Neglected Genius A Poem. Illustrating the Untimely And Unfortunate Fate Of Many British Poets; From the Period of Henry the Eighth to the Aera of the Unfortunate Chatterton. Containing Imitations of their Different Styles, &c. &c. By W. H. Ireland |
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THE
Poet's Entry into Bristol.
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THE Poet's Entry into Bristol.
POETA NASCITUR NON FIT.
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And enter'd Bristol with declining day;
The sun, in splendid radiance, gilt the west,
And labour's weary offspring thought of rest:
For, when the child of luxury retires
To share day's second meal, and fan desires;
When ev'ry viand courts the pamper'd taste,
And floods of wine are offer'd up to waste;—
The son of toil, that with day's orb arose,
Feels nature flag, and longs for sound repose.
Such was the hour I enter'd trade's fam'd seat,
Forth from her mart her offspring 'gan retreat;
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Sorrow alone reign'd empress o'er my breast.
Heedless I pass'd the stupid, sordid crew,
Till Redcliffe's gothic spire appear'd in view;
That sainted beacon, fraught with magic sway,
To guide the pilgrim poet on his way.
Warm fancy soon awaken'd pity's sigh,
And mem'ry op'd the sluices of mine eye;
My o'erfraught feelings own'd the genial guest,
And tears gave freedom to my surcharg'd breast:
I stood absorb'd, as if my wand'ring mind
Had clos'd on life and cares of human kind.
Yet soon this pleasing apathy was broke,
By human accents from the trance awoke;
I turn'd around, and with obsequious smile,
Beheld the portress of this hallow'd pile,
Who, little heeding melancholy's trace,
That deep impress'd its signet on my face,
Uprais'd the key, when anxious to explore
Interior grandeur, straight the willing door
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Where princely Canning shares each mortal's lot,
Slumbers in peace, more bless'd from innate worth,
Than scepter'd monarchs of imperial birth.
I gaz'd around, while ev'ry object brought
Some speaking record to my busy thought;
“Here oft,” I sigh'd, “the minstrel of this scene
“Wou'd pause, and contemplate the sculptur'd mien
“Of him he honor'd with a patron's name,
“For monkish Rowley weaving wreaths of fame;
“Clothing his genius with the phrase of yore,
“To honor ancient times with modern lore;
“As if the rough set gem did not impart
“Lustre like that enchas'd by workman's art:
“Exterior trappings 'lure the vulgar sight,
“But genius, like the sun, scorns borrow'd light;
“It reigns unrivall'd, to astound the gaze,
“And fills its sphere with undiminish'd blaze.”
One object more remain'd to kindle thought,
And fresh enchain my soul, with feeling fraught;
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The chamber drear where coffers yet remain
That once the records of past times conceal'd,
Records, which Chatterton alone reveal'd;
Who deck'd each simple fact of prose uncouth
With inspiration of poetic youth,
Made Bawdin's fate in numbers sweet appear,
And draw from ev'ry eye the pitying tear.
Alone I enter'd this portentous room,
As Sol's last radiance chas'd eve's mantling gloom;
Through apertures where casements ne'er yet hung,
The moaning breeze 'midst dismal vacuum wrung;
Each pond'rous chest with iron clamps array'd,
Bereft of cov'ring, emptiness display'd;
Aloft the tatter'd cobwebs wav'd in air,
Shunn'd by their former tenants in despair;
While 'neath the footstep dust the pavement dight,
Mingled with odour of the birds of night:
I paus'd contemplative, since that lone room
Fir'd boyish talent to defy earth's doom;
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And bloom unrivall'd for a short liv'd hour:
For as it blossom'd, fate with envy gave
The stern decree, and doom'd it to the grave.
Sick'ning with retrospect, I bade adieu,
Yet linger'd still, to take one parting view;
For trivial objects, to the feeling soul,
Possess a magic that defies controul,
In spite of manhood's reason—chain the will,
And make philosophy an infant still.
With measur'd pace and melancholy air,
I 'gan descend the turret's winding stair,
And oftimes listened to the echoing sound,
That seem'd to speak some following foot's rebound;
I paus'd—methought his spirit wander'd near;
I list'ned—but no sound broke stillness drear;
And fraught with strong emotions, join'd once more
My kind conductress at Saint Mary's door;
Dropp'd the expected fee, then silent sped,
To wander 'midst the records of the dead.
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I gave indulgence to my sad'ned mind;
Pictur'd the monumental marble nigh,
That veil'd the poet's dust from mortal eye;
And as my soul for martyr'd genius bled,
I breath'd these numbers to its spirit fled.
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