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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DELINEATION OF THE FATE OF
A Modern Poet.
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 | Neglected Genius |  |
103
DELINEATION OF THE FATE OF A Modern Poet.
Nurtur'd by tenderness, the poet's mind
Dreams not of ills attendant on mankind;
A father's love inculcates wisdom's lay,
Maternal fondness kindles feeling's ray:
Thus boyhood passes 'midst one blissful scene,
No storm arising clouds his course serene,
He lives to taste on earth celestial glow,
The short liv'd reign of spotless bliss below.
Dreams not of ills attendant on mankind;
A father's love inculcates wisdom's lay,
Maternal fondness kindles feeling's ray:
Thus boyhood passes 'midst one blissful scene,
No storm arising clouds his course serene,
He lives to taste on earth celestial glow,
The short liv'd reign of spotless bliss below.
Expanding youth next wakens fancy's thrill,
Guileless himself, he knows no worldly ill;
Yields to those feelings heav'n itself inspires,
And fans with energy the mental fires:
No luke-warm passion there assumes controul,
Vivid each impulse of his glowing soul;
Love lights his torch, the subtle poison flows,
He quaffs the bane—nor thinks of future woes.
'Tis then some Laura wakes the poet's strain,
His tuneful numbers breathe extatic pain;
Love, mighty love—implanting thus the thorn;
Bids the youth learn he is a poet-born.
Fir'd with the thought, he hails the glorious name,
And wings his way towards the realms of fame;
Nor feels a check, till robb'd of vital breath,
Parental fondness sleeps with icy death.
With them he finds life's main support is gone,
Amidst the mundane storm he stands alone;
No frigid rules to pilot his career,
And keep his bark from mis'ry's breakers clear.
The fond dream flies:—want nurtures mental strife,
Sorrow the beacon of his wretched life:
To desperation driv'n, warm genius cries,
Attune the lyre, and bid the muse arise:
He strikes the string, his sterling numbers sound,
And swelling pathos echoes wide around.
Proud of this dawning offspring of his brain,
Reviving hope from sorrow plucks the rein;
Conscious of worth, and seeking to acquire
That meed which should attend the poet's fire,
The bard elated greets the mart renown'd,
And hopes his labour may with fame be crown'd;
Before some great Mæcenas lays his toil,
Whose pompous ignorance makes sense recoil;
Leaves fancy's offspring in the hands of pride,
That folly thus on merit may decide.
The poet calls, recalls, and calls again,
To catch this lord of types he tries in vain;
Now much engag'd, none can Mæcenas see,
Bus'ness employs his high sublimity;
Now far from toils he lolls at some retreat,
Yclepp'd his villa, or his country seat:
Vainly from week to week the bard applies,
His wants encreasing as hope's vision flies.
At length this frigid fiat meets his view,
His muse, devoid of merit, will not do;
Dejected, he another source essays,
Anew he feels the horror of delays:
Or when he feels his drooping heart reviv'd,
And hopes the hour of meeting is arriv'd;
Some wealthy blockhead supersedes the claim,
Whose toils ensure him everlasting shame;
Some man of fortune, who no fee requires,
Prates of his labour which no genius fires;
On Della Cruscan style gives praise full scope,
Nor deigns applaud a Dryden or a Pope:
In fine, the modern school, with dunce-like pride,
Has turn'd true classic elegance aside;
A bastard progeny now stands enroll'd,
An heterogeneous mass of new and old;
Poor wreathing taste now feels expiring pain,
And yields in silence, since reproof were vain.
Such are the men each lord of letters greets
With fulsome eulogies, lip-labour'd sweets;
Such are the sources of true merit's curse,
Requiting folly's strain with ample purse;
While glowing genius in seclusion sighs,
And, nipp'd by penury, with sorrow dies.
Among these mighty despots of the press,
Thus toils the poet, sinking with distress:
At length worn out, some paltry stipend gains
This sterling offspring of the muse's pains;
Applause ensues, editions new arise,
The bard is lauded to his kindred skies:
Such the sole fee these lords of science give;
Thus poets starve, that publishers may live.
Guileless himself, he knows no worldly ill;
Yields to those feelings heav'n itself inspires,
And fans with energy the mental fires:
104
Vivid each impulse of his glowing soul;
Love lights his torch, the subtle poison flows,
He quaffs the bane—nor thinks of future woes.
'Tis then some Laura wakes the poet's strain,
His tuneful numbers breathe extatic pain;
Love, mighty love—implanting thus the thorn;
Bids the youth learn he is a poet-born.
Fir'd with the thought, he hails the glorious name,
And wings his way towards the realms of fame;
Nor feels a check, till robb'd of vital breath,
Parental fondness sleeps with icy death.
With them he finds life's main support is gone,
Amidst the mundane storm he stands alone;
No frigid rules to pilot his career,
And keep his bark from mis'ry's breakers clear.
The fond dream flies:—want nurtures mental strife,
Sorrow the beacon of his wretched life:
To desperation driv'n, warm genius cries,
Attune the lyre, and bid the muse arise:
105
And swelling pathos echoes wide around.
Proud of this dawning offspring of his brain,
Reviving hope from sorrow plucks the rein;
Conscious of worth, and seeking to acquire
That meed which should attend the poet's fire,
The bard elated greets the mart renown'd,
And hopes his labour may with fame be crown'd;
Before some great Mæcenas lays his toil,
Whose pompous ignorance makes sense recoil;
Leaves fancy's offspring in the hands of pride,
That folly thus on merit may decide.
The poet calls, recalls, and calls again,
To catch this lord of types he tries in vain;
Now much engag'd, none can Mæcenas see,
Bus'ness employs his high sublimity;
Now far from toils he lolls at some retreat,
Yclepp'd his villa, or his country seat:
Vainly from week to week the bard applies,
His wants encreasing as hope's vision flies.
106
His muse, devoid of merit, will not do;
Dejected, he another source essays,
Anew he feels the horror of delays:
Or when he feels his drooping heart reviv'd,
And hopes the hour of meeting is arriv'd;
Some wealthy blockhead supersedes the claim,
Whose toils ensure him everlasting shame;
Some man of fortune, who no fee requires,
Prates of his labour which no genius fires;
On Della Cruscan style gives praise full scope,
Nor deigns applaud a Dryden or a Pope:
In fine, the modern school, with dunce-like pride,
Has turn'd true classic elegance aside;
A bastard progeny now stands enroll'd,
An heterogeneous mass of new and old;
Poor wreathing taste now feels expiring pain,
And yields in silence, since reproof were vain.
Such are the men each lord of letters greets
With fulsome eulogies, lip-labour'd sweets;
107
Requiting folly's strain with ample purse;
While glowing genius in seclusion sighs,
And, nipp'd by penury, with sorrow dies.
Among these mighty despots of the press,
Thus toils the poet, sinking with distress:
At length worn out, some paltry stipend gains
This sterling offspring of the muse's pains;
Applause ensues, editions new arise,
The bard is lauded to his kindred skies:
Such the sole fee these lords of science give;
Thus poets starve, that publishers may live.
| Neglected Genius | |