 | A defence of poetry |  |
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A DEFENCE OF POETRY.
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It may be necessary to inform the Reader, that the following POEM was intended to precede a Set of Satires.
To thee, my PYE, for whom the Muses wove
The greenest laurels of the' Aönian grove
(For in Refinement's theme at once conspire
The Sage's learning and the Poet's fire):
To thee I write, ambitious of thy praise,
And, blushing, offer these imperfect lays.
So when the new-fledg'd bird, with anxious pain,
Waves it's light wing, and tries the' ætherial plain,
As all unform'd it's warm untutor'd song
The echoing groves and vocal vales prolong,
Asham'd to own the wildness of it's strain,
At distance sighs, and lingers round the plain:
But if the known Maternal voice invite,
And pour it's music in suspended flight,
Listening it hears, and thro' th'aërial ways
Mounts on it's tender wing, and all it's soul essays.
The greenest laurels of the' Aönian grove
(For in Refinement's theme at once conspire
The Sage's learning and the Poet's fire):
To thee I write, ambitious of thy praise,
And, blushing, offer these imperfect lays.
So when the new-fledg'd bird, with anxious pain,
Waves it's light wing, and tries the' ætherial plain,
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The echoing groves and vocal vales prolong,
Asham'd to own the wildness of it's strain,
At distance sighs, and lingers round the plain:
But if the known Maternal voice invite,
And pour it's music in suspended flight,
Listening it hears, and thro' th'aërial ways
Mounts on it's tender wing, and all it's soul essays.
Dear Power of Verse! thy hand with forceful art
Holds Nature's golden key that opes the heart;
There in that magic circle bids to move
The fiends of Passion, or the forms of Love;
To finer sentiment can wake the Mind,
And touch it's shadowy forms with tints more kind.
Thy Social Power, it's honours now no more,
Each child of Fancy shall in vain deplore.
As Faction's vipers hiss within thy bowers,
From their cold fingers fall the dewy flowers:
The Dorian flute, the lyre Æolian, cease;
Nor Dorian flute, nor lyre Æolian, please!
E'en Shakespeare's genius, Spenser's fancy, fail;
While Folly bids her Wolcot's scandal hail.
'Tis She that gives his malice wings to fly—
Nursing in natal dirt the infant Lie,
Till grown more bold it flaunts about the town,
The dirty Prostitute of half-a-crown.
Holds Nature's golden key that opes the heart;
There in that magic circle bids to move
The fiends of Passion, or the forms of Love;
To finer sentiment can wake the Mind,
And touch it's shadowy forms with tints more kind.
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Each child of Fancy shall in vain deplore.
As Faction's vipers hiss within thy bowers,
From their cold fingers fall the dewy flowers:
The Dorian flute, the lyre Æolian, cease;
Nor Dorian flute, nor lyre Æolian, please!
E'en Shakespeare's genius, Spenser's fancy, fail;
While Folly bids her Wolcot's scandal hail.
'Tis She that gives his malice wings to fly—
Nursing in natal dirt the infant Lie,
Till grown more bold it flaunts about the town,
The dirty Prostitute of half-a-crown.
Yet once to Virtue was the Muse endear'd,
Her Satire dreaded, and her Praise rever'd;
Pale o'er his lamp the pensivé Sage has hung,
And Heroes died, to be by Poets sung.
Pure was that Spirit, which with holy heat,
Taught, at the touch of Fame, their hearts to beat;
Spotless the wreaths that deck'd the Muse's brow;
The friend of Man, and but to Vice a foe.
With Moral Passions Man's rude heart they grac'd,
And spread the softening influence of Taste.
Her Satire dreaded, and her Praise rever'd;
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And Heroes died, to be by Poets sung.
Pure was that Spirit, which with holy heat,
Taught, at the touch of Fame, their hearts to beat;
Spotless the wreaths that deck'd the Muse's brow;
The friend of Man, and but to Vice a foe.
With Moral Passions Man's rude heart they grac'd,
And spread the softening influence of Taste.
The Pastoral Muse all lightly breathes among
The hollow hills her humanizing song;
And graceful hangs, around the festal bowers,
Garlands of Peace, and Virtue's loveliest flowers.
What tears of balm, to heal the hurted heart,
Hath wept soft Elegy's consoling art!
And when the Epic Muse, sublime, designs
The Hero, mid her visionary lines,
Each Patriot burns; while, in her sager strain,
She teaches Monarchs the great art, to Reign.
The Tragic Muse, ennobling, treads the stage;
While the light Comic regulates the age.
And when bold wicked Men inflame the times,
Vindictive Satire, rising, points her rhimes.
The hollow hills her humanizing song;
And graceful hangs, around the festal bowers,
Garlands of Peace, and Virtue's loveliest flowers.
What tears of balm, to heal the hurted heart,
Hath wept soft Elegy's consoling art!
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The Hero, mid her visionary lines,
Each Patriot burns; while, in her sager strain,
She teaches Monarchs the great art, to Reign.
The Tragic Muse, ennobling, treads the stage;
While the light Comic regulates the age.
And when bold wicked Men inflame the times,
Vindictive Satire, rising, points her rhimes.
'Twas thus from earliest times the Muses warm'd
Th'ingenuous breast—it's prime delights have form'd;
Dear to the cultur'd Mind, and feeling Heart,
Who taste their lighter grace, and tender art;
And 'tis their social elegance, we trace,
Gives Wit new zest, and Beauty a new grace.
This did Augustus feel: the Monarch prest
The tuneful Virgil to his raptur'd breast.
Thus to great Cæsar's care and fostering smile
The world's indebted for a Virgil's toil.
Poets are plants, that flourish round a Throne,
There shed their sweets, and glitter in that Sun.
Th'ingenuous breast—it's prime delights have form'd;
Dear to the cultur'd Mind, and feeling Heart,
Who taste their lighter grace, and tender art;
And 'tis their social elegance, we trace,
Gives Wit new zest, and Beauty a new grace.
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The tuneful Virgil to his raptur'd breast.
Thus to great Cæsar's care and fostering smile
The world's indebted for a Virgil's toil.
Poets are plants, that flourish round a Throne,
There shed their sweets, and glitter in that Sun.
The Baron's Castle, and the Monarch's Court,
Form'd once for Genius a belov'd resort;
They caught the fancy of the Poet's song,
And feeling Sovereigns own'd the museful throng.
E'en red-cross Richard, with his minstrel art,
Beguil'd his griefs, and tam'd his lion-heart.
The steel-clad Baron wak'd his martial fire,
And Victory, listening, echoed to the wire;
While the bright Fair in triumph interweaves
Her graceful myrtles with his laurel leaves.
Form'd once for Genius a belov'd resort;
They caught the fancy of the Poet's song,
And feeling Sovereigns own'd the museful throng.
E'en red-cross Richard, with his minstrel art,
Beguil'd his griefs, and tam'd his lion-heart.
The steel-clad Baron wak'd his martial fire,
And Victory, listening, echoed to the wire;
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Her graceful myrtles with his laurel leaves.
But chief ITALIA's classick plains beheld
THE BARD, and all their notes of triumph swell'd!
Saw the soft Petrarch quit Valclusa's vale,
And laurel-crown'd, heard Rome the Poet hail;
Saw Ariosto public praise reward,
And Death but snatch great Tasso's wreath, prepar'd.
THE BARD, and all their notes of triumph swell'd!
Saw the soft Petrarch quit Valclusa's vale,
And laurel-crown'd, heard Rome the Poet hail;
Saw Ariosto public praise reward,
And Death but snatch great Tasso's wreath, prepar'd.
And here our Edward's gallant reign reviv'd
Brave thirst of fame, and Honour still surviv'd.
The Muse and Chivalry with fondness strove
To grace the order of romantick Love.
Accomplished Nobles with this magick art,
Would mould the softness of the female heart.
The tender eloquence that warms the eye,
Or speaks persuasion in each artful sigh,
Fail'd of it's aim; in verse the Knight address'd
The soft complainings of his anguish'd breast.
An equal conflict, equal woe they share,
Till the warm tumult melts the yielding fair.
The Bard most skilful won the listening Dame;
Verse was the language or of Love or Fame.
Brave thirst of fame, and Honour still surviv'd.
The Muse and Chivalry with fondness strove
To grace the order of romantick Love.
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Would mould the softness of the female heart.
The tender eloquence that warms the eye,
Or speaks persuasion in each artful sigh,
Fail'd of it's aim; in verse the Knight address'd
The soft complainings of his anguish'd breast.
An equal conflict, equal woe they share,
Till the warm tumult melts the yielding fair.
The Bard most skilful won the listening Dame;
Verse was the language or of Love or Fame.
In later times, as Commerce bade unfold
Her sails, and ravish'd from the mine it's gold
Bade on the Tyrant's hand the diamond glare,
While rubies seem their master's blood to share;
Pearls, the bright emblems of the Indian's tears;
Each gem a witness of our guilt appears.
Commerce, what is it but a villain's art?
It touch'd, and poison'd all the human heart:
Clos'd the wide circle where our feelings play,
And every noble virtue felt decay.
Cold Avarice saw the generous passions weep,
And lull'd with torpid touch the heart asleep.
Her sails, and ravish'd from the mine it's gold
Bade on the Tyrant's hand the diamond glare,
While rubies seem their master's blood to share;
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Each gem a witness of our guilt appears.
Commerce, what is it but a villain's art?
It touch'd, and poison'd all the human heart:
Clos'd the wide circle where our feelings play,
And every noble virtue felt decay.
Cold Avarice saw the generous passions weep,
And lull'd with torpid touch the heart asleep.
Then Dullness triumph'd in her barbarous rage,
And smil'd indignant on the Poet's page.
No more the secret springs that lift the soul
Yield to his touch, and feel his soft controul.
The rust of Avarice all the heart imprest,
Spoil'd its quick pulse, and canker'd all the breast.
And smil'd indignant on the Poet's page.
No more the secret springs that lift the soul
Yield to his touch, and feel his soft controul.
The rust of Avarice all the heart imprest,
Spoil'd its quick pulse, and canker'd all the breast.
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Now ceas'd the musick of the Poet's lyre,
The genial rapture flowing from his wire:
Now light the Muse's polish'd toils they deem;
Sad Spenser languish'd by cold Mulla's stream,
Felt Pride's dark frown, illiberal Grandeur's spurn,
And all his injur'd feelings vainly burn.
For Burleigh had no heart; such he who rose
The Savage Chieftain of fair Learning's foes.
And as the volumes in his flames expire,
Shakes the last brand, and blows th'exhausted fire,
To Infamy the Muse consigns his name,
And stirs his ashes till they stink to fame.
The genial rapture flowing from his wire:
Now light the Muse's polish'd toils they deem;
Sad Spenser languish'd by cold Mulla's stream,
Felt Pride's dark frown, illiberal Grandeur's spurn,
And all his injur'd feelings vainly burn.
For Burleigh had no heart; such he who rose
The Savage Chieftain of fair Learning's foes.
And as the volumes in his flames expire,
Shakes the last brand, and blows th'exhausted fire,
To Infamy the Muse consigns his name,
And stirs his ashes till they stink to fame.
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Our modern Poets, 'midst the reigning rage,
Torture with publick taste their feeble page.
Now lost those finer touches which transport
What if they cannot paint, they will distort.
These Chinese Raphaels' tints so wildly glare,
That if we can't admire, at least we stare,—
And buy the monsters too, as monsters rare.
Yet at the name, as if asham'd, they start,
The art can ne'er disgrace, but they disgrace the art;
Catch the capricious fashion of the hour,
Think fame is their's, and boast the Poet's power.
So once the wretch who Juno's beauties caught,
As mad as vain, with warm embraces sought,
With impious fondness mark'd the heavenly fair,
But, panting, grasps a painted cloud of air.
Torture with publick taste their feeble page.
Now lost those finer touches which transport
What if they cannot paint, they will distort.
These Chinese Raphaels' tints so wildly glare,
That if we can't admire, at least we stare,—
And buy the monsters too, as monsters rare.
Yet at the name, as if asham'd, they start,
The art can ne'er disgrace, but they disgrace the art;
Catch the capricious fashion of the hour,
Think fame is their's, and boast the Poet's power.
So once the wretch who Juno's beauties caught,
As mad as vain, with warm embraces sought,
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But, panting, grasps a painted cloud of air.
Oh lovely object! who with gentle hand
Weed'st the rude mind, and bid'st it's flowers expand,
Enchanting POESY! who life's sharp thorn
Bid'st many a rose of fragrant hue adorn,
And to the Dove, that roams with weary flight,
Still on thy olive-branch thou bid'st alight.
Soother of troubled souls! whose hand can best
Pour the soft balm, and heal the wounded breast,
With many a tale thou draw'st (so sweet thy lyre)
“Children from play, and old men from their fire.”
Thou nurse of Science! Learning's sons carest
Drank sweet nutrition from thy milky breast;
With thy soft honey swell'd their tender veins,
Till grosser food maturer strength attains.
Maternal Power! those sons with letter'd phlegm
Betray thy cause, their Sister-Muse contemn.
Even I have felt the fool of learning's sneer,
Depress the Muse, and waste her sweets with fear.
So some vile Grub, the garden's dreaded foe,
Withers the tender blossoms as they grow,
Lays in bright ruin what so richly bloom'd,
The sweet buds scatter'd, and the flower consum'd.
Weed'st the rude mind, and bid'st it's flowers expand,
Enchanting POESY! who life's sharp thorn
Bid'st many a rose of fragrant hue adorn,
And to the Dove, that roams with weary flight,
Still on thy olive-branch thou bid'st alight.
Soother of troubled souls! whose hand can best
Pour the soft balm, and heal the wounded breast,
With many a tale thou draw'st (so sweet thy lyre)
“Children from play, and old men from their fire.”
Thou nurse of Science! Learning's sons carest
Drank sweet nutrition from thy milky breast;
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Till grosser food maturer strength attains.
Maternal Power! those sons with letter'd phlegm
Betray thy cause, their Sister-Muse contemn.
Even I have felt the fool of learning's sneer,
Depress the Muse, and waste her sweets with fear.
So some vile Grub, the garden's dreaded foe,
Withers the tender blossoms as they grow,
Lays in bright ruin what so richly bloom'd,
The sweet buds scatter'd, and the flower consum'd.
But ne'er th'Inchantment of thy Art shall cease,
What greatly flourish'd, or in Rome or Greece
(Cast o'er the Earth thy comprehensive view)
Exists in Man from China to Peru.
See the swart Indian, in his palmy grove,
Swell his rude Pipe, and make it sound with Love.
His Rein-deer journeying thro' a waste of Snows,
With verse the Laplander's cold bosom glows.
'Tis Nature's self that prompts th'eternal lays,
'Tis Nature's voice that speaks the Poet's praise.
What greatly flourish'd, or in Rome or Greece
(Cast o'er the Earth thy comprehensive view)
Exists in Man from China to Peru.
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Swell his rude Pipe, and make it sound with Love.
His Rein-deer journeying thro' a waste of Snows,
With verse the Laplander's cold bosom glows.
'Tis Nature's self that prompts th'eternal lays,
'Tis Nature's voice that speaks the Poet's praise.
Ye dear Enthusiasts! who my soul possess,
And oft with visionary rapture bless;
For ye have stole my heedless heart away
With the charm'd sweetness of th'Aönian lay.
Oh, as I loiter, in your glades and bowers,
Give me my barren brows to wreathe with flowers.
No maniack wish, to pass in realms unknown,
Content to call the Muse's fields my own,
Press her green sward, or climb her breezy hills,
Or catch some wild-dream by her warbling rills.
There are, indeed, who quit her vernal land,
And whiten with their bones some foreign strand,
With mad ambition in the tempest roll,
And with a fragile bark attempt the Pole.
Cease your Icarian flights! and once be taught,
How seldom Nature has a Genius wrought;
Her Cooks and Shakespeares are not form'd in haste;
In such vast toils whole centuries are past.
And oft with visionary rapture bless;
For ye have stole my heedless heart away
With the charm'd sweetness of th'Aönian lay.
Oh, as I loiter, in your glades and bowers,
Give me my barren brows to wreathe with flowers.
No maniack wish, to pass in realms unknown,
Content to call the Muse's fields my own,
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Or catch some wild-dream by her warbling rills.
There are, indeed, who quit her vernal land,
And whiten with their bones some foreign strand,
With mad ambition in the tempest roll,
And with a fragile bark attempt the Pole.
Cease your Icarian flights! and once be taught,
How seldom Nature has a Genius wrought;
Her Cooks and Shakespeares are not form'd in haste;
In such vast toils whole centuries are past.
A path of thistles, where no flower takes root,
Each step a toil that wounds the weary foot,
The Alps of Science and those rocks to gain,
That awful rise midst Learning's endless main.
How few with fortitude those toils attain,
While life benights us on the boundless plain!
But thine, dear Muse! thy ways are all serene,
So sweet thy vales, thy mountain-tops so green;
As some rich vineyard's cluster'd sweets incline
With purple tints, and yield delicious wine,
Th'admiring traveller marks the varying hues,
And drinks the transport of nectarean dews.
So with delight th'enchanting way we keep,
And 'tis the shortness, not the length, we weep.
Each step a toil that wounds the weary foot,
The Alps of Science and those rocks to gain,
That awful rise midst Learning's endless main.
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While life benights us on the boundless plain!
But thine, dear Muse! thy ways are all serene,
So sweet thy vales, thy mountain-tops so green;
As some rich vineyard's cluster'd sweets incline
With purple tints, and yield delicious wine,
Th'admiring traveller marks the varying hues,
And drinks the transport of nectarean dews.
So with delight th'enchanting way we keep,
And 'tis the shortness, not the length, we weep.
Ingenuous Youths! whose virtue's purer flame
Breaks forth, and kindles at the breath of fame;
As oft you join the visionary quire,
And wake with many an artless charm the lyre,
Feel ye ambitious that the laurel bough
May crown with fame, nor wither on your brow?
Rise, and be greatly conscious of the art!
Know, as you strike, you touch the human heart.
It's soft vibrations all attun'd expand,
And it's fine fibres quiver to your hand:
You or awake the harmony of life,
Or the dire clash is Discord's rudest strife.
Breaks forth, and kindles at the breath of fame;
As oft you join the visionary quire,
And wake with many an artless charm the lyre,
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May crown with fame, nor wither on your brow?
Rise, and be greatly conscious of the art!
Know, as you strike, you touch the human heart.
It's soft vibrations all attun'd expand,
And it's fine fibres quiver to your hand:
You or awake the harmony of life,
Or the dire clash is Discord's rudest strife.
Dare! and be virtuous then! be bold, yet sage,
And court Posterity, and leave this age.
Like the sweet Lark, that quits it's nest to sing,
Till warbling far responsive echoes ring;
Unseen the chauntress all her song assumes,
And shakes, in conscious pride, her rapturous plumes.
So must the Bard (confirm'd by many a tale)
But feel Posterity his labours hail;
'Tis what Camoens confest, what Milton knew;
So close allied the Laurel to the Yew!
And court Posterity, and leave this age.
Like the sweet Lark, that quits it's nest to sing,
Till warbling far responsive echoes ring;
Unseen the chauntress all her song assumes,
And shakes, in conscious pride, her rapturous plumes.
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But feel Posterity his labours hail;
'Tis what Camoens confest, what Milton knew;
So close allied the Laurel to the Yew!
Let no mean art indulge the venal strain,
Fame be thy price, and scorn a trifling gain.
And are there Poets for mere lust of gold?
Are there who have the tuneful Muses sold?
How small their gains! how pitiful that aid!
The 'Change, or Counter, were a better trade.
A Poet's Wages! who would purchase knaves?
A Bard's the cheapest, but the worst of slaves.
Fame be thy price, and scorn a trifling gain.
And are there Poets for mere lust of gold?
Are there who have the tuneful Muses sold?
How small their gains! how pitiful that aid!
The 'Change, or Counter, were a better trade.
A Poet's Wages! who would purchase knaves?
A Bard's the cheapest, but the worst of slaves.
Then be it yours, congenial souls! to raise
The Poet's dignity, the Poet's praise.
Sublimely ardent, or with sportive Grace,
The scenes of Nature let your genius trace.
Now with the rapid Eagle's daring flight
Wreathe your strong pinions with the beams of light;
Or, with the vagrant of the waxen tower,
Skim the sweet surface of the honey'd flower;
Now lead the Fair, thro' Fancy's faëry grove,
(Whose face is beauty, and whose look is love)
Or with a verse reward the wise and good,
And him who for the Laurel gave his blood.
The Poet's dignity, the Poet's praise.
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The scenes of Nature let your genius trace.
Now with the rapid Eagle's daring flight
Wreathe your strong pinions with the beams of light;
Or, with the vagrant of the waxen tower,
Skim the sweet surface of the honey'd flower;
Now lead the Fair, thro' Fancy's faëry grove,
(Whose face is beauty, and whose look is love)
Or with a verse reward the wise and good,
And him who for the Laurel gave his blood.
My feeble Muse demands a humbler strain,
Nor on this altar lays her hands profane;
Pleas'd if to others she the rage impart,
Content to shew her zeal, tho' not her art.
Provok'd she gives to these licentious times,
Her angry numbers and vindictive rhimes.
To thee, my PYE, she yields this nobler song,
Strike! and enchant Aonia's classick throng!
Nor on this altar lays her hands profane;
Pleas'd if to others she the rage impart,
Content to shew her zeal, tho' not her art.
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Her angry numbers and vindictive rhimes.
To thee, my PYE, she yields this nobler song,
Strike! and enchant Aonia's classick throng!
Thou, who behold'st my Muse's rash design,
Teach me thy art of Poetry divine;
Or, since thy cares, alas! on me were vain,
Teach me that harder talent—to refrain.
Teach me thy art of Poetry divine;
Or, since thy cares, alas! on me were vain,
Teach me that harder talent—to refrain.
The Garter was once the decoration of Valour, and took its rise from that enthusiastick heroism which animated the amiable courtesy of the age of chivalry.
The river Mulla ran through the grounds of Spenser. Melancholy upon its banks the Bard was too frequently found.
An Epistle on the Abuse of Satire, addressed to the Laureat, was once intended to form a first Satire. An imperfect copy was sent by a friend to the Gentleman's Magazine. It was there inserted, sometime in the last summer. It had scarce made its appearance, when it was reprinted at length, and in mutilated forms, according to the pleasure of the editors of the town and country papers. It was long honoured, as I am informed, with a variety of paragraphs. It was then, and it is yet, confidently ascribed to Mr. Hayley. I hope that I shall not be thought vain, as I relate simply a fact. It is now said, in some papers, that Peter Pindar is employed at a formal answer to what he attributes to Mr. Hayley. I can think so well of Peter's discernment, as to imagine he must perceive the difference between the rough and artless labours of a young writer to the terseness and the elegance of Mr. Hayley's verse. I should think it detrimental to the reputation of this ingenious poet did I not take this opportunity, “with all its imperfections on its head,” to claim the work as my own.
| A defence of poetry | |