The pursuits of literature A satirical poem in four dialogues, with notes. The seventh edition, revised [by T. J. Mathias] |
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| 2. | DIALOGUE THE SECOND. |
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 | The pursuits of literature |  |
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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,
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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;
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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,
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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;
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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,
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Quaff Paphian grossness from my crystal God;
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Like Gillies, feeble, formal, dull and tame;
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And vie with Croxall in my notes on Gay;
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Turn publick bagman, train'd in Walpole's stall;
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And, like Sir James Bland Burgess, murmur love;
Or with Fitzpatrick, mark the space between
A tainted strumpet and a spotless Queen;
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A Florence goose, three ducklings, and one pig;
With Spartan Pye lull England to repose,
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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;
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“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.
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In chains of penal silence musing stand,
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Their ceaseless round, within the smouldring cave,
The dark Vulcanian chamber, whence they strove
To forge and hurl the bolts of Stygian Jove.
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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.
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Not all: you pass'd the grave laborious Reed,
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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;
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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:
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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.
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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:
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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.
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