 | The Prospect, and Other Poems |  |
79
TO THE REV. J. L. S. M.A. WITH THE FOREGOING POEM.
My worthy, reverend, trusty friend,
'Tis far from me to teaze ye;
At least what now I greeting send,
I hope, in sooth, will please ye.
'Tis far from me to teaze ye;
At least what now I greeting send,
I hope, in sooth, will please ye.
'Tis not a poem with learning fraught;
To that I ne'er pretended:
Nor yet with Pope's fine touches wrought;
From that my time prevented.
To that I ne'er pretended:
Nor yet with Pope's fine touches wrought;
From that my time prevented.
There's nought of Byron, all sublime,
Or Moore so sweet bewitching:
To such a height I ne'er shall climb,
Although I feel an itching.
Or Moore so sweet bewitching:
To such a height I ne'er shall climb,
Although I feel an itching.
80
Nor yet of Scott's descriptive skill,
Or Campbell's lofty flight;
Theirs is for me too steep a hill,
Too far remov'd from sight.
Or Campbell's lofty flight;
Theirs is for me too steep a hill,
Too far remov'd from sight.
Nor ought of Rogers can I boast,
Or Crabbe's minuter tale;
Which to admire I know not most,
To please they never fail.
Or Crabbe's minuter tale;
Which to admire I know not most,
To please they never fail.
There's nought of him whom all admire,
Who “Auburn's Village” sung;
Who, wand'ring, sweetly touch'd the lyre,
Whose harp with Edwin rung.
Who “Auburn's Village” sung;
Who, wand'ring, sweetly touch'd the lyre,
Whose harp with Edwin rung.
If like to any I would be,
And bards may have their choice;
Goldsmith! it is no less than thee;
'Bove all I love thy voice.
And bards may have their choice;
Goldsmith! it is no less than thee;
'Bove all I love thy voice.
81
There's none of Dryden's classic fire,
Or learned Gray profound;
Or he who sweetly did aspire,
Spenser, of fame renown'd.
Or learned Gray profound;
Or he who sweetly did aspire,
Spenser, of fame renown'd.
Milton divine, and great Shakspeare,
With reverence I mention;
My name with theirs shall ne'er appear,
'Tis far from my intention.
With reverence I mention;
My name with theirs shall ne'er appear,
'Tis far from my intention.
If poetry, as one pretends,
Be all imagination,
Why, then, at once my bardship ends;
'Mong prose I take my station.
Be all imagination,
Why, then, at once my bardship ends;
'Mong prose I take my station.
But if, as others strive to prove,
To common sense appealing,
That bards descriptive to remove,
And poets of tender feeling,
To common sense appealing,
That bards descriptive to remove,
And poets of tender feeling,
82
Would be, as though we strip the rose,
Of fragrance and of sweetness;
Then might we most our favourites close,
The very soul of greatness.
Of fragrance and of sweetness;
Then might we most our favourites close,
The very soul of greatness.
'Tis not imagination wakes
The patriot's breast to glow;
'Tis not imagination makes
The tear of pity flow.
The patriot's breast to glow;
'Tis not imagination makes
The tear of pity flow.
'Tis words appealing to the heart,
That simply state of wrong;
That make the soul within us start,
And seek the injured throng.
That simply state of wrong;
That make the soul within us start,
And seek the injured throng.
'Tis poor misfortune's wailing voice
That draws the friendly hand;
That charity maketh to rejoice
Her bounty to expand.
That draws the friendly hand;
That charity maketh to rejoice
Her bounty to expand.
83
That is the noblest verse of all,
Which aims to better man;
May never he from honour fall,
Who strives the best he can!
Which aims to better man;
May never he from honour fall,
Who strives the best he can!
Thus I've beguil'd an hour of time
In courting of the Muses;
In writing rustic awkward rhyme,
The critic-world refuses.
In courting of the Muses;
In writing rustic awkward rhyme,
The critic-world refuses.
I think at least no foes can rise,
So little I assume;
He ne'er can win who never tries,
The laurel, wreath, or plume.
So little I assume;
He ne'er can win who never tries,
The laurel, wreath, or plume.
Farewell! farewell! my worthy friend,
Awhile I bid adieu;
May happiness your paths attend,
With always hope in view!
Awhile I bid adieu;
May happiness your paths attend,
With always hope in view!
84
You'll hear no more in verse from me,
If critics prove unkind;
My next in simple prose must be,
Unless I favour find.
If critics prove unkind;
My next in simple prose must be,
Unless I favour find.
And should my lucubrations meet
With wish'd-for inclination;
Why, then, again my friend I'll greet,
And seek his approbation.
With wish'd-for inclination;
Why, then, again my friend I'll greet,
And seek his approbation.
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