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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| ELEGY. |
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ELEGY.
ELEGIAC STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF Thomas Chatterton.
INGENIS STAT SINE MORTE DECUS.
From thoughts domestic, and from man I turn,
To shed unseen the tributary tear;
To bend the knee to this neglected urn,
And breathe the language of a soul sincere.
To shed unseen the tributary tear;
To bend the knee to this neglected urn,
And breathe the language of a soul sincere.
Farewell to mirth! farewell the festive throng!
And all the transitory joys of life!
Farewell the dance, the soul-enlivening song,
Domestic harmony, ambition's strife!
And all the transitory joys of life!
Farewell the dance, the soul-enlivening song,
Domestic harmony, ambition's strife!
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Farewell to all! for jocund thoughts are fled,
And melancholy now usurps my mind:
Welcome, thou mansion of the peaceful dead,
And welcome moanings of the passing wind!
And melancholy now usurps my mind:
Welcome, thou mansion of the peaceful dead,
And welcome moanings of the passing wind!
More pleasing is thy gloom sad cypress tree,
Than all the chequer'd sweets of lovely May;
More grateful are yon orb's pale beams to me,
Than all the lustre of resplendant day.
Than all the chequer'd sweets of lovely May;
More grateful are yon orb's pale beams to me,
Than all the lustre of resplendant day.
Sleep on, melodious songsters of the grove!
All, save the nightingale, be hush'd in peace:
Fly to the scenes of sweet content and love;
For here your warblings must for ever cease.
All, save the nightingale, be hush'd in peace:
Fly to the scenes of sweet content and love;
For here your warblings must for ever cease.
This hallow'd spot entombs a mind of fire,
For genius lies enshrin'd beneath this stone;
His soaring brain proclaim'd at once his sire,
'Twas bright Apollo stamp'd him for his own.
For genius lies enshrin'd beneath this stone;
His soaring brain proclaim'd at once his sire,
'Twas bright Apollo stamp'd him for his own.
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He travell'd not the trodden path to fame,
But boldly dar'd essay a nobler flight;
Pedantic and malignant souls might blame,
He smil'd contemptuous from the madd'ning height.
But boldly dar'd essay a nobler flight;
Pedantic and malignant souls might blame,
He smil'd contemptuous from the madd'ning height.
What though uncouth the language of his verse?
The monkish phrase his mind could not conceal;
His strains the bold and plaintive could rehearse,
Could wake to energy, or make ye feel.
The monkish phrase his mind could not conceal;
His strains the bold and plaintive could rehearse,
Could wake to energy, or make ye feel.
But dull Bristolians forc'd him thence to roam,
The soil ungenerous he indignant fled;
Hope told him he might elsewhere find an home,
He sought, and found it—with the silent dead.
The soil ungenerous he indignant fled;
Hope told him he might elsewhere find an home,
He sought, and found it—with the silent dead.
O, shame! and in great London's ample space
Was no compassionating bosom found;
No fostering hand, that might his woes efface,
And minister to mis'ry's bleeding wound?
Was no compassionating bosom found;
No fostering hand, that might his woes efface,
And minister to mis'ry's bleeding wound?
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Where slumber'd then the patrons of the great,
The great in genius, not the great in name?
Not one stood forth to snatch him from his fate;
As deaf to pity, as immortal fame.
The great in genius, not the great in name?
Not one stood forth to snatch him from his fate;
As deaf to pity, as immortal fame.
Who boasts the patronage of merit now?
England's Apollo is a golden god;
To Crœsus each sends forth his fervent vow,
To glowing genius senseless as the clod.
England's Apollo is a golden god;
To Crœsus each sends forth his fervent vow,
To glowing genius senseless as the clod.
Methinks I hear some angry tongue exclaim,
Had I but known him, he had not been poor;
'Tis false; for one and all ye are the same,
If living now, you'd thrust him from your door.
Had I but known him, he had not been poor;
'Tis false; for one and all ye are the same,
If living now, you'd thrust him from your door.
Such pageantry of words the poor might give,
Boasting did never yet an impost pay;
But if one wish wou'd bid the suppliant live,
You'd prize its worth, and heedless turn away.
Boasting did never yet an impost pay;
But if one wish wou'd bid the suppliant live,
You'd prize its worth, and heedless turn away.
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Mean despicable soul, which thus can bend,
To proffer bounty, when the beggar's fled;
To ape the manners of a feeling friend,
For him long number'd with the silent dead.
To proffer bounty, when the beggar's fled;
To ape the manners of a feeling friend,
For him long number'd with the silent dead.
No more, sweet youth, thy dulcit song shall sound,
Those tones melodious are for ever mute;
Those chords are crack'd, which erst wou'd vibrate round,
When thy bold hand would strike the trembling lute.
Those tones melodious are for ever mute;
Those chords are crack'd, which erst wou'd vibrate round,
When thy bold hand would strike the trembling lute.
Thy pale and bloodless mien methinks I view,
Thy locks dishevell'd and thy sunken eye;
The morbid tinge, dread death's portending hue,
The unfurl'd banner of fell misery.
Thy locks dishevell'd and thy sunken eye;
The morbid tinge, dread death's portending hue,
The unfurl'd banner of fell misery.
Still to the last, I see thy dauntless look,
The speaking herald of thine innate pride;
The fire of conscious worth, which ne'er forsook
The soul where nature meant it to reside.
The speaking herald of thine innate pride;
The fire of conscious worth, which ne'er forsook
The soul where nature meant it to reside.
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Now at his side stands resolute despair,
She thrusts the goblet in his trembling hand;
Drink, she exclaims, and end thy mortal care,
Drink, and fly far from earth's hard hearted band.
She thrusts the goblet in his trembling hand;
Drink, she exclaims, and end thy mortal care,
Drink, and fly far from earth's hard hearted band.
Poor, friendless, starving, ev'ry woe conspir'd
To prompt the action which might yield relief:
Come, fate, he cried, with agony inspir'd;
And welcom'd death, to terminate his grief.
To prompt the action which might yield relief:
Come, fate, he cried, with agony inspir'd;
And welcom'd death, to terminate his grief.
Cold, senseless marble, still must I complain,
Still on thy surface let my anguish flow;
Still vent the sigh, to ease my bosom's pain,
And waft to thee my heart-oppressing woe.
Still on thy surface let my anguish flow;
Still vent the sigh, to ease my bosom's pain,
And waft to thee my heart-oppressing woe.
Farewell, sweet youth, one bosom still can melt,
Still gaze with anguish, and thy woes deplore;
Still vainly sooth the suff'rings thou hast felt,
Those agonies which thou canst feel no more.
Still gaze with anguish, and thy woes deplore;
Still vainly sooth the suff'rings thou hast felt,
Those agonies which thou canst feel no more.
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[Unconscious while I thus gave sadness sway]
Unconscious while I thus gave sadness sway,How rapid time's swift wing bore hours away;
I woke not from the trance, till midnight's knell
Sounded in brazen notes from Redcliffe's bell;
The silv'ry orb diffus'd a ray serene,
And silence held sole empire o'er the scene.
No footsteps dar'd the realms of death invade,
And brush the night-dew from the moisten'd glade;
The solemn silence deeper awe impress'd,
And thoughts portentous sway'd my aching breast:
When, from a turret of Saint Mary's fane,
A radiant blaze illum'd night's awful reign.
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No more the bat perform'd its mazy round;
The brilliant glare awoke my mental dream,
I rear'd my gaze, and by the vivid beam
Beheld a Phœnix from its fire arise,
And wing a flight seraphic to the skies;
From whose bright flame appear'd with angel grace,
Two beamy spirits of ethereal space;
The thrill of terror shook my mortal frame,
As sounds harmonious softly breath'd my name;
Which thus continu'd: “Friend of slighted worth,
“Lo! here you see two angels once of earth;
“In me behold that Chatterton you mourn,
“By man's neglect from mundane annals torn,
“While at my side, tho' far more ripe in years,
“The form of Bastard Savage now appears.
“Think not as damned spirits of the night
“We stalk from graves, to blast thy fear-struck sight;
“Impell'd by injuries, thro' life endur'd,
“To thee we fly; from conduct well assur'd,
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“And lull our injur'd souls to calm repose.”
One spirit ceas'd, when lo! the other cried,
“Thou know'st dull Bristol, and its grov'ling pride;
“Straight to thy scourge of satire, scorpions twine,
“One lash be Chatterton's, the other mine:
“As for myself, tho' doom'd by wayward fate
“To sojourn in this land, and curse my state,
“Tho' penury assail'd my parting hour,
“I spurn'd its riches, and despis'd its pow'r;
“For which it left my mortal frame to rot
“With baser earth, neglected and forgot.
“Still this I'd pardon, and with conscious pride
“Disdain its vengeance and its scorn deride;
“But to behold one stripling of its race,
“As great in genius, as its sons are base;
“View in mere boyhood brightest talents shine,
“And see all patronage remain supine;
“To future times shall pass such taste deprav'd,
“And Bristol's character in brass be 'grav'd;
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“And from the page of science blot her name;
“Avenge the suff'rings of this injur'd youth,
“The cause is noble, for thy plea is truth:
“Nor need one falsehood e'er thy page imbue,
“The lash most poignant when the picture's true.
“In this Bristolians scorn a mask to wear,
“Secure in ignorance, contempt they dare;
“Unblushing boast themselves to meanness prone,
“And glory that true baseness is their own.”
Great Savage paus'd, and Chatterton again,
In melancholy accents, breath'd this strain:
“O! could they but have seen my frame, a prey
“To famine's tortures, sealing life's decay;
“Could they have felt cold hunger's gnawing fangs,
“That ceaseless wrung me with convulsive pangs;
“Sure soft compunction had assum'd its part,
“To prove that Bristol still possess'd an heart:
“But ah! unpitied and bereft of friend,
“Fell desperation urg'd me to my end;
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“Alone I suffer'd, and alone expir'd.
“Such was my fate:—Oh! advocate my cause,
“Judge the unfeeling by the sternest laws;
“But last of all, if jealous of renown,
“Somehand wou'd rob me of fame's verdant crown;
“Prove thou the champion of my slander'd muse,
“And with thy vengeance satire's gall infuse:
“So shall my spirit be for ever blest,
“And for thyself procure Elysium's rest.
“Farewell,” with piteous tone, the phantom cried;
“Farewell,” the Bastard Savage solemn sigh'd:
The visions faded, while with fervor ray'd,
I vow'd to heav'n their wills should be obey'd;
Since which eventful hour, my teeming brain
Has toil'd to lull their soul's indignant pain;
Just to my oath, some future flight shall prove,
I spurn the enemies of those I love:
Savage and Chatterton, your cause is mine;
Lur'd by such talents, let my efforts shine:
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Bristol, of ignorance the saddled ass;
Whose leaden hoofs defile the groaning earth;
Fell grave of wisdom, and the tomb of worth.
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THE WRITER'S ADDRESS TO Thomas Chatterton.
GENIUS ON FAME'S ETERNAL WING,
SOARING FROM MENTAL BONDAGE FREE;
EXCLAIMS “O! DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?
O! GRAVE, WHERE IS THY VICTORY?
SOARING FROM MENTAL BONDAGE FREE;
EXCLAIMS “O! DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?
O! GRAVE, WHERE IS THY VICTORY?
O! tender stripling from the Muse's tree,
Dear child of Fancy's wildest poesy;
Is it once more my fate to weep thy doom,
And damp the rising sod that marks thy tomb?
Say, can the lot be mine to drop one tear,
From sluices drain'd upon thy hallow'd bier?
While others living might thy worth proclaim,
And braid thy mem'ry with the wreath of fame:
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Measures the circuit of one fleeting hour;
In which short space the feelings run their race,
And chaos buries hope of future grace.
Then mine be still the task, in humbler lays,
To offer tribute to thy blooming bays,
And stamp thee from the course thy genius trod;
In years the stripling, but in sense the god.
| Neglected Genius | |