek friend, and Nature's gentle Sage,
The Priest of Reason in her chosen age;
65
66
67
You steal Religion from the unguarded heart,
And in the see-saw undulating play,
The moral chorus dies in words away.
Thence careless saunt'ring in Vacuna's vale,
Tune to your listless lyre some Crazy Tale;
Dash for applause, nor seek a poet's name,
Content with scribbling and ambiguous fame,
From laws of metre free, (which idly serve
To curb strong genius and it's swelling nerve,)
In verse half veil'd raise titillating lust,
Like girls that deck with flowers Priapus' bust.
Go turn to Madan; and in Gospel truth,
And Thelypthorick lore instruct our youth:
Some plain positions lay, as simply thus;
Marriage consists in—actu cöitûs:
Laymen may have ten wives; poor priests but one:
Then growl at British laws in surly tone,
That “loving man must grind with loving wife
In molâ asinariâ, during life.”
With Thickness give some useful Hints for Health,
For publick good, though not for private wealth;
Like him, to shun the cold embrace of death,
Inhale in virgin arms ambrosial breath.
Tune to your listless lyre some Crazy Tale;
Dash for applause, nor seek a poet's name,
Content with scribbling and ambiguous fame,
68
To curb strong genius and it's swelling nerve,)
In verse half veil'd raise titillating lust,
Like girls that deck with flowers Priapus' bust.
69
And Thelypthorick lore instruct our youth:
Some plain positions lay, as simply thus;
Marriage consists in—actu cöitûs:
70
Then growl at British laws in surly tone,
That “loving man must grind with loving wife
In molâ asinariâ, during life.”
With Thickness give some useful Hints for Health,
For publick good, though not for private wealth;
Like him, to shun the cold embrace of death,
Inhale in virgin arms ambrosial breath.
Or from the Alps extend to Norway's rocks,
With Switzer-Russico-Kamtschatcan Coxe,
Then turn full-fraught from bleak Siberia's shore,
And leave us just as knowing as before.
Or bound with Barrington in charming spell,
Of Irish trouts with gizzard stomachs tell;
While o'er the bulk of these transacted deeds
Prim Blagden pants, and damns them as he reads.
With Switzer-Russico-Kamtschatcan Coxe,
71
And leave us just as knowing as before.
Or bound with Barrington in charming spell,
Of Irish trouts with gizzard stomachs tell;
72
Prim Blagden pants, and damns them as he reads.
73
Hear me yet once: (oh might these labours end,
And I to peace and privacy descend!)
Must I, like Chatterton, that varlet bright,
Rouse some new Rowley from a steeple's height?
Like Hardwicke, shelves with gossip volumes clog,
Of Baby Charles, and Jemmy's slave and dog;
Of Lorkin's diligence for lords' arrears,
With trumpery notes of long forgotten peers?
And I to peace and privacy descend!)
74
Rouse some new Rowley from a steeple's height?
Like Hardwicke, shelves with gossip volumes clog,
Of Baby Charles, and Jemmy's slave and dog;
75
With trumpery notes of long forgotten peers?
Shall I new anecdotes from darkness draw,
That Strawb'ry Horace on the Hill ne'er saw,
With wire-wove hot press'd paper's glossy glare
Blind all the wise, and make the stupid stare;
Or on imperial foolscap with vignettes
Engrave, like Staunton, my Chinese Gazettes?
That Strawb'ry Horace on the Hill ne'er saw,
With wire-wove hot press'd paper's glossy glare
Blind all the wise, and make the stupid stare;
76
Engrave, like Staunton, my Chinese Gazettes?
77
Or must I, as a wit with learned air,
Like Doctor Dewlap, to Tom Payne's repair,
Meet Cyril Jackson and mild Cracherode,
'Mid literary gods myself a god?
There make folks wonder at th'extent of genius
In the Greek Aldus or the Dutch Frobenius,
And then, to edify their learned souls,
Quote pleasaunt sayings from The shippe of Foles.
Hold! cries Tom Payne, that margin let me measure,
And rate the separate value of each treasure.
Eager they gaze: Well Sirs, the feat is done;
“Cracherode's Poëtæ Principes have won:”
In silent exultation down he sits,
'Mong well be-Chaucer'd Winkyn-Wordian wits.
Or shall I thence by mock-appointment stop,
And joke with Bryant at his Elmsly's shop?
And hear it whisper'd, while I'm wondrous pliant,
'Twas Doctor Dewlap spoke to Mister Bryant.
Like Doctor Dewlap, to Tom Payne's repair,
Meet Cyril Jackson and mild Cracherode,
'Mid literary gods myself a god?
78
In the Greek Aldus or the Dutch Frobenius,
And then, to edify their learned souls,
Quote pleasaunt sayings from The shippe of Foles.
Hold! cries Tom Payne, that margin let me measure,
And rate the separate value of each treasure.
Eager they gaze: Well Sirs, the feat is done;
“Cracherode's Poëtæ Principes have won:”
In silent exultation down he sits,
'Mong well be-Chaucer'd Winkyn-Wordian wits.
Or shall I thence by mock-appointment stop,
And joke with Bryant at his Elmsly's shop?
And hear it whisper'd, while I'm wondrous pliant,
'Twas Doctor Dewlap spoke to Mister Bryant.
79
How just was he, who in this sapient age,
When learning's varied cares the mind engage,
Stood up self-taught, and in mankind's defence
Pray'd for professors of plain common sense.
But say, what think you of the tragick Stage?
AUTHOR
No—you'll excuse me there, I know this age.
80
Must I plan Tragedies by line and rule;
To the high Gods address my first appeal,
Then bid the press my hidden worth reveal,
While round my temples many a tendril plays
Of owlish ivy with the Mævian bays;
And close in mournful pomp the tragick rear,
Though Jephson scarce can gain the publick ear.
OCTAVIUS.
Still there are works which lead to sure renown,
In the lay habit or the sacred gown;
Will stamp your credit at an easy price,
Learn'd and ingenious, or a Vir Clariss:
81
Or Sir Giles Goosecap, or proverbial Fuller;
82
Of Gibbe our cat, white Devils, or Old Vice;
83
Cap'ring with Banks's ‘Bay Horse in a Trance:’
84
Wit from old Books of Cookery extract:
Thoughts to stew'd prunes and kissing comfits suit,
Or the potatoe, vigour stirring root:
85
Be hail'd by Parr, the Guide of publick taste.
86
What?—must I enter the dramatick course;
Burst through the countless squadrons foot and horse?
All that for Massinger and Beaumont fight,
But leave their authors in a wretched plight;
From Capell steal, yet never own the theft,
And then desert him of his store bereft.
Oh injur'd Patron of our noblest bard!
Capell, receive this tribute of regard,
And may this honest verse to life and light
Call forth thy name, and vindicate thy right.
Burst through the countless squadrons foot and horse?
87
But leave their authors in a wretched plight;
88
89
90
Capell, receive this tribute of regard,
And may this honest verse to life and light
Call forth thy name, and vindicate thy right.
91
Must I for Shakspeare no compassion feel,
Almost eat up by commentating zeal?
On Avon's banks I heard Acteon mourn,
By fell Black Letter Dogs in pieces torn;
Dogs that from Gothick kennels eager start,
All well broke-in by Coney-catching Art,
So tender to the Paphian notes they move,
And seem as they were only born for love.
Hark, Johnson smacks his lash; loud sounds the din:
Mounted in rear see Steevens Whipper-in,
Rich with the spoils of learning's Black domain,
And Guide supreme o'er all the tainted plain.
Lo! first Melampus Farmer deftly springs,
(Walter de Mapes his sire) the welkin rings:
Stout Gloucester mark in Pamphagus advance,
Who never stood aghast in speechless trance;
The sage Ichnobates see Tyrwhitt limp;
Malone Hylactor bounds a clear-voic'd imp;
Asbolus Hawkins, a grim shaggy hound,
In musick growls, and beats the bushes round;
Then Porsonview Nebrophonos the shrewd,
Yet foaming with th'Archdeacon's critick blood;
See Dorceus Whiter o'er the learned soil,
Brisk, though at fault, with new associates toil;
In Theron's form, mark Ritson next contend,
Fierce, meager, pale, no commentator's friend;
Tom Warton last, Agriodos acute,
With Labros Percy barks in close pursuit:
Hot was the chace; I left it out of breath;
I wish'd not to be in at Shakspeare's death.
Almost eat up by commentating zeal?
92
By fell Black Letter Dogs in pieces torn;
Dogs that from Gothick kennels eager start,
All well broke-in by Coney-catching Art,
93
And seem as they were only born for love.
Hark, Johnson smacks his lash; loud sounds the din:
Mounted in rear see Steevens Whipper-in,
94
And Guide supreme o'er all the tainted plain.
Lo! first Melampus Farmer deftly springs,
(Walter de Mapes his sire) the welkin rings:
95
Who never stood aghast in speechless trance;
The sage Ichnobates see Tyrwhitt limp;
Malone Hylactor bounds a clear-voic'd imp;
96
In musick growls, and beats the bushes round;
97
Yet foaming with th'Archdeacon's critick blood;
98
Brisk, though at fault, with new associates toil;
99
Fierce, meager, pale, no commentator's friend;
Tom Warton last, Agriodos acute,
With Labros Percy barks in close pursuit:
100
I wish'd not to be in at Shakspeare's death.
101
Here yet awhile these honest labours close,
And leave indignant Genius to repose.
END OF DIALOGUE THE FIRST.
109
DIALOGUE THE SECOND.
Ετ' αβλητος και ανουτατος οξει χαλκω,
ΔΙΝΕΨΩ ΚΑΤΑ ΜΕΣΣΟΝ, αγοι δε με Παλλας Αθηνη
Χειρος ελουσ', αυταρ βελεων απερυκοι ερωην.
Hom. Il. 4. v. 540.
ΔΙΝΕΨΩ ΚΑΤΑ ΜΕΣΣΟΝ, αγοι δε με Παλλας Αθηνη
Χειρος ελουσ', αυταρ βελεων απερυκοι ερωην.
Hom. Il. 4. v. 540.
AUTHOR.
All hail to Cestria, and her mitred lord!
And may the muse in lasting strains record
That lawn'd Endymion of a happier age;
Who, wild with rapture and empirick rage,
On bold aspiring pinion could presume
To journey through the vast ethereal gloom;
Who tir'd of earth and dreams of gowned rest,
Sunk in the elysium of his Cynthia's breast!
And may the muse in lasting strains record
That lawn'd Endymion of a happier age;
Who, wild with rapture and empirick rage,
On bold aspiring pinion could presume
To journey through the vast ethereal gloom;
Who tir'd of earth and dreams of gowned rest,
Sunk in the elysium of his Cynthia's breast!
110
But ah, for us those wizard wonders cease:
In war, death, pestilence, or dang'rous peace,
Condemn'd to groan in this disorder'd hour,
Victors and victims of th'unhallow'd pow'r,
That bids the western world or rouse or weep,
O'erwhelm'd beneath the formidable deep.
In war, death, pestilence, or dang'rous peace,
Condemn'd to groan in this disorder'd hour,
Victors and victims of th'unhallow'd pow'r,
That bids the western world or rouse or weep,
O'erwhelm'd beneath the formidable deep.
OCTAVIUS.
Of France enough: go bend before that tomb
Where other palms and other laurels bloom,
Where Maro sleeps; or in the Sabine shade,
Or in severe Aquinum's inmost glade,
Fast by Volterra's dark Etrurian grove,
With Boileau's art and Dryden's rapture rove.
Be wise betimes, and in resistless prose
Leave Burke alone to thunder on our foes:
Let Wakefield rant, and pallid Thelwall bawl,
Lords of misrule in anarchy's wild hall;
Such prophets as ere long Horne Tooke may save,
And hide and feed by fifties in a cave.
Where other palms and other laurels bloom,
111
Or in severe Aquinum's inmost glade,
Fast by Volterra's dark Etrurian grove,
With Boileau's art and Dryden's rapture rove.
Be wise betimes, and in resistless prose
Leave Burke alone to thunder on our foes:
112
Lords of misrule in anarchy's wild hall;
Such prophets as ere long Horne Tooke may save,
And hide and feed by fifties in a cave.
113
You read perchance a minister in books,
And know an honest statesman by his looks;
Think in debates the spirit may be seen,
In Thurlow just, in Wedderburne, serene;
In Grenville, firmness; majesty, in Pitt;
And in Dundas, the courage to submit.
Proud of your keen discernment you retire,
Smit with the fame of Rollo's bard and squire,
You'd print (poor man!) your satire and your song,
Correct as Gifford, or as Cowper, strong.
And know an honest statesman by his looks;
Think in debates the spirit may be seen,
In Thurlow just, in Wedderburne, serene;
114
And in Dundas, the courage to submit.
Proud of your keen discernment you retire,
Smit with the fame of Rollo's bard and squire,
You'd print (poor man!) your satire and your song,
Correct as Gifford, or as Cowper, strong.
AUTHOR.
Yes: to my country's justice I appeal,
Nor dread the press, the guillotine, nor wheel,
Nor fulsome praise, nor coldness of neglect,
Nor all that poets meet, but scarce expect;
Yet though the question I shall never fear,
A rhyming culprit's bold confession hear.
Nor dread the press, the guillotine, nor wheel,
115
Nor all that poets meet, but scarce expect;
Yet though the question I shall never fear,
A rhyming culprit's bold confession hear.
Memory I have, not Middleton has more;
Plays I could frame, like Ireland, by the score;
Could sing of gardens, yet well pleas'd to see
Walpole and Nature may, for once, agree;
Or give with Darwin, to the hectick kind,
Receipts in verse to shift the north-east wind;
With Price and Knight grounds by neglect improve,
And banish use, for naked Nature's love,
Lakes, forests, rivers, in one landscape drawn,
My park, a county, and a heath, my lawn;
With Knight, man's civil progress could rehearse,
Put Hume, or Smith, or Tacitus in verse,
And, while Silenus and his votaries nod,
Quaff Paphian grossness from my crystal God;
Or I could scribble for historick fame,
Like Gillies, feeble, formal, dull and tame;
Then tir'd of truth, like Coxe, to fables stray,
And vie with Croxall in my notes on Gay;
I could, like Seward, if for scraps you call,
Turn publick bagman, train'd in Walpole's stall;
Or to Cythæron, from the Treasury, move,
And, like Sir James Bland Burgess, murmur love;
Or with Fitzpatrick, mark the space between
A tainted strumpet and a spotless Queen;
Then furnish feasts for each Parnassian prig,
A Florence goose, three ducklings, and one pig;
With Spartan Pye lull England to repose,
Or frighten children with Lenora's woes:
I could—
Plays I could frame, like Ireland, by the score;
Could sing of gardens, yet well pleas'd to see
Walpole and Nature may, for once, agree;
Or give with Darwin, to the hectick kind,
Receipts in verse to shift the north-east wind;
116
And banish use, for naked Nature's love,
Lakes, forests, rivers, in one landscape drawn,
My park, a county, and a heath, my lawn;
With Knight, man's civil progress could rehearse,
Put Hume, or Smith, or Tacitus in verse,
117
Quaff Paphian grossness from my crystal God;
118
Like Gillies, feeble, formal, dull and tame;
119
And vie with Croxall in my notes on Gay;
120
Turn publick bagman, train'd in Walpole's stall;
121
And, like Sir James Bland Burgess, murmur love;
Or with Fitzpatrick, mark the space between
A tainted strumpet and a spotless Queen;
122
A Florence goose, three ducklings, and one pig;
With Spartan Pye lull England to repose,
123
I could—
OCTAVIUS.
Do what?—where will your vaunting reach?
Is this a prelude to your parting speech?
124
Spare, spare; till time subdues my hapless rage
With blast autumnal, or the damp of age.
What poet will refuse to drink, or sing,
Since Helicon is now an Irish spring?
All thirst alike; which made Sam Johnson think,
That no man visits, where he cannot drink.
Why should I faint, when all with patience hear,
And Laureat Pye sings more than twice a year?
125
Truce with the Laureat.
AUTHOR.
'Tis but what I think;
For once I hop'd to see the title sink,
While piety and virtue grac'd the throne,
And genius in lamented Warton shone:
Aye, while Britannia cries frrom shore to shore,
Augustus reigns; Mæcenas is no more.
Pitt views alike, from Holwood's sullen brow,
(As near-observing friendship dares avow)
126
127
OCTAVIUS.
Mere spleen to Pitt; he's liberal, but by stealth.
128
Yes, and he spares a nation's inborn wealth,
129
For all, but Burke, escape his searching eye.
Stiff from old Turgot, and his rigid school,
He never deviates from this wholesome rule;
130
“Potatoes, verses, turnips, Greek, and rice.”
OCTAVIUS.
Strange times indeed to banter on finance;
Pray, if you call him frugal, think of France.
AUTHOR.
Well, I'll be brief; with France he must contend;
There I will own, and feel myself his friend,
And sing with Burke's or Maro's borrow'd fire,
“Arms and the man,” till anarchy expire.
131
In chains of penal silence musing stand,
132
Their ceaseless round, within the smouldring cave,
The dark Vulcanian chamber, whence they strove
To forge and hurl the bolts of Stygian Jove.
133
Nay, if you thus proceed, I'll read the bill,
In Hatsell's clerkly tone, clear, loud, and shrill,
And Jekyll's comment too.
134
Pray, heav'n, forbear:
Come then, I'll breathe at large ethereal air,
Far from the bar, the senate, and the court,
And in Avonian fields with Steevens sport,
(Whom late, from Hampstead journeying to his book,
Aurora oft for Cephalus mistook,
135
To meet the Printer's dev'let face to face:)
With dogs black-letter'd in the Stratford Chace,
Mouth-match'd like bells, yet of confused race,
For well I mark'd them all with curious heed.
136
Not all: you pass'd the grave laborious Reed,
137
Layman or priest, the sinner or the saint;
Farmer he loves, and Steevens will receive,
Though not Mie Masterre Ireland by your leave.
He laughs to see our new Salmoneus stand,
His mimick thunder rattling o'er the Strand,
On fiery coursers from Olimpia's plain,
Tossing the torch, in sov'reign splendor vain,
138
“Shakspeare and Jove” grav'd on the burning car
In letter'd radiance?
AUTHOR.
Soft a while; 'tis wrong:
Can strains like these to manuscripts belong?
To notes, bonds, deeds, receipts, fac-similes,
And all that lawyers feign for proper fees?
Monks and Attorneys may engage Malone:
Annius, or Ireland, 'tis to me all one.
Give me the soul that breathes in Shakspeare's page,
Strength from within, the unresisted rage,
The thought that stretch'd beyond creation's bound,
And in the slaming walls no barrier found,
The pen he dipt in mind;—I'll hush to rest
The little tumults of a critick's breast.
Can strains like these to manuscripts belong?
To notes, bonds, deeds, receipts, fac-similes,
And all that lawyers feign for proper fees?
Monks and Attorneys may engage Malone:
Annius, or Ireland, 'tis to me all one.
Give me the soul that breathes in Shakspeare's page,
Strength from within, the unresisted rage,
The thought that stretch'd beyond creation's bound,
And in the slaming walls no barrier found,
139
The little tumults of a critick's breast.
What though no Vatican unbars the door,
No Palatine to Ireland yields it's store,
Treasures he has, and many a prouder tome
Than kings to Granta gave, or Bodley's dome.
Pages, on which the eye of Shakspeare por'd,
The notes he made, the readings he restor'd,
The very gibes he scribbled, and the joke
That from the laughing bard on margins broke.
But where's the dark array, the vesture plain,
With many a mould'ring venerable stain?
All fled: a wonder opens to our view;
The shield is scower'd, and the books are new:
In her own hues great Nature best is seen,
So Ireland spoke; and made the black—One Green.
No Palatine to Ireland yields it's store,
Treasures he has, and many a prouder tome
Than kings to Granta gave, or Bodley's dome.
Pages, on which the eye of Shakspeare por'd,
The notes he made, the readings he restor'd,
The very gibes he scribbled, and the joke
That from the laughing bard on margins broke.
But where's the dark array, the vesture plain,
With many a mould'ring venerable stain?
All fled: a wonder opens to our view;
The shield is scower'd, and the books are new:
140
So Ireland spoke; and made the black—One Green.
Eternal verdure bloom in Shakspeare's grove!
Where led by light from heav'n, he oft would rove
In solitude and sacred silence blest;
And in the musings of his mighty breast,
All as he scann'd the volume of the past,
O'er Greece and Rome one wishful glance would cast;
Mourn not, pleas'd Nature cried, their sounds unknown,
My universal language is your own.
Where led by light from heav'n, he oft would rove
In solitude and sacred silence blest;
And in the musings of his mighty breast,
All as he scann'd the volume of the past,
O'er Greece and Rome one wishful glance would cast;
Mourn not, pleas'd Nature cried, their sounds unknown,
My universal language is your own.
OCTAVIUS.
Enough for me great Shakspeare's words to hear,
Though but in common with the vulgar ear,
Without one note, or horn-book in my head,
Ritson's coarse trash, or lumber of the dead.
Can flippant wit, and book-learn'd confidence,
Alone give right to science, taste and sense?
Is modest worth by idle boasting shewn?
Then, nor till then, will I approve Malone:
See on the critick, “in his pride of place,”
Laborious Chalmers drops his leaden mace.
In the wild squabbles of a wordy war,
Let rabid Porson tell, or griesly Parr,
Coombe, Travis, Ireland, or whate'er the name,
The breeding of mere criticks is the same:
From royal Phalaris let your views extend
To Bristol's wizard stripling, and his end.
Though but in common with the vulgar ear,
Without one note, or horn-book in my head,
Ritson's coarse trash, or lumber of the dead.
141
Alone give right to science, taste and sense?
Is modest worth by idle boasting shewn?
Then, nor till then, will I approve Malone:
142
143
In the wild squabbles of a wordy war,
Let rabid Porson tell, or griesly Parr,
Coombe, Travis, Ireland, or whate'er the name,
The breeding of mere criticks is the same:
144
To Bristol's wizard stripling, and his end.
Hear Catcott cry, in chearless life's decline,
Thus Rowley once, and Chatterton were mine.
He saw his Bard by Milles's pond'rous length
O'erlaid, revive in splendor, fame, and strength,
For Bryant came; the Muses all return,
And light their lamps at Rowley's fruitful urn;
While Cam receiv'd the Bard with all his train,
Though Isis, turn'd her current in disdain.
The Boy whom once patrician pens adorn'd,
First meanly flatter'd, then as meanly scorn'd,
Drooping he rais'd, and lent his little aid,
The gleanings of a hard and humble trade.
Innoxious man: yet what may truth avail!
Blameless his life, and simple as his tale;
Each rude enquirer's sneering taunt he feels,
Contempt or insult dogs him at his heels,
No kind support subscribing fondness pours,
For him no wealth descends in fost'ring show'rs;
Yet be this truth to future times reveal'd,
“The wound a Varro gave, Iapis heal'd.”
Thus Rowley once, and Chatterton were mine.
He saw his Bard by Milles's pond'rous length
O'erlaid, revive in splendor, fame, and strength,
For Bryant came; the Muses all return,
And light their lamps at Rowley's fruitful urn;
145
Though Isis, turn'd her current in disdain.
146
First meanly flatter'd, then as meanly scorn'd,
Drooping he rais'd, and lent his little aid,
The gleanings of a hard and humble trade.
Innoxious man: yet what may truth avail!
Blameless his life, and simple as his tale;
Each rude enquirer's sneering taunt he feels,
Contempt or insult dogs him at his heels,
No kind support subscribing fondness pours,
For him no wealth descends in fost'ring show'rs;
Yet be this truth to future times reveal'd,
“The wound a Varro gave, Iapis heal'd.”
147
Go now, for moths, and rolls, and parchments search;
Ransack the chest, the closet, or the church;
Brave all the joint associates of A. S.
The jest insipid, and the idle guess;
Bind, copy, comment, manuscript and print,
Take from good natur'd friends some useful hint,
From Bewick's magick wood throw borrow'd rays
O'er many a page in gorgeous Bulmer's blaze;
Alas, for thee! nor profit hope, nor fame,
Contempt your lot, and solitary shame.
Ransack the chest, the closet, or the church;
Brave all the joint associates of A. S.
The jest insipid, and the idle guess;
Bind, copy, comment, manuscript and print,
Take from good natur'd friends some useful hint,
From Bewick's magick wood throw borrow'd rays
O'er many a page in gorgeous Bulmer's blaze;
Alas, for thee! nor profit hope, nor fame,
Contempt your lot, and solitary shame.
Go rather and indulge Dramatick rage;
All love a publick or a private stage:
Our nobles now, as players, will be seen,
A Duke's chaste daughter or a Margravine;
Fled is the soft reserve and nicer sense,
Those primal guards of love and innocence;
Unzon'd the nymphs, like Highland Charlotte clad.
All love a publick or a private stage:
Our nobles now, as players, will be seen,
A Duke's chaste daughter or a Margravine;
148
Those primal guards of love and innocence;
Unzon'd the nymphs, like Highland Charlotte clad.
AUTHOR.
Why not all bare? less shame's in being mad.
OCTAVIUS.
Soft: and o'er female failings lightly pass;
And may Aglaia lead them to their glass,
149
As life's domestick happier stage they tread;
There may they look, well pleas'd themselves to find
The guardians, comforts, teachers of mankind.
AUTHOR.
I listen with delight: that strain again;
I'll bless the sex.
OCTAVIUS.
Now pass to titled men.
Mark, as Thalia calls in graceful air,
The soft patrician of St. James's square;
Her nuptial voice at Blenheim Marlb'rough heard,
While lyrick Carlisle purrs o'er love transferr'd.
150
Like Polypheme, “I cannot cannot bear;”
151
And ravishes the nymph before his eyes:
152
In all the pride of musick and of law.
153
If truth and joke, though pleasingly combine,
What credit will attend the motley line?
Where is your trust?
OCTAVIUS.
To this discerning land
I trust, and laugh: there are who understand,
If from state farces, when the House is up,
Some seek the green room and with Kemble sup,
(For who on modest merit shuts the door?)
Leeds says, so gentle Lælius did before;
Lælius, in whom each graceful act could please,
In wisdom mild, and dignified in ease,
With Terence oft the publick cares would shun.
AUTHOR.
Terence and Kemble—the dispute is done.
I ever mark'd (deem not the thought severe)
What bounds divide the actor from the peer:
154
Andrews writes farce, a Duke the epilogue;
Burke may the right of property invade;
Steevens contract the Commentator's trade;
To Erskine, Kenyon seem a classick wit;
Or Paine apologize for holy writ;
The Dramatist himself and fame belie,
And leave the stage for truth and honesty;
St. Helens quit his diplomatick pomp;
Siddons be comick; Jordan sink the Romp;
Ireland prove Shakspeare; Bentley be Malone;
Thelwall dread preaching, or high treason, Stone;
Who hates not Merry, Jerningham may love;
And Gifford Della Crusca's self approve.
OCTAVIUS.
Merry and Crusca!—Gifford's right: beware;
The very ground is his and Bavian air.
155
No: I'll not seek the tracts his arrows fire
With light that marks, but marks not to expire;
The climes he roams, where'er his footsteps sped,
I pass with caution, or but lightly tread,
Or pleas'd with flow'rs his fancy best can strew,
I sit, and think I read my Pope anew.
With light that marks, but marks not to expire;
The climes he roams, where'er his footsteps sped,
I pass with caution, or but lightly tread,
Or pleas'd with flow'rs his fancy best can strew,
I sit, and think I read my Pope anew.
But grant the stage is noble; I believe
Greek is plebeian, with Lord Belgrave's leave:
Though now some high imperial criticks chafe,
To think not Æschylus himself is safe.
Go to his text: revise, digest, compare,
With Porson's shrewdness, or with Valknaer's care:
But is the learned page once out of sight?
Some Scotch Greek swindling printer steals your right.
Greek is plebeian, with Lord Belgrave's leave:
156
To think not Æschylus himself is safe.
Go to his text: revise, digest, compare,
With Porson's shrewdness, or with Valknaer's care:
But is the learned page once out of sight?
Some Scotch Greek swindling printer steals your right.
157
But mark, the sea-birds sound the note of doom,
And venom'd insects cluster round the tomb,
The Grecian billows foam along the strand,
In angry murmurs deaf'ning all the land;
Ranging for vengeance from his native shore,
Archilochus is rous'd, to sleep no more.
And venom'd insects cluster round the tomb,
The Grecian billows foam along the strand,
In angry murmurs deaf'ning all the land;
Ranging for vengeance from his native shore,
Archilochus is rous'd, to sleep no more.
END OF THE SECOND DIALOGUE.
173
DIALOGUE THE THIRD.
Εκλαγξαν δ' αρ' οιστοι απ' ωμων χωομενοιο,
Αυτου κινηθεντος: ο δ' ηιε Νυκτι εοικως.
Εετ' επειτ' απανευθε νεων, μετα δ' ιον εηκε,
Δεινη δε κλαγγη γενετ' αργυρεοιο βιοιο.
Ουρηας μεν πρωτον επωχετο, κσι ΚΨΝΑΣ αργους,
Αυταρ επειτ' ΑΨΤΟΙΣΙ βελος εχεπευκες αφιεις
Βαλλ'[] αιει δε πυραι νεκυων καιοντο θαμειαι.
Hom. Il. 1.
Αυτου κινηθεντος: ο δ' ηιε Νυκτι εοικως.
Εετ' επειτ' απανευθε νεων, μετα δ' ιον εηκε,
Δεινη δε κλαγγη γενετ' αργυρεοιο βιοιο.
Ουρηας μεν πρωτον επωχετο, κσι ΚΨΝΑΣ αργους,
Αυταρ επειτ' ΑΨΤΟΙΣΙ βελος εχεπευκες αφιεις
Βαλλ'[] αιει δε πυραι νεκυων καιοντο θαμειαι.
Hom. Il. 1.
Ματαιολογων φημα προσεπτατο Ελλαδα μουσοπολων, σοφας
επιφθονον τεχνας ονειδος.
OCTAVIUS.
What then, shall none remain, to whom belongs
The care of Attick bards and Dorian songs?
Shall England boast no more, in order'd clans,
Her owls from Athens and her Delian swans?
174
No dirge funereal, nor one Grecian game?
AUTHOR.
There is: lo, learned Clerks in sable stole,
Graceful in years, pant eager for the goal.
Old Norb'ry starts, and with the seventh-form boys
In weeds of Greek the church-yard's peace annoys,
With classick Weston, Charley Coote, and Tew,
In dismal dance about the mournful yew.
But first in notes Sicilian plac'd on high,
Bates sounds the soft preluding symphony;
And in sad cadence, as the bands condense,
The curfew tolls the knell of harting Sense.
Graceful in years, pant eager for the goal.
Old Norb'ry starts, and with the seventh-form boys
In weeds of Greek the church-yard's peace annoys,
With classick Weston, Charley Coote, and Tew,
In dismal dance about the mournful yew.
175
Bates sounds the soft preluding symphony;
176
The curfew tolls the knell of harting Sense.
177
Nares holds the prize, and stops the Dorick din,
Elmsley without and Rivington within;
The volumes are arrang'd in order meet,
And all their ears erect these accents greet:
Elmsley without and Rivington within;
The volumes are arrang'd in order meet,
And all their ears erect these accents greet:
178
“Hail, my fond masters of the Grecian lyre!
“Hear a Reviewer's verse yourselves inspire:
“These books are yours, (oh, heed my tuneful voice)
“Take 'em, or damn'em, as best suits your choice;
“For some are new, some foolish, and some old,
“Some pert in calf, and some in sheets are bold.
“Hear a Reviewer's verse yourselves inspire:
“These books are yours, (oh, heed my tuneful voice)
“Take 'em, or damn'em, as best suits your choice;
179
“Some pert in calf, and some in sheets are bold.
“Twelve British Criticks, new or little read;
“Horsley's chaste sermon, and his copper head;
“Letters from Alciphron to cool love's flame,
“And prove Greek whores and English just the same;
“The Hymns, that Taylor, England's gentile priest,
“Sung spousal at fair Psychè's marriage feast;
“The alphabet in Greek by R P. Knight;
“Some rules for men to think and study right;
“An Eton Foolscap, with the game of goose
“Printed by Pote, types large and cover loose;
“An Education Sermon, rather long,
“By Doctor Parr, all in the vulgar tongue;
“Last, Horsley's master-piece, and merry plans,
“To accent right the goods of courtezans.
“Horsley's chaste sermon, and his copper head;
180
“And prove Greek whores and English just the same;
181
“Sung spousal at fair Psychè's marriage feast;
182
“Some rules for men to think and study right;
“An Eton Foolscap, with the game of goose
“Printed by Pote, types large and cover loose;
“An Education Sermon, rather long,
“By Doctor Parr, all in the vulgar tongue;
“Last, Horsley's master-piece, and merry plans,
“To accent right the goods of courtezans.
183
“Nor books alone attend the Conqueror
Bard,
“Him shall await a more sublime reward:
“Not the coarse joy a Grecian once could feel,
“Apples for sauce, or parsley for his veal,
“Or beverage drawn from spruce or mountain pines,
“With oil from Pisa's olive, when he dines;
“No ode to praise the binding of his books:
“No print from Sheffield of historick cooks,
“Of beauteous Gibbon's fair proportion'd shape,
“An old baboon, or fœtus of an ape;
“No robe, that waves in many a Tuscan fold;
“No lawn, that wraps a bishop from the cold;
“But fine broad cloth, in choicest fashion wrought,
“By modern hands to full perfection brought;
“'Tis His,—“to wear four sundays in the Park
“The best black suit of Doctor Courtney's Clerk!!!”
“Him shall await a more sublime reward:
“Not the coarse joy a Grecian once could feel,
“Apples for sauce, or parsley for his veal,
184
“With oil from Pisa's olive, when he dines;
“No ode to praise the binding of his books:
“No print from Sheffield of historick cooks,
“Of beauteous Gibbon's fair proportion'd shape,
“An old baboon, or fœtus of an ape;
185
“No lawn, that wraps a bishop from the cold;
“But fine broad cloth, in choicest fashion wrought,
“By modern hands to full perfection brought;
186
“The best black suit of Doctor Courtney's Clerk!!!”
187
Nares rising paus'd; then gave (the contest done,)
To Weston, Taylor's Hymns and Alciphron;
To Tew, Par's sermon, and the game of goose,
And Rochester's address to lemans loose;
To Coote, the foolscap, as the best relief
A Dean could hope; last to the hoary Chief
He fill'd a cup; then plac'd on Norb'ry's back
The Sunday suit of customary black.
To Weston, Taylor's Hymns and Alciphron;
To Tew, Par's sermon, and the game of goose,
And Rochester's address to lemans loose;
To Coote, the foolscap, as the best relief
A Dean could hope; last to the hoary Chief
He fill'd a cup; then plac'd on Norb'ry's back
The Sunday suit of customary black.
188
The gabbling ceas'd: with fix'd and serious look
Gray glanc'd from high, and own'd his rival, Cook.
Gray glanc'd from high, and own'd his rival, Cook.
189
Contract your smile, and quit this playful search;
These are the lay amusements of the church,
Mere cobweb labours of their learned thought;
Though sometimes teachers must themselves be taught
To weigh their office, raise their pow'rful breath,
Nor leave the world to darkness and to death.
Short be their folly: let example tell
Their life, their morals pure, and all is well.
These are the lay amusements of the church,
190
Though sometimes teachers must themselves be taught
To weigh their office, raise their pow'rful breath,
Nor leave the world to darkness and to death.
Short be their folly: let example tell
Their life, their morals pure, and all is well.
But should proud churchmen vie in sumptuous halls,
In wines and soups, Carthusian Bacchanals,
Nor think th'unwieldly superflux to shake,
Where curates starve, and helpless orphans quake,
Wav'ring I ask, in this dark scene beneath,
Why lightnings scathe yon desolated heath?
In wines and soups, Carthusian Bacchanals,
Nor think th'unwieldly superflux to shake,
Where curates starve, and helpless orphans quake,
191
Why lightnings scathe yon desolated heath?
192
And hark the voice has thunder'd: and the word,
Borne on the blast, a trembling world has heard
In consummation dread! the bonds of Rome
Are burst, and Babylon's prophetick doom,
With more than mortal ruin headlong cast,
Proclaims the measure full: she groans her last.
From climes where Piety no more was found,
Where Superstition wither'd all around,
The rights of nature barr'd, by heav'n resign'd
To vile affections, in corruption blind,
While, in the terrors of the world beneath,
Permitted fiends of darkness round them breathe;
Britain securely fix'd, invites from high
With charity's sedate, unalter'd eye.
The sacred, exil'd, melancholy band,
Passing from death and France, revere the land,
Where streams of inexhausted bounty pour,
And Christ still reigns, and bigots are no more.
Borne on the blast, a trembling world has heard
In consummation dread! the bonds of Rome
Are burst, and Babylon's prophetick doom,
With more than mortal ruin headlong cast,
Proclaims the measure full: she groans her last.
From climes where Piety no more was found,
Where Superstition wither'd all around,
193
To vile affections, in corruption blind,
While, in the terrors of the world beneath,
Permitted fiends of darkness round them breathe;
Britain securely fix'd, invites from high
With charity's sedate, unalter'd eye.
The sacred, exil'd, melancholy band,
Passing from death and France, revere the land,
Where streams of inexhausted bounty pour,
And Christ still reigns, and bigots are no more.
AUTHOR.
Blest be the voice of mercy, and the hand
Stretch'd o'er affliction's wounds with healing bland,
In holiest sympathy! our best of man
Gave us to tears, ere misery began.
Stretch'd o'er affliction's wounds with healing bland,
In holiest sympathy! our best of man
Gave us to tears, ere misery began.
Yet pause: “for mere Good-nature is a fool,”
Now slave to party, and now faction's tool:
Attend, nor heedless slight a poet's name:
Poet and prophet once were deem'd the same.
Say, are these fertile streams thus largely spread
A filial tribute o'er a mother bed?
Say, are these streams (think, while avails the thought)
To Rome through Gallick channels subtly brought?
Rome touches, tastes, and takes; and nothing loth:
But have we virtues? yes, of pagan growth.
Ask where Rome's church is founded? on a steep,
Which heresy's wild winds in vain may sweep,
Alone where sinners may have rest secure,
One only undefil'd, one only pure.
Blame you her cumbrous pomp, her iron rod,
Or trumpery relicks of her saints half-shod?
Lo Cònfessors, in every hamlet found,
With sacred sisters walk their cloister'd round:
There read the list: and calm the fate expect,
When crafty, meddling, thankless priests direct.
Think you, their hate unquench'd can ere expire?
The torch not tipt with sleeping sulphurous fire?
Their doctrines round a careless land are blown;
They blast the cottage, and would sap the throne.
What? are my words too warm?—I love my King,
My Country, and my God! the sounds shall ring
Ceaseless, till Pitt (with all his host awake)
In our great cause a nation's inquest take.
Look from that vale what tribes the fortress fill!
Then frown indignant o'er the opprobrious Hill.
Now slave to party, and now faction's tool:
194
Poet and prophet once were deem'd the same.
Say, are these fertile streams thus largely spread
A filial tribute o'er a mother bed?
Say, are these streams (think, while avails the thought)
To Rome through Gallick channels subtly brought?
195
But have we virtues? yes, of pagan growth.
Ask where Rome's church is founded? on a steep,
Which heresy's wild winds in vain may sweep,
196
One only undefil'd, one only pure.
Blame you her cumbrous pomp, her iron rod,
Or trumpery relicks of her saints half-shod?
Lo Cònfessors, in every hamlet found,
With sacred sisters walk their cloister'd round:
There read the list: and calm the fate expect,
When crafty, meddling, thankless priests direct.
197
The torch not tipt with sleeping sulphurous fire?
Their doctrines round a careless land are blown;
They blast the cottage, and would sap the throne.
What? are my words too warm?—I love my King,
My Country, and my God! the sounds shall ring
198
In our great cause a nation's inquest take.
199
Then frown indignant o'er the opprobrious Hill.
OCTAVIUS.
These thoughts are for the state: enough of Rome,
Her Gallick altars, and approaching doom.
But if from themes so grave you never roam,
200
201
202
You'd rise at last.
203
How strangely you mistake;
The dream deceives not, when the man's awake.
204
“He ne'er shall rise by benefice, or trade;
205
“A local something, and a shadowy name;
“Shall brave neglect; in England's cause contend;
“Hopeless himself of virtue, but her friend;
“Through crowds shall mark his solitary way,
“Ardent, though secret, and though serious, gay;
206
“Unknown, unheard, unhonour'd, shall descend;
“Bow to no minister for golden views,
“His portion, Memory, and best gift, the Muse.”
OCTAVIUS.
This of yourself?
AUTHOR.
'Tis so.
OCTAVIUS.
You're turn'd plain fool:
A vain pert prater, bred in Erskine's school;
Talk of yourself?
207
Why yes; I would be heard:
Mere talkers now, not writers, are preferr'd.
Look at that paper: if you print the speeches,
Pitt seems George Rose, or like Sir Richard, preaches,
Nor tone, nor majesty, nor patriot fires;
Methinks the wit of Sheridan expires;
Lost in Dundas the Caledonian twang,
Though Pitt, and port, and property he sang;
Print negro speeches, and in reason's spite,
Lo, Wilberforce is black, and Francis white;
Who wonders at buffoons, or Courtney's joke?
And we scarce slumber, though Sir William spoke;
'Tis Grey and grumbling; Curwen all and clatter;
And Dent and Dogs; and Pewter pot and platter.
208
Though Lauderdale should sketch his Scottish creed;
209
With names uncouth, but not unpolish'd speech.
Few mark the Journals of the dubious Moore,
We scent the tainted gale from Gallia's shore;
Through England as his Various Views advance,
We smile, but trace the Mannerist of France.
210
Though fiction aids, what sophistry conceiv'd;
211
212
213
214
215
216
217
Buzz through his wig, and give the bush more grace.
But on the mitred oath that Tucker swore
Parr-wisely ponder'd, and his oath forbore.
He prints a Sermon: Hurd with judging eye
Reads, and rejects with critick dignity:
Words upon words! and most against their will,
And honied globules dribble through his quill,
218
Heav'n lends her moon and crouded galaxies;
219
And dotard impotence, deform the page.
220
Not insignificance itself can 'scape:
Horace and Coombe go forth a gentle pair,
Splendid and silly, to unequal war;
221
The Gorgon glares, and blasts the critick's bays.
Parr prints a Paper: well; in all things equal,
Sense, taste, wit, judgment; but pray read The Sequel:
222
Morsels of politicks, most chosen prose,
Of Nobles, Priestley, Plato, Democrats,
Pitt, Plutarch, Curtis, Burke, and Rous, and Rats;
The scene? 'tis Birmingham, renown'd afar
At once for half-pence, and for Doctor Parr.
OCTAVIUS.
Well if none read such works, yet all admire—
AUTHOR.
The paper?
OCTAVIUS.
Yes; ten shillings every quire:
The type is Bulmer's, just like Boydell's plays:
So Mister Hayley shines in Milton's rays.
223
And hot-press'd nonsense claims a dignity.
AUTHOR.
Nonsense or sense, I'll bear in any shape,
In gown, in lawn, in ermine, or in crape:
What's a fine type, where truth exerts her rule?
Science is science, and a fool's a fool.
In gown, in lawn, in ermine, or in crape:
What's a fine type, where truth exerts her rule?
Science is science, and a fool's a fool.
Yet all shall read, and all that page approve,
When publick spirit meets with publick love.
Thus late, where Poverty with rapine dwelt,
Rumford's kind genius the Bavarian felt,
Not by romantick charities beguil'd
But calm in project, and in mercy mild,
Where'er his wisdom guided, none withstood,
Content with peace and practicable good;
Round him the labourers throng, the nobles wait,
Friend of the poor, and guardian of the state.
When publick spirit meets with publick love.
Thus late, where Poverty with rapine dwelt,
Rumford's kind genius the Bavarian felt,
224
But calm in project, and in mercy mild,
Where'er his wisdom guided, none withstood,
Content with peace and practicable good;
Round him the labourers throng, the nobles wait,
Friend of the poor, and guardian of the state.
Yet all shall read, when bold in strength divine,
Prelatick virtue guards the Christian shrine,
Pleas'd from the pomp of science to descend,
And teach the people, as their hallow'd friend;
In gentle warnings to the unsettled breast,
In all it's wand'rings from the realms of rest,
From impious scoffs and ribaldry to turn,
And Reason's Age by reason's light discern;
Refix insulted truth with temper'd zeal
And feel that joy which Watson best can feel.
Prelatick virtue guards the Christian shrine,
225
And teach the people, as their hallow'd friend;
In gentle warnings to the unsettled breast,
In all it's wand'rings from the realms of rest,
From impious scoffs and ribaldry to turn,
And Reason's Age by reason's light discern;
Refix insulted truth with temper'd zeal
And feel that joy which Watson best can feel.
True Genius marks alone the path to life,
And Fame invites, and prompts the noble strife,
Her temple's everlasting doors unbarr'd;
Desert is various, various the reward:
No little jealousy, no ill-tim'd sneer,
No envy there is found, or rival fear.
And Fame invites, and prompts the noble strife,
Her temple's everlasting doors unbarr'd;
Desert is various, various the reward:
No little jealousy, no ill-tim'd sneer,
No envy there is found, or rival fear.
226
Methinks on Babylon fond fancy dreams,
Her vale of villows by the mournful streams,
Where Hebrews lyres hung mute! O'er Sion's hill
Blows the chill blast, and baneful dews distill.
Where is the charm, that sense to virtue binds,
The social sympathy of learned minds,
The common int'rest, universal cause,
And all that piety to genius draws?
How sweet to hear, on that Parnassian mount,
Mild waters welling from the favour'd fount:
Oh, never may Castalia's streams divide
From Siloa's brook, and Jordan's hallow'd tide.
Her vale of villows by the mournful streams,
Where Hebrews lyres hung mute! O'er Sion's hill
Blows the chill blast, and baneful dews distill.
227
The social sympathy of learned minds,
The common int'rest, universal cause,
And all that piety to genius draws?
How sweet to hear, on that Parnassian mount,
Mild waters welling from the favour'd fount:
Oh, never may Castalia's streams divide
From Siloa's brook, and Jordan's hallow'd tide.
But hark what solemn strains from Arno's vales
Breathe raptures wafted on the Tuscan gales!
Lorenzo rears again his awful head,
And feels his ancient glories round him spread;
The Muses starting from their trance revive,
And at their Roscoe's bidding, wake and live.
The Latian genius vindicates his state,
And proudly hails the great Triumvirate,
Lords of the lyre, and fathers of the song,
In Fancy's order as they pass along.
There musing deep in philosophick groves,
His Tuscan Academe, Lorenzo roves;
While prophets of his great reviving name,
From isles of fragance and Athenian fame,
Sages and Bards in classick pomp appear:
Bessarion and Philelpho's form severe;
Marsilius rob'd in olive, Plato's priest;
Janus with treasures from the learned East;
And He, who from Eleusis flaming bore
The torch of science to his native shore,
Fam'd Chrysolòras; and Landino bold,
In studious shades high converse form'd to hold;
Politian, chief of all th'enlighten'd race
In Lydian softness, and Horatian grace;
And Michael, whose bold hand the gods direct,
The sculptor, painter, poet, architect,
Michael to Britain dear, so Genius spoke,
When his last praise from parting Reynolds broke:
And all whose brows, with ivy grac'd or bays,
Brighten'd their Leo's visionary days.
Names which I long have blest, nor blest in vain!
Oh, were I number'd in their sacred train,
To realms of purest light, where heroes dwell,
Her bolder notes the willing Muse should swell
In lyrick intonation grave and deep,
Nor dream with folly, nor with dullness sleep;
To Cowper and to Gifford leave the rod,
For songs celestial, and the Delian God:
Then calmly to the secret mount retire,
Bid Satire glance on folly, and expire.
Breathe raptures wafted on the Tuscan gales!
228
And feels his ancient glories round him spread;
The Muses starting from their trance revive,
And at their Roscoe's bidding, wake and live.
229
And proudly hails the great Triumvirate,
Lords of the lyre, and fathers of the song,
In Fancy's order as they pass along.
There musing deep in philosophick groves,
His Tuscan Academe, Lorenzo roves;
While prophets of his great reviving name,
From isles of fragance and Athenian fame,
230
Bessarion and Philelpho's form severe;
Marsilius rob'd in olive, Plato's priest;
Janus with treasures from the learned East;
And He, who from Eleusis flaming bore
The torch of science to his native shore,
231
In studious shades high converse form'd to hold;
Politian, chief of all th'enlighten'd race
In Lydian softness, and Horatian grace;
And Michael, whose bold hand the gods direct,
The sculptor, painter, poet, architect,
232
When his last praise from parting Reynolds broke:
And all whose brows, with ivy grac'd or bays,
Brighten'd their Leo's visionary days.
Names which I long have blest, nor blest in vain!
Oh, were I number'd in their sacred train,
To realms of purest light, where heroes dwell,
Her bolder notes the willing Muse should swell
233
Nor dream with folly, nor with dullness sleep;
To Cowper and to Gifford leave the rod,
For songs celestial, and the Delian God:
Then calmly to the secret mount retire,
Bid Satire glance on folly, and expire.
OCTAVIUS.
Give me my Sabine grove, tir'd Horace cried;
For Cumæ thus the great Aquinian sigh'd:
But when wild waves, and wars, and tempests rage,
Ah, who can find the soft Saturnian age?
'Tis your's awhile to frown on classick toys,
Black letter Dogs, or hoary seventh-form Boys;
Awhile to war with dunces, fools, and knaves,
Hirelings of state, or opposition slaves,
And all who dare profane the Muse's dome;
With idle random fierceness they may foam,
234
The snake winds harmless round the marble base.
END OF THE THIRD DIALOGUE.
275
DIALOGUE THE FOURTH AND LAST.
Ουδ' αλαοσκοπιην ειχε κρειων Ενοσιχθων:
Και γαρ ο θαυμαων ηστο Πτολεμοντε Μαχηντε,
Ψψου επ' ακροτατης κορυφης Σαμου υληεσσης
Θρηικιης: ενθεν γαρ εφαινετο πασα μεν Ιδη,
Φαινετο δε Πριαμοιο πολις, και νηες Αχαιων.
Αυτικα δ' εξ ορεος κατεβησατο παιπαλοεντος.
ΤΡΙΣ μεν ορεξατ' ιων, ΤΟ ΔΕ ΤΕΤΡΑΤΟΝ ικετο τεκμωρ
Αιγας, ενθα δε οι κλυτα δωματα ΒΕΝΘΕΣΙ ΛΙΜΝΗΣ
Χρυσεα, μαρμαιροντα τετευχαται, αφθιτα αιει.
Hom. Il. 13. v. 10.
Και γαρ ο θαυμαων ηστο Πτολεμοντε Μαχηντε,
Ψψου επ' ακροτατης κορυφης Σαμου υληεσσης
Θρηικιης: ενθεν γαρ εφαινετο πασα μεν Ιδη,
Φαινετο δε Πριαμοιο πολις, και νηες Αχαιων.
Αυτικα δ' εξ ορεος κατεβησατο παιπαλοεντος.
ΤΡΙΣ μεν ορεξατ' ιων, ΤΟ ΔΕ ΤΕΤΡΑΤΟΝ ικετο τεκμωρ
Αιγας, ενθα δε οι κλυτα δωματα ΒΕΝΘΕΣΙ ΛΙΜΝΗΣ
Χρυσεα, μαρμαιροντα τετευχαται, αφθιτα αιει.
Hom. Il. 13. v. 10.
Ουκ ησυχος
Δαφνηφαγων φοιβαεν εκ λαιμων οπα.
Δαφνηφαγων φοιβαεν εκ λαιμων οπα.
AUTHOR.
Oh, for that sabbath's dawn ere Britain wept,
And France before the Cross believ'd and slept!
(Rest to the state, and slumber to the soul!)
Ere yet the brooding storm was heard to roll
In fancy's ear o'er many an Alpine rock,
Or Europe trembled at the fated shock;
Ere by his lake Geneva's angel stood,
And wav'd his scroll prophetick o'er the flood,
With names (as yet unheard) and symbols drear,
Calvin in front, and Neckar in the rear;
But chief Equality's vain priest, Rousseau,
A sage in sorrow nurs'd, and gaunt with woe,
By persecution train'd and popish zeal,
Ripe with his wrongs to frame the dire appeal,
What time his work the Citizen began,
And gave to France the social savage, Man.
And France before the Cross believ'd and slept!
(Rest to the state, and slumber to the soul!)
Ere yet the brooding storm was heard to roll
In fancy's ear o'er many an Alpine rock,
Or Europe trembled at the fated shock;
Ere by his lake Geneva's angel stood,
And wav'd his scroll prophetick o'er the flood,
276
Calvin in front, and Neckar in the rear;
277
A sage in sorrow nurs'd, and gaunt with woe,
278
Ripe with his wrongs to frame the dire appeal,
What time his work the Citizen began,
And gave to France the social savage, Man.
Was it for this, in Leo's fost'ring reign
Learning uprose with tempests in her train;
Was every gleam deceitful, every ray
But idle splendor from the orb of day?
Say, were the victims mark'd from earliest time,
The Flamens conscious of a Nation's crime?
Why smoak'd the altars with the new perfume,
If heav'ns own fire descends but to consume?
Alas, proud Gallia's fabrick to the ground
What arm shall level, or what might confound!
Learning uprose with tempests in her train;
279
But idle splendor from the orb of day?
Say, were the victims mark'd from earliest time,
The Flamens conscious of a Nation's crime?
Why smoak'd the altars with the new perfume,
If heav'ns own fire descends but to consume?
Alas, proud Gallia's fabrick to the ground
What arm shall level, or what might confound!
Oh for that hand, which o'er the walls of Troy
His lightning brandish'd with a furious joy,
Her state, her arms, her fleets, her very name
Gave, as in mock'ry, to poetick fame,
And with the fire of Philip's son, unfurl'd
His classick standard o'er a wond'ring world,
Till “Homer's sprite did tremble all for grief,
And curs'd th'access of that celestial thief.”
Oh, for a Bryant's hand!
His lightning brandish'd with a furious joy,
280
Gave, as in mock'ry, to poetick fame,
281
His classick standard o'er a wond'ring world,
282
And curs'd th'access of that celestial thief.”
Oh, for a Bryant's hand!
283
Methinks you smile,
And fain would land me on the wand'ring isle,
Where the learn'd drain Acrasia's foaming bowl,
Till round the Sun their heads with Gebelin's roll;
284
Nor Hallam trembling for the sacred page,
285
What is my work? mere records of the Muse;
And lo! by Buonaparte's iron pen,
The tale of Rome may be Troy's tale again.
286
No; other thoughts my lab'ring soul employ,
That springs anew to long-forgotten joy;
I range in Fancy's consecrated round,
And meet the poet on a poet's ground,
Nor seek historick truth of time and place,
But truth of manners, character and grace.
That springs anew to long-forgotten joy;
I range in Fancy's consecrated round,
And meet the poet on a poet's ground,
Nor seek historick truth of time and place,
But truth of manners, character and grace.
The Bards who once the wreaths of glory wore,
Cloath'd in translucent veil their wondrous lore;
The tales they sung a willing age believ'd,
Charm'd into truth, and without guile deceiv'd.
Where'er they rov'd, young Fancy and the Muse
Wav'd high their mirror of a thousand hues;
They gaz'd; and as in varying guise pourtray'd
Aëreal phantoms hov'ring round them play'd,
Gave to each fleeting form, that shot along,
Existence everlasting as their song;
And as by nature's strength the tablet grew,
Rapture the pencil guided as they drew.
Cloath'd in translucent veil their wondrous lore;
The tales they sung a willing age believ'd,
Charm'd into truth, and without guile deceiv'd.
Where'er they rov'd, young Fancy and the Muse
Wav'd high their mirror of a thousand hues;
They gaz'd; and as in varying guise pourtray'd
Aëreal phantoms hov'ring round them play'd,
Gave to each fleeting form, that shot along,
Existence everlasting as their song;
And as by nature's strength the tablet grew,
Rapture the pencil guided as they drew.
287
Nay, now you soar indeed; another flight,
And the wing'd courser bears you from my sight:
You're strangel mov'd.
AUTHOR.
The matter is my own;
I never shar'd the profits of the gown,
Nor yet, with Horace and myself at war,
For rhyme and victuals left the starving Bar;
I never lov'd Dean Dewlap's vacant looks,
Or purchas'd empty praise from empty books;
I leave at sales the undisputed reign
To milk-white Gosset, and Lord Spencer's train.
No German nonsense sways my English heart,
Unus'd at ghosts and rattling bones to start:
I never chose, in various nature strong,
Logick for verse, or history for song;
But at the magick of Torquato's strain,
Disarm'd and captive in Armida's chain,
To Godfrey's pomp Rinaldo still prefer,
Nor care if ranting Wakefield thinks I err.
To Hurd, not Parr, my Muse submits her lays,
Pleas'd with advice, without a lust for praise,
Fond to correct, but never to defend,
And him who marks her errors, deems her friend;
With patriot aim and no irreverent rage,
Without one stain of party on the page,
From Grecian springs her strength, her art she draws,
Firm in her trust, ennobled in her cause;
Her moral none, the verse some few disdain,
Yet not a note she sounds shall sound in vain,
While Bryant in applause with Baker joins,
Gifford approves, and Storer loves the lines:
Though still, a stranger in the sacred clime,
Some say, I love not poetry, but rhyme.
I never shar'd the profits of the gown,
Nor yet, with Horace and myself at war,
For rhyme and victuals left the starving Bar;
288
Or purchas'd empty praise from empty books;
I leave at sales the undisputed reign
To milk-white Gosset, and Lord Spencer's train.
289
Unus'd at ghosts and rattling bones to start:
I never chose, in various nature strong,
Logick for verse, or history for song;
But at the magick of Torquato's strain,
Disarm'd and captive in Armida's chain,
To Godfrey's pomp Rinaldo still prefer,
Nor care if ranting Wakefield thinks I err.
290
Pleas'd with advice, without a lust for praise,
Fond to correct, but never to defend,
And him who marks her errors, deems her friend;
With patriot aim and no irreverent rage,
Without one stain of party on the page,
From Grecian springs her strength, her art she draws,
Firm in her trust, ennobled in her cause;
Her moral none, the verse some few disdain,
Yet not a note she sounds shall sound in vain,
While Bryant in applause with Baker joins,
Gifford approves, and Storer loves the lines:
291
Some say, I love not poetry, but rhyme.
Offspring of other times, ye visions old!
Legends, no more by gentle hands unroll'd,
Magnanimous deceits! where favour'd youth
Finds short repose from formidable truth!
Oh witness if, e'er silent in your praise,
I've pass'd in vice or sloth inglorious days,
But rais'd for you my firm unalter'd voice,
Fancy my guide, and solitude my choice.
Legends, no more by gentle hands unroll'd,
Magnanimous deceits! where favour'd youth
Finds short repose from formidable truth!
Oh witness if, e'er silent in your praise,
I've pass'd in vice or sloth inglorious days,
But rais'd for you my firm unalter'd voice,
Fancy my guide, and solitude my choice.
292
Though now no Syren voice be heard, no strain
Ascend from Pindus, or Arcadia's plain;
No Graces round th'Olympian throne of Jove
Bid the nine virgins raise the chant of love.
The harp of Taliessin lies unstrung,
Close by the loom, where Death's dread sisters sung;
Unfelt each charm of Odin's magick tree,
With many an uncouth Runick phantasy,
The symbol deep, and consecrated rhyme,
Trac'd with due reverence in the northern clime.
Though now no temper'd lance, no magick brand,
No Durindana waves o'er fabled land;
No nightly-rounding Ariel floats unseen,
Or flames amazement o'er the desert green;
No wizards hold, some blasted pine beneath,
Their horrid sabbath on the darken'd heath;
Say, are the days of blest delusion fled?
Must fiction rear no more her languid head?
No more the Muse her long-lost transports know,
Nor trace the fount whence living waters flow?
Awake, ye slumb'ring Rulers of the song!
Each in your solemn orders pass along;
In sacred radiance o'er your mountain old
Yet once again your dignities unfold,
And fill the space; your scepter'd glories claim,
And vindicate the great Pierian name.
Ascend from Pindus, or Arcadia's plain;
No Graces round th'Olympian throne of Jove
Bid the nine virgins raise the chant of love.
The harp of Taliessin lies unstrung,
Close by the loom, where Death's dread sisters sung;
Unfelt each charm of Odin's magick tree,
With many an uncouth Runick phantasy,
The symbol deep, and consecrated rhyme,
Trac'd with due reverence in the northern clime.
293
No Durindana waves o'er fabled land;
No nightly-rounding Ariel floats unseen,
Or flames amazement o'er the desert green;
No wizards hold, some blasted pine beneath,
Their horrid sabbath on the darken'd heath;
Say, are the days of blest delusion fled?
Must fiction rear no more her languid head?
No more the Muse her long-lost transports know,
Nor trace the fount whence living waters flow?
Awake, ye slumb'ring Rulers of the song!
Each in your solemn orders pass along;
In sacred radiance o'er your mountain old
Yet once again your dignities unfold,
And fill the space; your scepter'd glories claim,
And vindicate the great Pierian name.
OCTAVIUS.
Are these a poet's only themes? I fear,
No verse like this will find a patient ear.
294
Hear yet awhile:—the dread resistless pow'r,
That works deep-felt at inspiration's hour,
He claims alone—
OCTAVIUS.
Who claims?
AUTHOR.
The favour'd Bard,
Who nobly conscious of his just reward,
With loftier soul, and undecaying might,
Paints what he feels in characters of light.
He turns: and instantaneous all around
Cliffs whiten, waters murmur, voices sound,
Portentous forms in heav'n's aërial hall
Appear, as at some great supernal call.
Thence oft in thought his steps ideal haste
To rocks and groves, the wilderness or waste;
To plains, where Tadmor's regal ruins lie
In desolation's sullen majesty;
Or where Carthusian tow'rs the pilgrim draw.
And bow the soul with unresisted awe,
Whence Bruno, from the mountain's pine-clad brow,
Survey'd the world's inglorious toil below;
Then, as down ragged cliffs the torrent roar'd,
Prostrate great Nature's present God ador'd,
And bade, in solitude's extremest bourn,
Religion hallow the severe sojourn.
Who nobly conscious of his just reward,
295
Paints what he feels in characters of light.
296
Cliffs whiten, waters murmur, voices sound,
297
Appear, as at some great supernal call.
Thence oft in thought his steps ideal haste
To rocks and groves, the wilderness or waste;
298
In desolation's sullen majesty;
Or where Carthusian tow'rs the pilgrim draw.
And bow the soul with unresisted awe,
Whence Bruno, from the mountain's pine-clad brow,
Survey'd the world's inglorious toil below;
Then, as down ragged cliffs the torrent roar'd,
Prostrate great Nature's present God ador'd,
And bade, in solitude's extremest bourn,
Religion hallow the severe sojourn.
To him the Painter gives his pencil's might;
No gloom too dreadful and no blaze too bright,
What time to mortal ken he dares unveil
The inexpressive form in semblance frail,
To the strain'd view presents the yawning tomb,
Substantial horrors, and eternal doom.
No gloom too dreadful and no blaze too bright,
What time to mortal ken he dares unveil
The inexpressive form in semblance frail,
299
Substantial horrors, and eternal doom.
To Him the Pow'rs of harmony resort,
And as the Bard, with high commanding port,
Scans all th'ethereal wilderness around,
Pour on his ear the thrilling stream of sound;
Strains, from that full-strung chord at distance swell,
Notes, breathing soft from musick's inmost cell,
While to their numerous pause, or accent deep,
His choral passions dread accordance keep.
And as the Bard, with high commanding port,
Scans all th'ethereal wilderness around,
Pour on his ear the thrilling stream of sound;
Strains, from that full-strung chord at distance swell,
Notes, breathing soft from musick's inmost cell,
While to their numerous pause, or accent deep,
His choral passions dread accordance keep.
Thence musing, lo he bends his weary eyes
On life and all it's sad realities;
Marks how the prospect darkens in the rear,
Shade blends with shade, and fear succeeds to fear,
Mid forms that rise, and flutter through the gloom,
'Till Death unbar the cold sepulchral room.
On life and all it's sad realities;
Marks how the prospect darkens in the rear,
Shade blends with shade, and fear succeeds to fear,
Mid forms that rise, and flutter through the gloom,
'Till Death unbar the cold sepulchral room.
300
Such is the Poet: bold, without confine,
Imagination's “charter'd libertine!”
He scorns, in apathy, to float or dream
On listless Satisfaction's torpid stream,
But dares alone in vent'rous bark to ride
Down turbulent Delight's tempestuous tide;
While thoughts encount'ring thoughts in conflict fierce
Tumultuous rush, and labour into verse,
Then, as the swelling numbers round him roll,
Stamps on th'immortal page the visions of the soul.
Imagination's “charter'd libertine!”
He scorns, in apathy, to float or dream
On listless Satisfaction's torpid stream,
But dares alone in vent'rous bark to ride
Down turbulent Delight's tempestuous tide;
While thoughts encount'ring thoughts in conflict fierce
Tumultuous rush, and labour into verse,
Then, as the swelling numbers round him roll,
Stamps on th'immortal page the visions of the soul.
OCTAVIUS.
Nay, if you feed on this cælestial strain,
You may with Gods hold converse, not with men:
Sooner the people's right shall Horsley teach,
In judgment delicate, with prudence preach,
And o'er his bosom broad forget to spread
Bath's dangling pride, and Ribband rosy-red;
Friend of the Church the pious Grafton prove;
Or Sutton cease to claim the publick love,
And e'er forego, from dignity of place,
His polish'd mind and reconciling grace;
Or Yorke, regardless of his sacred trust,
To unobtrusive merit be unjust;
Porteous, the royal prelate, firm to truth,
Forget the primal patron of his youth;
Moore to his synod call of unction full;
Or Barrington be meek; or Watson dull.
Sooner Stentorian Davies cease to talk,
And for his Eton quit his Bond-street walk;
Sumner drink deep of the Castalian spring;
Or Langford leave off preaching to the King;
Or good Palæmon, worn with classick toil,
Complain of plants ungrateful to the soil;
Or Warren in his well-curv'd palm confound
An ancient guinea with a modern pound;
Sooner one Prelate hate th'unequal glass,
And round his table let the Claret pass;
O'er his true church the crafty St. Pol sleep;
Or bounds with Hereticks John Milner keep;
Or Wilberforce range lawless through the town;
Or Mingay be the glory of his gown;
Or Erskine cease from impotent grimace,
And his appeals to God, his prime disgrace;
Or Grafton's virtues, to their latest day,
Expire in Junius, and revive in Gray;
Sooner the black weird Brother of the Heath
With spells appall an innocent Macbeth;
Or, by the wayward justice of the land,
Great Mansfield fall by an Attorney's hand;
Or one mean cause the virtuous Scott maintain,
Turn law to trade, or deem religion vain;
Or Rose with coy submission, modest grace,
Rise to explain his sinecures and place;
Or the Bank bow to Pitt's imperial creed;
Or Dramatists to publick trust succeed;
Sooner to France Thames roll his current strong,
Than men love verse, high fancy, or the song.
You may with Gods hold converse, not with men:
Sooner the people's right shall Horsley teach,
In judgment delicate, with prudence preach,
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Bath's dangling pride, and Ribband rosy-red;
Friend of the Church the pious Grafton prove;
Or Sutton cease to claim the publick love,
And e'er forego, from dignity of place,
His polish'd mind and reconciling grace;
Or Yorke, regardless of his sacred trust,
To unobtrusive merit be unjust;
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Forget the primal patron of his youth;
Moore to his synod call of unction full;
Or Barrington be meek; or Watson dull.
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And for his Eton quit his Bond-street walk;
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Or Mingay be the glory of his gown;
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Turn law to trade, or deem religion vain;
Or Rose with coy submission, modest grace,
Rise to explain his sinecures and place;
Or the Bank bow to Pitt's imperial creed;
Or Dramatists to publick trust succeed;
Sooner to France Thames roll his current strong,
Than men love verse, high fancy, or the song.
Taught by the muse, and by her wisdom wise,
Think not, a Poet's name I lightly prize:
But in the wane of Empires (mark the hour)
Vice and the Sword consolidate all pow'r;
Laws pass their bounds; few statesmen stand erect;
All in their country's name, themselves protect;
The publick hopes with publick credit sink—
At such an hour, when men to madness think,
What is a Poet, what is fiction's strain?
Junius might probe a Nation's wounds in vain.
As from a diamond globe, with rays condense,
'Tis Satire gives the strongest light to sense,
To thought compression, vigour to the soul,
To language bounds, to fancy due controul,
To truth the splendour of her awful face,
To learning dignity, to virtue grace,
To conscience stings beneath the cap or crown,
To vice that terror she will feel and own.
Think not, a Poet's name I lightly prize:
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Vice and the Sword consolidate all pow'r;
Laws pass their bounds; few statesmen stand erect;
All in their country's name, themselves protect;
The publick hopes with publick credit sink—
At such an hour, when men to madness think,
What is a Poet, what is fiction's strain?
Junius might probe a Nation's wounds in vain.
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'Tis Satire gives the strongest light to sense,
To thought compression, vigour to the soul,
To language bounds, to fancy due controul,
To truth the splendour of her awful face,
To learning dignity, to virtue grace,
To conscience stings beneath the cap or crown,
To vice that terror she will feel and own.
But if in love with fiction still, at Court
Present in verse some new Finance Report,
How taxes, funds, and debts shall disappear,
Or in the fiftieth or five-hundredth year.
Or tread the maze of picturesque delight,
From Holwood paint with Pitt the prospect bright;
Without one “line of boundary” to speech,
The summit of conceit with Gilpin reach.
In Desolation's dread partitions felt,
With dip, and bole, grand masses, burst, and belt,
With shudders tremulous explore your way,
Through plashy inundations led astray;
Till tir'd and jaded with the coxcomb strains,
Homeward you steal “through Surry's quiet lanes,”
Renounce all Gilpin's jargon, said or sung,
And talk of Nature's works in Nature's tongue.
But still keep Method.
Present in verse some new Finance Report,
How taxes, funds, and debts shall disappear,
Or in the fiftieth or five-hundredth year.
Or tread the maze of picturesque delight,
From Holwood paint with Pitt the prospect bright;
Without one “line of boundary” to speech,
The summit of conceit with Gilpin reach.
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With dip, and bole, grand masses, burst, and belt,
With shudders tremulous explore your way,
Through plashy inundations led astray;
327
Homeward you steal “through Surry's quiet lanes,”
Renounce all Gilpin's jargon, said or sung,
And talk of Nature's works in Nature's tongue.
But still keep Method.
AUTHOR.
Method?
OCTAVIUS.
Yes: 'tis plain,
Connection, order, method you disdain:
Be regular: from A to B proceed;
I hate your zig-zag verse, and wanton heed.
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Say then, a simple Story shall I tell?
A man of method is the theme.
OCTAVIUS.
'Tis well.
AUTHOR.
There liv'd a Scholar late, of London fame,
A Doctor, and Morosophos his name:
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Far from a Newton, and not quite a Vince;
In metaphysicks bold would spread his sails,
And with Monboddo still believ'd in tails;
At anatomick lore would sometimes peep,
And call Earle useful, Abernethy deep;
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A Dilettante in Divinity;
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Through science by the alphabet he ran.
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He took, not e'en in thought inclin'd to rove,
A wife for regularity, not love.
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Some say, he had a method in his dreams.
Three sessions in the House he daily toil'd,
In every plan, in every motion foil'd,
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“I'll move myself, the House I move no more;”
Then penn'd to Pitt his monitory strain,
As Murray, clear, and as fond Randolph, plain.
Resolv'd on ease, his travels were at home,
And Lum'sden taught him to converse of Rome:
336
He lov'd, the pride of Chambers and of Soane.
But late, by Carter's holy pencil won,
Wyatt and Gothick heresy would shun;
And oft in thought, by antique pavements laid,
With Lysons guide the military spade;
337
With little Daniel went his twelve miles round.
338
So regular, you might have thought him bail'd.
With Jones a linguist, Sanscrit, Greek, or Manks,
And could with Watson play some chemick pranks;
Yet far too wise to roast a diamond whole,
And for a treasure find at last a coal.
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Will Pitt, with honest Harry, lov'd his port;
The Bengal Squad he fed, though wondrous nice,
Baring his currie took, and Scott his rice.
In Scrip: not Hemings' self more vers'd than he,
The Solomons, or Nathan, or E. P.;
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(Not your damn'd dollars, or Bank-paper trash)
Nor tax, nor loan he fear'd, at table free,
And drank the Minister with three times three;
Till with a pun old Caleb crown'd the whole,
“Consols, and not philosophy, console.”
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And would at times regale you with a song:
But seldom that; in musick though a prig,
The little Doctor swell'd and look'd so big:
Nay to Greek notes would trill a Grecian ode,
In diatonick kind and Lydian mode,
And then with Burney, as his fit grew warmer,
Convers'd of Stentor the great throat-performer;
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Play'd some French General's obligato part.
Banks gave him morning lessons how to dress,
And Morgan whisper'd courage and finesse.
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Something between a Jerningham and Knight:
He dealt in tragick, epick, critick lore,
With half, whole plans, and episodes in store,
Method was all; yet would he seldom write,
He fear'd the ground-plot wrong, or—out of sight.
At last the Doctor gave his friends a work!
(Not verse, like Cowper, or high prose, like Burke,)
Chambers abridg'd! in sooth 'twas all he read,
From fruitful A to unproductive Zed.
OCTAVIUS.
What then? for ever shall we wildly stray,
And pluck each hare-bell in the flow'ry way,
344
Stoop to each golden apple in the course?
I never can with argument dispense;
Pope gave the verse, but Warburton the sense.
AUTHOR.
'Tis true; by plan and syllabus confin'd,
Knight thus composes first the reader's mind.
To rouse attention is the poet's art,
Knight calls to sleep, and acts a civil part,
Save to his view when foul Priapus rose,
He wak'd to lust, in stimulating prose.
But though that Garden-God forsaken dies;
Another Cleland see in Lewis rise.
Why sleep the ministers of truth and law?
Has the State no controul, no decent awe,
While each with each in madd'ning orgies vie,
Pandars to lust and licens'd blasphemy?
Can Senates hear without a kindred rage?
Oh may a poet's light'ning blast the page,
Nor with the bolt of Nemesis in vain
Supply the laws, that wake not to restrain.
Knight thus composes first the reader's mind.
To rouse attention is the poet's art,
Knight calls to sleep, and acts a civil part,
Save to his view when foul Priapus rose,
He wak'd to lust, in stimulating prose.
345
Another Cleland see in Lewis rise.
Why sleep the ministers of truth and law?
Has the State no controul, no decent awe,
346
Pandars to lust and licens'd blasphemy?
347
Oh may a poet's light'ning blast the page,
348
Supply the laws, that wake not to restrain.
Is ignorance the plea? since Blackstone drew
The lucid chart, each labyrinth has a clue,
Each law an index: students aptly turn
To Williams, Hale, judicious Cox, and Burn;
Obscenity has now her code and priest,
While Anarchy prepares the dire Digest.
The lucid chart, each labyrinth has a clue,
Each law an index: students aptly turn
To Williams, Hale, judicious Cox, and Burn;
Obscenity has now her code and priest,
While Anarchy prepares the dire Digest.
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Methinks as in a theatre I stand,
Where Vice and Folly saunter hand in hand,
With each strange form in motley masquerade;
Featur'd grimace, and impudence pourtray'd;
While Virtue, hov'ring o'er th'unhallow'd room,
Seems a dim speck through Sin's surrounding gloom.
As through the smoak-soil'd glass we spy from far
The circling radiance of the Sirian Star,
Faint wax the beams, if strong the fumy tint,
Till the star fades, a mathematick point.
Where Vice and Folly saunter hand in hand,
With each strange form in motley masquerade;
Featur'd grimace, and impudence pourtray'd;
While Virtue, hov'ring o'er th'unhallow'd room,
Seems a dim speck through Sin's surrounding gloom.
As through the smoak-soil'd glass we spy from far
The circling radiance of the Sirian Star,
Faint wax the beams, if strong the fumy tint,
Till the star fades, a mathematick point.
Sure from the womb I was untimely torn,
Or in some rude inclement season born;
The State turns harsh on fortune's grating hinge,
And I untaught to beg, or crouch, or cringe.
For me the fates no golden texture weave,
Though happier far to give than to receive:
Yet with unvaulting sober wishes blest,
Ambition fled with envy from my breast;
For friendship form'd, I feel, in realms above,
My Saturn temper'd by the beam of Jove.
I cannot, will not, stoop with boys to rise,
And seize on Pitt, like Canning, by surprise,
Be led through Treasury vaults in airy dance,
And flatter'd into insignificance.
I cannot, will not, in a college gown,
Vent my first nonsense on a patient town,
Quit the dull Cam, and ponder in the park
A six-weeks Epick, or a Joan of Arc.
I leave these early transports, and the calm
Complacence, and the softly trickling balm
Self-consolation sheds! more sweet than all
Burke felt in senates, or Impeachment's Hall;
Borne to that course, where thund'ring from afar
The Great Auruncian drove his primal car,
Or in some rude inclement season born;
The State turns harsh on fortune's grating hinge,
And I untaught to beg, or crouch, or cringe.
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Though happier far to give than to receive:
Yet with unvaulting sober wishes blest,
Ambition fled with envy from my breast;
For friendship form'd, I feel, in realms above,
My Saturn temper'd by the beam of Jove.
I cannot, will not, stoop with boys to rise,
And seize on Pitt, like Canning, by surprise,
Be led through Treasury vaults in airy dance,
And flatter'd into insignificance.
I cannot, will not, in a college gown,
Vent my first nonsense on a patient town,
Quit the dull Cam, and ponder in the park
A six-weeks Epick, or a Joan of Arc.
351
Complacence, and the softly trickling balm
Self-consolation sheds! more sweet than all
Burke felt in senates, or Impeachment's Hall;
Borne to that course, where thund'ring from afar
The Great Auruncian drove his primal car,
E'en now, when all I view afflicts my sight,
All that Horne Tooke can plot, or Godwin write;
Now when Translation to a pest is grown,
And Holcroft to French treason adds his own;
When Gallick Diderot in vain we shun,
His blasted pencil, Fatalist, and Nun;
When St. Pol sounds the sacring bell, that calls
His Priests en masse from Charles's ruin'd walls;
When Thelwall, for the season, quits the Strand
To organize revolt by sea and land;
When Barristers turn authors; authors prate;
Charles Fox allegiance dares to calculate,
And with his sulph'rous torch relumes the pile
With unaverted face, and ghastly smile;
Now when, beneath the dread fraternal frown,
The harp revers'd grates discord on the Crown;
When Transatlantick Emigrants can roam
But to return, and praise our English home;
Now, when the French defend us in disgrace,
French swords, French fraud, French priests, and French grimace;
When England changes arms—at such a view
Must I find method, verse, and patience too?
My verse, the thunder of a Patriot's voice,
Cries loud to all who England make their choice,
“Throw wide that portal; let no Roman wait,
“But march with Priestley through the dextral gate.
All that Horne Tooke can plot, or Godwin write;
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353
When Gallick Diderot in vain we shun,
His blasted pencil, Fatalist, and Nun;
When St. Pol sounds the sacring bell, that calls
His Priests en masse from Charles's ruin'd walls;
When Thelwall, for the season, quits the Strand
To organize revolt by sea and land;
354
Charles Fox allegiance dares to calculate,
And with his sulph'rous torch relumes the pile
With unaverted face, and ghastly smile;
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The harp revers'd grates discord on the Crown;
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357
358
French swords, French fraud, French priests, and French grimace;
When England changes arms—at such a view
Must I find method, verse, and patience too?
My verse, the thunder of a Patriot's voice,
Cries loud to all who England make their choice,
“Throw wide that portal; let no Roman wait,
“But march with Priestley through the dextral gate.
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Talk thus, e'en Horsley shall applaud: proceed.
AUTHOR.
The tears that Britain sheds, her wounds that bleed,
Call for a fost'ring hand, the balm of Peace;
Not stypticks, which the sanguine tide increase,
Such as State-quacks, or Barristers expose
For fame and sale, and sleeping might disclose.
In state affairs all Barristers are dull,
And Erskine nods, the opium in his skull.
Call for a fost'ring hand, the balm of Peace;
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Such as State-quacks, or Barristers expose
For fame and sale, and sleeping might disclose.
In state affairs all Barristers are dull,
And Erskine nods, the opium in his skull.
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Saw'st thou, (or did my troubled fancy dream?)
High o'er yon cliff, in majesty supreme,
Vengeance his attribute, (and, as he trod,
The conscious waves roll'd back!) the passing God,
That shook old Ocean's empire? from beneath
Strange threat'ning notes in hollow murmurs breathe,
Hoarse through the deafen'd shrouds! But hush'd the blast,
The Trident is confirm'd: the dream is past.
High o'er yon cliff, in majesty supreme,
362
The conscious waves roll'd back!) the passing God,
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Strange threat'ning notes in hollow murmurs breathe,
364
The Trident is confirm'd: the dream is past.
Oh, strong against ourselves, and rashly bold!
No voice, as in the Hebrew fane of old,
From Britain's center to her utmost bounds,
From parting angels in sad accent sounds;
Paine may blaspheme, Tone, Tooke, and Thelwall mourn,
Our Ark is still by hallow'd hands upborne!
I too will call, loud through the gathering storm,
Godwin and Volney, Ruin and Reform;
The Sophists unabash'd yet rear their head,
Their colours gaudy, though but idly spread.
Better be dull than wicked; from the heart
The life-springs issue, and their force impart.
Better to write stark nonsense; better preach
With silky voice, and sacred flow'rs of speech,
In soft probation for a Foundling's gown,
To please some guardian Midas of the town,
Who gives his vote from judgment and from taste;
Better with Warner move with measur'd haste
To lend new pleasure to a pedant's ear,
Appeal to Bryant, nor his judgment fear;
Better to state-arithmetick be bred,
Tell Jacobins and Tories by the head;
Prove that no dogs, as through the streets they range,
Give bone for bone in regular exchange;
Or frame, with Marsh, strange theorems to try
Some manuscript's divine identity;
With Hargrave to the Peers approach with awe,
And sense and grammar sink in Yorke and law;
With Pitt and Fox some Mantuan strain rehearse,
In school-boy contest for a hackney'd verse;
Better be White, though dubious of my fame,
Or wisely sink my own in Homer's name;
Better to disappoint the publick hope,
Like Warton driveling on the page of Pope;
While o'er the ground that Warburton once trod,
The Winton Pedant shakes his little rod,
Content his own stale scraps to steal or glean,
Hash'd up and season'd with an old man's spleen;
Nor e'en the Bard's deformity can 'scape,
“His pictur'd person and his libel'd shape;”
Ah, better to unlearn'd oblivion hurl'd,
Then give to Perry what I owe the world;
And idly busy, in my choice perplext,
Throw years of labour on a single text,
(Alike to me, encas'd in Grecian bronze,
Koran or Vulgate, Veda, Priest, or Bonze)
And lend to truth itself unhallow'd aid,
In all the rashness of a scholar's trade,
And fall, like Porson.
No voice, as in the Hebrew fane of old,
From Britain's center to her utmost bounds,
From parting angels in sad accent sounds;
365
Our Ark is still by hallow'd hands upborne!
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370
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375
376
377
378
379
Better to state-arithmetick be bred,
Tell Jacobins and Tories by the head;
Prove that no dogs, as through the streets they range,
Give bone for bone in regular exchange;
380
Some manuscript's divine identity;
381
And sense and grammar sink in Yorke and law;
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In school-boy contest for a hackney'd verse;
Better be White, though dubious of my fame,
Or wisely sink my own in Homer's name;
383
Like Warton driveling on the page of Pope;
384
The Winton Pedant shakes his little rod,
385
Hash'd up and season'd with an old man's spleen;
Nor e'en the Bard's deformity can 'scape,
“His pictur'd person and his libel'd shape;”
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389
390
391
392
393
394
OCTAVIUS.
You may spare your pains,
He gives no ear to any modern strains,
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AUTHOR.
Censure or praise let others seek or fear:
Look at my verse, the superscription there,
The cause that I defend: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,
The statesman's, and the peasant's. In my line,
All find in me a patron and a friend,
Unseen, unknown, unshaken to the end.
Yes, from the depths of Pindus shall my rhymes,
Through this mis-order'd world, these lawless times,
Be heard in Albion and her inmost state;
All that the good revere and bad men hate,
In spirit and in substance, as of old,
The Muse in her Asbestos shall enfold.
Look at my verse, the superscription there,
The cause that I defend: 'tis yours, 'tis mine,
The statesman's, and the peasant's. In my line,
All find in me a patron and a friend,
Unseen, unknown, unshaken to the end.
397
Through this mis-order'd world, these lawless times,
Be heard in Albion and her inmost state;
All that the good revere and bad men hate,
In spirit and in substance, as of old,
The Muse in her Asbestos shall enfold.
This is my Method.—Though I sometimes stray
From Euclid's rigid rules to fancy's way,
Yet have I mus'd on Granta's willowy strand,
The sage of Alexandria in my hand,
And mark'd his symbols deep; while o'er my ear
Truth pour'd her strain in harmony severe.
I sought the Stagirite; and could divide
(No Scotchman near, no Gillies by my side)
His sober sense from pride of intellect,
What Locke confirm'd, or warn'd me to reject,
Thence soaring on the balanc'd wings of thought,
(As Kepler hinted, but as Newton taught)
My mind in calm ascension to the height
Of the world's temple, through th'abyss of light,
Mid wand'ring fires and every starr'd abode,
Explor'd the works and wonders of the God,
Who fix'd the laws of order, time and place,
In his own great sensorium boundless space.
The Chemist's magick flame, the curious sport
Amber first gave, would oft my fancy court,
Led through creation's consecrated range,
Each flower, and plant, and stem, with every change
Of vegetative life, in order brought,
I magnified Linnæus as I thought;
But spurn'd unfeeling science, cruel tales
Of Virgin rabbets, and of headless snails,
And through the realms of Nature as I trod,
Bow'd at the throne, and saw the pow'r, of God.
In morals, in religion, in the state,
In science, without order, all I hate.
From Euclid's rigid rules to fancy's way,
398
The sage of Alexandria in my hand,
And mark'd his symbols deep; while o'er my ear
Truth pour'd her strain in harmony severe.
I sought the Stagirite; and could divide
(No Scotchman near, no Gillies by my side)
His sober sense from pride of intellect,
What Locke confirm'd, or warn'd me to reject,
Thence soaring on the balanc'd wings of thought,
(As Kepler hinted, but as Newton taught)
My mind in calm ascension to the height
Of the world's temple, through th'abyss of light,
Mid wand'ring fires and every starr'd abode,
399
Who fix'd the laws of order, time and place,
In his own great sensorium boundless space.
The Chemist's magick flame, the curious sport
Amber first gave, would oft my fancy court,
Led through creation's consecrated range,
Each flower, and plant, and stem, with every change
Of vegetative life, in order brought,
I magnified Linnæus as I thought;
But spurn'd unfeeling science, cruel tales
Of Virgin rabbets, and of headless snails,
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401
402
In science, without order, all I hate.
OCTAVIUS.
Speak then, the hour demands; Is Learning fled?
Spent all her vigour, all her spirit dead?
Have Gallick arms and unrelenting war
Borne all her trophies from Britannia far?
Shall nought but ghosts and trinkets be display'd,
Since Walpole ply'd the virtuoso's trade,
Bade sober truth revers'd for fiction pass,
And mus'd o'er Gothick toys through Gothick glass?
Since states, and words, and volumes, all are new,
Armies have skeletons, and sermons too;
403
Simeon by Cam, or Wyndham on the Rhine.
Where is Invention? is the modern store,
The same that old Chaldæa knew before;
All that the Gallick sage, with ill-starr'd wit,
Kens from his ancient telescopick pit?
AUTHOR.
All is not lost: the spirit shall revive:
Lowth yet instructs, and Blayney's labours live;
With all who wander by the sacred fount,
(A chosen band!) encircling Sion's mount,
Fast by the fanes and oracles of God,
And mark, with King, where waves his awful rod.
The truth of evidence, the moral strain,
Nor Hurd has preach'd, nor Paley taught in vain;
Socinus droops, and baffled Priestley flies,
And at the strength of Horsley shrinks, and dies;
Nor second stand in theologick fame
Sagacious Hey, and Rennell's learned name,
And Douglas, hail'd afar from earliest youth
Great victor in the well-fought field of truth.
To me, all heedless of proud fashion's sneer,
Maurice is learn'd, and Wilberforce sincere,
(Though on his page some pause in sacred doubt)
As Gisborne serious, and as Pott devout.
Nor yet ungrac'd may Sulivan remain,
Serene in fancy, nor in science vain;
But still, though oft his various works I scan,
I quit the volume, when I find the man.
Lowth yet instructs, and Blayney's labours live;
404
(A chosen band!) encircling Sion's mount,
Fast by the fanes and oracles of God,
And mark, with King, where waves his awful rod.
405
406
407
408
409
410
And Douglas, hail'd afar from earliest youth
Great victor in the well-fought field of truth.
411
Maurice is learn'd, and Wilberforce sincere,
412
As Gisborne serious, and as Pott devout.
413
Serene in fancy, nor in science vain;
414
I quit the volume, when I find the man.
Herschell, with ampler mind and magick glass,
Mid worlds and worlds revolving as they pass,
Pours the full cluster'd radiance from on high,
That fathomless abyss of Deity.
Who in the depth abstruse of intellect
A greater now than Waring shall expect?
Lo, where Philosophy extends her sway,
Guides future Navies o'er the trackless way,
More voluble and firm; so, strong in thought,
The royal Synod Atwood sate and taught.
Who may forget thee, Beattie? rustick Burns,
And all his artless wood-notes Scotland mourns.
With England's Bard, with Cowper, who shall vie?
Original in strength and dignity,
With more than painter's fancy blest, with lays
Holy, as saints to heav'n expiring raise.
See, with the fire of youth how art combines,
When Milton's muse with Westall's pencil joins!
For Athens Cumberland seems born alone,
To bid her comick Patriot be our own.
High from the climes of Latium's happier day
The Muse on Roscoe darts her noontide ray;
And with each soft, each reconciling pow'r,
Sheds gleams of peace on Melmoth's closing hour;
Bright to the goal in their sublime career
Bryant and Burke the torch triumphant bear;
While Granta hails (what need the Sage to name?)
Her lov'd Iapis on the banks of Cam.
Mid worlds and worlds revolving as they pass,
415
That fathomless abyss of Deity.
Who in the depth abstruse of intellect
A greater now than Waring shall expect?
Lo, where Philosophy extends her sway,
Guides future Navies o'er the trackless way,
More voluble and firm; so, strong in thought,
The royal Synod Atwood sate and taught.
Who may forget thee, Beattie? rustick Burns,
And all his artless wood-notes Scotland mourns.
416
Original in strength and dignity,
With more than painter's fancy blest, with lays
Holy, as saints to heav'n expiring raise.
417
When Milton's muse with Westall's pencil joins!
For Athens Cumberland seems born alone,
To bid her comick Patriot be our own.
418
The Muse on Roscoe darts her noontide ray;
And with each soft, each reconciling pow'r,
Sheds gleams of peace on Melmoth's closing hour;
Bright to the goal in their sublime career
Bryant and Burke the torch triumphant bear;
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Her lov'd Iapis on the banks of Cam.
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Whence is that groan? no more Britannia sleeps,
But o'er her lost Musæus bends and weeps.
Lo, every Grecian, every British Muse
Scatters the recent flow'rs, and gracious dews,
Where Mason lies; he sure their influence felt,
And in his breast each soft affection dwelt,
That love and friendship know; each sister art,
With all that Colours, and that Sounds impart,
All that the sylvan theatre can grace,
All in the soul of Mason “found their place!”
Low sinks the laurell'd head; in Mona's land
I see them pass, 'tis Mador's drooping band,
To harps of woe in holiest obsequies,
“In yonder grave, they chant, our Druid lies!”
But o'er her lost Musæus bends and weeps.
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Scatters the recent flow'rs, and gracious dews,
Where Mason lies; he sure their influence felt,
And in his breast each soft affection dwelt,
That love and friendship know; each sister art,
With all that Colours, and that Sounds impart,
All that the sylvan theatre can grace,
All in the soul of Mason “found their place!”
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I see them pass, 'tis Mador's drooping band,
To harps of woe in holiest obsequies,
“In yonder grave, they chant, our Druid lies!”
He too, whom Indus and the Ganges mourn,
The glory of their banks, from Isis torn,
In learning's strength is fled, in judgment's prime,
In science temp'rate, various, and sublime;
To him familiar every legal doom,
The courts of Athens, or the halls of Rome,
Or Hindoo Vedas taught; for him the Muse
Distill'd from every flow'r Hyblæan dews;
Firm, when exalted, in demeanour grave,
Mercy and truth were his, he lov'd to save.
His mind collected; at opinion's shock
Jones stood unmov'd, and from the Christian rock,
Cœlestial brightness beaming on his breast,
He saw the Star, and worshipp'd in the East.
The glory of their banks, from Isis torn,
In learning's strength is fled, in judgment's prime,
In science temp'rate, various, and sublime;
To him familiar every legal doom,
The courts of Athens, or the halls of Rome,
Or Hindoo Vedas taught; for him the Muse
Distill'd from every flow'r Hyblæan dews;
Firm, when exalted, in demeanour grave,
Mercy and truth were his, he lov'd to save.
His mind collected; at opinion's shock
Jones stood unmov'd, and from the Christian rock,
Cœlestial brightness beaming on his breast,
He saw the Star, and worshipp'd in the East.
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Thou too, Octavius, that dread hour must feel,
Nor eloquence, nor wit, nor patriot zeal,
Nor piety sincere without the show,
Nor every grace Pierian pow'rs bestow
From pure Ilyssus and the Latian shore,
What Swift, or great Erasmus felt before,
May save thee!—yet, yet long, so friendship calls,
May guardian angels hover round the walls,
Where love and virtue fix their blest abode,
Friend of thy country, servant of thy God!
Nor eloquence, nor wit, nor patriot zeal,
Nor piety sincere without the show,
Nor every grace Pierian pow'rs bestow
From pure Ilyssus and the Latian shore,
What Swift, or great Erasmus felt before,
May save thee!—yet, yet long, so friendship calls,
May guardian angels hover round the walls,
Where love and virtue fix their blest abode,
Friend of thy country, servant of thy God!
Octavius yes, it is, it shall be mine,
With praise appropriate still to grace my line;
To mark where Genius soars, beyond controul,
With Mantuan judgment and the Theban soul,
Correct, majestick, copious, full, and strong,
In arts, in arms, in eloquence, or song;
Still proud to vindicate unseen, unknown,
The State, the Laws, the Altar, and the Throne.
With praise appropriate still to grace my line;
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With Mantuan judgment and the Theban soul,
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In arts, in arms, in eloquence, or song;
Still proud to vindicate unseen, unknown,
The State, the Laws, the Altar, and the Throne.
OCTAVIUS.
Here close the strain: and o'er your studious hour
May truth preside and virtue's holiest pow'r!
Still be your knowledge temp'rate and discreet,
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END OF THE POEM.
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THE END.
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