The Lake of Geneva a poem, moral and descriptive, in seven books. With notes historical and biographical. In two volumes. By Sir Egerton Brydges |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. | BOOK VI. |
| VII. |
 | The Lake of Geneva |  |
159
BOOK VI.
Didst thou ne'er visit the magnificent
Cathedral of Lausanne? There thou hast seen
A noble altar-tomb of Otto Grandson!
He was a hero true of chivalry,
And in his age fell in a noble duel,
Fighting with all the gallantry of youth.
He was, I think, if memory does not fail me,
Last of the males of his illustrious race:
In courts and camps his gallant life had pass'd;
And gloried most, where ladies' eyes reign influence.
In Vaud's dominions, where his ancient name
And spreading lands, impos'd a sway superb,
There was a lady fair, the idol wife
Of a young neighbouring chieftain, whom this Lord
Of Coppet and of Grandson ever view'd
With admiration; and perchance with glances
Unholy; and it may be, that the dame,
Thro' vanity and coquetry, return'd
Those ogles: then the flame of jealousy
Waked in the husband's bosom to a fire
Consuming: but the dame and lord of Coppet,
Each swore their innocence: yet ah! the tears,
And protestations, of a female heart
Were but as wind to an enraged husband.
Gallant and fearless, tho to years declining,
Great Otto held his head, and went his way.
He had his word and oath put forth;—and who
Would dare to disbelieve him? He, not he,
Would be controul'd by false suspicions; nor
Avoid the innocent courtesies due to beauty!
Thus often when he met, in social concourse
Of arms, and fair ones, and the moving tones
Of music, and the awakening minstrel's song,
The persecuted lady,—he refrain'd not
The glance of pleasure, and the gentle word:
And between gratitude and fear, the dame
Could not controul her deep emotions,
Which the mad husband deem'd the proof of guilt.
The discord rais'd between the chiefs became
Contagious: and surrounding chieftains, with
Their clans, took each their several part; and wore
The colours and the badges of their party.
Cathedral of Lausanne? There thou hast seen
A noble altar-tomb of Otto Grandson!
He was a hero true of chivalry,
And in his age fell in a noble duel,
Fighting with all the gallantry of youth.
He was, I think, if memory does not fail me,
Last of the males of his illustrious race:
In courts and camps his gallant life had pass'd;
And gloried most, where ladies' eyes reign influence.
In Vaud's dominions, where his ancient name
And spreading lands, impos'd a sway superb,
There was a lady fair, the idol wife
Of a young neighbouring chieftain, whom this Lord
Of Coppet and of Grandson ever view'd
With admiration; and perchance with glances
Unholy; and it may be, that the dame,
Thro' vanity and coquetry, return'd
160
Waked in the husband's bosom to a fire
Consuming: but the dame and lord of Coppet,
Each swore their innocence: yet ah! the tears,
And protestations, of a female heart
Were but as wind to an enraged husband.
Gallant and fearless, tho to years declining,
Great Otto held his head, and went his way.
He had his word and oath put forth;—and who
Would dare to disbelieve him? He, not he,
Would be controul'd by false suspicions; nor
Avoid the innocent courtesies due to beauty!
Thus often when he met, in social concourse
Of arms, and fair ones, and the moving tones
Of music, and the awakening minstrel's song,
The persecuted lady,—he refrain'd not
The glance of pleasure, and the gentle word:
And between gratitude and fear, the dame
Could not controul her deep emotions,
Which the mad husband deem'd the proof of guilt.
The discord rais'd between the chiefs became
Contagious: and surrounding chieftains, with
Their clans, took each their several part; and wore
The colours and the badges of their party.
O, what a life of anxious turbulent passion
The lady led! yet not unmix'd with raptures
To be the cynosure of wondring eyes,
And to behold the hero, who for her
In gallant daring spent his vigorous age.
Then she the heroine of the poet's lyre
Became; and the idolatry of warm,
Mysterious, spell-breathing imagination
Invested her with charms, not hers; nor ever
To human beauty lotted: but delirium
Of hope and vanity inebriated her;
And she was willing to believe them hers.
The lady led! yet not unmix'd with raptures
To be the cynosure of wondring eyes,
And to behold the hero, who for her
In gallant daring spent his vigorous age.
Then she the heroine of the poet's lyre
161
Mysterious, spell-breathing imagination
Invested her with charms, not hers; nor ever
To human beauty lotted: but delirium
Of hope and vanity inebriated her;
And she was willing to believe them hers.
Love, hope, revenge, and moments of idolatry
Shook her griev'd husband's mind and frame to madness;
And he at times beheld her as an angel,
That never must be wrested from his arms.
Then she grew scornful, and herself deluded
That she for earthly love was too celestial.
And still the factions grew, and the whole province
In a fierce civil war became involv'd.
Now Savoy's Prince, in whose domains it lay,
Banish'd the hero of the tale; the torch
That lighted these disturbances to flame!
In England and in France the gallant lover
Long tarried, the companion bright of heroes,
Of ladies' eyes the wonder and delight:
And when at last the irrepressible
Love of his native lands recall'd him home,
The jealousies and the vindictive passions
Of the relentless husband still pursued him!
Shook her griev'd husband's mind and frame to madness;
And he at times beheld her as an angel,
That never must be wrested from his arms.
Then she grew scornful, and herself deluded
That she for earthly love was too celestial.
And still the factions grew, and the whole province
In a fierce civil war became involv'd.
Now Savoy's Prince, in whose domains it lay,
Banish'd the hero of the tale; the torch
That lighted these disturbances to flame!
In England and in France the gallant lover
Long tarried, the companion bright of heroes,
Of ladies' eyes the wonder and delight:
And when at last the irrepressible
Love of his native lands recall'd him home,
The jealousies and the vindictive passions
Of the relentless husband still pursued him!
Perhaps it was the indiscretion rash
Of female vanity or female love,
That rous'd the lion to his prey again!
The jealous watchfulness beheld the bosom
Heave at the sound of Ottos' name, or saw
Her footsteps bending to old haunts; or heard
Her whispers in a dream; or caught the tear,
That trembled in her eye! then raged again
Fiercer than ever the desire for vengeance:
And thus he challeng'd Otto to the single
Combat: and the firm but worn-out hero gladly
Took up the gauntlet, tho his hoary age
Freed him from answering the requisition:
For now his hair was white, and he had pass'd
His sixtieth year: but he had skill, and native
Strength far beyond his younger combatant.
Of female vanity or female love,
That rous'd the lion to his prey again!
The jealous watchfulness beheld the bosom
Heave at the sound of Ottos' name, or saw
Her footsteps bending to old haunts; or heard
162
That trembled in her eye! then raged again
Fiercer than ever the desire for vengeance:
And thus he challeng'd Otto to the single
Combat: and the firm but worn-out hero gladly
Took up the gauntlet, tho his hoary age
Freed him from answering the requisition:
For now his hair was white, and he had pass'd
His sixtieth year: but he had skill, and native
Strength far beyond his younger combatant.
Now every eye and bosom was engag'd
Upon the fearful contest: heroicly
The old man fought; and long the war was doubtful:
But either by the feebleness of years,
Or chance, or destiny, the blow at last
Came; and his eyes in death at once were clos'd.
And there he lies, clad in his coat of mail,
Upon that altar-tomb! Behold the pales
And scallops on the bend;—a noble shield
Well-known in England, when to Margaret,
The kingly Tudor's mother, we our eyes
Heraldric turn; for of the blood was she;
And drew a noble patrimony from them.
Upon the fearful contest: heroicly
The old man fought; and long the war was doubtful:
But either by the feebleness of years,
Or chance, or destiny, the blow at last
Came; and his eyes in death at once were clos'd.
And there he lies, clad in his coat of mail,
Upon that altar-tomb! Behold the pales
And scallops on the bend;—a noble shield
Well-known in England, when to Margaret,
The kingly Tudor's mother, we our eyes
Heraldric turn; for of the blood was she;
And drew a noble patrimony from them.
But we have much of Grandson's castle heard,
When Charles, the Rash, of Burgundy, assail'd it:
And the rich diamond was the prize besought,
Long buried, found at last, as Montolieu
Has in her Châteaux Suisses with eloquence
And fancy well related: a strange tale
She has confounded with it,—from what source
I know not,—thus pretending to connect
This precious gem as that which ages after
The name of the Pitt Diamond got, from him
Who bought it of an Indian chief, thus founding
The fortunes of Britannia's greatest ministers;
And thus perhaps the destiny of all Europe.
Strange history of one single mine-drawn product
Passing to France, the greatest ornament
Of all that gorgeous court; and then at last
Like a sun glaring on Napoleon's sword.
When Charles, the Rash, of Burgundy, assail'd it:
And the rich diamond was the prize besought,
Long buried, found at last, as Montolieu
Has in her Châteaux Suisses with eloquence
And fancy well related: a strange tale
She has confounded with it,—from what source
163
This precious gem as that which ages after
The name of the Pitt Diamond got, from him
Who bought it of an Indian chief, thus founding
The fortunes of Britannia's greatest ministers;
And thus perhaps the destiny of all Europe.
Strange history of one single mine-drawn product
Passing to France, the greatest ornament
Of all that gorgeous court; and then at last
Like a sun glaring on Napoleon's sword.
And thus the tale of Grandson ends:—at least
Upon its ancient patrimonial lands
In England long a scion of the stock
In rich baronial power and splendor shone;
And much I boast that thence I draw my blood
Thro' various channels; and amid the store
Of my armorial ensigns ever paint
Th'heraldric figures of their feudal shield.
Early was the paternal line of sires
I spring from, by direct espousal join'd
To this great house Burgundian, when transported
To that Welsh border, where the conqueror's chieftain
Made inroads on the wild and obstinate Britons;
As he, the great magician of the North,
Has well recounted in his spell-like tales.
Upon its ancient patrimonial lands
In England long a scion of the stock
In rich baronial power and splendor shone;
And much I boast that thence I draw my blood
Thro' various channels; and amid the store
Of my armorial ensigns ever paint
Th'heraldric figures of their feudal shield.
Early was the paternal line of sires
I spring from, by direct espousal join'd
To this great house Burgundian, when transported
To that Welsh border, where the conqueror's chieftain
Made inroads on the wild and obstinate Britons;
As he, the great magician of the North,
Has well recounted in his spell-like tales.
And thus I venture, in a calm defiance
Of sneers, and taunts, and smiles, and sharp remonstrances,
Still of myself to speak; for who can tell
So surely of another's thoughts and feelings,
As of his own? And what the passages
In other poets—Milton, Cowley, Cowper,
And yet an hundred more, to which we turn
With most delight? By one congenial taste
All hang on those fond undisguised effusions,
Where all the secret moves of their own hearts
They open lay; confess their weaknesses;
Put forth their hopes; let out the hidden springs
Of their ambitions, toils, and vanities;
And justify, or wail with tears of sorrow,
The paths that they have trodden. If they speak
The truth, they find an echo in the bosoms
Of all their readers: but if false, the tone
Betrays them; then the listener has his triumph
In the ascendant o'er a vain pretender.
Truth is for ever simple; affectation
And labour are the proofs of base disguise.
There is no eloquence, where there is labour;
And rarely truth: and what with toil is written,
But slowly catches others' apprehension.
It has abruptness, and the natural
Alliance of ideas is destroyed:
For in the mind Nature implants her links;
And these we follow as by intuition.
Among the innumerable charms of Shakespeare
This, this is not the least.
Of sneers, and taunts, and smiles, and sharp remonstrances,
Still of myself to speak; for who can tell
So surely of another's thoughts and feelings,
As of his own? And what the passages
164
And yet an hundred more, to which we turn
With most delight? By one congenial taste
All hang on those fond undisguised effusions,
Where all the secret moves of their own hearts
They open lay; confess their weaknesses;
Put forth their hopes; let out the hidden springs
Of their ambitions, toils, and vanities;
And justify, or wail with tears of sorrow,
The paths that they have trodden. If they speak
The truth, they find an echo in the bosoms
Of all their readers: but if false, the tone
Betrays them; then the listener has his triumph
In the ascendant o'er a vain pretender.
Truth is for ever simple; affectation
And labour are the proofs of base disguise.
There is no eloquence, where there is labour;
And rarely truth: and what with toil is written,
But slowly catches others' apprehension.
It has abruptness, and the natural
Alliance of ideas is destroyed:
For in the mind Nature implants her links;
And these we follow as by intuition.
Among the innumerable charms of Shakespeare
This, this is not the least.
Historic Tales
Form an essential portion of my song.
Therefore I must not pass in silence thee,
Ripaille!—down close upon the rippling waters
The ruins of thine ancient palace stand,—
Adjoining Thonon in the Chablais! Savoy
Still o'er that ancient heritage holds her sceptre.
There the first Duke of that now royal House
Twice in retirement from ambition's thorns
Sought the tranquillity of solitude.
Strange was his fate,—from princely sovereign
To privacy,—and then to sovereign power
Ecclesiastic, as Rome's Pontiff, rais'd;—
And then the proud tiara's power again
Resign'd, once more to privacy with thee
Retir'd, Ripaille!—But not as hermit strict,
Cell-like, and self-denying, as, tis said:
But with his choice companions, gay, luxurious,
And pleasure-seeking! Luxury and peace
Could not keep off the dart of death.—He died
Within these walls, ere long! To him Lausanne,
And old Geneva's beautiful abode,
Familiar were. But witty Voltaire's Muse
Has moralis'd upon his fate; and I
Fly from a theme touch'd by a popular author.
Form an essential portion of my song.
Therefore I must not pass in silence thee,
Ripaille!—down close upon the rippling waters
The ruins of thine ancient palace stand,—
165
Still o'er that ancient heritage holds her sceptre.
There the first Duke of that now royal House
Twice in retirement from ambition's thorns
Sought the tranquillity of solitude.
Strange was his fate,—from princely sovereign
To privacy,—and then to sovereign power
Ecclesiastic, as Rome's Pontiff, rais'd;—
And then the proud tiara's power again
Resign'd, once more to privacy with thee
Retir'd, Ripaille!—But not as hermit strict,
Cell-like, and self-denying, as, tis said:
But with his choice companions, gay, luxurious,
And pleasure-seeking! Luxury and peace
Could not keep off the dart of death.—He died
Within these walls, ere long! To him Lausanne,
And old Geneva's beautiful abode,
Familiar were. But witty Voltaire's Muse
Has moralis'd upon his fate; and I
Fly from a theme touch'd by a popular author.
From what old root the princely race of Savoy
Derived their primal growth, historians differ.—
Of Saxon, some;—from the old stock of kings
Burgundian, others:—in the ninth or tenth
Century, they began their wings expand,
And never lost the active principle
Of gradual aggrandisement, by arms,
By marriages, by policy, by ruse!
In Italy, in Burgundy, in France
Th'extension ever equally was sought:
Never at rest, their schemes they still were planning:
But all this turbulence of spirit ended
In feebleness at last, and abdication.
Derived their primal growth, historians differ.—
Of Saxon, some;—from the old stock of kings
Burgundian, others:—in the ninth or tenth
Century, they began their wings expand,
And never lost the active principle
Of gradual aggrandisement, by arms,
By marriages, by policy, by ruse!
In Italy, in Burgundy, in France
Th'extension ever equally was sought:
166
But all this turbulence of spirit ended
In feebleness at last, and abdication.
And thus the circuit of thy Lake, Geneva,
Has my Muse made, descriptive sometimes,—oftner
Dealing in sentiment, and observation,
Thought, argument, and intellectual matter.
If we can cull the images of Nature
With more of brilliance than reality,
Then it is good:—but surely 'tis an higher
Task to associate them with intellect;
And teach the duller minds to comment on them;
And how to feel; and with what other images
To join them. Of all Milton's poetry
Three parts are intellectual; not material.
Thus I agree with Pope, not to approve,
“Where pure description holds the place of sense!”
Where nothing but the fancy is amused,
It is a somewhat barren entertainment.
Ever we wish in noblest poetry,
To have a stretch of all the faculties;
And not alone the bosom, and the fancy,
And bright imagination's powers creative,
To exercise; but to improve the judgment;
And by a clearer, broader view of things,
To draw conclusions more enlarg'd, and just
Without imagination is no poetry;
And without judgment also the production
Cannot the glory of the higher class
Attain. Among the Muse's favourites,
Of right admitted, who will dare to name
One, not possess'd of all the powers of mind,
In strong predominance? True bards are never
Idle and empty dreamers: they are moral
Philosophers, of th' classes most enlighten'd.
There is no genuine poetry, but in truth;—
Truth in the principle, and similitude!—
Has my Muse made, descriptive sometimes,—oftner
Dealing in sentiment, and observation,
Thought, argument, and intellectual matter.
If we can cull the images of Nature
With more of brilliance than reality,
Then it is good:—but surely 'tis an higher
Task to associate them with intellect;
And teach the duller minds to comment on them;
And how to feel; and with what other images
To join them. Of all Milton's poetry
Three parts are intellectual; not material.
Thus I agree with Pope, not to approve,
“Where pure description holds the place of sense!”
Where nothing but the fancy is amused,
It is a somewhat barren entertainment.
Ever we wish in noblest poetry,
To have a stretch of all the faculties;
And not alone the bosom, and the fancy,
And bright imagination's powers creative,
To exercise; but to improve the judgment;
And by a clearer, broader view of things,
To draw conclusions more enlarg'd, and just
Without imagination is no poetry;
And without judgment also the production
Cannot the glory of the higher class
Attain. Among the Muse's favourites,
167
One, not possess'd of all the powers of mind,
In strong predominance? True bards are never
Idle and empty dreamers: they are moral
Philosophers, of th' classes most enlighten'd.
There is no genuine poetry, but in truth;—
Truth in the principle, and similitude!—
The thoughtless may raise up their eyes, and stare,
Since they have heard that poetry is fable!
But they forget that fiction still may be
The vehicle of Truth! It is the fabled
And allegorical embodiment
Of abstract Truth! If it embodies Falsehood,
'Tis but a vile and base delusion!
Nor will the charms of Falsehood be enduring.
We may be caught a moment by delusive
Colours; but soon they fade before our eyes:
And never does the loveliness of Truth
Require factitious ornaments: in her nakedness
She is most lovely! Thus the majesty
Of thought in Milton's strains is most sublime,
When plainest! Thus all floridness is empty;—
The mark of a weak artificial mind!—
But when the ornament is of the essence
Of the high thought, not then can it be empty!
For sometimes do the thought, and its accompanying
Language of illustration, rise together!
Trite thoughts in flowery language are like harlots
In gaudy millenery: fine without;—
Faded, deform'd, and spiritless within.
When a thought wants the setting off of dress,
It is a proof 'tis worthless in itself.
Since they have heard that poetry is fable!
But they forget that fiction still may be
The vehicle of Truth! It is the fabled
And allegorical embodiment
Of abstract Truth! If it embodies Falsehood,
'Tis but a vile and base delusion!
Nor will the charms of Falsehood be enduring.
We may be caught a moment by delusive
Colours; but soon they fade before our eyes:
And never does the loveliness of Truth
Require factitious ornaments: in her nakedness
She is most lovely! Thus the majesty
Of thought in Milton's strains is most sublime,
When plainest! Thus all floridness is empty;—
The mark of a weak artificial mind!—
But when the ornament is of the essence
Of the high thought, not then can it be empty!
For sometimes do the thought, and its accompanying
Language of illustration, rise together!
Trite thoughts in flowery language are like harlots
In gaudy millenery: fine without;—
Faded, deform'd, and spiritless within.
168
It is a proof 'tis worthless in itself.
Never the movements of the subtle mind,
Rich in its treasur'd stores, will be exhausted.
Genius may ever ply her toils upon them,
And still develop something new and useful.
The shades of difference, the nice distinctions,
Of which the course of time and of occasion
Calls for th'observance; th'inexhaustible
Varieties of application,
Demand original faculties of judgment.
The power of combination, and comparison,
And keen discrimination, and command
Of words, to others to communicate them
Clearly and forcibly. It is a talent
Of enviable puissance to seize
New features, strong and undeniable,
Not hitherto observ'd, and bring them forth
To meet th'assent of every future gazer.
For how innumerable are the minds,
That can assent and follow;—yet not lead!
The few, that on their own resources live,
Will not disturb themselves by others' dictates,
But still with their own faculties examine,
And form their judgments on their own convictions.
Then there is always freshness in the manner;
And to old truths an added testimony.
But repetition of old borrow'd tunes
Is like the music of the organ grinder,
Filling the streets and air with heedless noises.
Rich in its treasur'd stores, will be exhausted.
Genius may ever ply her toils upon them,
And still develop something new and useful.
The shades of difference, the nice distinctions,
Of which the course of time and of occasion
Calls for th'observance; th'inexhaustible
Varieties of application,
Demand original faculties of judgment.
The power of combination, and comparison,
And keen discrimination, and command
Of words, to others to communicate them
Clearly and forcibly. It is a talent
Of enviable puissance to seize
New features, strong and undeniable,
Not hitherto observ'd, and bring them forth
To meet th'assent of every future gazer.
For how innumerable are the minds,
That can assent and follow;—yet not lead!
The few, that on their own resources live,
Will not disturb themselves by others' dictates,
But still with their own faculties examine,
And form their judgments on their own convictions.
Then there is always freshness in the manner;
And to old truths an added testimony.
But repetition of old borrow'd tunes
Is like the music of the organ grinder,
Filling the streets and air with heedless noises.
169
The memory is a treacherous quality,
If too much faith be put upon its stores;
For it the higher faculties seduces
Into a sleeping idleness, while all
Is ready, free from labour of creation,
For the demand which each occasion raises.
But there's a stirring and inquisitive spirit,
Which will not rest on pledge of others' word:
But still must set its own impatient instruments
To work; and sift and balance, and essay
All by strict tests and measures of its own.
Then Memory, the storekeeper, is useful
To furnish the materials,—not alone
From other sources drawn, but by the powers
Of th'architect's own mind already form'd
In simpler combinations, or as elements
For future buildings. Yet go thro the authors
In many languages with critical
Acumen;—you will find originality
Most rare!—It chiefly is the borrow'd store,
Somewhat disguis'd by foreign ornament.
Yet they who have the faculties ever working,
Fermenting, new-composing, are too apt
To have th'impressions of the memory
Disturb'd, derang'd, and many times defac'd.
When the same subject they again renew,
They re-create; and do not bring again
The old creation; often cast, indeed,
In the same mould; and of identical likeness.
If too much faith be put upon its stores;
For it the higher faculties seduces
Into a sleeping idleness, while all
Is ready, free from labour of creation,
For the demand which each occasion raises.
But there's a stirring and inquisitive spirit,
Which will not rest on pledge of others' word:
But still must set its own impatient instruments
To work; and sift and balance, and essay
All by strict tests and measures of its own.
Then Memory, the storekeeper, is useful
To furnish the materials,—not alone
From other sources drawn, but by the powers
Of th'architect's own mind already form'd
In simpler combinations, or as elements
For future buildings. Yet go thro the authors
In many languages with critical
Acumen;—you will find originality
Most rare!—It chiefly is the borrow'd store,
Somewhat disguis'd by foreign ornament.
Yet they who have the faculties ever working,
Fermenting, new-composing, are too apt
To have th'impressions of the memory
Disturb'd, derang'd, and many times defac'd.
When the same subject they again renew,
They re-create; and do not bring again
The old creation; often cast, indeed,
In the same mould; and of identical likeness.
But they, who venture for themselves to think,
And yet cannot think right, would do far better
To tread in others' paths, and follow guides.
Originality in being wrong
Is not a merit worthy of the laurel;
But only fit to raise a stare, like conjurers
At country wakes! The forms of Nature never
Must outrag'd or exaggerated be.
“Truth” as the critic Johnson nobly says,
“Always sufficient is to fill the mind!”—
One tint too much; one over-strained feature;
One combination false; one evil junction
Of heterogeneous elements, destroys
The spell, and utterly dissolves the merit.
The strong exaggeration is not genius;
It is the artifice of the sterile bungler:
And ever in the richest minds the thought,
That lies beneath, is stronger and more glowing
Than the free, frank, involuntary language,
Which, hurried forward, follows it in vain.
For rapid thought did never yet permit
The stay for studied words: and he, who labours
Upon the scent, will ne'er arrest his prey.
We cannot on the blazes of the sky
Steadily look for a continuance;
But must avert our eyes on other objects:
And while we look, the blaze is gone; and other,
And other shapes and hues, burst from the clouds,
And call us to pursue them; and the charm
Is vanish'd, if we seize not at the moment.
170
To tread in others' paths, and follow guides.
Originality in being wrong
Is not a merit worthy of the laurel;
But only fit to raise a stare, like conjurers
At country wakes! The forms of Nature never
Must outrag'd or exaggerated be.
“Truth” as the critic Johnson nobly says,
“Always sufficient is to fill the mind!”—
One tint too much; one over-strained feature;
One combination false; one evil junction
Of heterogeneous elements, destroys
The spell, and utterly dissolves the merit.
The strong exaggeration is not genius;
It is the artifice of the sterile bungler:
And ever in the richest minds the thought,
That lies beneath, is stronger and more glowing
Than the free, frank, involuntary language,
Which, hurried forward, follows it in vain.
For rapid thought did never yet permit
The stay for studied words: and he, who labours
Upon the scent, will ne'er arrest his prey.
We cannot on the blazes of the sky
Steadily look for a continuance;
But must avert our eyes on other objects:
And while we look, the blaze is gone; and other,
And other shapes and hues, burst from the clouds,
And call us to pursue them; and the charm
Is vanish'd, if we seize not at the moment.
We read, or only ought to read, for wisdom;
And what deludes, is the reverse of wisdom.
False hues, false facts, and false associations,
If for a moment they assent and faith
Impose, with folly's poisons misdirect:
And if no faith they waken, then no pleasure
Can they arouse: for where belief there is not,
There is no charm. Thus fairy superstitions,
Which the mind is not nurtur'd to give ear to,
Are but a child's amusements; and all mysteries,
Which judgment and which reason will admit not,
Ill suit the taste of a sound intellect.
“I hate what I cannot believe!” said Horace.
Then fools of some most babyish invention
Cry, “'tis a pretty fancy!”—Fancy thus,
When she in artificial fiction deals,
Wastes all her toil in gewgaws; and her breath
Exhausts in blowing bubbles. 'Tis not harmless;
For the true strain it to discredit brings;
And in one censure critics, and the world,
Of bosoms hard and stupid heads, involve
All who in metre write, and strike the strings
Of the lyre, false or genuine. All, which they,
Who sounder minds and sterner tastes affect,
Have said in cold disparagement of poetry,
Only to these false fablings will apply.
171
False hues, false facts, and false associations,
If for a moment they assent and faith
Impose, with folly's poisons misdirect:
And if no faith they waken, then no pleasure
Can they arouse: for where belief there is not,
There is no charm. Thus fairy superstitions,
Which the mind is not nurtur'd to give ear to,
Are but a child's amusements; and all mysteries,
Which judgment and which reason will admit not,
Ill suit the taste of a sound intellect.
“I hate what I cannot believe!” said Horace.
Then fools of some most babyish invention
Cry, “'tis a pretty fancy!”—Fancy thus,
When she in artificial fiction deals,
Wastes all her toil in gewgaws; and her breath
Exhausts in blowing bubbles. 'Tis not harmless;
For the true strain it to discredit brings;
And in one censure critics, and the world,
Of bosoms hard and stupid heads, involve
All who in metre write, and strike the strings
Of the lyre, false or genuine. All, which they,
Who sounder minds and sterner tastes affect,
Have said in cold disparagement of poetry,
Only to these false fablings will apply.
What other human being, in the strength
And soundness equally, as in the lustre
Of intellect, could e'er compare with Dante,
Petrarch, and Spenser, and divinest Milton?
All highest human wisdom; all opinion
Most lofty and enlighten'd; all exalted
Sentiment, in the Muse's strains is found.
And if it be an idle empty note,
Bearing no solid and instructive matter,
It is not of the Muse:—the Muse will never
Own it, as from the fount of Helicon.
And soundness equally, as in the lustre
Of intellect, could e'er compare with Dante,
Petrarch, and Spenser, and divinest Milton?
All highest human wisdom; all opinion
172
Sentiment, in the Muse's strains is found.
And if it be an idle empty note,
Bearing no solid and instructive matter,
It is not of the Muse:—the Muse will never
Own it, as from the fount of Helicon.
And why should not the Muses be the deities,
Who of the soundest lore their lessons give?
Are not the faculties, which separately
In other intellectual beings live,
United all in them? 'Twould then be strange,
Did they not clearer see, and deeper pierce
Than others? Above all, intuitive knowledge
Is theirs, and half-inspir'd sagacity,
Which sees the complex workings of the soul,
And from its causes draws the line of action,
Which time, and the strong tide of human things,
Will gradually unfold in man's existence.
Who of the soundest lore their lessons give?
Are not the faculties, which separately
In other intellectual beings live,
United all in them? 'Twould then be strange,
Did they not clearer see, and deeper pierce
Than others? Above all, intuitive knowledge
Is theirs, and half-inspir'd sagacity,
Which sees the complex workings of the soul,
And from its causes draws the line of action,
Which time, and the strong tide of human things,
Will gradually unfold in man's existence.
He, who believes that he can stir a step
From censure safe, and from sinister comments,
Is a most inconvenient self-deceiver.
Passions of Envy and of Jealousy
Over the world predominate; and Dulness
Mistakes, or will not even notice take.
Th'objector—and the world is ever full
Of keen objectors,—will with plausibility
Exclaim, that if my theory were true
Of th' poet's art;—its uses and abuses—
Then the true bard would ever find the fame
He merits, and pretenders be proscrib'd:—
But that it is not so; and they who, judging
By tests here urg'd, are empty charlatans,
Are oft the idols of the multitude,
While genius pines neglected, and e'en starves.
From censure safe, and from sinister comments,
Is a most inconvenient self-deceiver.
Passions of Envy and of Jealousy
Over the world predominate; and Dulness
Mistakes, or will not even notice take.
Th'objector—and the world is ever full
Of keen objectors,—will with plausibility
Exclaim, that if my theory were true
Of th' poet's art;—its uses and abuses—
Then the true bard would ever find the fame
He merits, and pretenders be proscrib'd:—
173
By tests here urg'd, are empty charlatans,
Are oft the idols of the multitude,
While genius pines neglected, and e'en starves.
All this, no doubt, is strange, and contradictory;
But 'tis, perhaps, the fearfulness of judging
By one's own feelings, and the evil custom
Of following the leader, when some critic,
Who learn'd his art by measure and by rule,
Has got pessession of the public ear.
The false dominion is by lapse of time
Broken; and the true flame bursts forth at last
Thro clouds and darkness; and forever after
Shines unobstructed. Milton thus, and Collins,
And many another bard, who struggled long
With his unkind cotemporaries, lives.
The mob of readers read not what they like;
But what it is the fashion to admire:
They read that they may talk, and be prepar'd
With knowledge of the topics others talk of:—
And what is artificial, is more easily
Learn'd than the natural; for native merit
Requires a mirror bright by nature's force.
Those mirrors are not rare; but rarely trust
To their own strength and action. Popular taste
Is, as sage Horace, in past ages, sung,
As fleeting and capricious as the winds.
But 'tis, perhaps, the fearfulness of judging
By one's own feelings, and the evil custom
Of following the leader, when some critic,
Who learn'd his art by measure and by rule,
Has got pessession of the public ear.
The false dominion is by lapse of time
Broken; and the true flame bursts forth at last
Thro clouds and darkness; and forever after
Shines unobstructed. Milton thus, and Collins,
And many another bard, who struggled long
With his unkind cotemporaries, lives.
The mob of readers read not what they like;
But what it is the fashion to admire:
They read that they may talk, and be prepar'd
With knowledge of the topics others talk of:—
And what is artificial, is more easily
Learn'd than the natural; for native merit
Requires a mirror bright by nature's force.
Those mirrors are not rare; but rarely trust
To their own strength and action. Popular taste
Is, as sage Horace, in past ages, sung,
As fleeting and capricious as the winds.
If the sole spur of fame be popular clamour,
Then will the track of fame be false and vulgar.
The bard must be prepar'd t'encounter coldness,
Unblighted, and uncheck'd; and onward go
Firm and undaunted; while around him fools
Are cheer'd, and on men's shoulders mounted high.
Then will the track of fame be false and vulgar.
The bard must be prepar'd t'encounter coldness,
174
Firm and undaunted; while around him fools
Are cheer'd, and on men's shoulders mounted high.
But oft is Genius morbid,—and neglect
Withers her heart, or turns the brain to madness.
Thus most unhappy Collins!—when his notes
Divine, fell dead upon the public ear,
With deep resentment to the flames he gave
Those precious monuments of inspiration;
Then wild disorder his benighted fancy
Afflicted, and his bodily vigour fail'd,
And a few years he pin'd in gloom, or shrieked
His sorrows thro his native city's cloisters;
And found tranquillity but in an early grave!
Withers her heart, or turns the brain to madness.
Thus most unhappy Collins!—when his notes
Divine, fell dead upon the public ear,
With deep resentment to the flames he gave
Those precious monuments of inspiration;
Then wild disorder his benighted fancy
Afflicted, and his bodily vigour fail'd,
And a few years he pin'd in gloom, or shrieked
His sorrows thro his native city's cloisters;
And found tranquillity but in an early grave!
But this submission to the world's unkindness
Was but a weakness, which detracted from
The grandeur of his genius. Not, with swords
Of public vengeance hanging over him,
Did Milton's spirit quail. In poverty
And blindness he went on to weave the web
Of his immortal Epic:—and he died
Tranquil and happy in maturity
Of years. His calm self-estimate, and confidence
In his own glorious powers, was never shaken
By all the deadly frost of biting breaths,
Or dark aversion of a vicious court,
And flinty-hearted people. “If they hear not,”
He said, “posterity will hear, and glorify
“My spirit! and while floating in the skies,
“My ghost will listen to the swelling notes,
“That on the wings of winds shall bear my name
“Throughout all countries, and all distant ages!”
Was but a weakness, which detracted from
The grandeur of his genius. Not, with swords
Of public vengeance hanging over him,
Did Milton's spirit quail. In poverty
And blindness he went on to weave the web
Of his immortal Epic:—and he died
Tranquil and happy in maturity
Of years. His calm self-estimate, and confidence
In his own glorious powers, was never shaken
By all the deadly frost of biting breaths,
Or dark aversion of a vicious court,
And flinty-hearted people. “If they hear not,”
He said, “posterity will hear, and glorify
“My spirit! and while floating in the skies,
“My ghost will listen to the swelling notes,
175
“Throughout all countries, and all distant ages!”
To ponder on the growing web was rapture,
E'en though no other knew it but himself:
'Tis true he could not with his outward eyes
See it; but in his mental vision brightly
It shone;—and he, above all earthly power
Of kings and rulers, flourish'd; and in scorn,
With stern republican virtue sat and mus'd!—
E'en though no other knew it but himself:
'Tis true he could not with his outward eyes
See it; but in his mental vision brightly
It shone;—and he, above all earthly power
Of kings and rulers, flourish'd; and in scorn,
With stern republican virtue sat and mus'd!—
And now I to myself return!—“What, egotisms?
“Eternal egotisms!”—Yes, egotisms!
Johnson has said, that the obscurest person,
If frankly he the movements will relate
Of his own heart and mind, can be amusing,
And e'en instructive! and the cavilling public
With lively interest has ever read
The auto-biographic page, if vanity
And falsehood do not their disgusting poison
Infuse too copiously. The writer may
Deceive himself, but if he wilfully
Will others misinform, then scorn will justly
His portion be! And there is no deception,
Which will avail to mingle the ungenuine
With the sincere! The marked difference strikes
A common reader; and the artifice
At once explodes, and wakes contempt and hatred.
“Eternal egotisms!”—Yes, egotisms!
Johnson has said, that the obscurest person,
If frankly he the movements will relate
Of his own heart and mind, can be amusing,
And e'en instructive! and the cavilling public
With lively interest has ever read
The auto-biographic page, if vanity
And falsehood do not their disgusting poison
Infuse too copiously. The writer may
Deceive himself, but if he wilfully
Will others misinform, then scorn will justly
His portion be! And there is no deception,
Which will avail to mingle the ungenuine
With the sincere! The marked difference strikes
A common reader; and the artifice
At once explodes, and wakes contempt and hatred.
'Tis said that pity nearly is allied
To scorn; but surely this has been incautiously
And incorrectly hazarded by sages.
Pity is more allied to love and friendship.
It is superiority, which wakens
Distrust, and jealousy, fear, and avoidance.
With common weaknesses, and common frailties
We sympathise: but him, who is above us
In strength of heart, and freedom from the follies
And imperfections of humanity,
We may admire and fear, but rarely love.
When the illustrious and exalted bosom
Is soften'd by adversity, we then
With all its sorrows take companionship.
Reserve is but the trait of a false pride,
And heart of cowardly dread of strict observance:
'Tis by the nice inspecting of himself
And undisguised disclosure, that we learn
Man's inward nature: if we know not that,
Our knowledge is but barren, and of naught.
To scorn; but surely this has been incautiously
And incorrectly hazarded by sages.
Pity is more allied to love and friendship.
176
Distrust, and jealousy, fear, and avoidance.
With common weaknesses, and common frailties
We sympathise: but him, who is above us
In strength of heart, and freedom from the follies
And imperfections of humanity,
We may admire and fear, but rarely love.
When the illustrious and exalted bosom
Is soften'd by adversity, we then
With all its sorrows take companionship.
Reserve is but the trait of a false pride,
And heart of cowardly dread of strict observance:
'Tis by the nice inspecting of himself
And undisguised disclosure, that we learn
Man's inward nature: if we know not that,
Our knowledge is but barren, and of naught.
Then, if I have forever made confession
Of all my feelings; of the injuries,
And troubles, and misfortunes, that my lot
Has destin'd me in a tempestuous life
Incessantly to strive with,—am I wrong?
And if I tell the common ills of life,
The hopes destroy'd, the light mortifications,
The scorn of “boobies mounting o'er one's head.”
The sting of calumny, the dart of envy,
They are the conflicts all have to encounter;—
Whence sympathy' or instruction all may draw;
And thus when in a glass we see the workings
Reflected, we can better study them:
The shades are often nice, and tints are flying;
And when the pen or pencil does not fix them,
They are too airy for comparison,
Too subtle, and of too much evanescence,
Shadowy, and changeable as is the rainbow.
Of all my feelings; of the injuries,
And troubles, and misfortunes, that my lot
Has destin'd me in a tempestuous life
Incessantly to strive with,—am I wrong?
And if I tell the common ills of life,
The hopes destroy'd, the light mortifications,
The scorn of “boobies mounting o'er one's head.”
The sting of calumny, the dart of envy,
They are the conflicts all have to encounter;—
Whence sympathy' or instruction all may draw;
And thus when in a glass we see the workings
Reflected, we can better study them:
The shades are often nice, and tints are flying;
177
They are too airy for comparison,
Too subtle, and of too much evanescence,
Shadowy, and changeable as is the rainbow.
But it is crime, it seems, to talk of self,
E'en in th'endeavour to detect these movements
Of intellectual and invisible spirit;
And all those impulses, by which the blood
In hidden tracks circulates round the heart!
E'en in th'endeavour to detect these movements
Of intellectual and invisible spirit;
And all those impulses, by which the blood
In hidden tracks circulates round the heart!
There is likewise in literature a secret
History, wisdom well may wish to learn:
The hopes, the fears, mischances, and defeats
Of the Bard's life, are not a trifling theme.
But then the question comes, “who is a Bard?”—
And not to me the multitude allow
The boon is given. Surely to write in metre,
Cannot alone a poet constitute!
It is a spirit indefinable;
A flame of intellect, and glowing heart,
Which rules and measures at defiance sets;
Which comes with exhalations from the fountain
Of sweetness and of purity; which wakes
In the air music, and involuntarily
The human bosom on its floating stream
Bears away with it; which analysis
Defies, and laughs at all the critic's laws;
And by its own internal force, where all
Of outward look is simple, shadowy, empty,
With a resistless power of magic works.
History, wisdom well may wish to learn:
The hopes, the fears, mischances, and defeats
Of the Bard's life, are not a trifling theme.
But then the question comes, “who is a Bard?”—
And not to me the multitude allow
The boon is given. Surely to write in metre,
Cannot alone a poet constitute!
It is a spirit indefinable;
A flame of intellect, and glowing heart,
Which rules and measures at defiance sets;
Which comes with exhalations from the fountain
Of sweetness and of purity; which wakes
In the air music, and involuntarily
The human bosom on its floating stream
Bears away with it; which analysis
Defies, and laughs at all the critic's laws;
And by its own internal force, where all
Of outward look is simple, shadowy, empty,
With a resistless power of magic works.
It is a partial dispensation of
The breathings of some higher class of beings.
'Tis not the language, but the thought and feeling,
Which makes the spell; and in the humblest prose,
And words least ornamented, it may shine!
And thus it shines in Bunyan's vulgar phrase.—
Perchance it rises from the living presence
Imagination to all objects gives;
And from that presence there is warmth and vigour,
Which memory has not the power t' impart:
Memory gives alone a faint, and partial,
And technical resemblance,—not the living
Object; and with no actual passions burns.
Oft 'tis a memory of words and signs,
Not of the very images: then 'tis cold
E'en as the sculptor's stone, or painter's canvass.
But from the elements, which Nature's scenery
Plants on the fancy's mirror, and the intuitive
Impressions of some celestial objects,
And aspirations, and emotions loftier,
Inventive genius joins, and thus creates,
The presence of a million rapturing visions.
178
'Tis not the language, but the thought and feeling,
Which makes the spell; and in the humblest prose,
And words least ornamented, it may shine!
And thus it shines in Bunyan's vulgar phrase.—
Perchance it rises from the living presence
Imagination to all objects gives;
And from that presence there is warmth and vigour,
Which memory has not the power t' impart:
Memory gives alone a faint, and partial,
And technical resemblance,—not the living
Object; and with no actual passions burns.
Oft 'tis a memory of words and signs,
Not of the very images: then 'tis cold
E'en as the sculptor's stone, or painter's canvass.
But from the elements, which Nature's scenery
Plants on the fancy's mirror, and the intuitive
Impressions of some celestial objects,
And aspirations, and emotions loftier,
Inventive genius joins, and thus creates,
The presence of a million rapturing visions.
This is the genuine theory of poetry;
Not the dogmatic dulness of cramp pedants,
Whose knowledge is mechanical and barren.
Not all the labour, learning, art, that mind
Can most apply, will aught avail to wake
From the lyre's strings the Muse's genuine tones.
'Tis not the subject, nor the elements
Of which the theme is woven,—'tis the warmth,
The life, the tints, the atmosphere; the halo
Of brightness, and of glory that surrounds it;
Which in the fountains of Imagination
Springs, and is fann'd, and flames. There is no fruit
Of poetry, in other climes that ripens.
When in the hot-bed of mechanical heat
'Tis rais'd, it has no flavour; and it dies!
Not the dogmatic dulness of cramp pedants,
Whose knowledge is mechanical and barren.
Not all the labour, learning, art, that mind
Can most apply, will aught avail to wake
From the lyre's strings the Muse's genuine tones.
'Tis not the subject, nor the elements
Of which the theme is woven,—'tis the warmth,
The life, the tints, the atmosphere; the halo
179
Which in the fountains of Imagination
Springs, and is fann'd, and flames. There is no fruit
Of poetry, in other climes that ripens.
When in the hot-bed of mechanical heat
'Tis rais'd, it has no flavour; and it dies!
Thus I approach my task's allotted bound!
In six and twenty nights successively
No interruption has disturb'd its progress.
Much it has babbled, reckless of due order;
And much, it will be said, of no connection
With its pretended subject. Let it be:
Let the mean cavil, as it can, prevail!
'Tis vain to make responses to objections,
Which from the temper, not the reason, come!
My Muse, I trust, has made no great omissions
In noticing the worthies that belong,
O Lake sublime, to thy enchanting circuit!
In scientific lore she has no ventures;
And in describing natural scenery,
Best by the pencil touch'd, she has been thrifty.
The thought, the sentiment, the character
Of human intellect—the heart of man,—
She has attempted most with daring hand
Frankly to draw the veil from. If the touches
Be neither true, nor plausible; nor worthy
Regard, the cypher'd leaves will be a waste,
That the winds soon will scatter in the air.
But if of men, life, manners, their pursuits,
And their opinions, there be justice, force,
Or honourable feeling, in his judgments,
Then will his mental toils have not been vain!
In six and twenty nights successively
No interruption has disturb'd its progress.
Much it has babbled, reckless of due order;
And much, it will be said, of no connection
With its pretended subject. Let it be:
Let the mean cavil, as it can, prevail!
'Tis vain to make responses to objections,
Which from the temper, not the reason, come!
My Muse, I trust, has made no great omissions
In noticing the worthies that belong,
O Lake sublime, to thy enchanting circuit!
In scientific lore she has no ventures;
And in describing natural scenery,
Best by the pencil touch'd, she has been thrifty.
The thought, the sentiment, the character
Of human intellect—the heart of man,—
She has attempted most with daring hand
Frankly to draw the veil from. If the touches
Be neither true, nor plausible; nor worthy
Regard, the cypher'd leaves will be a waste,
That the winds soon will scatter in the air.
But if of men, life, manners, their pursuits,
And their opinions, there be justice, force,
180
Then will his mental toils have not been vain!
It is not from the stores of memory,
But from th'internal fountain we must speak:
All that the memory gives, is stale and faint;
And adds no knowledge to the minds of others.
The repetition of the self-same things;
The mimickry of notes; the mocking bird,—
Is not alone inane;—it is disgusting!
Nothing more rare than the original songster;
Nothing so common as the mocking-bird!—
But from th'internal fountain we must speak:
All that the memory gives, is stale and faint;
And adds no knowledge to the minds of others.
The repetition of the self-same things;
The mimickry of notes; the mocking bird,—
Is not alone inane;—it is disgusting!
Nothing more rare than the original songster;
Nothing so common as the mocking-bird!—
So, when the great Magician of the North
Bursts forth with a new note, a thousand echoers
Start up at once, and indiscrimination
Believes them genuine rivals, or perchance
Superior, if there be defects, or negligences,
Which trick and effort can exaggerate!
Bursts forth with a new note, a thousand echoers
Start up at once, and indiscrimination
Believes them genuine rivals, or perchance
Superior, if there be defects, or negligences,
Which trick and effort can exaggerate!
And so again, when by a spell the eloquent
Creator of Otranto's Castle told
His witch-like, horror-breathing, tale, competitors
Rose numerous, and their stories wild of ghosts,
And gothic halls, and battlements, and helmets,
Giants, and dwarfs, and pigmies, multiplied:
But never one in spirit, or the genuine
Essence of that, which made the charm, succeeded.
Creator of Otranto's Castle told
His witch-like, horror-breathing, tale, competitors
Rose numerous, and their stories wild of ghosts,
And gothic halls, and battlements, and helmets,
Giants, and dwarfs, and pigmies, multiplied:
But never one in spirit, or the genuine
Essence of that, which made the charm, succeeded.
There is no place for mediocrity;
No hope, no saving point. So Horace sung:—
And who has since his judgments countervail'd?
All the mechanical produce of the press,
For vulgar readers manufactur'd, is
A curse, a poison! It dissolves the force
Of mind, and all its elements; misleads,
Where there is interest in error; damps
Th'originator in his wasting toils;
Destroys the fire of genius; and the laurel
Blights with the counterfeit of rays eclipsing.
Then comes ennui, and cold neglect, and scorn,
And mean confusion of the high and worthy
With charlatanic dealers in the trade
Of words, and borrow'd thoughts, and stolen facts,
And pourings of quick poison in the cauldron.
No hope, no saving point. So Horace sung:—
And who has since his judgments countervail'd?
All the mechanical produce of the press,
For vulgar readers manufactur'd, is
181
Of mind, and all its elements; misleads,
Where there is interest in error; damps
Th'originator in his wasting toils;
Destroys the fire of genius; and the laurel
Blights with the counterfeit of rays eclipsing.
Then comes ennui, and cold neglect, and scorn,
And mean confusion of the high and worthy
With charlatanic dealers in the trade
Of words, and borrow'd thoughts, and stolen facts,
And pourings of quick poison in the cauldron.
Two centuries, and perchance another half,
Have pass'd, since England, and perhaps all Europe,
The trade began of manufacturing
A mental food to please the public appetite.
Then Robert Greene and Thomas Nash, and others,
Their boon associates, gain'd their daily bread
By furnishing the press with tales and fancies,
In prose and verse, fitted to gratify
The undiscerning taste of common minds.
The lore was mingled much with conversational
Phrases and topics;—full of vulgar saws,
And trite opinions, and the modes of judging
Of life familiar to the popular talk:
But they were men of genius, and debas'd
Their faculties, for want, and gain of lucre.
They liv'd in misery; they died in poverty;
And in the ages, that succeeded them
Their writings were waste paper, held in scorn
Their very names, and even of their authors,
Forgotten; though, again, the present day
Seeks them to gratify the rich collectors
Of ancient rarities; and curious critics
Are willing an imaginary merit
To find in them; and truly they sometimes
Manners and language usefully illustrate:
And here and there a burst of fire, and eloquence,
Breaks forth, that has the seeds of life in it.
Have pass'd, since England, and perhaps all Europe,
The trade began of manufacturing
A mental food to please the public appetite.
Then Robert Greene and Thomas Nash, and others,
Their boon associates, gain'd their daily bread
By furnishing the press with tales and fancies,
In prose and verse, fitted to gratify
The undiscerning taste of common minds.
The lore was mingled much with conversational
Phrases and topics;—full of vulgar saws,
And trite opinions, and the modes of judging
Of life familiar to the popular talk:
But they were men of genius, and debas'd
Their faculties, for want, and gain of lucre.
They liv'd in misery; they died in poverty;
And in the ages, that succeeded them
Their writings were waste paper, held in scorn
Their very names, and even of their authors,
182
Seeks them to gratify the rich collectors
Of ancient rarities; and curious critics
Are willing an imaginary merit
To find in them; and truly they sometimes
Manners and language usefully illustrate:
And here and there a burst of fire, and eloquence,
Breaks forth, that has the seeds of life in it.
In this strange world 'tis vain to seek to separate
The good and evil:—they together grow!
But yet th'abuses of the press are frightful;—
A pestilence which daily wretchedness,
Prostration of the mind, affliction, ruin,
And death itself, works out! the chymical drug
The particles of governments dissolving,
And letting loose the chains that tie the dogs
Of anarchy! Then, on the contrary,
Where were th'englight'nment of the world without it
What should we do at the deprival of
The eloquence of genius, and of wisdom?
The good and evil:—they together grow!
But yet th'abuses of the press are frightful;—
A pestilence which daily wretchedness,
Prostration of the mind, affliction, ruin,
And death itself, works out! the chymical drug
The particles of governments dissolving,
And letting loose the chains that tie the dogs
Of anarchy! Then, on the contrary,
Where were th'englight'nment of the world without it
What should we do at the deprival of
The eloquence of genius, and of wisdom?
Authors are now so multitudinous,
That awe and reverence for the occupation
Is gone; and general readers have no talent
The genuine from the mechanical
To separate;—nay, rather would prefer
The false;—which has more method, and more polish.
But then they meet the men, and find them common
In all their notions and their feelings; and
In apprehension dull, in fancy lifeless:
And thus they cry, “it wants no qualities
Of eminence to have success in letters.”
That awe and reverence for the occupation
Is gone; and general readers have no talent
The genuine from the mechanical
To separate;—nay, rather would prefer
The false;—which has more method, and more polish.
But then they meet the men, and find them common
In all their notions and their feelings; and
In apprehension dull, in fancy lifeless:
And thus they cry, “it wants no qualities
183
So genius and so learning lose the power
Of doing good by awe and reverence:
And thus the spur is blunted, that would urge us
“To scorn delights and live laborious days.”
It was the love of glory, that led on
Mortals upon their spiritual wings to keep
Their course, in spite of earth's impediments.
But when the cheer is ceas'd, and all is dead
Of human voices, then the force of man
Lasts not, in an exhausting track to bear
His onward way! Thus Genius pines in silence,
While false pretenders wrest away the chaplet.
Of doing good by awe and reverence:
And thus the spur is blunted, that would urge us
“To scorn delights and live laborious days.”
It was the love of glory, that led on
Mortals upon their spiritual wings to keep
Their course, in spite of earth's impediments.
But when the cheer is ceas'd, and all is dead
Of human voices, then the force of man
Lasts not, in an exhausting track to bear
His onward way! Thus Genius pines in silence,
While false pretenders wrest away the chaplet.
O thirst of money! 'Tis the universal
Passion of human kind:—not thirst of fame!
When I have said that I have work'd for fame
Thro my woe-follow'd life, few have believ'd me!
And work'd not only without gain of money,
But at its mighty cost; and knowing too,
Beforehand, it would be a cost,—not gain!
And if there be a few, who have giv'n faith
To the assertion, of those few still fewer
But blame it as a folly, if not crime!
Then others, if I neither yet have gain'd,
Nor could gain if I would, assume 'tis proof
Complete, I have not genius, nor e'en talent!
They say, the judgment of the multitude
Alone, is testimony due of merit:—
And that to please a few, is the result
Of whim, and partiality, and prejudice.
But yet not always has the popular writer
The highest worth, or force, or taste, or knowledge.
Sometimes there is a base necessity,
Down to the popular taste to write,—not up!
Passion of human kind:—not thirst of fame!
When I have said that I have work'd for fame
Thro my woe-follow'd life, few have believ'd me!
And work'd not only without gain of money,
But at its mighty cost; and knowing too,
Beforehand, it would be a cost,—not gain!
And if there be a few, who have giv'n faith
To the assertion, of those few still fewer
But blame it as a folly, if not crime!
Then others, if I neither yet have gain'd,
Nor could gain if I would, assume 'tis proof
Complete, I have not genius, nor e'en talent!
They say, the judgment of the multitude
Alone, is testimony due of merit:—
And that to please a few, is the result
Of whim, and partiality, and prejudice.
184
The highest worth, or force, or taste, or knowledge.
Sometimes there is a base necessity,
Down to the popular taste to write,—not up!
Then, as it is my folly to be frank,
And many a mighty ill has risen from it,
Let me confess, (for frank confessions always
Relieve my loaded heart,) that I could never
The public please, or gain a kind reception!—
'Tis natural, that they, who have the fortune
To suit the people, should insist upon it
To be the only true criterion
Of real merit.—Yet does reason justify
The rule? And are the many loftier-minded
And wiser, than the few, whom nature's gifts
Endow, and toils of learning still improve?
Judgment and taste in part are the results
Of nice and wide comparison. The multitude
Cannot have leisure for this painful culture.
And many a mighty ill has risen from it,
Let me confess, (for frank confessions always
Relieve my loaded heart,) that I could never
The public please, or gain a kind reception!—
'Tis natural, that they, who have the fortune
To suit the people, should insist upon it
To be the only true criterion
Of real merit.—Yet does reason justify
The rule? And are the many loftier-minded
And wiser, than the few, whom nature's gifts
Endow, and toils of learning still improve?
Judgment and taste in part are the results
Of nice and wide comparison. The multitude
Cannot have leisure for this painful culture.
Sometimes, as in the mighty northern bard,
The magical creator of high tales,
The gifted few and general public voice
Concur! It is where Nature's touches strike,
With art unmingled, on the human bosom!—
The magical creator of high tales,
The gifted few and general public voice
Concur! It is where Nature's touches strike,
With art unmingled, on the human bosom!—
But they who struggle in the common bustle
Of life, and by its common passions move,
To a sympathy with those sublimer notions,
Which actuate the few, are too insensible.
Those impulses disturb their daily courses,
And render the rough path, they have to tread,
Too painful to a temperament refin'd,
And blood rais'd to a sensitive excess.
Of life, and by its common passions move,
To a sympathy with those sublimer notions,
Which actuate the few, are too insensible.
Those impulses disturb their daily courses,
And render the rough path, they have to tread,
185
And blood rais'd to a sensitive excess.
Why should I fear my thoughts and sentiments
To lay before the world, if I believe them
True? Scorn, or ridicule, cannot affect
Wisdom, or truth, or virtue:—generous feelings
May be the mockery of brutal vice;
Or shameless hardness of an icy heart:
But soon the scorn will turn upon the scorner,
And he be cover'd by his earthly foulness.
To lay before the world, if I believe them
True? Scorn, or ridicule, cannot affect
Wisdom, or truth, or virtue:—generous feelings
May be the mockery of brutal vice;
Or shameless hardness of an icy heart:
But soon the scorn will turn upon the scorner,
And he be cover'd by his earthly foulness.
'Tis affectation, and base artifice,
Which ought to tremble at the piercing eye
Of rival candidates for fame and favour.
When art is in her odious colours shewn,
When false pretension is expos'd to view
Bare, then for fame comes killing ignominy:—
But not for what is said in perfect faith,
And with intention virtuous. If indeed
It be faint, trite, and foolish,—in the scorn,
Or dead neglect, which covers it, there is
A sting, or breath-stopping oppression, hard
To bear, and carefully to be avoided.
But ere the self-delusion prompts the utterer
His voice to lift upon the public stage,
There must be in the foolish, and the stupid,
Some wilful error in the estimate
Of force and of acquirement. Man is reckless
Of brother man's self-love, and lets him know,
In terms which cannot be misunderstood,
Where nature has been sparing of her gifts.
It is, perhaps, th'effect, of evil habit,
That of themselves men make erroneous estimates:
Nature points out to them where they are weak;
And trial, and comparison, a lesson
Of certainty they cannot fly from, gives.
Which ought to tremble at the piercing eye
Of rival candidates for fame and favour.
When art is in her odious colours shewn,
When false pretension is expos'd to view
Bare, then for fame comes killing ignominy:—
But not for what is said in perfect faith,
And with intention virtuous. If indeed
It be faint, trite, and foolish,—in the scorn,
Or dead neglect, which covers it, there is
A sting, or breath-stopping oppression, hard
To bear, and carefully to be avoided.
But ere the self-delusion prompts the utterer
His voice to lift upon the public stage,
There must be in the foolish, and the stupid,
Some wilful error in the estimate
Of force and of acquirement. Man is reckless
Of brother man's self-love, and lets him know,
In terms which cannot be misunderstood,
Where nature has been sparing of her gifts.
186
That of themselves men make erroneous estimates:
Nature points out to them where they are weak;
And trial, and comparison, a lesson
Of certainty they cannot fly from, gives.
For public censure, and for public praise,
In all the minor literary journals,
It now is prov'd, and known to all the world,
That they are bought and sold, and hireling scriblers
Are kept in pay by grasping publishers,
To recommend their goods by fulsome flatteries,
And odious falsehoods. But pursued too far,
Fraud, trick, and gross mendacity, will explode
At last; and some new artifice must soon
Be plann'd, and enter'd on, to vend bad wine!
'Tis true, the mean deception is discover'd
Ere long, but not until the bad commodity
Is sold; and thus the vendor gains his purpose;
And for a time supports a thriving trade.
In all the minor literary journals,
It now is prov'd, and known to all the world,
That they are bought and sold, and hireling scriblers
Are kept in pay by grasping publishers,
To recommend their goods by fulsome flatteries,
And odious falsehoods. But pursued too far,
Fraud, trick, and gross mendacity, will explode
At last; and some new artifice must soon
Be plann'd, and enter'd on, to vend bad wine!
'Tis true, the mean deception is discover'd
Ere long, but not until the bad commodity
Is sold; and thus the vendor gains his purpose;
And for a time supports a thriving trade.
Then all intruders on the lucrative
Profession they are driving, these apt penmen
Pursue with vengeance to extermination,
To brethren of the quill,—of the same factions—
Alone will they mercy and peace extend;—
Or liberty to enter in the regions
Of authorship, as members of the elect!
By rules precisely the reverse of those,
On which true criticism must be built,
They ply the instruments of their base trade,—
Their rules and measures. More of loathsome art,
And toil mechanical, the more with them
The merit;—and the more of natural gift
And inspiration, less to be distinguish'd,
Or pass'd without some scoff, or taunt, or bitterness,
Or wicked and malign misrepresentation.
With them,—who works for fame, is or a fool,
Or a most dangerous miscreant, who must be
Crush'd for the common benefit of the trade!
Does chance or hard necessity e'er press
The genuine son of Genius to the faction?
But in those cells of mean intrigue, amid
Foul lucre's birds of prey he draws his breath;
Clouds, vapours, pestilence, absorb his faculties,
And turn his powers to poison and corruption.
Profession they are driving, these apt penmen
Pursue with vengeance to extermination,
To brethren of the quill,—of the same factions—
Alone will they mercy and peace extend;—
Or liberty to enter in the regions
Of authorship, as members of the elect!
By rules precisely the reverse of those,
On which true criticism must be built,
They ply the instruments of their base trade,—
Their rules and measures. More of loathsome art,
187
The merit;—and the more of natural gift
And inspiration, less to be distinguish'd,
Or pass'd without some scoff, or taunt, or bitterness,
Or wicked and malign misrepresentation.
With them,—who works for fame, is or a fool,
Or a most dangerous miscreant, who must be
Crush'd for the common benefit of the trade!
Does chance or hard necessity e'er press
The genuine son of Genius to the faction?
But in those cells of mean intrigue, amid
Foul lucre's birds of prey he draws his breath;
Clouds, vapours, pestilence, absorb his faculties,
And turn his powers to poison and corruption.
Yet there's an outward and most plausible semblance
Oft in this hot-bed produce, which has poignancy
For vicious tastes: but soon it rots, and dies;
Has no revival; and is heard no more:
For it has naught of native life in it;
And only breathes by fashion, and caprice.
Oft in this hot-bed produce, which has poignancy
For vicious tastes: but soon it rots, and dies;
Has no revival; and is heard no more:
For it has naught of native life in it;
And only breathes by fashion, and caprice.
But the true strain will live for ever;—frost
And snow and blight and tempest cannot injure it,
Or paralyse the force and glow of spirit,
That circuit thro its arteries and elements.
After the lapse of ages still it lives
And breathes, e'en as at first it liv'd and breath'd.
And snow and blight and tempest cannot injure it,
Or paralyse the force and glow of spirit,
That circuit thro its arteries and elements.
After the lapse of ages still it lives
And breathes, e'en as at first it liv'd and breath'd.
No artificial poet;—none whose flame
Was secondary and derivative,
Has ever liv'd in fame for half a century
Beyond his mortal life, though many an one
Of this inferior merit has obtain'd
A temporary reputation.
Was secondary and derivative,
Has ever liv'd in fame for half a century
Beyond his mortal life, though many an one
188
A temporary reputation.
The days and hours are drawing to an end,
When I approach the close of my farewell.
My Muse has freely flow'd without or effort,
Or artifice, or polish, or disguise.
It has no claim upon the ground of ornament,
Or illustration, or concinnity
And happiness of phrase, or harmony
Of metre: nor can place its hope of favour
But in the force and rectitude of thought,
And purity of native sentiment.
If, though these thoughts and sentiments be true,
They yet be stale and trite, they claim no mercy;—
And I well know they will not, cannot, have it!
The matter may be found conformable
To much of many an author, who precedes me.
Not therefore is it borrow'd: if it has
The stamp of truth, but little can it differ;
For truth is constant and immutable.
When I approach the close of my farewell.
My Muse has freely flow'd without or effort,
Or artifice, or polish, or disguise.
It has no claim upon the ground of ornament,
Or illustration, or concinnity
And happiness of phrase, or harmony
Of metre: nor can place its hope of favour
But in the force and rectitude of thought,
And purity of native sentiment.
If, though these thoughts and sentiments be true,
They yet be stale and trite, they claim no mercy;—
And I well know they will not, cannot, have it!
The matter may be found conformable
To much of many an author, who precedes me.
Not therefore is it borrow'd: if it has
The stamp of truth, but little can it differ;
For truth is constant and immutable.
Yet not the less, e'en though already said,
May be the use of saying it again,
Grounded upon concurrence of observance,
And sympathy of bosom, if there be
The charm of novel language, and fresh life.—
The borrower is ever known by technical
Marks of his theft; and artificial phrases
Identical; and trains of thought the same,
When not allied by nature but by whim.
May be the use of saying it again,
Grounded upon concurrence of observance,
And sympathy of bosom, if there be
The charm of novel language, and fresh life.—
The borrower is ever known by technical
Marks of his theft; and artificial phrases
Identical; and trains of thought the same,
When not allied by nature but by whim.
But in the paths of lonely meditation
For sixty years have I explor'd my way;
Nor sought a guide, nor trod upon the steps
Of others;—oft in darkness; oft in storms;
Oft by the fairy lights of silver moonbeams;
And sometimes in the garish glow of day,
Beneath meridian suns. The stores we gather,
We are not willing should exhaust themselves,
Pent up within the bosom's dark abode:
That which is sought in solitude, is sought
Full oft for social purposes;—alone
We do the task, which is for fellow-man;
And but retire to think with more intenseness
Upon humanity;—its griefs and joys!
'Tis only by incessant pondering,
That we can know the mysteries of man's nature:
And by the unrelaxing exercise
Of all the mental faculties, can gain
Precision of ideas, and command
Of language, to express them properly.
Much it imports us all, the lights and shades
Of moral science, deeply and precisely
To be familiar with; the human character
In all its passions and varieties
To see reflected, as upon a mirror,
And all the tribes of just association
To clear and strengthen in our feeble minds.
We do not love to think exclusively,
And have no sympathy with fellow-beings.
189
Nor sought a guide, nor trod upon the steps
Of others;—oft in darkness; oft in storms;
Oft by the fairy lights of silver moonbeams;
And sometimes in the garish glow of day,
Beneath meridian suns. The stores we gather,
We are not willing should exhaust themselves,
Pent up within the bosom's dark abode:
That which is sought in solitude, is sought
Full oft for social purposes;—alone
We do the task, which is for fellow-man;
And but retire to think with more intenseness
Upon humanity;—its griefs and joys!
'Tis only by incessant pondering,
That we can know the mysteries of man's nature:
And by the unrelaxing exercise
Of all the mental faculties, can gain
Precision of ideas, and command
Of language, to express them properly.
Much it imports us all, the lights and shades
Of moral science, deeply and precisely
To be familiar with; the human character
In all its passions and varieties
To see reflected, as upon a mirror,
And all the tribes of just association
To clear and strengthen in our feeble minds.
We do not love to think exclusively,
And have no sympathy with fellow-beings.
But few are they, who in their riper years
Care for the tricks or gems of poetry.
'Tis only in the essence of the matter,
The spirit of the Muse, an audience sound
Can take delight, and in the simplest words,
And plainest dress, and rudest numbers, may
That spirit live, and be communicated!—
Care for the tricks or gems of poetry.
190
The spirit of the Muse, an audience sound
Can take delight, and in the simplest words,
And plainest dress, and rudest numbers, may
That spirit live, and be communicated!—
If the strain be too long; of dull reflection
Too copious,—in sentiment affected,
Or false, unvirtuous, and inanimate;
If imagery in portion due be wanting,
And if too intellectual, immaterial,
In incident deficient, and in pathos;
Beyond the requisite limits of a poem
Didactic,—which pretends not to the charms
Of vulgar fable,—let it have the fate
It shall in candour merit! Not on one
Task of the mind do I rely for favour!
Much have I labour'd, and in various walks,
E'en though but rarely cheer'd by human praise.
And now, when at the age of man arriving,
I do not find my humble faculties clouded,
But can from midnight to the seventh hour
Prolong the task unwearied, then be ready
For the day's ordinary occupations;
It is a load thrown off my bosom;—lighter
I feel at the discharge; and if no day
Passes without some innocent toil perform'd,
I feel a joy that I can shew the progress
Of my existence by some visible sign,
That marks the course of one day from another.
Too copious,—in sentiment affected,
Or false, unvirtuous, and inanimate;
If imagery in portion due be wanting,
And if too intellectual, immaterial,
In incident deficient, and in pathos;
Beyond the requisite limits of a poem
Didactic,—which pretends not to the charms
Of vulgar fable,—let it have the fate
It shall in candour merit! Not on one
Task of the mind do I rely for favour!
Much have I labour'd, and in various walks,
E'en though but rarely cheer'd by human praise.
And now, when at the age of man arriving,
I do not find my humble faculties clouded,
But can from midnight to the seventh hour
Prolong the task unwearied, then be ready
For the day's ordinary occupations;
It is a load thrown off my bosom;—lighter
I feel at the discharge; and if no day
Passes without some innocent toil perform'd,
I feel a joy that I can shew the progress
Of my existence by some visible sign,
That marks the course of one day from another.
There was a time when the disorder'd current
Of my blood, like a weight upon my brain
Sat, and oppress'd it;—thus for two sad years
And more, my faculties were dull and stagnant:
But all at once the vapour broke away;
And in an instant my o'er-mantled brain
Burst to a flame, that ever since has blaz'd!
191
Sat, and oppress'd it;—thus for two sad years
And more, my faculties were dull and stagnant:
But all at once the vapour broke away;
And in an instant my o'er-mantled brain
Burst to a flame, that ever since has blaz'd!
And still, O Leman Lake, on thy beloved
Waters I daily look; and see the sun
Rise over Alpine mountains; nor has once
Sleep overpower'd me at its earliest dawn,
For thirteen months successively. And now,
For nine and forty nights uninterrupted,
Have I the strain continued;—and I close.
Waters I daily look; and see the sun
Rise over Alpine mountains; nor has once
Sleep overpower'd me at its earliest dawn,
For thirteen months successively. And now,
For nine and forty nights uninterrupted,
Have I the strain continued;—and I close.
END OF BOOK VI.
| The Lake of Geneva | |