Scribbleomania :: :: University of Virginia Library

Time was, when a man dar'd an Epic essay,
He cautious survey'd stumbling-blocks in his way;
So first made enquiry if Phœbus had bless'd him,
And whether the Muses united caress'd him:

With acumen keen depth of study survey'd,
And if fancy in vestments of reason was 'ray'd;
For when sterling sense cannot genius bind fast,
All efforts prove madness—the style mere bombast.

These points well consider'd, he next conn'd the page,
To find a theme fitting his Muse to engage;

And the purpose achiev'd, next with care plann'd the story;
The sage was sublime, and the hero all glory;
And years thus revolving, when toil found an end,
He next gave his poem to each critic friend;
Read o'er their remarks, then corrected anew,
Each line thus subjected to keenest review:
When diffident still, and with feelings oppress'd,
His Epic for months he consign'd to the chest;
Till clamours of those who had greeted with praise
At length urg'd him on to dispense wide his lays,
Which living ensur'd to his brows verdant wreath,
And 'shrin'd him with fame of a genius in death.
Such erst was the practice when study and science
To vapid effusions at once bad defiance:
The poet conceiving one Epic, well fraught,
A work with the labour of life cheaply bought.
But now in a Laureat that's living, we find
A bard truly gifted with Parnassian mind;

He thinks your grand epic no more than a jest O,
Cut and dried in six weeks he'll produce one, hic Presto,
As carpenters work by the piece; so to joke us,
Great Southey performs all his flights Hocus Pocus.
And faith he has now brought himself to believe
That Poems with ease you may spin and may weave;
While his Odes, I'll be sworn, will not give me the lie;
For his talent now feeds on a very stale Pye.
Having thus far descanted on Southey's sublime,
I need say no more on the subject of rhyme;
Since he that in Blank-Verse a sloven can be,
Must slur ev'ry flight of divine poesy;

So to lying odes bound, to poor pension and sack,
To the P---ce I must needs say alack, Sir, alack!

Thus Southey, who once wrote for freedom—egad,
True turn-coat, can right about face, pliant lad;
'Tis to creatures like these laureat labours belong;
A soul truly fir'd wou'd disdain flattery's song:

So proceed in thy course, ape the courtier's career,
And with shame braid thy temples each fresh coming year.

This gentleman's voluminous productions seem to have been written with a view to the display of his universal reading, rather than of annexing to his name the title of a great and lasting poet: he has been esteemed a follower of Wordsworth's style, without laying claim to the pathos which characterises a variety of that gentleman's productions, notwithstanding his contempt for all the heretofore acknowledged rules of poetical composition. Whensoever Mr. Southey issues from the press, we find him arrayed in a different costume, though one unvarying predeliction for the wonderful runs through the whole series of his poems. His Joan of Arc, hastily composed after the manner of Milton and other epic poets, though possessing merit, is particularly deficient on the score of patriotism, as every Gallic chief is elevated to the rank of an hero, while our fifth Henry, Talbot, &c. are scarcely raised above the common walk of life. Thalaba the Destroyer, after the model of the Arabian Tales, is characterised by some bold but extravagant flights. Madoc, though generally pleasing, on account of the mild sentiments which breathe throughout that production, is nevertheless rendered irksome to the reader, at intervals, from insipidity and tameness of style. Kehama, diversified with the rhapsodies of Thalaba, and the gentleness of the last mentioned poem, claims precedence above the rest; and whatsoever genius this writer may possess is certainly elicited from the work in question. Upon analyzing the productions of Mr. Southey, it will be found that he is most anxious to make the world acquainted with the multiplicity of books that have engrossed his attention: to accomplish which purpose he has neglected the arrangement of his ideas, and a due attention to the groundwork of his plans; two concomitants which are absolutely essential to ensure the poet universal and unperishable fame.

A poem entitled the Damnation of Ruvomisha, from the pen of Rodrigo Maddocks, Esq., is a production in the style of Southey; containing a portion of the extravaganza of that writer's Curse of Kehama, while the versification is much more regular than the laureat's poem of Thalaba the Destroyer. There is, indeed, no part of the production of Mr. Maddocks which can compare with Kehama's entrance through eight portals at the same juncture of time; or of the orb compounded of a thousand little eyes kneaded into one. All that it is requisite to state, respecting the Damnation of Ruvomisha, is, that such individuals who may be partial to the most marvellous of the marvellous will find ample food for the indulgence of their predeliction on perusal of the work in question.

Whatsoever may have been the failings in Southey's Carmen Triumphale, it would be invidious not to allow his lucubration more merit than was to be found in the compositions of his predecessor; wherefore the present laureat may well apply these words of Terence to the defunct—Da locum melioribus.

Louer les Princes des Vertus qu'ils n'ont pas, c'est leur dire impunement des injures.—Rochefoucault.

“Princes command those pliant curs,
Those cringing dogs, Fame's Trumpeters;
Rhymsters who praise 'em to the skies,
And meanest actions eulogize;
Plaudits encomiastical,
That stride on stilts, bombastical;
Or vie with flights of Hecate's grooms
Witches; that ride upon birch-brooms;
Who'll journey in one hour or so,
Where none of us will ever go:
E'en such are the enchanting flights
Of panegyrists, Errant Knights!
That whitewash one as grim'd as Nero,
And make him shine abroad—an hero.”

Alas! the golden æra with poets and authors is now no more! There was, indeed, a period when a well-seasoned title or dedication would command its price from some profligate courtier or demi-rep of fashion, as there still existed the wish at least to appear what they really were not; but now, every class out Herods shame, daring alike the language of reproof and the keen lash of correction, without deigning to subsidize a venal pen in order to throw a gloss over the flagrant dereliction. As a specimen, however, of this species of composition, taken in its fullest extent, may tend to amuse, I shall present the subjoined without further apology.

Father de Aranaz published a book at Pampeluna in favour of Philip the Vth, the title of which, rendered into English word for word, ran as follows.

“The Lord Philip Vth is true King of Spain of God's own making: the “Tower of the second David, persecuted and victorious, fortified with three “bulwarks, viz. Justice, Religion, and Politics, to which a thousand Shields “are fastened to defend his Crown; dedicated and consecrated to the King “our Lord, whom God preserve for the Glory of Spain and the Good of “Christendom. By Father Hyacinthus D'Aranaz, a native of the most “faithful city of Sanguessa, Doctor of Divinity, Synodal Examiner of the “Archbishopric of Toledo, Chaplain to his Majesty, &c. &c”.

This fanatical, I might add farcical writer, compares his work to a fortress with three bulwarks. Fifteen shields are fastened to the first, eight to the second, and four to the third. To get into that fortress, one must go through a portico, where, says the author, one may be informed that the Devil, in quality of the Prince of Discord, inspires the malcontents with a desire of changing their king; and has entrusted the heretics with the execution of such enterprize.

Adulandi gens prudentissima laudat
Sermonem indocti, faciem deformis amici.

Juvenal.

The skilful race of flatterers praises the discourse of the ig- norant, and the face of the deformed friend.

Does not a rhymster fire explode
When he composes Birth-day Ode?
A subject now become so stale,
'Tis worse than ten days uncork'd ale;
And yet is render'd staler by
My poet drone's dull poetry.