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Poems

By George Dyer
  
  
  

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POEMS.
 II. 
 III. 
 V. 
  
 VI. 
 VII. 
 VII. 
 VIII. 
 IX. 
 XI. 
 XII. 
 XIV. 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 XVII. 
 XVIII. 
 XIX. 
  
  
 XX. 
 XXIV. 
 XXV. 
 XXVI. 
  
 XXVII. 
 XXVIII. 
  
 XXIX. 
 XXXIII. 
 XXXVII. 
 XXXVIII. 
 XXXIX. 
 XL. 
  
  
  
  
  


1

POEMS.


5

ODE II. TO MELANCHOLY.

I

Oh! nymph of pallid hue, and raven hair,
That in sequester'd scenes art wont to rest,
Deep-nurturing in thy sorrow-heaving breast
Some weight of grief, that none with thee may share;
Whose eye, whence tears have long forgot to flow,
To Heaven directed looks, of earth afraid:
How sacred gleams that form of speechless woe!
And sacred are thy haunts, thou solitary maid!

II

Oft art thou seen beside the willowy stream;
And, though no youthful smile adorn thy face,
Though on thy cheek no roses we may trace,
In life's young spring a virgin dost thou seem.

6

Thy vesture careless hangs, as snowdrop white;
Loose floating fall thy locks, unbound thy zone;
Thine eye now softly sad, now wildly bright,
Bespeaks a lover dead, and thou canst love but one.

III

Now art thou seen slow-lingering in the wood,
Where pours the nightingale her liquid throat,
And varies through the night her love-lorn note,
Robb'd of her faithful mate, and tender brood.—
To thee more pleasing then the vestment grey,
Pale mourner! saddest of the widow train,
Doomed to lament, at thy dark close of day,
Some aged Priam dead—some youthful Hector slain.

IV

Thee Fancy sometimes hails the Muse of Woe,
Whom fabled wrongs could wake to real smart;
Ovid's soft fictions melt thy yielding heart;
And suffering ghosts instruct the tear to flow.
Do tender sorrows Pity's Bard inspire?
Thy lute responsive breathes the tragic moan:

7

But, does Orestes curse the God of Fire
Quick dost thou leave thy lute, to listen to his groan.

V

Say, can that pensive look thy mind reveal,
While from thy lips the unfinished accents fall,
As tho' the forward tongue would utter all,
Which yet thy secret bosom would conceal?
Witness to wrongs, no pity can relieve,
To joys, which flatter, but must shortly flee;
E'en fancied Misery wakes the cause to grieve:
Thou hast a sigh for all; none heaves a sigh for thee!

VI

Then haste thee, Queen of Woe, from mortal eye;
Thy mansion fix within some lonely cell,
Where pale ey'd Superstition loves to dwell,
Wearied of life, and lingers but to die:

8

As the sand streams to mark the fleeting hour;
As the death's-head reminds thee of thy doom;
As the spade sinks thy future grave-bed lower ,
I, too, will learn to die, sad pilgrim at thy tomb!

VII

Yet, oh! whatever form thou deign'st to wear,
If yet soft Mercy dwell within thy breast;
Thyself so sad, yet anxious to make blest,
For others' woe if thou the sigh canst spare;
Tho' like the Sage that only liv'd to weep;
Tho' all the load of human ills were thine,
For thee will I forego the balmy sleep,
Or, wandering wild like thee, will make thy sorrows mine.
 

Euripides.

Ore.
Φοιβος κελευσας ματρος εκπραξαι φονον.

Me.

Αμαθεστερος ων του καλουκαι της δικης;


Ore.

Δουλευομεν θεοις, οτι ποτ' εισι θεοι.


Me.

Κατ' ουκ αμυνει Λοξιας τοις σοις κακοις.


Ore.

Μελλει: το θειον δ'εστι τοιουτον φυσει.
Eurip. Orest. v. 416.


It is scarcely necessary to acquaint the reader, that this verse contains an allusion to the customs of the monks in the late monastery of La Trappe, in Lower Normandy.

Heraclitus, a famous philosopher of Ephesus, in Asia Minor, known by the name of the Weeping Philosopher, as Democritus was of the Laughing. Diog. Laer. in Vita.


9

ODE III. WRITTEN IN THE CLOISTERS OF CHRIST-HOSPITAL, IN LONDON.

I

Now cease the sad complaining strain,
Now hushed be Pity's tender sigh,
While Memory wakes her fairy train,
And young Delight sits laughing by;
Return, each hour of rosy hue,
In wreathy smiles, and garlands gay,
As when on playful wing ye flew,
When every month was blithe as May:
When young Invention wak'd his mimic powers,
And Genius, wandering wild, sigh'd for enchanted bowers.

II

Then, too, in antic vestment dress'd,
Pastime would blithsome trip along;
Throwing around the gibe, or jest,
Satire enrhymed, or simple song;

10

And merry Mischief oft would weave
His wanton tricks for little hearts,
Nor Love his tender votary grieve,
Soft were his hands, nor keen his darts:
While Friendship felt th' enthusiast's glow,
Would give her half of bliss, and take her share of woe.

III

And though around my youthful spring
Many a lowering storm might rise,
Hope her soul-soothing strain would sing,
And quickly brightened up the skies;
How sweetly pass'd my youth's gay prime!
For not untuneful was my tongue;
And as I tried the classic rhyme,
The critic school-boy praised my song.
Nor did mine eye not catch the splendid ray,
That promised fair to gild Ambition's distant day.

IV

Ah! pleasing, gloomy cloister shade,
Still, still this wavering breast inspire!

11

Here lost in rapturous trance I stray'd;
Here viewed with horror visions dire:
For soon as day dark-veil'd his head,
With hollow cheek, and haggard eye,
Pale ghosts would flit from cold death-bed,
And stalk with step terrific by:
Till the young heart would freeze with wild affright,
And store the dismal tale to cheer a winter's night.

V

Yet, ah! what means the silent tear?
Why e'en 'mid joy this bosom heave?
Ye long-lost scenes, enchantments dear!
Lo! now I wander o'er your grave.
—Yet fly ye hours of rosy hue,
And bear away the bloom of years!
And quick succeed ye sickly crew,
Of doubts and pains, of hopes and fears!
Still will I ponder Fate's unaltered plan:
Nor, tracing back the Child, forget that I am Man.

15

ODE V. ON THE EVENING.

MEDITATED ON THE WELSH COAST.

ADDRESSED TO THEOPHILUS LINDSEY AND HIS PARTNER.

I

Come, nurse of thought, with brow serene,
Who, as the sun's gay light expires,
Art wont to wake the nightly fires,
Skirting with shadowy forms the fading scene,
I woo thee, modest Eve, ere yet yon sun
The last faint beam on ocean shed,
Reclines to rest his radiant head,
Slow sinking in the west, his course accustomed run.

II

Now wandering down this hollow glade,
Museful I watch the purpling skies,
As doubtful tints alternate rise,
Till the last blushes mellow into shade.

16

Then beaming meek with silvery light,
Faithful attendant on the circling year,
Various of form, shines forth the lunar sphere,
Claiming her ancient rule, The Queen Supreme of Night.

III

Yon owl, that to her mate complains,
Those sounds, low murmuring through the dale,
That music, dying on the gale,
Might suit the plaintive heart, might wake soul-soothing strains:
Or Love's sweet exstacies, and pleasing cares,
The sports of youth, and health-invigor'd feats,
That court the shady green retreats,
Might raise joy-breathing songs, and soft melodious airs.

IV

Now where the rock, with awful frown,
O'erhangs the flood, in pensive mind,
Like musing hermit, low-reclin'd,
Pillow'd on rugged bed I lay me down.

17

Ah! thus poor Elena thus nightly sleeps,
Praying the moss-cloth'd shed, or time-worn cave
From the rude storm her tottering limbs to save,
Thus dreams and wakes, then thinks and starts and weeps.

V

Oh! still, fair Eve, thy stay prolong,
Ere night enwrap the changing scene,
Ere sleeps the sport-encircled green,
Oh! let thy softness steal into my song!
So love-warm'd youths, and virgins ever gay,
Who yet estrang'd from sickly care,
Ask not the sadly plaintive air,
Midst many a pensive strain might cull one pleasing lay.

VI

Or, if, perchance, yon church-yard drear,
Where slowly tolls the passing bell,
And seems in lengthened notes to tell
The fate of hapless youth, might claim a tear,

18

Lindseys might read the sober melting lay;
For they unchanging, and too good to grieve,
Serene, as the last tint of gentle Eve,
May see the sun decline, nor dread the close of day.

VII

For if, when life's fair scenes decline,
Nor sun's bright orb, nor sacred beam
Of moon, nor verdant hill, nor sea, nor stream,
Nor earth, nor heav'n, to man again may shine,
Still Goodness, like the purpling ray,
Updarting from the downward sun,
When his diurnal course is run,
Leaves light behind, that may not soon decay.

VIII

But, when this world shall disappear,
If fairer worlds shine out above,
Where all is light, and all is love,
Where laughs the golden sun the livelong year;
Then Virtue, tho' quick-footed Time
Run out in trackless path his feeble thread,
Shall to those worlds pursue her steadier tread;
New life shall there begin, and bless a fairer clime.
 

The respected friend of Dr Priestley.

An injured, unfortunate character alluded to in the Complaints of the Poor People of Enoland.


19

THE MADMAN.

[_]

COLLECTED BY THE AUTHOR FROM SEVERAL CHARACTERS, SEEN IN DIFFERENT MADHOUSES.

Yes—yes—'tis he—I see the lightning flash
Dart from his frantic eye, which now is fix'd
With wistful gaze on heav'n, and now on earth.
Lank falls his dark brown hair; for on his head
Knows not to play its tricks the wanton curl.
Silence droops on his brow,—like student pale,
By watching wearied, couching his faint eye
In stealthy slumbers.—Upward now he starts—
Swift, swift he flies with wild irregular pace,
As driven by Fury: soon, as thunder-smitten,
Or as outstript by some thin-mantled ghost,
Violent he stops, till with pale shrivell'd hand
He strikes his forehead, like one labouring deep
With vast concerns: “Ah! wretched, poor forlorn,
“Where art thou hurried? What thy great resolve?”
To such mine askings answer none he gives,

20

While a weak female backward turns his steps,
As the light helm the vessel tempest-tost.
But soon unask'd he vaunts in royal strains
Of kingdoms, empires; his dread navies ride
On seas unknown, and known; huge continents
Bow to his armies; and his stern decrees
Balance and settle the tumultuous world.
Diadems, and crowns, mere party-colour'd wreaths,
These are his playthings, and he throws them down,
Or gives away as baubles: Now he laughs
At Superstition with her triple crown;
Proclaims her hag, and strumpet with lawn-sleeves:
And ever and anon with screaming voice
He calls the Fiend of War, and Carnage dire;
While Revolution stalks, and mows down worlds:
Then will he stately rise upon his seat,
Call it his throne, his high imperial throne,
And with his straw-made sceptre point around;
“Why sleep my nobles?” Like a gathering cloud
Then scowls his face; till kicking down his stool,
Thus, thus, he cries, I crowns and sceptres crush,
Paramount Lord of a base vassal world.
Nor does he finish here: I hear him curse

21

Some great majestic Being, who gave him life,
Wretched existence! him with perilous arm,
And red-hot thunderbolt he dares, resolv'd,
As Briareus of old the mighty Jove,
Soon to dethrone the tyranny of heaven.
Oh! then he stops, and howls so hideous-wild,
As some damn'd fiend had fast engrasp'd him round.
Thou miserable man! If e'er the milk
Of sympathy stream'd soft within this breast,
While nature sigh'd for utterance, flows it now
With female softness: Oh! had I but a harp
Of varied melodies, strive I would to touch
Some magic chord to calm thy troublous spirit:
Yes! I would hold thy soul, as by a spell,
Enchain'd with sound, till thou should'st bless that harp!
But no—that may not be, thou wretched man;
What sounds can charm a soul so lost as thine?
Anon, as though his eye had ne'er till now
Perceiv'd me, loud he screams, “And art thou there,
“Thou fiend of hell? How didst thou dare to curse
“These burning eyes? Heav'n's curses crowd on thee!—

22

“Torrents of vengeance!—Hence, thou fire ey'd devil,
“Or I will burn—”
— Oh! how my head turns round,
When I thy form behold, thou wretched man!
How language wanders, and how thought runs wild!
Poor creature, hope-bereav'd—oh! I must leave thee!

23

ODE VI. WRITTEN IN BEDLAM:

ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG FEMALE MANIAC.

Sweet maid! when sickness pales that angel face,
Like the rude worm that riots on the rose,
While goodness in thy gentle bosom glows,
Can beauty leave her dear accustom'd place?
No: still thy languid eye would beam a smile,
As near a cloud the sparkling sun-beams play,
Bright harbingers of more resplendent day,
Though the clear sun conceal himself awhile.
But, ah! if Melancholy's baleful wand
Hath its pale poppies o'er thy temples spread;
If moon-struck horrors haunt thy restless head,
All-hopeless Pity here shall take her stand:
Pity for thee shall spare her softest sigh;
For thou wast Pity's child, the friend of Misery.

24

ODE VII. TO ANTHONY DEANE, OF BATH, SOMERSETSHIRE;

FORMERLY OF EAST BERGHOLT, SUFFOLK; AFTER A TRANSIENT VISIT TO HIM AT BATH, AND MANY YEARS SEPARATION.

I

Deane, many a circling year has fled;
For hours and days and months are quickly past;
And man, frail man, lies feverish down at last,
And earth becomes his latest bed.
Yes! many a year has sped away,
Since, friend, thine hospitable dome,
As lightly pass'd the social day,—
Was made thy fickle minstrels peaceful home.

II

Ah! Time has wings—but Memory lives;
As yon fair moon succeeds the golden sun,
Silvering with borrow'd light the mountain dun,
And thro' the night meek lustre sheds.

25

So memory, by the reflex light
Of generous deeds, that friendship rears,
Keeps the fair prospect long in sight,
Tho' veil'd behind the tints of mellowing years.

III

She now recalls thy partner's name,
In worth as spotless, as of wisdom rare,
Whose friendship soften'd many a secret care,
And rais'd to health my sickly frame.
Thy little ones still laughing round,
I seem to share the playful day,
Now lightly trip the fairy ground,
Now for Dione crop the flowery May.

IV

Yet I nor Bergholt-park or grove,
Yet I nor on the banks of gentle Stour,—
May wander more, nor wait the lingering hour,
With Dedham's frolic tribes to rove.

26

My friend, as up life's steep we go,
Be ours to gaze th' horizon round;
And, if the present ills abound,
To muse on bliss we left too far below.
 

A pleasant village in Essex, bordering on the river Stour, where are several boarding-schools, in one of which, under the care of Dr. Grimwood, the Author resided some years ago.


27

ODE VII. GAIA,

OR WILLY RHYMER'S ADDRESS TO HIS LONDON LANDLADIES.

I

Ye landladies jolly and gay,
Who flirt in the great London town,
Who dress and look fine every day,
Every day brings you many a crown.

II

Too proud your trim lodgings to shew,
Such chambers no shelter afford,
But to him who looks spruce as a beau,
But to him who can strut like a lord.

III

O! hear a poor poet complain,
With many sad sons of the quill,
How deeply their pockets you drain,
How quickly your purses ye fill.

28

IV

Awhile cease to sport in the ring,
Perchance you are playing at loo;
Of Gaia, good Gaia, I sing,
A landlady honest and true.

V

Remote from the noise of a town,
Unread in the jargon of schools,
This landlady lives in renown,
And squares by the wisest of rules.

VI

She toils in her own humble cot;
The village is full of her praise;
The rustics all envy her lot;
Her poet shall grace her with lays.

VII

Her cottage, so decent and neat,
Might gladden a lady most fine;
Her table, so cleanly and sweet,
That with her a princess might dine.

29

VIII

Her provident hands never spare;
Her friends she will help to the best;
For, tho' she maintains, friends are rare,
She soon makes a friend of her guest.

IX

Do her guests e'er complain they are ill?
She will act the Samaritan's part;
Tho' boasting no medical skill,
She knows how to comfort the heart.

X

Each Sunday at church she is seen
With silks, and with posy so sweet,
And, as she walks over the Green,
Each neighbour she kindly will greet.

XI

For Gaia loves king, and her church,
And thinks it a maxim most true,
Who leaves a poor priest in the lurch,
Would soon rob the king of his due.

30

XII

Yet hers is a catholic heart;
Good Non-cons kind Gaia can love;
To all she will kindness impart,
As mercy she looks for above.

XIII

She welcomes the gay-early lark;
But she hates the rude-chattering jay:
The bird that delights in the dark,
She says is a thief in the day.

XIV

Her garden, tho' small, can afford
A portion for pleasure and use;
To cousins, when seen at her board,
She cakes, and good wine, can produce.

XV

A neat little damsel is by,
Who waits, and who works at her will;
A spinning-wheel always is nigh,
That Molly may never stand still.

31

XVI

She gives to each rosy-fac'd boy
A cake, if he read his book well;
The scraps give the beggar-man joy;
Gipsey Bet all her praises will tell.

XVII

Like the bee and the provident ant,
She toils, and she spends, and she spares;
And tho' she looks shy at a cant,
Yet Gaia will oft say her prayers.

XVIII

Ye landladies jolly and gay,
Give Gaia the praise that is due;
And call her, for call her you may,
A landlady honest and true.

XIX

And now I have sinished my lays,
To her tho' more virtues belong;
But Gaia ne'er asked for my praise,
And, therefore, I give her a song.

33

ODE VIII. A TRIUMPHANT ODE OF THE ISRAELITES,

ON THE FALL OF THE KING AND KINGDOM OF BABYLON.

[_]

Translated from Bishop Lowth's Prælectiones Academicæ. Præl. 28.

I

And does yon haughty empire prostrate bow?
The world's dread queen in vulgar ruins lie?
Must she disrob'd her lordly state forego?
Who liv'd in glory, now inglorious die?

II

See headlong from his throne the tyrant hurl'd!
Shatter'd his strength, and crush'd his iron rod;
Unpitying once who taught the states to groan,
Now droops himself, the just avenger God.

35

III

Eas'd of her load, around the smiling earth
Leaps up, and sings thro' all her peaceful plains;
Well suit the sprightly song, the boundless mirth,
For peace returns, for sacred freedom reigns.

IV

Where Libanus uplifts his stately brow,
Secure the cedar smiles, and vaunting cries,
Beneath thy stroke the woods no longer bow,
The spoiler's hand in earth enfeebled lies.

V

At thine approach I hear a solemn sound,
For hades trembles thro' each silent tomb;
Dead tyrants quit their thrones, and all around
Flock in black troops, and triumph at thy doom.

37

VI

Art thou, too, brother, come, each tyrant cries,
Spoil'd of thy strength, and humbled in thy pride?
With hollow ghastly looks, and sightless eyes,
Brother in guilt, and now by death allied?

39

VII

Where now the crowd, that once compos'd thy train,
The trumpets clangour, and the softer lyre?
Night, deep as hades, darkens all the plain,
And silence reigns around, and horrors dire.

VIII

Yet not alone thou tread'st those dreary climes:
See round thy corse the busy vermin stray!
How do they riot on thy mangled limbs!
Thy covering they; thyself the hapless prey!

IX

Son of the morn, pride of the lucid train;
No more shall rise again thy splendid star!
How art thou fall'n, whose unrelenting chain
Dragg'd vassal nations trembling at thy car!

41

X

Once thou could'st boast, I'll scale the lofty skies,
And from the mountain of God's presence frown;
Ev'n where the bear in awful distance lies,
There will I fix secure my stately throne.

XI

Beneath my feet the stars shall soon be prest;
I'll rule, a God, amidst the frozen pole;
Touch'd by my hand th' obedient earth shall rest;
Or its gay course in peaceful order roll.

XII

Where now thy mighty works, proud boaster, where?
Death's iron hand has clos'd thy wretched eyes;
Death's iron hand has thrust thee down, and there
In the low pit the prostrate tyrant lies.

XIII

Haply some future traveller here may stray,
And view thy carcase on the pathless shore,
In speechless gaze; but when, on near survey,
Thy well-known features he shall ponder o'er,

43

XIV

Straight will he say, Is this th' heroic man?
Slumbers the wondering world's dread spoiler here?
Terror and rout mov'd foremost in his van;
And carnage with destruction clos'd his rear.

XV

The necks of kings, that never knew to yield,
Bow'd to his yoke, and wore his rigorous chain;
And, while rude slaughter ravag'd o'er the field,
How did he trample over nations slain!

XVI

Princes and tyrants, and the powerful trains
That lead their battles, not inglorious die;
Some pitying honours grace their last remains,
And with their sires in peaceful state they lie!

XVII

Yet were to thee the last sad rites unpaid;
The meaner boon of common earth denied;
Thrust from the chambers of the mighty dead,
Low lies thy head, to vulgar dust allied.

45

XVIII

By thee depress'd, thy wretched country sigh'd,
By thee depress'd, thy nearer blood complain'd:
While all around the captive nations cried,
“Dire was the day when first the tyrant reign'd.”

XIX

Nor yet to thee shall vengeance be confin'd;
Thy guiltless sons shall bear the father's shame;
One common ruin shall o'erwhelm thy kind,
Left future triumph raise thy sinking name.

XX

Thou haughty city, hear th' Almighty swear,
From fame's unsullied roll thou soon shalt die;
Thy kindred, too, thine infamy shall share,
Inglorious live, and soon forgotten lie.

XXI

Where Babylon now lifts her towering pride,
There beasts shall howl, and lonesome birds complain;
Her head in ruin whelm'd she soon shall hide,
Shall soon appear one stagnant marshy plain.

47

XXII

Hear Israel's God the dread decree relate,
And sacred shall Jehovah's counsel be;
His thought is order, and his word is fate,
And stands an everlasting boundary.

XXIII

Soon on my mount I lift mine arm on high,
Headlong will hurl th' Assyrian tyrant down;
Eas'd of their yoke, no more the states shall sigh,
Eas'd of their yoke, no more my people groan.

XXIV

Jehovah speaks; and what superior power
His word, once uttered, knows to render vain?
He lifts his arm:—What mortal may restore
The monarch's strength, and God's right hand restrain?

49

ODE IX. BALAAM'S PROPHECY.

Numbers xxii.

[_]

Imitated from Bishop Lowth. De Sacra Poesia Hæbræorum.

Jacob, thrice happy Jacob, heaven's delight!
Around thy tents what mingling beauties shine!
Well-water'd vallies swell upon the sight,
And gardens, fresh with living brooks, are thine.
Along thy silver streams, and peaceful vales
See beauteous trees in lovely order rise!
Here the soft balsam sweetens vernal gales;
There the proud cedar meets the bending skies.
For thee gay blossoms drop with balmy dews;
For thee rich streams the nursling fruits befriend;
Thy King has blest thy plains, and curs'd thy foes;
And still will curse thy foes, thy plains defend.
On Nile's proud banks thy God his power display'd,
And led thee conqueror from a haughty foe;
Erect with manly zeal, and heav'nly aid,
How did thy breast with generous ardour glow!

51

Thus have I seen across some distant hill
With flying feet the mountain Oryx glide;
Wanton and free he mov'd at large, and still
His towering horns he wav'd in conscious pride.
Thy foes their barbarous schemes shall soon deplore,
Around thy tents their corses soon be spread:
Shatter'd their spears shall lie, shall pierce no more
Thy peaceful tents, nor fill thy plains with dead.
When the young brindled lion couches low,
What daring hand shall rouze the slumbering king?
Soon would his breast with wild resentment glow,
The forest soon with doleful howlings ring.
Who blesses thee, himself shall blessings see,
But ruin be his lot, who ruin wishes thee!

63

ODE XI. ON GENIUS.

ON TAKING LEAVE OF DR. PRIESTLEY, WHEN PREPARING TO GO TO AMERICA.

I

What hand may now unfold the magic doors,
That veil the highborn muse from vulgar gaze?
Who crop, sweet Poesy, thy choicest stores,
And crown young Genius with immortal lays?
Peace to that favour'd bard! to him belong
The sweet ambrosial flower of ever-blooming song!

II

Ah! what is grandeur? What pride-crested power?
That daunt with dazzling blaze the wondering eye?
Why plucks the muse for them her gayest flower,
Why in immortal verse forbids to die?
Low lie the breast, that sighs for unearn'd fame!
Nor less the venal bard, that chaunts a tyrant's name!

64

III

Me, tho' the humblest of the tuneful choir,
Me, tho' with trembling hand I touch the string,
No blood-stain'd chief might tempt to wake the lyre,
No haughty despot might allure to sing;
Rather be mine to court the silent woods,
Mine with the rural song to charm the listening floods.

IV

Parent of arts, of science, and of song,
First-born of nature, pure ethereal mind,
Thine be the lay! for thee the tuneful throng
Sweet flowerets twine, and on thy chaplets bind;
Warm'd by thy glowing form, and radiant eye,
They catch the fire of song, and lift thee to the sky.

V

In nature's fostering lap lo! Shakspeare lies,
Thy Shakspeare; whose creative magic hand
Paints shadowy forms, and fancy-colour'd skies,
And all the wilder shapes of fairy-land:
He too, sweet minstrel, knew to touch the key,
Whence breath'd the hidden soul of purest harmony.

65

VI

On native hills, in wildest beauty gay,
The Cambrian swain shall wake the Druid song:
Full of thy thrilling power, shall sportful stray,
And charm with past'ral reed the rustic throng;
Still emulous of Alawn's peaceful days
Pour in his fair one's ear the love-inspiring lays.

VII

But need the sun in golden glory bright,
The less resplendent beams of meaner fires?
So genius shines with clear unborrowed light;
And virtue lives, when e'en the muse expires.
Then dare, illustrious sage, the threat'ning sea:
And Fame to distant lands shall wait on thee!
But Melancholy stays, and thinks, and weeps, with me.
 

Alawn, one of the most ancient British Bards. See an Ode to the British Muse, by the honest and well-informed Edward Williams, in Poems Lyric and Pastoral. There are, also, some Icelandic and Irish Odes, translated by Charles Wilson, a person, as I perceive by the Nordymra, and Walker's History of the Irish Bards, Sect ix. x. xi. well acquainted with the Icelandic and Irish languages, and poetry.


66

ODE XII. TO THE NIGHTINGALE.

I

Sweet songstress, that unseen, unknown,
Dost strain thy little heaving breast,
Why dost thou wander still alone,
Wakeful, while other songsters rest?

II

Oft have I linger'd in the grove,
Charm'd with thy soothing, melting song;
It told—or seem'd to tell—of love—
Nor was the night, tho' darksome, long.

III

“Yet oh! sweet bird, why shun the light?
“Why warble still the lonesome lay?
“Those notes that smooth the brow of night,
“Might wake the genial smile of day.

67

IV

Thus have I cried; yet cried in vain:
And still the songstress of the grove
Warbled her unambitious strain,
As tho' her only care was, love.
But tho' she shun'd my wistful sight,
So mildly, sweetly would she sing,
I deem her not the bird of night,
But hail the poet of the spring.
[_]

N. B. In these lines, as before printed, the two ideas concerning the Nightingale were preserved, one imaginary only, that its note is plaintive; the other, the true one, that it is pleasing, justifying the application of the title of “The Poet of the Spring,” applied by Anacreon to the τεττιξ, called, improperly, by some critics, The Grasshopper. The original was printed many years ago in the Leicester Herald, and had reference to some poetical compositions, published without a name in a newspaper, by a lady who now possesses a character in the literary world.


73

ODE XIV. RAYMOND AND ANGELINA.

I

Tenant of the valley, deign
Voice of suppliant sad to hear;
Guide a travelling trembling swain,
Wandering lost in labyrinth drear:
Is no village cottage nigh?
Mid the gloom I trace a light,
Like some fire, that seems to fly,
Piercing pale the shades of night.

II

Ah! my son, the hermit cried,
Dread the light, that leads astray;
Vapour wanton, treach'rous guide,
Glimmering only to betray!

75

Enter thou this humble shed,
Share the hermit's hearty cheer;
Hard his couch, and black his bread,
Yet repose and bliss are here.

III

Melts the gentle pilgrim's breast,
Sooth'd with accents soft and sweet;
Wistful now he sighs to rest;—
Much he loves the kind retreat.
Thatch the cottage covers o'er;
Quick the hermit, host most free,
Lifts the latch, that guards the door,
Door of humble willow-tree.

IV

Near them, as to share his mirth,
Frisks the dog in wanton play;
Gleams the cricket on the hearth,
Chirping loud in numbers gay.
All the joys, that round them rise,
Cannot charm the woe-fraught guest;
Pallid cheeks and tearful eyes
Speak the sorrows of his breast.

77

V

When the tears began to flow,
Hermit mild begins to soothe:
“Whence proceeds this weight of woe?
“Tell me truly, stranger youth.
“Has some smiling friend betray'd?
“Dost thou mourn some scornful fair?
“Does some foe thy peace invade?
“Leave thee victim to despair?

VI

Poor the joys that wealth can buy,
Man for them should scorn to pray;
Mean the fools for them who sigh,
Meaner, meaner far than they.
Friendship, if on earth you find,
Ah! the phantom will deceive,
Wealth pursuing fast behind,
Leaving misery still to grieve.

VII

Love, too, is a vain pretence,
Falsely bright, a borrow'd glare;
Oft with name, without the sense,
Flaunts the vain capricious fair.

79

Love to th' earth when she retires,
Lodges not in mortal breast;
No where deigns to kindle fires,
Save within the turtle's nest.

VIII

Trust me, youth, and grow more wise;
All the treacherous sex forego;
At these words the pilgrim sighs;
Tears again begin to flow.
On her face meek candour shone;
Soften'd eyes, and lips, and breast,
Make the charming pilgrim known,
Now a maiden fair confest.

IX

View, she cries, by love betray'd,
One, who courts in vain repose;
View a hapless wandering maid;
Love, the spring of all her woes.
Long I knew not, gay and vain,
How to prize a generous heart;
But to shun the tender chain
All my bliss, and all mine art.

81

X

Sway'd by fickle follies, I
Thus with pride tumultuous swell;
He but heaves the distant sigh,
Daring not his love to tell.
Not the heavens more clear and bright,
Than his soul was pure and fair;
Milder than the morning light
Was the fire I kindled there.

XI

He nor boasted wealth or birth,
Practis'd no mechanic art;
All his pride was genuine worth,
All his wealth a generous heart;
Graceless me to slight his love!
Now for ever is he fled:
And these lonesome wilds I rove,
Quickly hastening to the dead.

XII

Victim vain, thro' foolish pride,
Now I languish in despair;
Now I rove his grave beside,
Soon to bury all my care:

83

For none other wish have I,
Than to fall at Raymond's feet;
He thro' love of me did die;
Death for him I soon will meet.

XIII

Raymond, raptur'd, in his arms
Clasps his fair, and thus replies:
“Still I live to view those charms;
“Raymond in no grave-bed lies.
“View me, oh! mine Angeline;
“Still dost thou my fondness prove:
“View me, oh! thou maid divine,
“Whom you mourn, but whom you love.”

XIV

Lost the maid in sweet surprise,
Long to speak attempts in vain:
Till in accents soft she cries,
“View I then my love again?
“Never, never will we part—
“If we live, or if we die,
“But one sigh shall fill each heart;
“In one grave we both will lie.”

84

ODE XV. WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF OF MILTON'S PARADISE LOST,

PRESENTED BY THE EDITOR CAPEL LOFFT TO THE AUTHOR.

I

Illustrious bard! whose towering song
Has rov'd the tracks of boundless space,
Upborne, beyond the highest reach of rhyme!
As the bold eagle speeds his flight,
Nor heeds the songsters of the grove,
The purling brook, the sportive breeze,
Nor all the fluttering tribe of spring:
The low dank earth he spurns, upsoaring to the sun.

85

II

Young Freedom wak'd the holy flame;
'Till Science nature's heights explor'd,
And, as she led, mute Rapture stopt to gaze.
Now, 'mid creation's untrod ways,
And heaven's transcendent heights,
And darkest hell's profound abyss,
Empyreal forms, and prostrate fiends
Thine eager eye survey'd, then clos'd on mortal things.

III

Ah! what avail'd the cold disdain
Of critics in a venal age?
Of bardlings, soothing Folly's velvet ear?
Envy has ceas'd th' insidious hiss,
And mov'd her serpent train along,
Cursing her fruitless pains; whilst Fame,
Sounding her golden clarion high,
Hath round thine awful name her outstretch'd pennons wav'd.

IV

Thee oft when sadness shades his eye,
Or folly leads his thoughts astray,

86

Shall Genius hail, and cheerful taste thy verse:
Then Fancy glow with magic fires,
Then more than music charm his ear,
Till hush'd each angry passion sleeps,
Till Sorrow's self be seen to smile,
As tho' some angel form warbled 'mid brightest spheres.

V

What tho' thine eagle fancy rove
Ideal worlds? The rapt'rous notes
Harmonious flow, like music's richest stream.
The tuneful Maro fictions weaves;
Nor less divine Mæonides.
Their Wars, and Loves, Fictions light Beings ,
All ages warm: for Poesy,
Fancy's fair daughter, charms in every dress.

87

VI

Thus Milton lives, and thou, my Lofft,
(For thou shalt have this heart's esteem)
Still shew thy Milton in his virgin-dress.
I prize the present, friend unknown,
Save by thy learning's fair renown,
Thy noiseless virtues, and a soul
Trembling with tend'rest sympathies,
Scholar profound, and meek philanthropist.
 

This work is intitled, First and Second Books of Paradise Lost, printed from the First and Second Editions, collated; the original system of orthography restored, the punctuation corrected, and extended with the various readings and notes chiefly rythmical.. This work, if executed on the plan of the Books already published, would be a valuable publication with respect to the mechanical part of blank verse, and shew how a great critic may mangle a greater poet. Dr. Bentley is here alluded to.

Plutarch in his treatise De Audiendis Poetis, asserts of the great poets of antiquity what nearly amounts to Lucretius's assertion in his first book De Rerum Natura. “Few,” says Plutarch, “are acquainted, that they contain a great mixture of fable and fiction, like poison mixed with our food, and that neither Homer, nor Pindar, nor Sophocles, spoke conformably to their convictions, when speaking of such things, as, &c. Πλουταρχου Χαιρωνεως Βιβλιον, πως δει τον νεον ποιηματων ακουειν.” A person, however, may undoubtedly be pleased with the poetry, though he may not be convinced in all things of the truth of the representations: and it will at all times be hazardous to quote poets, whose great province is to please, for the truth of speculative opinions. Even Milton is often quoted in support of opinions, which he did not retain to the close of his life. For from a Calvinist, he became not only an Arminian, but probably an Arian. No insinuation is, however, here intended against Milton's sincerity: and all that has been said is merely en passant. See Toland's Life of Milton.


88

ODE XVI. ADDRESSED TO DR. ROBERT ANDERSON, OF HERIOT'S-GREEN, EDINBURGH,

AFTER A VISIT PAID HIM BY THE AUTHOR, AND VARIOUS PEDESTRIAN EXCURSIONS IN SCOTLAND.

I

Where is the king of songs ? He sleeps in death:
No more around him press the mail-clad throng;
He rolls no more the death-denouncing song;
Hush'd is the storm of war, and hush'd is Ossian's breath.
Yes! sleeps the bard: but still near Caron's stream
Resounds in fancy's ear his mournful lyre;
And oft where Clytha's winding waters gleam ,
Shall pilgrim-poets burn with kindred fire.

89

Dark is the poet's eye—but shines his name,
As, mid obstructing clouds, still gleams the solar flame .

II

Where now Dunbar ? The bard has run his race:
But glitters still the Golden Terge on high;
Nor shall the thunder storm, that sweeps the sky,
Nor light'ning's flash the glorious orb deface.
Dunkeld , no more the heaven-directed chaunt
Within thy sainted wall may sound again.
But thou, as once the muse's favourite haunt—
Shalt live in Douglas' pure Virgilian strain:

90

While time devours the castle's crumbling wall,
And roofless abbies pine, low-tottering to their fall.

III

Oh! Tweed, say, do thy busy waters glide
With patriot ardour, or with bigot rage?
In union dost thou distant friends engage?
Or flow, a boundary river, to divide?
If love direct, roll on, thou generous stream,
Thy banks, oh! Tweed, I kiss, and hail thee friend:
But while thy waters, serpent-winding gleam,
Should serpent-treacheries on thy course attend,
Thy banks disdainful would I rove along,
Tho' every bard that sings, should raise thee in his song.

91

IV

But, no, my friend : I read thy candid page,
And trace the footsteps of a manly mind:
Be mine, with chaplets Scotian brows to bind,
While England's bards thy studious hours engage.
The Highland nymph shall melt with England's lay;
And English ears be charm'd with Scotia's song;
Tho' rude the language, yet to themes so gay
The softest streams of melody belong.
Still, Ramsay, shall thy Gentle Shepherd please,
Still, Burns , thy rustic mirths, and amorous minstrelsies.

V

Oh! may I view again with ravish'd sight,
As when with thee, my Anderson, I stray'd,
And all the wonder-varying scene survey'd,
Seas, hills, and city fair from Calton's height!

92

And hear, (for Scotia's rhymes ah! soon shall fail)
Some Ednam bard awake the trembling string,
Some tuneful youth of charming Tiviot-dale,
Some Kelso songstress love's dear raptures sing.
Language may change; but song shall never die,
Till beauty fail to charm, till love forget to sigh.
 

A name applied to Ossian the son of Fingal, in the poems ascribed to him, as translated by Macpherson: concerning the authenticity of these poems it is unnecessary to say any thing here.—Ossian lived in the third century.

Caron, or Carrun, a small river in Sterlingshire, in the neighbourhood of Agricola's Wall. The scene of the dramatic poem entitled, The War of Caros, lies on the banks of this river. See Ossian's Poems.

The river Clyde.

On some future opportunity I shall extend this list of Scotch-poets, and shall avail myself of Campbell's History of Scotch Poetry.

The principal of the ancient Scottish poets. He chiefly excels in descriptive poetry: of which species of composition is The Golden Terge. Dunbar died in the middle of the 16th century; his poems were some time since republished in Scotland.

Dunkeld, in Perthshire, was formerly an episcopal see; and Gawin Douglas, brother to the Earl of Angus, an excellent poet, was some time bishop of it. Douglas translated Virgil; the prologues to which display wonderful powers of description. Other poems also were written by this writer, the most distinguished of which is an allegorical poem, intitled, King Hart. Douglas died in 1522. See Pinkerton's Ancient Scottish Poems, in two vols. 8vo.

The ruins of a fine abbey are at Dunkeld.

The river Tweed divides England and Scotland.

The Tweed has been much celebrated by the Scottish poets, and is the scene of some of their most beautiful songs.

Dr. Anderson is editor of The Works of the British Poets, From Chaucer to the present time, including also the best translations from the classical Greek and Latin poets, with prefaces biographical and critical.

A pastoral drama, written by Allan Ramsay, much admired in Scotland, perhaps too much; but certainly much under-rated by Pinkerton. See preface to Ancient Scottish Poems, Vol. I.

The well-known Robert Burns.

Such at least is the opinion of well-informed people in Scotland: a hint to their modern poets, to be cautious of making experiments in their own language.

A village near Kelso in Berwickshire, near which the little river Eden flows, from which the village takes its name: the native place of Thomson, the author of the Seasons.

Near Kelso the rivers Tiviot and Tweed join.


93

ODE XVII. ASTERIA ROCKING THE CRADLE,

OR, THE FAIR BELIEVER.

[_]

Printed in the Author's Poems, published in 1792.

I

'Tis fair Asteria's sweet employ,
To rock yon little restless boy:
Tho' small that cradle, it contains
Treasure, beyond a king's domains.

II

Not all Arabia's spicy store,
Not all Golconda's glittering ore,
Elysian fields, nor Eden's grove,
Could buy that little restless love.

III

Dear babe! the fair Asteria cries;
Dear babe! the listening muse replies;
While here a faithful guard we keep,
Dear babe, enjoy the honied sleep.

94

IV

Now hush, the sobs! now hush, the cries!
Lo gentle slumbers close his eyes!
And here a faithful guard we keep,
Sweet babe! enjoy the honied sleep.

V

Ere yon fair orb, that rules the sky,
Beam'd on that little stranger's eye;
Ere yet with feeble voice it wept,
Close in the silent womb it slept.

VI

And, who can tell the bitter smart,
That pierc'd Asteria's trembling heart?
Yet sure there's magic in that boy,
That wakes the soft parental joy.

VII

Still on Asteria's languid face
The primrose paleness keeps its place:
Yet o'er that face, what brilliant hues
Can this beloved babe diffuse!

95

VIII

How sweet beside the cradle's brink,
In musing state to gaze and think!
No daisied bank, no green hill's side,
So shines in nature's decent pride.

IX

Now see the babe unclose his eyes!
And see the mother's transports rise!
How every feature charms her sight!
How every motion wakes delight!

X

What rising beauties there she views!
The rosy lip, the polish'd nose,
The slender eyebrow budding thin,
The velvet cheek, the dimpling chin.

XI

Anon she views the sparkling eye,
The lifted hand, the tuneful cry;
And, hastening on thro' years to come,
She traces out his future doom.

96

XII

“Haply he'll plead religion's cause;
“Or weep o'er freedom's bleeding laws;
“Or feel the poet's sacred rage;
“Or trace the dark historic page.”

XIII

Nor is so sweet the sweetest gale,
That breathes across the silent vale,
From myrtle grove, or garden's bloom,
As is the honied breath's perfume.

XIV

At length she breathe's the fervent prayer:
Great God, oh! make my child thy care!
And may his future actions be
Sacred to virtue, dear to thee!

XV

Whatever fortune then betide,
Thou shalt his portion still abide:
And when the course of life is run,
Give him a never-withering crown.

97

ODE XVIII. WRITTEN ON THE DEATH OF JOHN HOWARD ,

AT HIS VILLA AT CARDINGTON, IN BEDFORDSHIRE.

Hard is the lot of meek philanthropy,
Who braves in slender bark the ruffian wave,
Eager the shipwreck'd mariner to save,
Unknown the latent dangers of the sea!
There rocks insidious lurk at midnight drear,
Or ocean boisterous raves, and wild winds roar,
Dashing the thick oose on the sounding shore:—
Down, down she sinks, no guardian angel near!
Ah! thus oft falls the friend of human kind:
Prudence and Pride, expand your silken sail
O'er halcyon streams; coax every saucy wind,
And Fortune's mirthsome crew in passing hail.
Pour, too, from niggard hearts the frugal sigh,
And measure out the prayer, for well ye can,
And grieve, that man, poor man, so soon should die:
Thus live—your own dear friends; but not the friends of man.
 

The author of the state of the prisons in Engand and Wales. It is, however, not intended to compliment the present rage for building prisous, many of which have no inhabitants, and others are true Bastilles. In the West of England this rage has been carried to a height truly ridiculous: in Glocestershire are no less than seven Howard, however, was a well intentioned man. He died in Russia, of an infection caught in a prison.


107

ODE XIX. TO A YOUNG PAINTER AND POETESS.

I

On me, young artist, why essay
These earlier sketches of thy skill?
Thy colours throw not thus away,
On fruitless triflers of the quill.

II

Go, paint the rainbow's mingling hues,
The rising sun, the western skies;
Or seek some fair one for thy Muse,
And steal the fire from Beauty's eyes.

III

Now, museful, on the rustic seat,
Conceive the landscape's rich design:
See lights and shades harmonious meet,
And pencil Nature's wavy line.

108

IV

Now, watchful, near some mouldering tower,
View the ship billow'd by the storm;
And where the clouds, thick gathering, lower,
Mark the rude-mantled Tempest's form.

V

Thus ancient art superior rose,
To Beauty's clear exemplar true;
And Fiction, when to paint she chose,
Still paid to nature homage due.

VI

And thou, fair minstrel, pour the strain
To some endearing favourite youth,
Belov'd and loving thee again,
And crown him with the wreath of Truth.

VII

Pierce the deep mazes of the heart,
And catch the pure poetic rage;
Or mark, the comic muse's part,
The manners of a motley age.

109

VIII

Unfold the seasons as they change,
And fix each form, that glides along;
Thro' fancy's fairy regions range,
And breathe the joy-inspiring song.

IX

Now in melodious warblings gay,
Raise the soft wish, the tender sigh;
Till nymphs and swains repeat thy lay,
And dart the love-illumin'd eye.

X

So may the foliage of thy spring
Be follow'd by the richest bloom;
Nor thou in plaintive numbers sing
To Genius, withering in the tomb.
 

On occasion of his requesting the author to sit for his portrait.


110

ON A LADY,

PLAYING ON THE HARP—AN INFANT ASLEEP IN THE CRADLE.

I

Why, have I asked, do painters give
Each muse and grace the female charm?
Mean they to make a goddess live?—
Or rather, mortal hearts to warm?

II

And, why do realms of heav'nly light
With golden harps so sweetly sound?
Those realms are regions pure and bright;
The music suits celestial ground.

III

Fair harper, o'er that various lyre
Still let thy fingers lightly move;
So shall each bosom glow with fire;
So melt with pity, or with love.

111

IV

But thou, sweet babe, art sunk in rest,
Unheedful of the charming strain:
Insensate is thy little breast,
Can taste no pleasure, feel no pain.

V

Nor dost thou heed thy father's smile;
Nor watch thy grandsire's wistful eyes.
Sleep on, blest infant!—yet awhile,
And thou shalt glow with kindred ties.

VI

Soon may thy generous bosom learn
To raise the heart, that droops with woe;
With Freedom's thrilling raptures burn,
With sacred love of country glow:

VIII

Soon mayst thou shew thy mother's face,
Attune her harp, and catch her eyes;
And, drest in every female charm,
Appear some angel from the skies.

112

ODE TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY HORACE.

Why, when I view those cherry lips,
That breast of sweets, those eyes of fire,
While Fancy from thy mouth rich nectar sips,
And round thy neck entwines each young desire?
Why should I ask if twenty years,
Or twenty more, matur'd those charms?
Thy breath, more soft than spring, thy lover cheers,
And more than Summer lingers in thy arms.
The Muse for thee is proud to sing,
The Graces lead the dance for thee,
The Nymphs to thee their sweetest flowrets bring;
Oh! then it surely cannot Winter be.
What tho' the bloom of life were fled,
The heats of Love all pass'd away?
Yet Wisdom could on age new lustre shed,
As a sweet glory gilds the parting day.

114

ODE XX. ON AN APPROACHING SPRING

[_]

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF THE CAM.

TO THOMAS NORTHMORE, FORMERLY OF EMANUEL COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.

I

Soon, Northmore, shall th' ambrosial Spring
Wanton forth in bright array,
Shall spread her amorous wavy wing,
And wed the Lord of Day.
Soon shall reviving nature homage yield,
And, breathing incense, lead her tuneful train
O'er hill and dale, soft vale and cultur'd field;
The bard, the lover, and the jocund swain,
All shall yield grateful homage; earth, and sky,
Each wake for thee, fair Spring, the sweetest minstrelsy!

115

II

What tho' the winds, and sleety shower,
May hush awhile the tuneful grove?
Soon, waken'd by the Vernal Power,
Shall breathe the voice of love.
Gay mounts the shrill ton'd lark at early dawn,
And its clear matin carols thro' the sky:
The throstles mellow warblings cheer the morn,
And linnet softly trills on hawthorn nigh:
The mists shall vanish soon, and soon the breeze
Kiss every glowing flower, and fan the trembling trees.

III

I too the cheering warmth shall feel,
And join the rapt'rous choral song,
Musing smooth numbers as I steal,
Oh, Cam! thy banks along.
Tho' near thy banks no myrtle breathe perfume,
No rose unfold its blushing beauties near,
No stately tulip spread its gaudy bloom,
Nor tow'ring lily deck the gay parterre:
Inclosed within the gardens fair domain,
These all in Eastern pride shall hold their golden reign:

116

IV

Yet wild flowers o'er the fruitful scene,
Warm'd by the touch of gentle May,
Shall rise, obedient to their queen,
In simple beauty gay:
To me the violet sheds the richest sweet,
To me the kingcup shines with brightest hues:
The primrose pale, like modest virtue neat,
The meek-ey'd daisy, can instruct the muse:
Roving with silent eyes, she loves to stand,
And even in field flower views a more than master's hand.

V

Ev'n now the sunbeam dazzling-bright
Dances on the crisped stream!
And soft, tho' fleeting gales, invite
The wild poetic dream:
Nor does in vain the swan majestic sail,
Nor glittering insect range the rushy brink;
The finny tribes adown the current steal,
And little songsters on the margin drink;
Then shiver, wild with bliss, the painted wing,
And to their feather'd loves their sweetest wood-notes sing.

117

VI

Yet must we leave thy blooming reign;
—And short that reign, thou lovely Spring,—
What time fate's high decrees ordain,
Or wills the sov'reign king!
Yes! all thy shadowy clouds, thy rainbow hues,
Thy honey'd flowers, mild gales, and glossy bloom,
All must be left, though friendly to the muse:
The poet's eye shall sleep in cheerless gloom:
And death's cold season chill the poet's tongue,
Nor wake the Sylvan muse the soul-enlivening song.

VII

But, speed the hours on restless wing?
Must Love's soft season steal away?
Then, Northmore, hail the coming spring,
And prize the sweets of May:
Where now the bard of Camus' classic stream,
The skilful hand, that wak'd the Theban lyre?
Ah! sleeps with him the spring-enamour'd theme,
From him the Loves, and Venus' train, retire;
He too, who trac'd the crystal streams of light,
And Nature's spacious fields, Great Newton, sleeps in night:

118

VIII

No more he treads this hallow'd ground;
Nor tracks in thought yon boundless sky:
Ah! science may but gaze around,
Then like the muse shall die.
Oh! quit then, Fancy, queen of song and wiles,
The pearl-enamell'd grot, the moss-grown cell,
Thy many thousand hills, and purple isles,
And deign with me near sedgy Cam to dwell;
And where Dart's waters Devon's valleys cheer,
May blooming science spread fair spring-time all the year.
 

Gray.

A river in Devonshire.


124

ODE XXIV. WINTER DEFEATED.

[_]

FROM BURGER.

I

See! where stern winter's icy hand
Unrobes the poplar tree;
The fields, their Mayclothes lost, all naked stand;
Their hues of red, white, blue, no more I see;
Buried in snows they sleep, and live no more to me.

II

Yet flow'rets sweet, can I for you
The death-song sad indite,
When I my lovely loving charmer view,
In more than all your vernal beauties bright,
With forehead white, red lip, and eyes of azure light?

III

Ye blackbirds, whistling thro' the vale,
Ye nightingales, that charm the grove,
In vain your melting strains my ear assail,
For silver-voic'd is she, the girl I love,
And sweet her breath as gales, o'er hyacinth-beds that rove.

125

IV

When of her lips I taste the bliss,
Full happiness I seem to meet:
More rich to me the honey-breathing kiss
Than mulberry fragrant, or than cherry sweet;
What more, Love, can I wish? In thee, fair Spring I greet.

126

ODE XXV. A GLEE.

COMPOSED FOR A SOCIETY OF BENEVOLENT PERSONS'

I

Is there a heart so blithe and gay,
As not one tender thought to spare
On youth, by passion led astray,
And lost in labyrinths of despair?
Go, heart of stone, and join the songs,
On rugged rock, of savage throngs.

II

Is there a saint of spotless fame,
In conscious virtue wrapt secure,
That knows no guilt, that feels no shame,
Blest, and of future blessings sure?
Seek fairer worlds, thou heart of snow,
Too pure for mortals here below.

127

III

Is there a heart, tho' blithe and gay,
Where yet meek mercy loves to dwell,
Where Reason holds the sovereign sway,
Tho' Passion sometimes dare rebel?
Come, heart of man, thus gay and free,
And share with us the social glee.

IV

The men, whom tenderest passions move,
Repose, in generous friendships blest:
Young Mirth is theirs; and soft-eyed Love
Finds in their heart a downy nest:
And when they raise their festive songs,
Angels might listen to their tongues.

V

Does Death, the bold obtruder, come,
To force the social band away?
Meek Pity hastens to their tomb;
'Tis her's to chant the parting lay:
While cheerful nymphs, and generous swains,
Record their memory in their strains.

128

ODE XXVI. THE RESLOVE.

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY SAPPHO .

Yes, I have loved: yet often have I said,
Love in this breast shall never revel more;
But I will listen to wild ocean's roar,
Or, like some out-cast solitary shade,
Will cling upon the howlings of the wind,
Till I grow deaf with listening, cold and blind.
But, ah! enchantress, cease that tender lay,
Nor tune that lyre to notes thus softly slow;
Those eyes, oh take those melting eyes away!
Nor let those lips with honey'd sweets o'erflow,
Nor let meek Pity pale that lovely cheek,
Nor weep, as wretches their long sufferings speak:
With forms so fair endued, oh! Venus, why
Are Lesbian maids, or with such weakness I?
Do Lesbian damsels touch the melting lyre?
My lyre is mute; and I in silence gaze;
As tho' the muse did not this breast inspire,
I lose, in tenderer loves, the love of praise.

129

Oh! Sappho, how art thou imprisoned round,
Beauty's weak captive, fast-enchained with sound!
Frail, frail resolve! vain promise of a day!
I see, I hear, I feel, and melt away.
 

See her celebrated Ode in Longinus.

ON TAKING LEAVE OF ARTHUR AIKIN,

AT DUNKELD, IN PERTHSHIRE, AFTER A PEDESTRIAN TOUR.

[_]

Published in the Monthly Magazine.

Aikin, there breathes in friendship what beguiles
The heavy hours, when dark distended clouds
Burst o'er the head in torrents, and from far
The forked lightning darts athwart the sky,
Quick travelling down to th' eye with dazzling rays;
While deep-mouth'd thunder muttering rolls along.
Then, darkness all around, how sweet the voice
Of friend! In converse kind there dwells a charm,
That cheers the heart, and mocks the blustering storm.
Nor less, when 'mid the barren dreary heath

130

The traveller strays, where scarce a heath-flower blooms
Yellow, or purple, as where Pentland lifts
His ridge, or spread the poor unthrifty plains
Of Cardigan, or toiling when he climbs
Snowdon or hoar Plinlimmon's craggy sides,
Brecnoc , or Grampian summits :—who surveys
Nature's grand scenery, may not always hope
To view the cultur'd garden, or the lawn
Of verdure softly smooth, or daisied vale:
Nor always may he meet the wilder charms
Of picturesque; nor always gaze entranced
The lake, whose fair expanse, like mirror clear,
What smiles upon the bank, of bush, or tree,
And heaven's blue vault, reflects; for nature's tints,
Various and bold, display no common tone.
She, skilful painter, from the wide extremes
Of rough and smooth, of light and shade, effects
Beauty's mixt form , the glory of her work.

131

But, Aikin, now we part, tho' scene so fair
Might tempt us still to extend our social walk.
Dunkeld, oh! lov'd retreat, embosom'd deep
In boldest rocks, and woods, that graceful clothe
The mountains side, beneath whose smiling cots
Rolls his pellucid stream the sprightly Tay ,
Scotia's divider stream, descending quick,
Meand'ring wide, Braidalbin's silver lake,
Fast hastening to the Frith: Here browner elms,
The greener pine, and larch of paler hue,
Spread more luxuriant branches: every tree
A language borrows, as proclaiming thee,
Dunkeld, its favourite sweetest residence.
Enchanting scene! farewell—so rich a spot
Might well allure the priest of ancient time,
To raise his temple here; and still appears
The sainted abbey, whose time-mouldered walls
Bring to the memory the fair Gothic haunt
Of Tintern, Monmouth's fair sequester'd ruin,
Where, of the scenery proud, Wye swells its flood.

132

But, ere we part, my friend, let us ascend
Yon stately mountain, and trace back our course.
Gentle th' ascent, and many a grateful herb
Has nature scatter'd round with skilful hand.
The modest heath-flower here its purple tints
Displays, and broom its yellow splendours; here
The fern spreads broad, and here the juniper
Puts forth its berry, by the prickly green
Guarded, and many a flower of rarer hue
With her own hand she waters:—pleasing height!
Now we have gain'd the mountains sacred brow!
How glows the landscape! for no shadowing cloud
Obstructs the sight: how heaven's own varying hues
Shine on the face of nature! Mount on mount
Here climbs, and there the lessening hills retire!
The towering wood, where trees innumerous spread,
Shrinks to a slender copse, while stately Tay
Seems a poor streamlet to th' astonish'd sight!
How many a day's long journey now appears
To th' eye, quick traveller, a short summer walk!
As fades a series of long wasting cares,
When joy mounts high, and distance veils the scene.
Now pleas'd each roves a lonely traveller,

133

For not the solitary path appears
Or sad, or irksome:—for what voice so sweet
As nature's songsters! And what scene so gay,
As hill and dale, and deep romantic glen,
Quick-gliding stream, and ever babbling brook?
And oh! what sound so sweet as western gales
Kissing the trembling trees? And Fancy can
Wake sounds more pleasing, can create new scenes,
Fresh, gay, ambrosial, such as purer sense
Of museful bard sees, hears, and grows inspir'd.
My friend, be thine to rove no fruitless path,
For science guides thee, and thyself hast rais'd
Fair hope, and pointing thee to rural haunts
And pleasing themes, thy parent leads the way.
The months, with all their songs, and fruits and flow'rs,
Vapours, and sullen clouds, and frost, and snows,
In ceaseless change, to Britain's studious youth
Well he describes; and Britain's studious youth
Shall bless his toils—nor less with Ev'ning Tales,
With critic rules, and soft poetic lays,
Moulds tender hearts, than with a modest skill

134

To art and science lifts the manly mind.
Nature's fair hand directs a different walk
To her different children, who still following her,
View what may guide the genius to pursue
Studies diverse, yet useful, which unite,
Like the rich hues, whose fair varieties
Each into th' other melting, all conspire
To crown with one grand arch the lofty heav'n.
Thy task be toil and patience; to survey
The form, position, and proportions due
Of mountains, and their natures thence deduce:
Hence shall determine well the distant eye,
What treasures sleep within, or slates or lime,
Granites, or porph'ries; nor shall vain ascent
Thy feet beguile; to thee research shall bring
Its pleasures; nor less useful the research.
'Twas thus, where circled in immortal snow,
Alps rear their tow'ring summits, Saussure rais'd
His fame's high monument ; nor less shalt thou
On Scotia's barren rocks; tho' not to thee
Those rocks shall long prove barren; thou shalt gain
From Scotland's sons the meed of fair renown.
 

A chain of mountains in Scotland, running through Lothian.

The highest mountains in North and South Wales.

The highest mountains in North and South Wales.

The highest mountains in North and South Wales.

A chain of mountains running East and West almost the whole length of Scotland.

Called by artists the Clear Obscure. See Webb on Painting. Dial. V.

The Tay issues from Loch Tay, in Broadalbin, and divides Scotland into North and South.

Tintern Abbey, in Monmouthshire, the finest ruin of the kind in England.

Author of a Journal of a Tour through North Wales.

Dr. Aikin, author of the Calendar of Nature, Evenings at Home, Poetical, Critical, and Topographical Works.

Arthur Aikin was engaged in a mineralogical survey of Scotland. Saussure is the author of, Voyages dans les Alpes.


135

ODE XXVII.

I

Greatest of Beings, Source of life,
Sov'reign of air, of earth, and sea,
All nature feels thy pow'r, and all
A silent homage pay to thee!

II

Wak'd by thy hand, the morning sun
Pours forth to thee its earlier rays;
And spreads thy glories as it climbs;
While raptur'd worlds look up and praise.

III

The moon amid the shades of night,
In borrow'd lustre speaks thy name;
And all the stars, that gild the scene,
Thee, the great Lord of light, proclaim.

136

IV

The rock, and grove, the hills and vales,
Each blooming flower, each verdant tree,
And all the creatures warm with life,
Have each a secret song for thee.

V

But man with nobler thought erect,
(For Reason yields a steady light)
Surveys his Maker through his works,
And glows with rapture at the sight.

VI

Nor can the thousand songs that rise,
Whether from air, or earth, or sea,
So well repeat Jehovah's praise,
Or raise so sweet a harmony.

VII

Subject to wants, he looks to thee,
And from thy goodness seeks supplies:
And, when opprest with guilt he mourns,
Thy mercy lifts him to the skies.

137

VIII

Children, whose little minds, unform'd,
Ne'er rais'd a tender thought to heav'n;
And men, whom reason lifts to God,
Though oft by passion downward driv'n:

IX

Such, too, as bend with age and care,
And faint and tremble near the tomb:
Who, sick'ning at the present scenes,
Sigh for some better state to come;

X

All, great Creator! all are thine:
All feel thy providential care;
And, through each varying stage of life,
Alike thy constant goodness share.

XI

Greatest of Beings, source of life,
Sov'reign of air, of earth, and sea,
All nature feels thy pow'r; but man
A grateful tribute pays to thee.

138

ODE XXVIII. THE MUSICIANS;

TWO AMIABLE YOUNG WOMEN PLAYING SUCCESSIVELY ON THE HARPSICHORD.

I

Did Tagus flow beside my cot,
And warble soft o'er bed of gold,
Were I by whispering zephyr told,
That I should, in some favour'd spot,
Hear notes so pleasing, thither would I flee,
Nor warbling Tagus heed, to listen, fair, to thee.

II

For me did blest Arabia's grove
Each sense-subduing sweet distill,
And soft melodious numbers fill
My ravish'd ear with notes of love,
That charm of numbers should not bind me long;
That charm, fair, would I break, to listen to thy song.

139

III

Thus in a summer's gaudy day,
Oft have I heard a sportive train,
Young linnets chirp a tender strain,
And I well-pleas'd could listen to the lay;
Those pretty minstrels did more charm my ear
Than the full warblers of the vernal year.

IV

For in each lovely fair I trace
Simplicity of virgin hue,
Freedom, and truth, and honour true,
The beauteous mother's open face,
The father's social heart I seem to view;
And therefore am I charm'd, musicians sweet, with you.

V

'Tis mine to hear the transient strain,
And by that charm my ear is bound,
And I will treasure up the sound;—
But oh! how blest the swain,
When each sweet girl becomes the tender wife,
Who such musicians hear, who such may love thro' life!

140

ADDRESSED TO THE SOCIETY FOR ESTABLISHING A LITERARY FUND FOR AUTHORS IN DISTRESS,

ON THURSDAY, MAY 3, 1798, AT THE FREE MASONS TAVERN .

Welcome, ye generous circle, who, remov'd
From Party's froward bickerings, and the rage
Of the Blood-monster war, the mad dislikes
Of superstition, and the proud disdain
Of high-plum'd vanity, here social sit
A little Goshen; round whose sacred seats
Benevolence spreads wings, and Pity meek
Sheds, as from heav'n, its gentlest dew-drops down.
Yes! we must welcome you—for if on earth
There smiles one chosen spot, that ruffian winds

141

Dare not invade, that passions mildew swarms
Might harmless pass, though wasting all around
Man's brightest sweetest hopes, it should be that
Where kindness blossoms beauteous; tree more blest
Blooms not in mortal soil, nor ever bloom'd
In fable-painted garden;—yet this tree,
Though fair of blossom, as that sacred flower,
Immortal amaranth , and of fragrance sweet
As breathes Arabia, and of fruit as rich
As grew that lovely tree, whose golden fruit
Jove's nuptial day could cheer, yet trembling shrinks
From vulgar rudeness, as of tenderest frame:
Nipp'd by the scowling winds, and angry skies,
Soon might it languish, perish soon, like plant
Trembling, when touch'd, and closing:—Oh! then, we hail,
As friends, we hail you: warm of heart, we pray
That no wide-wasting storm, no chilling frost
May the young blossoms of your hopes destroy:—
And, oh! may folly's hand ne'er stop its growth
By narrow cautions; but the fostering care

142

Of wisdom still mature it, like the sun,
That penetrates the glebe, whose warmer beams
Smile in the bud, and blossom in the fruit.
Enough of “evil days, and evil tongues;”
Oft have ye heard the case of wild distress:
(And as ye heard ye sigh'd), the plaintive tale
Of suffering genius, by hard fortune gall'd,
Death-stung by envy, or, in perilous times,
Heart-harrowed by some tyrant's iron hand:
Nor did ye not attend, as oft ye heard
How genius soars on light imprudent wings,
How fancy's children, a gay sportive tribe,
Chearful as morning lark, have mounted high,
Wild 'mid their warblings, gazing round and round,
With rapture-beaming eyes—but, oh! they dropp'd
'Mid their gay warblings, soon to silence hush'd:
And 'mid their fair creations, the new worlds
Their quick sight pierc'd, like him whom fable gifts
With faithless wings, struggling in vain, they fell
To this dank earth, to sigh 'mid want and woe.
Ye heard, ye wept:—ye wept no fruitless tear:
Soft as the stream o'er thirsty Egypt pours,

143

Still as it flow'd, it blest:—'twas then ye saw
Your plant take root, and promise fair—ye saw
Blossoms and fruits, and with no careless hand
Ye tended it; and with no lazy eye
Ye watch'd its branches;—then with parent fondness
Ye pour'd forth blessings;—and it shall be blest.
Thus far is nobly done! Henceforth the task
Remains to give due stateliness and strength
To what you first gave being:—Pleasing task!
Oh! may the wise contriving mind, that knows
To plan for human welfare, here advance
The work of goodness; here may still succeed
Gentle of heart and generous, as of mind
Profound and piercing, such as dare not sink
Self-center'd, but who dart from inward light
Irradiance clear and strong, to bless the world.
Here wealth may much perform, here taste the bliss
Of blessing others; nor may wisdom less:
Who give with liberal hand, afford the means
Of vigorous energies, who wisely weigh,
Who well discriminate, and counsel right,
Point thro' those means the path-way to an end.

144

Perchance, from small beginnings here may rise
Blessings immense; perchance, your means outreach
Your highest hopes; perchance—but who may tell
What bounty shall supply, or wisdom plan ?
 

For an account of this Institution, as founded by David Williams, author of various political works, and of the History of Monmouthshire, see my Dissertation on the Theory and Practice of Benevolence.

See Milton's Paradise Lost, Book III.

A more correct copy of these verses may be found in the last annual account of the Literary Fund, in which are appropriate poems by the elder Captain Morris, William Boscawen, and W. T. Fitzgerald. The above lines were printed from the author's incorrect copy when he was out of town. A more correct copy may, also, be found in the Gentleman's and Lady's Magazines.


145

ODE XXIX. SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY COLONEL LOVELACE,

AFTER HIS CONFINEMENT, WHILE YET IN A STATE OF POVERTY .

I

Fair charmer, heed not what I say;
This heart, so studious to complain,
When sighing sad, it could not love again,
Breath'd but a false, tho' plaintive lay.

II

From me Love will not, cannot flee,
That ancient inmate of my breast;
No!—he must be my constant, constant guest,
Long as these eyes can gaze on thee.

146

III

When I survey that modest grace,
See Kindness thro' thine eyelid shine,
New tumults move within this breast of mine;
I fall the victim of thy face.

IV

And what tho' Fortune should deny
On thee her favours to bestow?
Still Love shall give my secret breast to glow;
The Muse forbid thy name to die.
 

For an account of Colonel Sir Richard Lovelace, see The Poet's Fate.


162

ODE XXXIII. TO DR. SAMUEL PARR , OF HADDON NEAR WARWICK.

I

Parr, men like you, of noble mind,
A feeble foe may well defy;
Firm as he hears the passing wind,
Or distant views a lowering sky.

II

What tho' the lily's slender head
May droop beneath the drenching showers?
Tho' bends the rose on lowly bed,
The queen, th' unrivalled queen of flowers?

169

III

Yet spreads the oak its giant arms;
Yet smiles the cedar's reverend form;
The tempest wakes no wild alarms;
Secure they stand, and brave the storm.

IV

And, mark where foaming torrents roar
Down the steep rock's unalter'd side;
The pearly snows are seen no more,
But perish in the boist'rous tide.

V

But, shall the hoary mountain dread
Or beating rain, or thunder nigh?
Still, as in scorn it rears its head;
Still looks in triumph to the sky.

VI

For me;—tho' I may still revere
Stern Wisdom in her hermit cell,
Yet to my heart is far more dear,
The breast where gentlest virtues dwell.

170

VII

'Tis thus I love some Alpine height,
And bless each tree that clothes the side;
Yet humbler vallies more delight,
Than all the mountain's varied pride.

VIII

There breathe the garden's richer sweets;
There livelier songsters carol gay;
There breathe, amid the blest retreats,
The shepherd's pipe, the lover's lay.

IX

Thus have I rang'd the breezy shore,
And, rapt in thought poetic, stood,
To hear the ocean's solemn roar,
Or gaze on Severn's stately flood.

X

But Avon, softly flowing, pours
A stream less stately, yet more bright,
And fresh with dews, the genial flowers
Smile on the bank, and charm the sight.

171

XI

Here Shakespeare , Nature's fondest child,
First rov'd, a little thoughtless swain;
Here breath'd his native wood-notes wild,
And tried the soft impassion'd strain.

XII

Here too, collecting sweets, I stray'd,
From flowers, with mildest tints that glow'd,
And blest thy Hatton's humble shade,
For it was Mercy's meek abode.
 

Of the talents and learning of the editor of Bellendenus, it was unnecessary to say any thing. The lines were written on receiving an account of the very benevolent exertions of Doctor Parr on many occasions, more particularly on one, and of the malignant conduct of an insignificant persecutor.

A river Avon (for there are several of that name in England and Scotland) passes by Stratford, in Warwickshire, which is, therefore, called Stratford on Avon, the birth-place of Shakespeare. Hatton is a village about two miles from Warwick.


187

ODE XXXVII. TO PITY.

WRITTEN, IN PART, AT CARDINGTON IN BEDFORDSHIRE, WHILE STANDING NEAR A ROOT-HOUSE, IN THE GARDEN BELONGING TO JOHN HOWARD .

[_]

Corrected from the Author's Poems, published in 1792.

I.

Hence, motley mirth, and wanton song,
That move in airy mood along,
Too rapt in bliss a tear to heed!
Hence, too, dull ease,
Intent, thyself to please;
Who, with unalter'd eye, the wretch's tale canst read.

II.

But, come with eyes of blue, oh! maid,
In light cærulean robes array'd,

188

Come, Pity, sprung of gentlest race;
Oh! nymph, I love thy pallid face;
Thy pensive gait, thy gentle sigh,
The still, meek language of thine eye;
Where as the dew-drop, soft and clear,
Unbidden steals the virgin-tear:
Oh! come, and by this root-twin'd mossy seat,
Still on thy votary smile , still bless this calm retreat.

III.

I love the bard , whose martial song
Thrills the full-sounding chords along;
How well agree the deep-ton'd strings
To slaughtering heroes, dying kings!
But thou, retir'd, art wont from far
To hear the shouts and cries of war;
To sit with trembling, dove-like eyes ,
Unseen to breathe impassioned sighs;
And while the bard pours forth th' immortal strain,
To muse on widow'd wives, and “chiefs untimely slain.”

189

IV.

And, hail yon darksome dreary cells!
—There pale imprison'd madness dwells!
Now deep she sighs, like wretch forlorn,
Then clinks the galling chain in scorn!
She now the thunder's rage can dare!
Then looks like stony-ey'd Despair!—
Wan sufferer! friendless and alone,
I hear her breathe the hopeless groan;
Yet not unoft, low-bending at the grate,
'Tis thine, like pilgrim pale, in speechless woe to wait.

V.

Nor less where generous Edward's name
Recorded shines in deathless fame;
There art thou wont to walk around,
('Tis thine own consecrated ground,)

190

To mark, near sick-bed bending meek,
The hollow eye, the fading cheek,
The faultering tongue, the panting breath,
The last farewell, the groan in death.
As lamps in midnight vaults are wont to gleam,
'Tis thine to live 'midst woe;—and death thy favourite theme.

VI.

Does Truth lament a tyrant's reign,
Or sink beneath the galling chain?
Amid the drooping, near the dead,
I view thee pass with silent tread;
Near gallies, fill'd with generous slaves,
Or dungeons, turn'd to martyrs graves!
While cities crimson currents pour,
And streams run, dyed with human gore;
Crimes, which nor genius, learning, prayer, nor power,
Shall save from Freedom's curse, from Freedom's vengeful hour .

191

VII.

Rise, hallow'd forms of martyrs, rise!
And breathe, oh! France, thy plaintive sighs !
Speak to this heart your tale of woe;
There wake the sympathetic glow.
Long as I view yon lamp of day,
Long as I view the moon's pale ray,
As night's lone bird her ravag'd brood
Moans in soft sadness through the wood,
So shall my verse complain for man oppress'd,
Nor Howard blush to hear; and thou shalt thrill his breast.
 

Author of the State of the Prisons in England and Wales.

Written in the life-time of Howard.

Homer.

Alludes to some strokes of exquisite painting at the close of the sixth book of the Iliad; where Andromache, the wife of Hector, is represented viewing the battle from the walls of a tower:

Αλλ' ηδε ξυν παιδι και αμφιπολω ευπεπλω
Πυργω εφειστηκει, γοοωσατε, μυρομενητε.
She with her child, and servant well attir'd,
Sat, secret mourner, on a tower retir'd.

Royal Hospitals in London founded by Edw. VI.

Alludes to the cruelties practised in France under Lewis the XIV. the fulsome panegyrics offered him by the clergy, and the Te Deum ordered to be sung by Innocent XI.

See the Groans of the French Protestants, and the History of the Reformation in France by the celebrated Reformer, John Claude.


192

ODE XXXVIII. THE FAIR SCEPTIC;

OR, ASTERIA CONTEMPLATING HER INFANT'S COFFIN.

I

Ah me! how quick our pleasures fly!
And, ah! how constant human woe!
As thorns 'mid roses ambush'd lie,
And on one branch together grow.

II

That ozier'd cradle's form survey;
Then on yon coffin cast your eyes;
There wont a babe to smile and play;
Ah!—now that babe here senseless lies.

193

III

And late what joys yon fair beguil'd!
Now lowly droops her languid head!
She smil'd;—for then her infant smil'd;
And now she mourns that infant dead.

IV

I too who shar'd Asteria's joy,
Now share, in turn, Asteria's pain;
The bard, who hail'd her infant boy,
Now pours for him th' elegiac strain.

V

Ah! see, with still, reverted eyes,
Like fabled Niobe, she sits;
Then near the coffin deep she sighs,
Muses, and weeps, and talks by fits.

VI

“Scarcely he felt life's feeblest glow;
“His earliest smile beam'd, scarcely, round;
“And must the hasty traveller go,
“His eyes in sleep eternal bound?

194

VII

“What guilt could stain that infant breast?
“What crime his little heart conceive?
“That sickness robb'd his days of rest,
“His shroud that Death so soon should weave?

VIII

“Whilst we on life's rough ocean rove,
“The boisterous passions never cease:—
“But—why the tempest from above
“Disturb, when all within is peace?

IX

“Flow, then, my tears, nor cease my sighs:
“Or must I rather kiss the rod?
“And weeping with parental eyes,
“In patience bless a sovereign God?

X

“For if, when life's short storm is sped,
“Eternal sunshine smiles above,
“Why should we mortals mourn the dead?
“Why envy them their heaven of love?

195

XI

“For not so sweet the honey'd breath,
“That Spring imbibes from opening flowers,
“As breathes an infant, if in death
“The soul is borne to heavenly bowers.

XII

“And when the last great trump should sound,
“And wake the slumbering dead to rise,
“No purer dust should quit the ground,
“No brighter angel bless the skies.

XIII

“But who? or when? or where? Ah me!
“On trembling wavering wings I soar—
“I see;—and yet I scarcely see;—
“And still I doubt, yet still adore.

XIV

“View the swift wheel encircling flie!—
“So life's short circle whirls around;
“And soon a little dust we lie,
“Deep slumbering on the silent ground.

196

XV

“Blest be the sod, where sleep the brave!
“The slumbers blest, that genius bind!
“But far more sacred be the grave,
“Where Innocence repose can find!

XVI

“Enjoy, sweet babe, thy envied sleep;
“Oh! Earth, lie softly on that breast!—
“Ah! when shall I forget to weep?
“When sink, blest babe, like thee to rest?”
 

See The Fair Believer, or Asteria Rocking the Cradle, in the former part of these Poems.


197

ODE XXXIX. AFTER VISITING DRYBURGH ABBEY, IN BERWICKSHIRE,

THE SEAT OF LORD AND LADY BUCHAN.

I

While June, in rosy vestments gay,
Swells beauteous on the sight,
While yet the cuckoo cheers the day,
And slowly comes the night;
How sweet, on shelter'd bank reclin'd,
To sing (for song can charm the mind)
When noontide's feverish heats prevail!
Or, near some oak's thick branches laid,
To muse within the silent shade,
And taste meek evening's mellow gale!

II

Ah! Pleasure, whither wouldst thou lead?
To hill, or clover'd dell?
To woodland scene, or flowery mead?—
Or hermit's moss-grown cell?
To rosy nymphs, and tawny swains,
Go, breathe thy soul in rapt'rous strains;

198

And ply thy feet in sprightly dance;
Or, if the hermit-haunt delight,
Assist some pious Votary's sight,
And wrap him in seraphic trance.

III

If Fancy, nymph of elfin race,
Thy rural walk attend,
Then hie thee to the circle's space,
Where sportive fairies bend:
And, when the night-winds slowly rise,
When moon-light slumbers thro' the skies,
Their little forms shall start to view;
And they shall sing and dance and play,
Till twinkles light the eye of day;—
Then disappear—like morning dew.

IV

But, oh! if soul of earthly mould,
Of heav'n not yet secure,
For vision'd ecstasies too cold,
May yet thy smile ensure;
Blest Power, disdain not thou his prayer!
For thou canst, with a matron's care,

199

More sober joys around diffuse;
Give him to glow with soul of fire,
Teach him to strike the rapt'rous lyre,
The humblest votary of the Muse.

V

His passions, when they restless grow,
Song, like some god, should chain;
And, when his bosom melts with woe,
Should ev'n endear his pain.
Where Tweed swift rolls his sounding tide,
Fair Dryburgh's sainted walls beside,
Should such a pilgrim bend his feet,
Him would Ascanius bid to share,
Kind hermit-host, his hermit-fare,
And fair Emilia's smiles should greet.

VI

And they should hail his pilgrim-song,
(They love the tuneful race)
And shew him where the bardic throng
Each holds a sainted place :

200

And where, amid the valley gay,
The silver Eden loves to stray,
Would shew the village-pastor's cot ,
Whence he, the bard of modest mien,
First peep'd to catch the living scene;—
And he would bless the favourite spot.

VII

But thou, hoar pile , where bigot Zeal
Could fix her baneful seat;
And Sloth her hideous form conceal
Within the Saint's retreat;—
Here Wisdom still shall find her cell,
And Love, with her associate, dwell;
The Muse shall raise her temple here;
And while Ascanius gazes 'round
Still shall he call it holy ground,
His hallow'd bards shall still revere.

201

VIII

“Generous they were of soul, and yet
“From greatness liv'd retir'd;
“Living they charm'd;—and paid the debt;
“And, not unmourn'd, expir'd.
“Traveller, within thy gentle breast
“Does Kindness dwell, a virgin-guest?
“Forbear to breathe thy pity here.
“Survey the tribes of human kind:—
“—Canst thou no living mourner find?
“—Then look around, and drop a tear.”
 

The Tweed is unusually rapid and violent here.

This delightful spot, now the residence of Lord and Lady Buchan, was formerly a monastery. In a part of the chapel are now placed the busts of our English poets. Lord Buchan is well known as a man of letters.

Thomson, the author of the Seasons, was born at Ednam, by which the river Eden passes. A Life of that Poet has been written by Lord Buchan.

To Dryburgh-Abbey.


202

ODE XL. HYMN TO CHARITY .

I

Oh! Thou whose eye of smiling love,
Outshines the cheerful eye of day,
Whose bosom no rude tempests move,
Whose form no pencil can pourtray;
So bright thine eye, thy form so fair,
Beauty herself seems station'd there.

II

Hail, Charity! meek tender maid,
Adorn'd with Virtue's modest crown;
And wont, in simplest garb array'd,
To beam with lustre, all thine own;—
Still let thy breast with rapture glow,
But spare a sigh for human woe.

203

III

Softer thy breath, than gales that play,
Where Summer-flowers their odours fling;
Nor is so sweet the breath of May,
With all the choir of tuneful Spring.
The smile that on thy cheek is seen,
Bespeaks a paradise within.

IV

Oh! still thy fostering wing outspread;
—Distress near thee shall shelter find—
And, like yon sun, thine influence shed
Through the vast race of human kind.
And let thine open hand impart
Rich emblems of a generous heart.

V

And not so warm in Mithra's praise ,
The Persian, crown'd with conquest, glows,
When call'd the choral song to raise,
For sabres sheath'd, and vanquish'd foes,

204

As nations, kindling with thy ray,
Shall upward spring to new-born day.

VI

Then shall the fury-passions sleep!
And Conquest quench her thirsty sword;
No captive Fair in silence weep,
Nor laurels grace her tyrant-lord;
No face shall wear the form of woe:
The only wreath the olive bough.
 

Part of this hymn has been published before in the Monthly Magazine.

Mithra is worshipped, as the source of light, the sun, by the Persians and Indians. An allusion is here made to a fine hymn at the end of Maurice's Second Volume of Indian Antiquities.


205

TO A LADY,

WHO PERMITTED THE AUTHOR TO READ, WHEN THE FAMILY WERE IN BED, ON CONDITION THAT HE WOULD WRITE A RECEIPT FOR HER COLD.

Oh! lively Fancy, vision'd maid,
Fain would I feel thy magic power;
Come, Fairy, cheer my midnight shade,
And guide me in the solemn hour.
Oh! find me out a sov'reign pill,
For see the fair Belinda's ill.
When long a cruel cough had seiz'd her,
The charmer deign'd to ask a cure;
With broth, pills, gruel, long I teiz'd her,
She deigns to take, but finds no cure.
No—vain are gruel, broth, and pill;
For yet the fair Belinda's ill.
High-perch'd, methought, my fairy sat,
And simp'ring cry'd, Your skill is vain:
Here I have hit upon it pat,
Rouse up your wits, and pen a strain.
A rhyme, beyond the doctor's skill,
Revives Belinda, when she's ill.

206

A rhyme well turn'd her ear will please,
Cheer, tickle, aid the perspiration;
When coughs and colds the ladies seize,
The best physician in the nation
Is a brisk bard—and ev'n tho' ill
His Rhyme, it proves the sov'reign pill.
A rhyme ill-turn'd will hurt her ear,
And rouse Belinda into ire:
I hear, ev'n now, the cruel dear
Cry, Betty, throw it in the fire.
But, can I call Belinda cruel?
No, rhymes shall make poetic fuel,
And give new powers to broth and gruel.

THE POET'S FATE.

[_]

The speakers' names have been abbreviated in this poem. The abbreviations used are as follows:

  • For P. read Poet
  • For C. read Cutic

P.
There are, who say, Heav'n never meant that man
Should warble ode, or doleful sonnet scan.
“To read, mark, learn,” and check each wild desire,
What more can country claim, or king require?
Men thus engag'd, enjoy the sweets of life,
They dread no tempest, and they raise no strife;

207

Such, only such, should taste of cheerful wine,
But a mere scribbler has no right to dine.
Ah! hapless race of mortals! ever prone
To seize the tree of knowledge as your own,
Ere, unresign'd this weight of flesh and blood,
You lose the vulgar taste for carnal food:
Feast, feast content, on hope of future fame,
Heirs of your great first parents' crime and shame;
Who, if to Heav'n by sovereign grace they rise,
Still by their folly lost a paradise.

C.
Who would not warning take, and burn his pen?
First work, then take your cheer, like other men:
Who more fantastic than Jean Jacques Rousseau ?
No poet's numbers more harmonious flow:
Yet tho' on learning's sweet ambrosia fed,
Still humble quavers brought him common bread.

P.
Yet Jones was blest with learning, taste and sense,
Courted the Muse without neglecting pence,

208

And Darwin's muse obtain'd a fav'ring gale,
Still live his plants, nor does his pocket fail.

C.
But whence their wealth? Was Jones the Mufes' drudge?
Jones shone in India—was an ermin'd judge:
And Darwin, if he share the town's regard,
Was first a doctor, ere he rose a bard.

P.
Yet Peter rhymes, and lives by rhyming too—

C.
One, where a thousand starve, may live, 'tis true—
Peter, a ready marksman, takes his aim,
And, in a lucky moment, hits the game;
Fashion and pleasure hunts the livelong day,
Painters, or fools, or kings, his easy prey;

209

At court, in city, Ran'lagh, or Vauxhall,
All laugh with Peter, and he laughs at all.
But does one sportsman triumph in success?
Succeeding sportsmen find the pastime less.
Shine, if thou canst, bard, critic, poet, and divine;
Yet hope not thou in sacred lawn to shine;
Content, though grac'd with Oxford's laureat crown,
To wear the village curate's modest gown .
Drain'd is the treasury chest, and pensions rare,
One only laureat gains e'en poet's fare.

P.
But things may mend, and poets yet may hope,
In better times, to charm, and thrive like Pope ,

210

Or Allan Ramsay , that harmonious Scot:
Now to fare ill, is but the common lot.

C.
The tuneful Dryden, born in happier days ,
Earn'd but fair Ormond's smile, and Dorset's praise.
Mark him who fram'd his creed to suit the day,
Nor suffer'd politics to cloud his way,
Now vend distress'd his bare unpolish'd line,
Now courtly bend at adulation's shrine;

211

In ode, play, satire, try his varying skill,
Still poor in purse, though rich in genius still;
Now jeer'd by lords, now jostled from the pit,
Prais'd, curs'd, and beaten for another's wit:
While booby critics hoot him to the grave,
As traitor, atheist, libertine, and knave.
At length due honours grace the poet's dust!
See Sheffield, noble Sheffield, raise a bust!
See Johnson throw a glory round a name,
Already shining in the rolls of fame!
From the warm tribes that soar on sky-lark wing,
And in self-soothing numbers wildly sing,
Take but a dozen, or, perhaps a score,
(And Johnson's Lives will scarcely furnish more;)
Such as write Prologues for fair Drury's scenes,
Or dress tidbits for Monthly Magazines ;
Who rhyme as gentlemen and nothing get,
But ah! too often rhyme themselves in debt:

212

Take Dodsley's wealthy songsters, who at ease,
Write what they like, and polish when they please;
Then, what remains? (Forgive my want of grace)
A needy, fluttering, waspish, sing-song race.

P.
Then woe is me! to stroll with empty purse
My wit a torment, and my rhymes a curse:
To rove and rove, and keep on roving still,
A mere knight-errant of the grey-goose quill;
Now doom'd, in penance for my former crimes,
To scribble mournful verse in starving times;
When gracious George proclaims, that days are bad ,
And critics swear, that authors must be mad;
Kings, queens, and princes, touch not wheaten bread,
And booksellers themselves are meanly fed.

C.
Who see their danger should that danger shun:—
When Money fails you, and a scowling dun—

P.
Too slow for labour, yet too stout to beg,

213

Dextrous as Foote to hide his corken leg,
Too proud to crouch, too stubborn for a bribe,
And far too grave for epigram and gibe,
To catch the hues of this fantastic age,
Or turn to sterling gold the lucky page;
Tossing and restless on my midnight bed,
One everlasting jingling in my head,
What course must I pursue?—C. Take light repast;
For such as needs must write, should learn to fast;
Take moderate exercise, or keep up stairs;
When hungry, smoke your pipe, or say your prayers:
Or plough, in conscious pride, the Atlantic main,
And hail adventurous, Columbia's plain,
Haste, where young Love still spreads his brooding wings,
Where Freedom digs, and ploughs, and laughs, and sings.

P.
God save your worship! lowly thus I bend,
And grateful bless the critic and the friend:

214

Fain would I climb for thee yon high abode,
Fain from Parnassus bear a blooming ode:
But Gray and Mason stripp'd the sacred tree,
Ambitious rogues! how little blooms for me!
Nay Pye and Hayley stole each relick bough;
That for great George, and this for Howard's brow:
And should I spin some filmy, downy line,
Perchance in future Baviads I might shine:
But should I poems eucharistic pen,
In praise of generous, great, and learned men;

215

Starring, like Barnes, with names, th' Homeric page,
Your worth shall shine through many a distant age;
And when, at length, I bid this world, adieu!
My pen, my rhymes, my purse I leave to you!
Meantime since towering bards so often fail,
That odes are scarce, I treat you with a tale.
In ancient times, long ere poor Butler sigh'd,

216

Or dinnerless the polish'd Lovelace died;
(For loyal bards—so runs the poet's fate—
Though sworn to praise, may live to curse the great;
Unshar'd the lordly prelate's savoury dish,
Unblest with mother church's loaf and fish:)

217

In ancient times, (no matter when,) I say,
There liv'd a strolling bard, who sang for pay;
He weav'd not odes for birth-days, quaff'd no sack,
Content with one poor covering for his back:
And now and then, when masters all were kind,
Both back and belly could some comfort find;
Then like two lovers merrily they sped:
This never languish'd, being duly fed;
That not hard work'd, was seldom heard to groan:
Thus good old Darby trudg'd with good old Joan.
Not such the love 'twixt belly and the brains;
Were masters kind? Then sluggish were the strains:
Did poet ever pine through lack of meat?
How light and clear the brain! the verse how sweet!
No plainer axiom to the meanest dunce,
“That wit and wallet never thrive at once:”

218

Resolv'd ev'n wise men, as resolv'd the dull,
To pinch the stomach, would assist the skull.

C.
Do Water-poets , or some Stephen Duck ,
The Muses' vine with hand too daring pluck?
If light their purses, and if small their fame,
Blame, if you please; themselves deserve the blame.
Who wantons with the Muse, and spurns a trade,
Before a wife prefers a common jade:
And bard and mistress, when the means shall fail,
(As fail they will) should warble in a jail.

P.
Think not the man I sing of small renown:
For him contending states decreed a crown;
Fanes proud with rites, proclaim'd his name divine,
And bleeding victims bow'd before his shrine.


219

C.
Well, had those victims, in the form of beef,
Smoak'd on his board, when doom'd to court relief,
He had not reach'd those towering heights of fame,
Nor after-ages heard of Homer's name.

P.
Homer!—your shrewd conjecture much I praise.—
Homer, I grant, could wake the noblest lays:
What then? The story now becomes your own;
The name unmention'd might have slept unknown:
Beside, the questions Critics still divide,
When Homer lived, and where, and when he died:
Some give him eyes, some make the poet blind ;
While others place the blindness in his mind ;
Maintain, his soul perceiv'd not mortal things,
His wars were symbols, fabulous his kings :

220

Some grant him house and lands, some scarce a stall;
Others assert, no Homer liv'd at all.
But since a name my story seems to need,
Homer I take, and with your leave proceed.

C.
But, modest sir, you challenge, to be sure,
The boastful meed of genius, to be poor;
Dream Homer's in you, when you catch the itch ,
And look in Poets' Corner for a niche:
But bards must eat; nor would I be unkind:
Pray tell me, Mr. Poet, have you din'd?

P.
A bard, you know, of light cameleon breed,
On nature's bounty is content to feed;
Contented too, like any common man,
To catch good solid pudding when he can;
Sweet is thy love, and sweeter still thy wine,
But sweeter sometimes with the gods to dine.
Homer! great bard! thy name unrivall'd stands ,

221

Borne on the wings of fame through distant lands;
My only hope in life and death to rest
In the warm mansion of some generous breast;
There may I find my unambitious place,—
Who will, for me, may Poets' Corner grace.

C.
In times, when every rhymester deems it hard,
If not saluted as a sacred bard,
Some praise it merits, freely I allow,
To leave the laurel-wreath on Homer's brow:
Well! well! If I mistake not, Sir, your sense,
Homer, you mean, was not o'er-stock'd with pence.

P.
True; and most favour'd of the tuneful throng,
War's mighty feats, and rival chiefs his song,
Envy, repining, saw him merit praise,
And crafty boobies stole his golden lays.
Th' illustrious poet once was doom'd to try,
If some dull bookworm would his poems buy :
When thus the pedant—“Stuff! most wretched stuff!
“Though for a poor blind beggar good enough.

222

“Accept my bounty for your paultry song;
“Your dog and staff then take, and trudge along :
“Your simple song may suit some idle day,
“And keep me sober, if not make me gay;
“But hither, lads, approach, secure the door,
“And scourge the vagrant bard, if seen here more.”
As oft, with tuneful voice, but slender fare,
Some pensive trader vends his modest ware;

223

Patient endures extremes of heat and cold,
But sighs in secret for his wares unsold:
If some small boon revive his drooping breast,
E'en 'mid his profits, still he mourns distress'd:
Thus sigh'd the bard; he felt his mortal part,—
And his purse sigh'd in echo to his heart.
Not thus the pedant:—he with rapt'rous eyes,
Surveys, and eager grasps the golden prize.
Rapt in the glories of a rising name,
He pinnacles, in thought, the mount of fame.
The prize now borne away to distant lands,
Richly beplum'd, the peacock-poet stands:
No dame but hangs upon the pedant's lyre;
Critics applaud, and pedagogues admire,
The hand unseen, which charms their list'ning ears,
Like that which guides the music of the spheres.
Nor this alone; with numerous wrongs oppress'd,
With many a dart sore rankling in his breast,

224

Ponder'd great Homer his immortal page,
And sang, enrag'd himself, Pelides' rage:
Now a meek vagrant, friendless and alone,
He trac'd Ulysses' wanderings by his own:
Bowing beneath some untold weight of grief,
He stole from heavenly verse a short relief.
As murmuring brooks invite to sweet repose
The traveller wearied, and oppress'd with woes:
Thus song would calm his passions, sooth his care,
Clear the dark brow of age, and check despair.
So when Columbus left his native shore,
Explor'd new seas, and lands untried before,
What base resistance thwarts his great designs!
How Folly sickens! and how Envy pines!
That, cold herself, would check each rising flame;
This fears success, and blasts a rival's name.
But mark Columbus! He, with mind elate,
Views the horizon round, and braves his fate:
Genius, by science led, disdains to fear,
Still dares, still conquers, every danger near;
More vigorous moves, where terrors most oppose,
And still collects new courage, as he goes.

225

What though new dangers crowd upon the past?
E'en though in chains, he triumphs to the last:
And thus, what ancient sages only thought,
Columbus prov'd, and by experience taught.

C.
Then tell me, Poet, were they just and wise,
Who rais'd your bard, by starving, to the skies;
Or those, who sooth'd, and soften'd him with praise,
And by their presents marr'd some precious lays?
Hence Homer nods: and let his life relate,
What is, and ought to be, the poet's fate .

 

Rousseau, though placed above the necessity of working, copied music for a shilling a sheet.

Sir William Jones published Eastern Poems, and his Specimen Poeseos Asiaticæ, before he visited the East. In 1784 he was appointed chief judge in India, with an annual salary of 80001.

Dr. Darwin, author of the Loves of the Plants.

Dr. Wolcot, known by the name of Peter Pinder, Esq.

A mere allusion to the author of the Essay on the Life and Writings of Pope, and to the Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford; though with their particular preferments I am quite unacquainted.

Pope, previously to his translating the Iliad, laboured under pecuniary difficulties. That undertaking placed him in a condition of great independence, for a poet, by bringing him 5,3201. clear of deductions. See Dr. Johnson's Life of Pope, among the Lives of the English Poets.

Allan Ramsay, a Scotch poet, author of an admired pastoral eclogue, entitled, The Gentle Shepherd, raised himself from a low station to some consequence.

Two of the most distinguished wits of those times, the duke of Buckingham, and the Earl of Rochester, became the declared enemies of Dryden. In 1671, under the character of Bays, the poet was held up to public ridicule, in a farce entitled the Rehearsal. The Earl of Rochester also became the patron of Settle, in order to injure Dryden; nor did he rest till he procured the latter a sound drubbing. Rochester, in conjunction with others of the nobility, hired persons to way-lay and beat him, supposing him the author of an Essay on Satire, that had been handed about in manuscript. Each of the hints in the text alludes to something specific in the life of Dryden.

Countess of Ormond, to whom Dryden addressed an elegant complimentary poem.

Duke of Dorset.

The Life of Dryden is the best written, and the most interesting of all the Lives of the Poets written by Dr. Johnson.

The poetry in Dodsley's Miscellany, and in the various Monthly Magazines, is, for the most part, composed by men of leisure.

Written at the time when there was said to be a great scarcity of corn. The royal family, and many of the nobility, most graciously abstained from the use of wheaten bread, for the sake of the poor.

Foote, the celebrated comedian, had a leg made of cork.

The first persons that went from England to settle in America, were the puritans, who afterwards split into different sects, all disaffected to the established religion of their own country, or persecuted for their opposition to it.

Two well-known writers of odes, the former poet laureat: the latter addressed a fine ode to Howard.

The Baviad, a satirical Poem, directed against Robert Merry, the author of De la Crusca. The Mæviad has been since published by the same author.

Joshua Barnes was Greek professor in the university of Cambridge, at the close of the last century; eminent and learned, though inclined to trifling and pomposity. He was editor of Euripides, of Homer's Iliad and Odyssey, Anacreon's Odes, and wrote the History of the Black Prince He was likewise no unsuccessful versifier of Greek, and turned the book of Esther into Greek heroics, with as much ease as he made the following lines kick with k, and rattle with r.

“Three blue beans in a blue bladder,
“Rattle, rattle, rattle.”

In his Epilogue to Homer's Odyssey, he gives an account sufficiently flattering of himself, and orders Calliope to keep, alive his name in the world as a person of no small consequence.

In his Ευχαριστηριον Barnes is as abundant in compliments to others; he ransacks the two universities, the bench of bishops, the public schools: he finds every where friends and patrons; he records their names, and emblazons their actions.

The author of Hudibras, that celebrated artist in satire, a severe lampooner of the Puritans and Roundheads. Courtiers, royalists, and majesty, however rewarded not his talents: of whom probably he, at length, expressed himself in some such manner as this—

For my part I a court despise,
Where none but whores and villains rise;
Nor will I on the man depend,
I see ungrateful to his friend:
I'll to my hut in peace retire,
And there myself unsquire,
Laugh at the knaves and fools of state,
And live without their love or hate;
But you to go or stay are free,
Just as the devil and you agree.

These lines are extracted from a poem entitled Hudibras at Court, inserted in some editions of Butler's Remains; but as they occur not in Thyer's edition, I quote them not as Butler's, though expressive, probably, of his sentiments, if not written by him.

The truth is, the admired poem, entitled Hudibras, justified its author in forming great expectations; it was read by the king, studied by the courtiers, and universally admired by the royalists; yet the author lived in obscurity, died in want, and at his death was rewarded with a monument, and an epitaph!

When Butler, needy wretch, was still alive,
No generous patron would a dinner give:
See him, when dead, and turn'd again to dust,
Presented with a monumental bust:
See here the Poet's Fate in order shewn;
He asked for bread, and he receiv'd a stone!

Colonel Sir Richard Lovelace was an amiable and accomplished man, in the time of the civil wars; by the men respected for his moral worth and literary talents; by the fair sex almost idolized, for the elegance of his person, and the sweetness of his manners. He was author of a collection of poems, entitled Lucasta, printed in 1649. Some beautiful copies of verses, extracted from that collection, may be seen in Percy's reliques of English Poesy, vol. ii. and in the Gentleman's Magazine.

Lovelace was a great loyalist, and appointed by the people of Kent to deliver their petition to the house of commons, for the restoration of Charles, and for settling the government. In the Gatehouse, Westminster, where he was confined, he composed that well-known and elegant little song, entitled, Loyalty confined.

After a few months confinement, he obtained his enlargement; but, partly by furnishing the king with men and money, and partly by assisting ingenious persons of every description in difficulties, he became himself involved in the greatest distress, and died in abject poverty.

Taylor, their better Charon, lends an oar,
Once swan of Thames, though now he sings no more.
Dunciad, book iii. 19.

In a note, it is added, “John Taylor, the water-poet, an honest man, who owns he learned not so much as his Accidence: a rare example of modesty in a poet—”

Stephen Duck was a thresher in the reign of George the First, an honest, modest, and ingenious man: a volume of poems of his was published, and much patronized.

Homer, according to some, means a blind man. Εντευθεν/ δε και τουνομα Ομηρος επεκρατησε τω Μελεσιγενει απο της συμφορας οι γαρ Κυμαιοι τους τυφλους ομηρους λεγουσι Herodotus, Περι της Ομηρου Βιοτης.

Favourite notions, these, of the Platonists. See more particularly the Phædrus of Plato.

This subject has lately been discussed at large by the author of the Analysis of Ancient Mythology. See Bryant's Dissertation of the War of Troy.

The itch of writing, the “scribendi cacoethes.”

Ει θεος Ομηρος, εν αθανατοισι σεβεσθω:
Ει δ) αυ μη θεος εστι, νομιζεσθω θεος ειναι.
If Homer was a god, his place is clear:
If not, at least he must divine appear.

Steph. Græc. Epigram. lib. ii.

The person mentioned by Herodotus was a schoolmaster.

It is scarcely necessary to acquaint the reader, that, when I speak of Homer as a blind beggar, I make free with a little of that fiction generally admitted in poetry. The Αοιδος, the ancient strolling bard, both in Greece and Britain, was a respectable and independent character, though not decorated with titles, or overburthened with riches.

It may not be improper to subjoin the following extract from sect viii. of an Enquiry into the Life and Writings of Homer, to prevent any mistaken notions concerning the character of the Αοιδος, or bard.

“Few people have conceived a just opinion of this profession, or entered into its dignity; the reason of which I take to be, that we have no modern character like it: for I should be unwilling to admit the Irish or Highland Rüners to a share of the honour; though their business, which is to entertain a company with the recital of some adventures, resembles a part of the other. The Trovadores, or Troubadours of Provence, the earliest of the moderns who discovered any vein for poetry, have a better claim; they sang their verses to the harp, or other instrument they could use, and attained to a just cadence, and return of verse in their stanzas; but had neither manners nor language for great attempts.”

The author of the Life and Writings of Homer asserts, that “Homer's being poor, and living as a wandering indigent bard, was, in relation to his poetry, the greatest happiness that could have befallen him.” Sect. viii. And says one of our old poets,

Poets have wrong'd poor storms: such days are best;
They purge the air without, within the breast.

Herbert.


229

THE BALANCE.

TO THOMAS BRAND HOLLIS, ON RETURNING HIM A BOOK , THAT HE LENT ME, ON THE MISFORTUNES OF POETS.

Kind friend, I thank thee; yes! too well I see:—
Prudence and genius rarely well agree;
This peering, sportive, negligent, and proud,
Forward to prate, and prone to think aloud;
That cautious, sober, frugal, creeps along,
Snug ev'ry thought, and rarely rous'd by song.
Hollis, I thank thee;—how could I now proceed,
Till pity's heart, at every line, should bleed!
Griefs, wants, false hopes, and restless fears relate,
The motley mis'ries of the poet's fate.
How might I chronicle in mournful lays
The tuneful mendicants of ancient days!

230

The noblest bards, who met with worst success,
The monied bards , who made their money less;
State bards, and bards enchampion'd round the church,
Yet church and state both left them in the lurch;
Bards, who still daring, fail'd in every thing,
And bards, th' unpension'd flatterers of a king;
Bards, exil'd from the dear delights of life , Or doom'd to patience and domestic strife;

231

Bards , who some haughty tyrant dar'd withstand,
The harmless victims of that tyrant's hand;

232

Starv'd bards; and such by their own hands who died;
Bards, choak'd with envy, and convuls'd with pride ;

233

Bards, borne in vengeance by the god of fire,
Storm'd by the muse, and murder'd by the lyre !
But lest some youthful genius should take fright,
Nor dare, through dread of poverty, to write;
Lest the keen swarm of poets should combine,
(Against a drone thus bees industrious join)
And glue me down, besmear'd with angry rhymes,
A dread example, to remotest times,
Of one inglorious bard, who dar'd disgrace
The sons of Phœbus, that ennobled race;
Know thou, as yet my verse has but display'd
What many a critic, many a bard has said;

234

Chaff'rers, retailing poetry and plays,
And prudent patrons, prodigal of praise:
But not that critic, and I scorn a lie,
That chaff'rer, patron, or that bard was I.—
For me, my judgment still remain'd behind,
But once for all, I now unfold my mind.
'Tis false, while all are forward to commend,
That none appear at court the poet's friend;
That books are all their wealth, their only rule
Some village pulpit, or some country school;
That all have toil'd in vain mid rural scenes,
Gleaning with patient labour scanty means;
That none of soul sublime, in learning great,
E'er rose to shine with ministers of state;
Or that would take, in fancy's amplest scope,
A thousand years to find one tuneful Pope .

235

Emp'rors, and conquerors, princes rob'd in state,
Such, if I read aright, are reckon'd great;
All that is great and glorious is their due;
Well, I, for once, will strive to think so too.
Should we not then advance the poet's name?
The mightiest souls have felt the glorious flame;
Emp'rors, whom crouching slaves proclaim the great,
And nobles, glittering in the pomp of state,
Conq'rors, who live but for the world's applause,
And statesmen, rais'd to fix a nation's laws:
Yes, such, with high imperial honours crown'd,
Have sought fresh laurels on Parnassian ground.
Such thou, who, splendid as yon golden sun,
Through fields couldst radiate, which thy valour won,
Imperial Cæsar , born at once to claim
The hero's, poet's, and historian's name.
Such thou, to whom Rome's lyrist wak'd the string,
Patron of poets, and a poet king;

236

But, ah! too flatter'd by thy Maro's strain,
Till Roman hearts endur'd th' inglorious chain ;
And thou, who could'st attempt the tragic art,
And play so well thyself, the tyrant's part;
Thou Titus, too, with love of glory fir'd,
Felt thy heart soften, as the muse inspir'd .
Still charms the bard, who liv'd fair virtue's boast,
Too soon matur'd, and ah! too early lost;

237

Who wak'd to liberty th' heroic strains,
Lofty in youth, along Pharsalia's plains .
Nor less the sage , who mus'd in thought profound,
But sung enliven'd by the charm of sound,
And he, who 'mid his country's fatal jars,
Laurell'd with honours, sung the Punic wars .
Nor less, where glows the sun's more eastern beam,
And bards unnumber'd wake the glowing theme ,
Have heroes struck the soul-subduing lyre,
And princes kindled at the muse's fire.

238

There too Almansur liv'd, a generous name,
Himself a stranger to the holy flame,
Yet proud of such as pour'd the rapt'rous lays,
And blest to lift their names to future days.
And sing, oh Solyma, in loftier strains,
Mid soft-ey'd virgins, and enraptur'd swains,
How the rich nectar flow'd from Moses' tongue ,
And he, who gave you law, inspir'd your song;
How from your altar rose the strain sublime,
How from your grove love breath'd the liquid rhyme;
How David struck his harp of strongest chord,
Not less his people's minstrel, than their lord;
How he, whom woman's glowing beauties fir'd,
Was crown'd with wisdom, and with song inspir'd .

239

Ye northern climes, where, 'midst a frozen sky,
Genius was fated, ere it bloom'd, to die;
Where rov'd the warlike Scythian far renown'd,
And but with virtue's modest chaplet crown'd,
(Arts flourish'd not) ev'n ye one name have known,
Whose wisdom, deck'd in graceful numbers shone;
Law took its vestment from the muse's hands,
And Anacharsis gave to Scythian lands.
Was Alfred great? Yes, still he lives in fame,
And oh! may Britons long adore his name;
Ah! more than monarch he, of gentle arts,
The generous sovereign of a people's hearts;

240

Warm was his soul in freedom's sacred cause,
And all his pride, to rule by equal laws;
More skill'd in peace, though not unskill'd in fight,
Science and virtue still his dear delight;
And he shall shine in fame's elysium long,
Crown'd with his own, and with the people's song .
And, mid the bards whom Scotia holds to fame ,
She boasts, nor vainly boasts, her James's name:

241

And, less sweet bard! a crown thy glory shews,
Than the fair laurels that adorn thy brows.
Was Frederick great? Yes, Prussia's mighty shield,
A warrior-prince, all-powerful in the field;
Europe proclaim'd him great, as skill'd in fight,
But Frederick thought it greater still, to write.
Form'd in the camp, and nurs'd in war's alarms,
He led to glory, while he sung of arms .
Ask ancient times, while poesy was young,
Ere barbarous man to social order sprung,
How first the sage, who tam'd the savage throng,
Call'd to his aid the soft delight of song,
How, temp'ring vigour with the tuneful art,
Made a sure conquest of the human heart.

242

Oh! lyre of Orpheus , be thy glory known,
Whose warbling charm'd the forest, soften'd stone,

243

Rivers arrested in their headlong course,
And hush'd to rest the growling whirlwind's force;
Ye guardians, patrons of the human race,
In fame's elysium yours the lofty place,

244

Who, fond to trace that curious world, the mind,
Fix'd the wild vagrant tribes of human kind;
And ye , who sounding high the martial song,
Rous'd mighty passions in the warrior-throng;
While arts shall flourish, poesy inspire,
For you succeeding bards shall strike the lyre;
Fame, with proud clarion your behests proclaim,
And, hov'ring round you, love to guard your name.
In ancient times, and sacred was the name,
Philosopher and poet were the same;

245

All that was great and glorious beam'd from one,
As life, light, heat, from yon imperial sun:
And still, if wisdom's circuit we pursue,
From India's utmost limits to Peru,
Wherever Science spread her glories bright,
There, first, the muse broke forth the rosy light,
Like the fair morning star, whose trembling ray
Ushers, in bright presage, the light of day.
And ask each sage of still succeeding time,
Who rang'd, as nature led, each various clime,
Where mind prolific spread her copious stores,
Where science mus'd in still sequester'd bowers,

246

How the gay song first warm'd the youthful heart,
How playful fancy tried each tuneful art,
Till the mind strength'ning by poetic rage,
Who charm'd as poet once, now rose a sage,
When, soon, the bold advent'rer dar'd explore
The soul's deep maze, and worlds untried before.
Yes! wondrous sages, Grecia's noblest pride,
Rais'd o'er her schools of science to preside,
Ere Pallas deign'd your reason to refine,
Pure were your off'rings at the muses' shrine,
First in your souls did sacred fury rise,
And vision'd glory dance before your eyes ,

247

Ere wisdom beam'd upon the lab'ring mind,
And form'd you bright exemplars of mankind.
Ye casuists grave, whom Christians still revere,
How did ye mix with song each thought severe!
Till, as from heav'n inspir'd, the saint again
Felt a sweet rapture in the muses' strain ;
The same inspired bard, that late survey'd
The portals of the Delian God display'd,
Now everlasting portals rising high,
Carol'd the King of Glory passing by;
Till soon, whate'er your theme, each sparkling line
Seem'd but to glow with energy divine .

248

And ye wise critics, who have shap'd the rules,
That guide our taste, and fix our wav'ring schools,
Say, what is genius? Truth's harmonic light:
And what is judgment, but the rule of right?
Hence, such as gave the law with best success,
First breath'd in song, and oft with good address:
Till taught each secret movement of the breast,
They found, who most have charm'd, have taught the best ,
Sanction'd by sage experience, what they thought,
And as the poet felt, the critic taught.
But still 'tis ask'd, though I could bring a host
Of royal rhymsters, and should proudly boast
Of great, and rich, and wise in every tongue,
Rapt in the soft elysium of their song;
What then? If men of prouder birth may choose
To woo in learned ease some gentle muse,

249

If rich men love to trifle life away,
And play at sing-song, without danger, gay;
If wisdom's sons, of soul still more sublime,
Their nobler truths have deign'd to clothe in rhyme;
Still is not Petrarch's plaintive maxim true,
“Who hopes to live by verse, his fault may rue ?”
The stream of Helicon is fed with care,
The muse is barren, and the wreath is bare;
All arts may flourish, every trade prevail,
Yet a mere trading bard is sure to fail.
See you a cit, who makes his sports a trade,
Who keeps his nag, and pretty chambermaid,
Treats with Champagne, and ever prone to bet?
You look to find him soon in the gazette:
Thus he, 'tis said, who traffics with his lyre,
Though he should boast Apollo as his sire,

250

The gainless calling may repent too late,
And curse, with dying breath, THE POET'S FATE;
Barbarius tell, where once the sufferer sigh'd,
Some future Tollius, where he starv'd, and died.
Ancient and modern story both proclaim,
How poor the poet's trade, though proud the name;
Shew proud advent'rers, hurl'd from regions bright,
Absorb'd and blasted by excess of light .
Did mighty Homer traffic with his lay?
He sometimes earn'd a dinner for his pay.
Thus liv'd the bard; and how the muse has sigh'd,
When she recorded how the poet died !
In Italy each high-born songster gay
Trimm'd the spruce sonnet, and light roundelay.

251

Tasso was learn'd, and labour'd much and long,
And Ariosto traded with his song;
Yet, ah! their learned toil how ill repaid !
How mean their earnings from the tuneful trade!
Nor couldst thou, Portugal! thy Camoens save
From pinching want, and an untimely grave.
And did not Chatterton, that child of care,
Still plough in hope, and only reap despair?
And Butler, piper to that laughing age,
Starve before kings, and curse his merry page?
And how in secret Pity droop'd the head,
As pining Otway rested with the dead !
What boots the gentleman, who deigns to write,
Your squire of epigram, and rhyming knight,

252

Such as with am'rous hearts, and lucky vein,
Penn'd the light song in Charles's merry reign ?
Of such could I with ease collect a score,
And throw you in some lords, as many more.
But what mere poetry in trade will do,
Let Spenser tell, and learned Milton too.

253

Lo! in the Balance then of common sense
I weigh the claims of poetry and pence:
And thus the matter stands: whoe'er shall choose,
Clover'd in riches, to invoke his muse,
No hazard runs; perhaps he gains some end;
Pleases himself, his mistress, or his friend;
Still unperplex'd about the cares of life,
Unscar'd by duns, uncraz'd with child or wife,
Verse is a play-thing; houses, monies, lands,
All well secur'd in some right trusty hands;
Half through the day, half through the night may sit,
Play his snug game at chess, or game at wit;
Flaunt with the gay, and revel with the great,
Call Boileau dunce , and laugh at POET'S FATE.
Different his lot, a fortune yet unmade,
Who, as apprentic'd, calls his verse a trade,
Thinking, good easy man, to serve his time
To duteous sentiment, and plodding rhyme;
Then flourish, a bold master-bard, and then,
Reck'ning the honest earnings of his pen,
Fondly expects, his learned labour past,
To sit down snug, and live in peace at last;

254

As some sat city-squire, releas'd from care,
Steals from the counter to his easy chair.
And thus between extremes I take my stand,
And hold the Balance with impartial hand:
The scale, in which the weight's prepond'rance lies,
Wants not my humble mite of sympathies.
The scale that mounts aloft, and kicks the beam,
Claims the poor tribute of my soothing theme;
Counsels, that sad experience can dispense,
And all my little stock of common sense.
And, may some bard of future times attend,
Nor rashly slight a sympathising friend:
For I, by rhyming, much have sinn'd, I own,
And ere I die, would for my crimes atone;
Just as some hapless sinner, doom'd to swing,
For clipping the fair image of our king,
Would, ere he launches, some atonement make,
With, “Pray, good people all, now warning take.”
Oh! what avails his folly past to rue;
To pray, to warn, is all he now can do.
Thus I, though guilty, would my conscience ease,
And, after all my follies, die in peace,

255

Point the dire rocks, on which their vessel tost,
Full many a bard has founder'd, and been lost.
Hence, Hollis, would thy friend not only roam,
Culling the richest flowers of Greece and Rome;
Or spread, elate in freedom's lofty cause,
Through foreign climes Britannia's purer laws ;
But e'en departed genius bade to live,
And, if oppress'd, was eager to relieve.
Hence, too, not heedless of the tuneful throng,
He sometimes could befriend a child of song!
And still is welcom'd by good Jebb and thee,
One trifler, as not quite from danger free.
 

Petri Aligonii Medici Legatus, five de Exilio, libri duo: Accessere Joan. Pierius Valerianus, et Cornelius Tollius, de Infelicitate Literatorum, ut et Josephus Barberius de Miseriâ Poetarum Græcorum.

See the Poet's Fate.—Sufficient has been there said to prevent mistaken notions concerning the strolling bard, the Αοιδος among the ancient Greeks. It should be further noticed, that in England, Scotland, and Ireland, the bards were held, in remote times, in great veneration; and, in Ireland, more particularly, they were the second order in the state. See Walker's Memoirs of the Irish Bards.—A change of manners, brought the bards and minstrels into contempt; and no later than in 1458, the bards were classed, in an act of the Scottish Parliament, with gypsies, masterful beggars, and feigned fools. See Pinkerton's Essay on the origin of Scottish poetry, prefixed to ancient Scottish Ballads, p. 73.

Waun be a wretch, and into wastry spent,
Quhat marvel is, that I murne and lament!

The Miseries of a Pure Scholar.—By A. Arbuthnot.

Ovid is here more particularly alluded to, who was banished by the emperor Augustus to Tomos, an Island in the Euxine Sea, from whence he wrote many poems, more particularly his four books of Epistles from Pontus: he died in exile, and sent his own epitaph in an epistle to his wife.

Hic ego, qui jaceo, tenerorum lusor Amorum,
Ingenio perii Naso Poeta meo.
At tibi, qui transis, non sit grave, quisquis amasti,
Dicere, Nasonis molliter ossa cubent.

Ovid. Trist.

Dante, also, the Italian poet, was banished from Florence, and died in banishment. His epitaph, written by himself, closes as follows:—

Hic claudor Danthes patriis extorris ab oris
Quem genuit parvi Florentia Mater Amoris.

Elogia Doct. Virorum, Paulo Iovio. p. 18.

Here also might be mentioned Anacreon, who retired to Samos; Æschylus and Euripedes, who retired to the court of Hiero, and Theocritus, who banished himself to the court of Philadelphus, in Egypt. The Persian poet Ferdusi; Petrarch, and Boccacio among the Italians, Klopstocke the German, and even the ingenious Voltaire, might here be mentioned,

When driv'n by bigots from his native soil,
He sought for refuge in Britannia's isle.

(See Anacreon and other poets at Foreign Courts, in Thomson's Picture of Poetry.)

Johnson says of Addison's marriage to the Countess Dowager of Warwick, “that he espoused her on terms much like those on which a Turkish Princess is espoused, to whom the Sultan is reported to pronounce, Daughter, I give thee this man for thy slave.”

Edward Phillips, in his Theatrum Poetarum, mentions Diphytas, a poet, and Grammarian, who having written invectives against monarchy, was crucified on a mountain of Magnesia. But the allusion here is more particularly to Lucan, the author of the Pharsalia. He died in a hot bath, where he had his veins opened by order of the Emperor Nero, over whom he obtained a victory in a literary contest, which, if Persius's quotation from him be a fair sample, he might have done with less ability. He died repeating with earnestness the following lines in the Pharsalia, applied originally to the Spartan Hero, Leonidas.

Scinditur avolsus, nec sicut vulnere sanguis
Emicuit lentus; ruptis cadit undique venis,
Discursusq; animæ diversa in membra meantis
Interceptus aquis.

Seneca met with the same fate. We might have illustrated by the tradition current in Wales, respecting the bards put to death by Edward the Third, on which Gray's Ode is founded; —there was a partial banishment of the bards from Ireland. Walker's History of Irish Bards, p. 55.

Marcus Æmilius Scaurus, a Roman tragedian in the reign of Tiberius, on account of some sarcastic expressions in his tragedy of Atreus, supposed to allude to the Emperor, was so alarmed as to destroy himself.

Chatterton in England was supposed to poison himself. See Dr. Gregory's life of Chatterton. Homer has by some been supposed to be starved to death. Valerius Maximus mentions a report of his being killed by fishermen, because he could not answer certain questions. Val. Max. lib. ix. cap. xii. It is reported by one of the biographers of Otway, that having fasted too long, and being relieved by charity, he swallowed too greedily what had been given him, and was choaked, Johnson says of him, “he appears by some of his verses to have been a zealous loyalist, and had what in those days was the common reward of loyalty, he lived and died neglected.”

Boyce, the author of a serious poem on Creation, was, as I perceive by D' Israeli's Curiosities of Literature, starved to death.

Here Æschylus and Euripides more particularly might be mentioned, who retired in disgust to the court of Hiero.

Και πτωχος πτωχω φθονεει, και αοιδος αοιδω.
Hesiod.

In allusion to Linus, Thamyris or Tamyris, and Orpheus. Each of these bards was antecedent to Homer; but the account of their death is intermixed with fable. Some say, that Hercules killed Linus with his own lyre; others that Apollo pierced him with a lance. Hence the distich

Quid Line, te juvit lyra? Quid te juvit Apollo?
Aut lyra te necat aut cantor Apollo necat.

Thamyris is said to have had his eyes pulled out by the muses. Καθυπερτεραι γενομεναι και των ομματων αυτον και κιθαρωδιας εστηρησαν. Apollodori Athen. Bibliotheca, Lib. 1.

Orpheus, according to some, was struck dead with thunder.

Orpheus hic positus, cithara spectabilis aurea
A musis trisido qui Jovis igne perit.

Apollodorus says, he was torn to pieces by the Mœnades.

Several of the Popes amused themselves with writing poetry. Pope Leo X. made one of an ingenious circle of men, critics and poets, that assembled at Rome. Vid. Stradæ Prolus. p. 210.

The writings of Pope Pius the Second are numerous. His poetical works consist of epigrams, the Nephiliticum, and epistles. Pope Urbanus, also, was a poet.

Julius Cæsar, besides commentaries, wrote poems. Suetonius says of him, Reliquit et de analogia, quosdam libros, et annotationes totidem, ac præterea poema, quod inscribitur iter: and again, Feruntur et a puero et ab adolescentulo quædam scripta, ut laudes Herculis, Tragœdia Œdipus. Augustus Cæsar would not permit the latter to be published, and they are lost.

Augustus Cæsar, the patron of Virgil and Horace. Suetonius says, there was extant in his time a book written by Augustus, entitled, Sicily, and another small book of epigrams. Four of Horace's most excellent odes are compliments to Augustus. It would be difficult to find in all the writings of antiquity a panegyric more highly polished, than the Introduction to the Epistle to Augustus.

Jurandasq; tuum per numen poscimus aras
Nil oriturum alias, nihil ortum tale fatentes.

The Æneid, also, is a laboured eulogium on the government of Augustus, and tended, beyond any thing, to reconcile the Romans to their chains.

Nero, Vespasian, Domitian, Titus, Adrian, Julian, and other Roman emperors, wrote poems on various occasions; of which Suetonius gives an account. The Animula, vagula, blandula, Hospes, comesq. corporis, &c. of Adrian, is known to every body. Some of Julian's epigrams are in the Anthologia, and his theological and philosophical works prove him to have possessed a vigorous imagination. His two orations, one to the sovereign Sun, the other to the Mother of the Gods, were a few years ago translated and published by the worthy and ingenious modern Platonist, Thomas Taylor.

Lucan, was raised by Nero to be a knight.

Seneca was of senatorial rank, and advanced through the different ranks of quæstor, prætor, and other offices. Other Roman poets were men of rank.

Silius Italicus, the author of the Second Punic War, a Roman consul.—Ovid, also, was of a noble family.

Sir William Jones, quoting an observation of Cicero's, on the lyric poets among the Greeks, and applying it to the Asiatics, says, “Si mihi vitæ spatium duplicetur in iis tantummodo percurrendis, non esse suffecturum.” Specimen Poeseos Asiaticæ, Pars Quinta, cap. xix.—Herbelot mentions the names of three hundred authors who have written the lives merely of the Arabian Poets.

A king of Hama, whose work on the lives of the Arabian poets consists of ten volumes; another prince also, Ebn Al Motezz Al Abassi, wrote on the same subject. Jones, as above.

Moses, the Jewish lawgiver; David, and his son Solomon, kings of the Jews, were poets. Several parts of the Pentateuch are in verse, particularly the prophecy of Lamech, Gen. iv. 23, 24. Noah's curse on Ham, Gen. ix. 25, 27. The prophecy of Balaam, as it is called, Num. xxiv. Each of these are distinctly criticised, and translated into Latin verse by Lowth, De Sacra Poesi Hebræorum, Prælect. iv.

The Psalms of David, and the Proverbs of Solomon, were divided into metrical versification by Hare, bishop of Chichester. The Book of Job also was divided in the same manner, by Dr. Zachary Grey. But though it is pretty generally agreed, that the precise measure is not known, yet that they are in verse, is on all hands allowed.

That pretty love pastoral called the Song of Songs, is in verse: and we have a poetical version of it in English by Dr. Croxall, entitled the Fair Circassian. Some have supposed that the song has also an occult meaning, as well as other amatory and drinking odes among the Asiatics; a matter that belongs not to this place. Vide Poes. Asiat. Comment. cap. ix.

Anacharsis, brother of a Scythian prince, travelled to Athens, and obtained the friendship of Solon; and after the manner of the Athenian legislator, put the Scythian laws into verse. Suidas.

Alfred, the celebrated Saxon, one of the greatest of mankind, to the character of a politician, warrior, legislator, historian, mathematician, and musician, added that of poet. Alfred wrote some sacred poems, and put Boethius de Consolatione Philosophiæ into Saxon verse. Edward the Sixth also wrote verses, and there are three pretty sonnets of Queen Elizabeth's in Percy's Reliques of English Poetry.

James the First, of Scotland, was a very pleasing poet. The following poems of his are extant. A Song to his mistress, afterwards his Queen; The King's Quoir; Pebles to the Play; all in Scottish Ballads, Vol. II. And Christ's Kirk on the Green, in the Second Appendix to Pinkerton's Ancient Scottish Poems, Vol. II.

There were three poems by James the First, on similar subjects; the two just mentioned, and one entitled Falkland on the Green, now lost.

James the First was a man of fancy: James the Sixth was but a jangler.

I will nae janglings put in verse
Like as some janglers do rehearse.

Sir David Lindsay's Papingo.

Frederick the Great, King of Prussia, amid numerous other works, published a volume of Poems, consisting of Odes, Epistles, and a poem in six books, on the art of war. The latter poem, and his Apology for Princes, have been admired.

Qui formi dans les camps, nourri dans les alarmes,
Vous appelle a la gloire, et vous instruit aux armes.

L'Art de la Guerre, ch. i.

The most ancient writers were the poets.—It is foreign to my design to inquire into the truth of Cicero's observation, that there never was such a person as Orpheus; or into the authenticity of those writings called Orphic Fragments. Brucker, in his Historia Critica Philosophiæ, may be consulted on this subject, or the abridgement by Dr. Enfield. History of Philosophy, Vol. I. Book. II. Chap. I.—It is sufficient for my purpose to abide by the commonly received account, that Orpheus, the most celebrated personage among the Greeks in the fabulous ages, was a native of Thrace; that having travelled amongst the Egyptians, and having learned philosophy, poetry, and music, from that ingenious people, he revisited a rude people, and civilised their manners.

Dictus ob hoc lenire tigres rabidosque leones.

Horat. de Art. Poet. v. 391.

The passage in the text alludes to the well-known passages in Horace and Virgil.

Unde vocalem temerè insecutæ
Orphea sylvæ,
Arte maternâ rapidos morantem
Fluminum cursus, celeresque ventos,
Blandum et auritas fidibus canoris
Ducere quercus.

Horat. Lib. I. Od. xii.

Orpheaque in medio posuit, sylvasque sequentes.

Virgil, Ecl. III. v. 46.

The story of Orpheus and Eurydice is beautifully detailed in the fourth Georgic.

Of the same character with Orpheus was his disciple Musæus, mentioned by Virgil in the sixth book of the Æneid.

Quos circumfusos sic est affata Sibylla,
Musæum ante omnes; medium nam plurima turba
Hunc habet, atque humeris extantem suspicit altis.

Æn. Lib. VI. v. 665.

This Musæus was a different person from the author of the beautiful little Greek poem of Hero and Leander, though confounded with him by Scaliger in his Poetics.

To these might be added Melampus, Linus, Alcman, and others antecedent to Homer. See Suidas in loco.—Of Alcman there are some remains among the Greek lyrists.

In like manner, among the northern nations, before the poetical character fell into disgrace, the bards were their moralists and their legislators. In Ireland there was a particular order of bards assigned to legislation, whom they called Breithcamhain (Brehons) or legislative bards. Indeed it was the universal practice for the poets to be legislators; of which the precepts of Phocylides, the sentences of Theognis, and the golden verses of Pythagoras, among the Grecians, are fine specimens. The same observation will apply in general to the Asiatics, and particularly to the Hebrews. Jones, Specimen Poes, Asiat. and Louth de Sac. Poes. Heb.—We may go still farther, and assert more generally, that anciently the sciences were all conveyed in verse; and the monkish distich, applied to Amhergin, the first monarch of Ireland, will apply to the bards in general.

Primus Amerginus, Genu candidus, author Ierne,
Historicus, index lege, poeta, sophus.

See Walker's Hist of the Irish Bards, p. 3.

Of the powers of poetry to rouse the spirit in the field of battle, as employed by the ancients, some opinion may be formed from the Γνωμαι Ελεγειαι of Tyrtæus: four of these remain. See the Poetæ Minores Græci.—The northern nations were still more celebrated for the War-songs, and Songs of Victory; but of these, it is said by some, that there are no genuine remains. There is an account of them in Tacitus and Olaus Magnus. In Ossian's poems we may at least collect fine resemblances to these War-songs, and Songs of Victory: and in Richard's Songs of the Aboriginal Britons, there is an illustration of them. Dr. Sayers, in an excellent volume of Poems, has given a War-song, which, he says, was translated literally from the Gaelic by a native of Scotland, and given to him in incorrect prose. See Poems by F. Sayers, M. D. p. 172.

The most ancient of those writers, called by the Christian fathers, Gentile, was Sanchuniathon; of whom see what Philobyblius observes, as quoted by Eusebius, Præparat. Evangelicæ, L. I. Cap. ix.

The records found in an Ammoneal temple were made up of fable and allegory, which are a species of poetry.

The Oracles of Zoroaster, or, as they are called the Chaldaic Oracles, are said by some to be forgeries of a Christian, a disciple of Prodicus; others, that they were the figments of the Gnostics, or Platonic Christians. The contrary opinion, however, is supported by Stanley, History of Philosophy, Book IV. His opinion is also defended by Le Clerc, who translated Stanley into Latin, and has published the Chaldaic Oracles with notes. It is, however, the general belief, that these oracles, collected as they are from different authors, were in verse; as also the Sibylline Oracles, and the Orphic Hymns, a complete edition of which has been published.

Of the Theogonies themselves I say nothing. That India was the cradle of the arts and sciences, and that philosophy and poetry travelled thence to Egypt, and from Egypt to other nations, is an ancient and probable opinion.

Some of the most celebrated writers in the ancient and modern world, exercised a talent for poetry. Socrates is thought by some to have assisted that sentimental poet Euripides, in his plays. Xenoph. Memorab. Plato is well known to have excelled in poetry. In the Greek Anthologia are some fine epigrams, ascribed to him. His philosophical works also display the enthusiasm and brilliancy of a poet.

In the Anthologia are some epigrams of Aristotle's: and his hymn beginning

Αρετη πολυμοχθε,
cannot be too much admired. Julius Scaliger speaks of Aristotle as not inferior to Pindar; and the hymn just alluded to he produces as an example.

The writers called Patres Apostolici are certainly not chargeable with poetry; but in succeeding times some of the fathers were tolerable poets. Among the Grecian, Gregory Nazienzen was more particularly celebrated; among the Latins, Lactantius and Prudentius: Lactantius turned the idle story of the Phœnix, alluded to by Clemens, into a beautiful poem. Lactantius has written hymns.

Here is an allusion to the striking resemblance between that fine piece of poetry in the Introduction to Callimachus's Hymns to Apollo,

Αυτοι νυν κατοχηες ανακλινεσθε πυλαων,
Αυται δε κληιδες ο γαρ θεος ουκετι μακραν.
And one of David's Psalms; Lift up your heads, ye gates, and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors; and the King of Glory shall come in
.

Some of our most eminent critics, as well in ancient as modern times, have had a taste for poetical composition. Stephens, Heinsius, Muretus, Casaubon, Grotius, Beza, Burmannus, Joshua Barnes, Dawes, &c. Published Latin or Greek poems. It is mentioned, as a proof that Bentley wanted taste, that he never wrote poetry. The only copy of verses that ever I saw of his, are a poor imitation of a silly conceit of Cowley's. It may be seen in Dr. Johnson's life of Cowley. The best classical critics in England, of the present day, have given undoubted proofs of poetical talent.

What Tasso puts into the mouth of others, he unfortunately experienced in his own person.

Qual vaghezza di Lauro? Qual di Metro?
Povera e nuda vai Filosofia,
Dice la turba al vil quadagno intesa.
Pochi compagni avrai per l' atta via.

Sonnetto VII.

Barbarius was author of the Essay on the Greek poets alluded to at the beginning of this poem. Tollius was author of the book De Infelicitate Literatorum.

At Phaeton, rutilos flamma populante capillos,
Volvitur in præceps, longoque per aere tractu
Fertur.

Ovid. Metam. Lib. 1.

Some particulars relative to the death of Linus, Orpheus, Tiresias, and Homer, have already been noticed.

At Phaeton, rutilos flamma populante capillos,
Volvitur in præceps, longoque per aere tractu
Fertur.

Ovid. Metam. Lib. 1.

Some particulars relative to the death of Linus, Orpheus, Tiresias, and Homer, have already been noticed.

Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso, were designed for the law; but after engaging in studies suitable to the profession, left it for poetry. They were all, in the end, unfortunate. For poetry and the law have rarely well united. Corneille, the French tragedian, and Rowe in England, also relinquished law for poetry; all crying out probably

Mais a ce seul penser, je sens que je m'egare;
Moi? que j' aille crier dans ce pais barbare,
Ou l' on voit tous les jours l' innocence aux les bois
Errer dans les detours d'un Dedale de loix.

Boileau, Sat. I.

The author of the Lusiad, it is said, was starved to death.— Of him, Butler, Otway, and Chatterton, notice has already been taken.

In Henry the Eighth's, and Charles the Second's reign, the noble writers of poetry were numerous, and some good.

This admirable poet has very pathetically described the hard lot of poetry in “Mother Hubbard's Tale.”

To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undone.

Every body has heard of his disappointment in a salary, as Poet Laureat, in consequence of Lord Treasurer Burleigh's interference. “What! said Burleigh, (in reference to some of Spenser's poems) all this for a song?” Every body also knows Spenser's verses on the occasion.

I was promis'd on a time
To have reason for my rhyme;
From that time unto this season,
I have neither rhyme nor reason.

Spenser had an appointment in Ireland under Lord Grey; but his whole life seems to have passed in expectations and disappointments; and he appears to have considered poetry as his more immediate profession. According to Ben Jonson he died for want of bread. See some account of Edmund Spenser, prefixed to Church's edition of the Fairie Queen.

Of Milton sufficient notice has already been taken.

Boileau's Introductory Satire is on the Misfortunes of a Poet.

Each allusion here will be thoroughly understood by the readers of that very interesting performance, The Memoirs of Thomas Hollis, Esq. in two volumes, quarto.—Of my estimable friend Ann Jebb, widow of the late excellent Dr. Jebb, I have already spoken in poems published in 1792, and shall speak more hereafter, in a poem on the death of General Washington.


256

POETIC SYMPATHIES.

TO DR. DISNEY, HIS WIFE, AND DAUGHTER.
I sing to Disney:—justly may belong
To the kind friend the sympathising song;
He, taught to feel, and prompt the heart to cheer,
Knows the full value of a gen'rous tear.
Still may his hours in sprightly humour flow!
Still may his breast with love of freedom glow;
And still his candour shall my song commend,
And quite forget the author, in the friend.
She too commands, nor shall in vain command,
One sprig of satire from poetic hand,
Though keen, yet kind, benevolent, though free,
Bright with the pearly drops of liberty:
Such as might seem, hard task! resemblance fit
Of the keen raill'ries of a Blackburne's wit ;

257

Of him, who labour'd long, ah! much in vain,
To save the priesthood from its foulest stain.
Oh! fruitless toil, while long experience tells,
That folly still must wear her cap and bells.
Yet take, my friend, this sympathetic lay,
And read it, like the follies of the day;
Smile, where thou canst; condemn it, where thou must;
Just to my song, nor to thyself unjust;
For, if my verse thy judgment fail to please,
Still shall thy heart approve the sympathies.
She too shall listen to the plaintive muse,
Nor the sweet tribute of a smile refuse.
Still shall the thought my studious hour beguile,
If friendship but approve, and beauty smile.
And though my song through many a wild may rove,
Beauty shall smile, and friendship shall approve.
For know, fair friend, that on that meekest eye
Where pity dwells, and gentlest sympathy,

258

Oft have I gaz'd, and felt the musing strong,
Till a strange softness stole into my song.
Take then the sympathies as justly thine;
Forgive the follies—for thou can'st—as mine.
The Poet's Fate should I deem somewhat hard,
Think not I therefore call myself a bard.
Is it a crime? Heav'n knows, 'tis none of mine,
To claim high kindred with the tuneful nine.
No, no—some runic dæmon in despite
Hatch'd in my head rude thoughts, and bade me write:
So I keep rhiming, whether right or wrong,
Now creep in elegy, now dare a song;
Now flutt'ring satirize, nor glow with shame,
And gave the town in luckless hour my name;
There ends my folly—should I die to day,
No muse would pour for me the plaintive lay.
Ah! hapless I! Oh! had I skulk'd in time
A nameless author, with a noisy rhime;
Had I, however dull, been bold enough,
To puff my rhime, or ask some friend to puff,
In magazine the question sly to raise,
Who is this bard of wing, though slow to praise,

259

Yet tow'ring high against the learned great,
Then pouncing on some minister of State?
Had I Pomposo's rule thus made my own,
Who knows but I had gull'd the gaping town ?
Now, for my name is out—I know my place,
And durst attempt no wild aerial chace:
None envying, with no fretful passion glow,
But leave the laurel on some happier brow:
Hear Florio call my verses wretched stuff,
Hear Bibo hiccup, damme! quite enough.
The high-wrought song should sparkle like Champaigne,
And such as drink, still long to drink again.
But since for me Parnassus may not bloom,
Through native fields, unenvied still I roam,
Sipping from flow'r to flow'r, with chemic art,
Some honied sweets, and store them in my heart,

260

Or bear the treasure, tho' but small, along,
To cheer some future votary of song;
Blest with the hope, I shall not rove in vain,
Nor pour unheard the sympathetic strain;
That friendship I may, haply, please awhile,
And call to beauty's cheek th' approving smile;
Blest with the hope (so gracious heav'n permit),
To save, no wit myself, some future wit.
Come then, ye future bards, a wistful throng,
Who aim to dash at satire or at song,
May you, for nature works by steady laws,
Viewing effects, pursue the latent cause;
And, if the sigh of sympathy should rise,
Learn, that who pauses, ere he writes, is wise.
Some with no poet's ear, no poet's eye,
(The first great error, let who will deny,)
In spite of genius write; whose verse and prose
Creep, like some quack receipt, to make you dose;
Oh! had they, ere they wrote, but let precede
The chilling question, Are there who will read?
Ne'er had they thrust their heads within the sky,
Nor shewn their nether parts, by climbing high .

261

“But scores will read.”—Perhaps, subscribing friends,
And there the glory of my poet ends.
Ah! hapless jangler, who from leaden brains
Hopes to produce the pure ethereal strains;
In whose dull mass of soul no secret fires
Fill the whole space, and kindle vast desires;
No genius, into wild commotion wrought,
Invig'rates feeling, and expands in thought.
Go!—since you will—your sickly muse invoke,
Smooth your lean epigram, and feeble joke,
Soon shall you sleep, as thousands slept before,
Die like a drone, and ne'er be heard of more.
Were these the palms, to which your hopes aspire?
Was it for this you strung th' unwilling lyre?
Scorn'd the wise hints of parent, friend, and wife,
Perk'd at each honest art, that sweetens life?
Derided physic, and lampoon'd the law,
To scan old Byshe upon a school-boy paw,

262

Doggrel to scrawl, which shall but, soon or late,
Light a vile pipe, or curl a greasy pate ?
But—you're a muse of fire—I hail thee then—
Go dip in vivid thought your eager pen.
Yet might the perils, that around conspire,
Damp e'en the ardour of a muse of fire.
Mark dullness first—with fat incurious eye,
She views no splendour in a summer sky,
Heeds not, when summer waves the golden grain,
Or winter binds the globe in icy chain:
In vain the flowery tribes embalm the spring,
Soft zephyrs breathe, and towering skylarks sing.
Warm nature breathes in vain through every grove,
And all creation hails the reign of love ;
Through the mild air the feather'd warblers throng,
Clap the gay wing, and pour the softest song;

263

The cheerful cattle headlong currents dare,
And, wild in bliss, the general ardour share;
While, all around, the myriad swarms arise,
Glowing with life, and panting for the skies.
In vain for them the marshall'd billows roar,
Beat the stern cliff, and lash the sounding shore.
No Alpine grandeur lifts her groveling mind,
She hears no voice loud sounding in the wind;
Though through the day a thousand forms delight,
And worlds on worlds are glittering thro' the night,
All, all is lost:—she looks with stupid gaze,
No beauty charms, no grandeur can amaze.
Alike to her, in both alike untaught,
The world of matter, and the world of thought.
How mind is form'd, how strengthen'd, whither tend
Man's passions, virtues, energies, and end,
She never mark'd—nor can she curious spy
The soul's deep meaning in a speaking eye,
And thinks those ancients fools, or mad, who trace
The fleeting lines of character in face .

264

Ah! then, who truth and beauty's form descry;
Who mark each tint light passing through the sky,
Who as they view, describe gay natures green,
The speaking painters of each living scene ,
How shall they fix that eye, which heedless roves
O'er seas of azure, and thro' golden groves?
How to his soul an unknown sense impart?
How warm? though warm himself, the frozen heart.
Hence without honour, Homer stroll'd along,
The times could not appreciate right his song.
Hence lay neglected Milton's mighty rhyme,
The times were canting, and the bard sublime .
Proudly obscure, they breath'd no sullen rage ,
Secure of glory in some brighter age,

265

When hoary justice should emerge from night,
And taste and genius hail the new-born light.
For think not thou the heav'nly art I sing
Some unconnected, solitary thing:
Allied to all he sees, and feels, and hears,
To all that mortal hopes, or loves, or fears,
The poet walks abroad with curious eye,
Pierces the deep, or ranges through the sky,
On Ætna's flaming top sees glory shine,
Or digs new wonders from Golconda's mine:
On the rough rock the crystal clear surveys,
Em'ralds of green, and topaz golden rays;
Or marks his species with a master's art,
And drinks instruction from the human heart:
Nature his guide, experience for his rule,
He looks around, and finds the world a school.
Hence each, to each endear'd, the other woos,
And wisdom claims high kindred with the muse .

266

Yet think not, dullness, driv'ling on by rule,
Claims her exclusive privilege, as fool.
Witlings are often drones, unnat'ral things,
Drones in their judgment, though they carry stings;
Gay wriggling blades, mere wits for want of sense,
Most pleas'd themselves, where most they give offence:
“Scorn for a man of genius to be bail;
“For wits, like other rogues, improve in jail.”
Through dread of prison has some sufferer died ?
Straight they pronounce the wretch a suicide:
“Who for a culprit well deserv'd to swing,
“Should forfeit book and book-case to the king:
“An iron stake should mark his baleful home,
“Who, even when living, seldom dar'd to roam.”

267

And who are they, thus hitching in a joke,
The man of genius in a threadbare cloak?
Creeping between the sick man and his prayers,
In hope to jostle out the lawful heirs;
Yet while they still besiege the miser's door,
Spend their small stock of wit upon the poor?
Who? the mere dregs of soul, alike unfit
As men of business, or men of wit:
Who? things just fit to be some villain's tools,
Pimps, smiling knaves, and parasitic fools;
Mere spendthrifts, soul and body damn'd at play;
Or chagrin'd jinglers, still more lost than they:
Each scribbling dunce just hooted from the town,
That takes revenge in running genius down .

268

Oh! by the stroke of such vile things to bleed,
If worth can feel, is to be gall'd indeed!
No serpent fiend e'er nurs'd more venom'd spite,
Than such as thought, mistaking, they could write;
Just rising from the gulph of dark despair,
They blast the spring, and poison all the air.
Some would be poets, if they had but brains,
And blaze, all-dazzling bright, with borrow'd strains;
Dextrous and quick to catch a distant hint,
They know an author's meaning by his squint.
Poor creeping thing! e'er he can turn about,
These ready rhymsters, get his meaning out:
Then fine as peacocks, with their borrow'd plumes,
They sink his verse with Blackmore's , or with Broome's ,

269

Ah! hapless they, who destitute of pence,
Fall among thieves, and lose their little sense.
O! when I ponder, tracing ancient days,
How strong the lust of money and of praise,
Creative fancy lifts my eager sight;
And O! what deeds of dullness rife to light!

270

I see some poet breathing epic song,
As Virgil polish'd, and as Homer strong;
Some Pindar, sounding high his various lyre,
Some female minstrel breathing Sappho's fire:
Yet though sweet song could soothe their secret breast,
They liv'd unknown, and sunk unseen to rest .

271

Ah! what avail'd their eager thirst of fame,
They earn'd, and only earn'd, the poets name.
Their's all the labour of the polish'd lays,
While pilferers wore their well-earn'd wreathe of praise.
Thus the sly bird, still watchful, eyes the place,
Where toils a songster of the feather'd race,
Framing the nest, with mossy verdure strew'd,
In hope to cradle round his future brood;
Yet, while the little builder roves about,
The sly, vile, pilfering bird, has hedg'd him out;
Forc'd the poor exile to the woods to stray,
Spoil'd of his nest of moss, or house of clay.
Some men aspiring still to shine alone,
Would damn an Iliad , that was not their own.
Virgil!—his numbers, true, were soft and clear,
But still unfinish'd disappoint their ear.

272

Collins , when poor, perhaps they ask'd to dine,
But took revenge on every labour'd line.
And Milton , rashly deem'd of bards the chief;
What was he?—A mere Grecian, and a thief.
And rarely will they look at modern lays,
Except to injure those, whom others praise.
Are there by fortune blest, or poets born,
Who heed no critic's sneer, no coxcomb's scorn?

273

Who from kind heav'n a vig'rous nature share,
Could bloom on heaths, or smile in northern air?
(Thus Pope and Dryden gain'd a splendid name,
While snarling dunces did but spread their fame;
Thus Theban Pindar spurn'd a stupid race,
And pierc'd with eagle-eye th' æthereal space;
There sail'd majestic, scornful of each foe,
Chatt'ring unseen, or croaking still below.)
Know, while ye flourish, many a spirit dies,
Nipp'd by the scowling winds and angry skies:
Plants of meek growth, and strange mysterious form,
When touch'd, they close, and perish in a storm.
And ye, sage critics, who reclin'd at ease,
Write what you like, and injure whom you please;
Ye, who to selfish systems often slaves,
And, worse than dunces, who are sometimes knaves;
To you the praise, that many a rhyming wight
Took to his heels, and sav'd himself by flight;

274

Your's, too, that genius bled at every pore,
And some, though born to please, now please no more?
As the vile hawk pursues the chirping wren,
So did ye seize the rover of the pen .
Time was, when booksellers were somewhat hard,
And squeez'd, and squeez'd a supplicating bard;
When printers, while the rhyme was in the mint,
Would let some rival author take a squint;

275

Would err thro' malice, then those faults expose,
Publish as verse, what was but meant as prose;
Nay in those fiend-like, dark, bard-killing days,
Ev'n printers devils strangled infant lays .
Thank heav'n! those days are past, so Johnson says,
Successful trafficker in tuneful lays.
Ah! never may those days return again,
Nor mar the days of George's golden reign!
Time was, a bard was kept, some courtier's tool,
Like a king's jester, or a lord mayor's fool;

276

The lingering dog-days to beguile with fun,
Or cheer a winter's night with rhyme and pun:
Ah! hapless vot'ry of the tuneful nine,
Doom'd first to earn your dinner, ere you dine;
To purchase pudding with Sir Gosling's praise,
And court my lady's smile with pretty lays;
To wake the muse, when megrims fill her head,
To pray Lucina's aid, when she's in bed;
To waste whole days in sad poetic sighs,
When her cat sickens, or her lap-dog dies .

277

I, tow hose follies ev'ry creature's blind,
And patrons, critics, booksellers are kind,
Who dread no bailiff, and can feel no evil,
Sleep all the night, and dream not of the devil,—
Ah! do not think, when such a one complains,
He utters private wrongs, and secret pains:—
No, as a child throws up a random ball,
I chuck my rhymes up, and I let them fall;
—Go, honest rhymes; no, never may ye hit,
Dipt in the venom of malicious wit,
The breast to science, or to virtue dear,
Ne'er from the eye of virtue force the tear,
Or quench in critic scorn the youthful lyre,
Trembling with hopes, or kindling into fire.
The honest trader and the faithful friend
Proud to revere, and eager to commend;
Wit, honour, worth, in all the first to prize,
And none but fools and villains dare despise:
There, only there affix the pointed blame,
There, if ye can, imprint the blush of shame.

278

Now haste, from scenes of every sweet delight,
To shades, contiguous to the realms of night,
Where nature, as in wild disorder lies,
In climate various, and in shifting skies:
Here far retir'd is found a sullen cave,
And ocean rolls beside the boist'rous wave;
Wild the retreat;—and here a fiend is seen
With jaundic'd eye, and strange phantastic mien;
Her senses still declining from the right,
As though her soul was form'd in truths despite:
And many a sprite of strange delirious vein,
Fickle like her, as gender'd of her brain,
Flit round and round in gyres eccentric tost,
Or wander wild in endless mazes lost;
Till borne aloft at her supreme command,
They ride on mildew'd wings and blast a land.
Oh! isle by genius lov'd, by science crown'd,
And through the world for freedom long renown'd,
Britain, I love thee;—Why should fiends like these,
On realms so rich with harpy talons seize?

279

O'er the dimm'd eyes their baleful influence throw,
And blight the buds of genius, ere they blow?
Are soils, that nature's love the most have shar'd,
Soonest for venom—breathing broods prepar'd?
Do bodies, that exhale the purest breath,
First catch disease, and drink disease and death?
Do waters, that in healthiest current flow,
Imbibe the herbs empoison'd, as they grow?
Or, rather, is it?—Ah! inquire no more;
But turn with grateful eyes to Grecia's shore.
—Hail! Athens, nurse of arts, to thee belong
Music's rich voice, the magic charm of song;
Each art, that sooths, and elevates the mind;
Each science, that ennobles human kind:
Thine all the praise, through distant climes to roam,
And lead the strangers to thy fostering home;
Thine through thy mystic temples, sacred groves,
To join the muses with the playful loves.
Wisdom the union saw—and deign'd to smile,
While freedom hail'd them to her peaceful soil.
What though with motley lore contending schools
Fix'd the bold law, and laid the steady rules?
Still eloquence, with glowing thought inspir'd,
By all was heard, and all who heard admir'd.

280

The breathing statue breath'd not long in vain,
Nor the foil'd sculptor curse his fruitless pain.
Did painting finish well the glowing line?
The people view—and bless the fair design.
No party fiend belies the tuneful throng;
No haughty theologue durst curse the song;
The people hail the poet grave, or gay,
And give the laurel ravish'd with his lay .
But lo! to Britain flew this baneful band,
With pestilential vapours through the land.

281

Bold in reform the rev'rend Lollard rose;
Papist and Lollard soon are clam'rous foes.
With alter'd name, the protestant appears;
Lo! he and papist now are pulling ears;
While surplices, rings, copes, and hoods, and prayers,
Bowings, and kneelings, altars, organs, airs,
The splittings nice of controversial hairs,
Rouse pious zeal, and swell to mighty rage,
As loud polemics in the broils engage.
'Gainst protestant see protestant conspire,
With high-church pride, and puritanic fire!
All spit their venom in the pontiff's face,
Then curse each other with as good a grace .

282

Nor on the church alone these harpies fix;
Lo! civil with religious brangles mix:
Proud of their cause, and eager to advance,
Roundheads and cavaliers now crack a lance,
Till soon new names are bandied through the town,
And whig and tory hoot each other down.
And still through Britain endless bickerings ring,
And hence inveterate wrath, and hatred spring;
For where these fiends alight, they leave behind
Some brooding evil, festering in the mind,
Perverting every passion, every sense,
Till, spite of being pleas'd, we take offence;
Priest hates the priest; each artist scorns his brother;
And hence the poets, plucking one another,

283

Calling, like rivals in a sordid trade,
Each other rhymester, and his muse a jade.
Thus magpies oft, a sly, pert, chattering race,
Perk up their bills in one another's face,
Or, seize, in turn, each other by the throat,
And curse, for magpies can, with coarsest note.
Ah! what can magpies thus to bick'rings draw?
A rotten bone, a maggot, or a straw.
There are, who think, that genius, wanton child,
Errs, as by nature's law, to regions wild,
Like a too darling boy, to weakness nurs'd,
And by a partial mother's fondness curs'd;
That where superior talent shines confest,
Tumultuous passions urge the swelling breast;
Hence the wild loves, the unrestrain'd desires,
Hence the wild rage of bacchanalian fires;

284

As though a fever from Anacreon ran,
Down to the days of drunken Carolan .

285

Is there, in meanness proud, who would propose
The frailties of each brother to disclose?
Dark is that eye, which none but faults can scan,
And hard the heart, that never felt as man.
Low may he sink, that wounds another's name,
And such as live on scandal, die in shame .

286

Yet will I still in secret drop a tear,
And heave a sigh that pity's son shall hear,
While I recall, how some of ancient time,
Who still inspire us with their rapt'rous rhyme,
Have err'd, have madly err'd, from nature's plan,
And lo! these more than mortals, less than man:
As though, forsooth, the rich high-season'd strains
Flow but from strutting paunch, and drunken brains.
Yet tell me, when yon bird of fairest wing
Deigns through the woodland sweetest notes to sing,
Whence does he draw the wildest, boldest strain,
From greasy strutting paunch, and drunken brain?
He does but range through nature's quiet groves,
His the pure gales, and his the chastest loves;
In quest of fiery draughts he never goes,
But sips the stream that babbles as it flows .

287

And mark yon steed of swiftest, strongest flight,
First in the chace, and foremost in the fight:
Whence his high mettle, whence his breath of fire,
(Some noble blood he draws from noble sire,)
But when his force he durst not to repress,
Gains he his ardour from some foul excess?
What owes that steed to fiery drunken brain,
With light'ning speed, when bounding o'er the plain ?

288

Degen'rate thought! but hence a doctrine sprung,
That gain'd a dang'rous credit with the young;
Yet the true fires to youth kind nature gives,
And age from mod'rate draughts new life receives:
But genius tow'rs with unknown vigour strong,
And asks no inspiration, but its song.
Oh! rest content with spirits warm and even,
And all the rich nectareous gifts of heav'n.
Nor think unhurt by bottle or by pot,
To live by suction, a mere poet-sot.
Now with magician's skill, and poet's guile,
Oh! bear me, fancy, to your vision'd isle ;

289

That isle, where flit the shapes of fairy land,
Witches, and Goblins, Elves, a motley band;
Where all the Loves, and Cares, and Woes are seen,
Of dev'lish, mortal, and celestial mien:
That isle, where heav'n rains down ambrosial showers,
And ready genius crops the richest flowers;
Where zephyr breathes his balmy sweets around,
And seraph-songsters wake the soul of sound,
Through groves more rich than o'er Amana glow,
Near streams, by Ganges, that more proudly flow;
Nor could more beauteous, nectar'd flowers be found,
Though a blest Eden blossom'd all around.
There oft the the poet speeds with eagle flight,
And lies entranc'd in deep prophetic sight;
There dead to mortal cares th' enthusiast sings,
And fees, and hears, unutterable things:
Ah! heedless he 'mid dreams phantastic toss'd,
And in the muse's raptures proudly lost,

290

Of ways, and means, the common cares of man,
The prudent forethought, and the settled plan.
There rev'ling still, unknowing and unknown,
Rapt in some bright creation of his own,
Walking in bardic pride his airy round,
He treads, or seems to tread, empyreal ground.
But see! around what busy swarms arise
With watchful ears, and ever-wakeful eyes:
Dup'd by the selfish, juggled by the grave,
The ready reck'ner, and the thoughtful knave,
Behold him craz'd with care, now creep along,
In lonely musings, and in listless song.
Ah! rouse thee, child of fancy, from thy dreams,
And the wild phrenzies of Paranssian themes.
Oh! learn to seize the purest gift of heav'n,
Nor lightly prize the pow'rs in bounty giv'n.
By genius form'd rich treasures to dispense,
Lose not thyself for want of common sense;
Mid thy bold flights let fancy still preside,
In common matters reason be thy guide;
Reign, if thou canst, the master of the pen,
But use thy eyes, and ears, like other men.
Yes! e'en when genius urges thee to write,
Reason and fancy may at once unite.

291

Take, then, experience for your guide and rule,
And blush to hear a knave proclaim thee fool;
For, though still charm'd by soul-bewitching rhyme,
Thou shalt not stoop to learn the art to climb;
Enrich'd by tricks, thro' which mere worldlings thrive,
Still must thou learn the common art, to live.
Not too disturb'd, as troubled waters flow,
Not like the standing pool, becalm'd and slow,
Let life's gay current sweetly glide along,
Brisk as thy wit, and daring as thy song.
Yet, Muse of Shakspeare , whither wouldst thou fly,
With hurried step, and dove-like trembling eye?
Thou, as from heav'n, that couldst each grace dispense,
Fancy's rich stream, and all the stores of sense;

292

Give to each virtue face and form divine,
Make dulness feel, and vulgar souls refine,
Wake all the passions into restless life,
Now calm to softness, and now rouze to strife?
Sick of misjudging, that no sense can hit,
Scar'd by the jargon of unmeaning wit,
The senseless splendour of the tawdry stage ,
The loud long plaudits of a trifling age,
Where dost thou wander? Exil'd in disgrace,
Find'st thou in foreign realms some happier place ?

293

Or dost thou still, though banish'd from the town,
In Britain love to linger, though unknown?
Light Hymen's torch through ev'ry blooming grove ,
And tinge each flow'ret with the blush of love?
Sing winter, summer-sweets, the vernal air,
Or the soft Sofa, to delight the fair ?

294

Laugh, e'en at kings, and mock each prudish rule,
The merry motley priest of ridicule ?
With modest pencil paint the vernal scene,
The rustic lovers, and the village green?
Bid Mem'ry, magic child, resume his toy,
And Hope's fond vot'ry seize the distant joy ?
Or dost thou soar, in youthful ardour strong,
And bid some female hero live in song ?
Teach fancy how through nature's walks to stray,
And wake, to simpler theme, the lyric lay ?
Or steal from beauty's lip th' ambrosial kiss,
Paint the domestic grief, or social bliss ?

295

With patient step now tread o'er rock and hill,
Gaze on rough ocean, track the babbling rill ,
Then rapt in thought, with strong poetic eye,
Read the great movements of the mighty sky?
Or wilt thou spread the light of Leo's age,
And smooth, as woman's guide, Tansillo's page ?
Till pleas'd, you make in fair translated song,
Odin descend, and rouse the fairy throng ?
Recall, employment sweet, thy youthful day,
Then wake, at Mithra's call, the mystic lay ?
Unfold the Paradise of ancient lore ,
Or mark the shipwreck from the sounding shore?

296

Now love to linger in the daisied vale,
Then rise sublime in legendary tale ?
Or, faithful still to nature's sober joy,
Smile on the labours of some Farmer's Boy ?
Or e'en regardless of the poet's praise,
Deck the fair magazine with blooming lays ?
Oh! sweetest muse, oh, haste thy wish'd return,
See genius droop, and bright-ey'd fancy mourn,
Recall to nature's charms an English stage,
The guard and glory of a nobler age.
Time was,—but cease, my heart, the plaintive lay,
Lest cheerful youths, and virgins fair and gay,

297

Should view thee, while thy woeful verse they scan,
Like some poor limping Gaberlunzie man ;
Praying, for mercy's sake, some small relief,
Till mirth's light heart is melted into grief;
Or like some spirit, stalking o'er the green,
Whose ghastly eyes have marr'd the village scene,
Till freezing horror chills the rustic throng,
And love and beauty quite suspend their song.
But, ere my sympathies quite melt away,
The female poet claims my plaintive lay:
“The female poet! oh! in time beware;—
“Descend from Pegasus, ye helpless fair.
“Should gentle hands the daring courser guide?
“Born but to walk, will ye presume to ride?
“Who flourish'd but the fan, now seize the pen,
“The rhyming conq'rors of too easy men?
“To please, learn, gentle dames, is yours alone,
“Know, that the realms of wit are all our own .

298

Thus priests too long confin'd the simple schools,
And bound lay-hands by tricks and juggling rules,
Gave them the wafer (just their faith to prove),
But guzzled all the wine in Christian love;
Told the poor lubbers, not to read, but pray,
Hoodwink'd them all, then stole their lands away.
Yet female hands have struck the boldest lyre,
Rous'd by the warmest loves, by heavenly fire,

299

Wak'd in the poet's breast the rapturous flame,
And pointed out the path to honest fame.
Thus gay Anacreon felt the Lesbian's strain ,
Till the soft influence stole through every vein;
Longinus hail'd the verse with genius fraught,
With nice expression, and with crowding thought:
And pondering well the soul-inspiring rhyme,
In spite of critics, hail'd the song sublime.
Thus, ere the Theban swan of stately wing
Cleav'd the proud wave, and dar'd aspire to sing,
First was held captive by the soften'd note,
Borne from a songstress bird's mellifluous throat;

300

And hence Aspasia, pow'rful in her strains,
Bound wisdom's sons, and warrior-hearts in chains ;
Thus, too, Corinna, tuneful in her grief ,
Found in the sweets of song her best relief;
And Deshouilliers awaken'd generous fire ,
The gentlest Sappho, and the softest lyre;

301

While Dacier brought to France rich treasures home,
Rifling the sweetest flowers of Greece and Rome .
Thus, too, in Britain Barbauld's verse shall please,
Pointed with brilliant thought, and polish'd ease;
And still, perhaps, tho' yet unknown to fame,
Some female heart has nurs'd the secret flame,
That, breaking through restraint, shall bear along
The proudest bosom with her blaze of song:
No light of Will-a-wisp , o'er streams and groves
Dancing to gaping dames, and brainless loves;
But piercing fires, that dazzle while they flow,
Glowing themselves, and making others glow;

302

As round th' Ægyptian's neck the sapphire stone,
Emblem of truth, in vivid splendour shone :
Nor was the judge or priest alone imprest;
The radiant glory stole from breast to breast.
Thus may some poetess still lift along,
Sparkling with living light, the fire of song,
Feeling, and making other bosoms feel,
Love's thrilling raptures, freedom's holy zeal,
Strong in herself, the critic's sneer despise,
Too strong to need poetic sympathies.
 

Archdeacon Blackburne, father of Jane Disney, author of that judicious performance the Confessional, a work, in its day, of great celebrity; and for acuteness, solidity, and importance, still entitled to the most serious attention: the subject being a full and free inquiry into the right and utility, edification and success, of establishing systematical confessions of faith and doctrine in protestant churches.

Future satirists, if men of sagacity, as all satirists should be, may read to advantage something about a goose when concealed, and a goose when discovered, in an old English satire, entitled, The Ship of Fools, published by Alexander Barclay, in 1509. To this they may add a Latin Epigram by Bourne, or I forget whom, on “Ars est celare artem:” they may then solve this problem, “How a dull poet may pass for a great wit.”

'Tis thus aspiring dullness ever shines.

Dunciad. B. 4.

Author of an art of poetry, well thumbed over by schoolboys.

Frange, miser, calamos, vigilataque prælia dele,
Qui facis in parvâ sublimia carmina cellâ,
Ut dignus venias hederis, et imagine macrâ.

Juv. Sat. 7. 27.

I speak here in conformity to the doctrine of Lucretius. See Lucretius De Rerum Natura, lib. 1. v. 10. &c.

Anatomy and its attendant physiognomy were well studied by the ancients as well as by the moderns. Of physiognomy, concerning which the enthusiastic Lavater has written so freely, Aristotle has written an ingenious treatise. See his Φυσιωγνωμικα. Baptista Porta also has taken up the subject after Aristotle, and enlarged on his principles, as they relate to men and brutes.

------ Pictura loquens solet illa vocari.

Fresnoy's de Re Graphica.

The long neglect in which the Paradise Lost lay, and the circumstances that brought it into general repute, are known to all the the readers of Milton, and the Spectator. Milton printed three editions of his work, and for each received but five pounds, with the condition of receiving five pounds more, when fifteen hundred copies were sold. His widow, at length, sold the whole copy-right for eight pounds. See his Life by Johnson.

In opposition to what is said at the end of Poet's Fate.

Those who recollect, that the first writers were the poets, and know the great qualities ascribed to poetry by the ancients, more particularly Plato, Aristotle, and Longinus, cannot think my account of poetry extravagant. Modern critics have not been behindhand with the ancient. There is no end of what Rapin says: En Effet la poesie est de tous les arts la plus parfait: car la perfection des autres arts est bornée: celle de la poesie, ne l'est point: peur y reussir il faut presque tout scavoir. Reflexions sure la poetique.

This was literally true of one worthy person, who wrote poetry and was a man of learning. In the Account of a society for the Establishment of a literary Fund, may be read as follows:

“Floyer Sydenham, the well-known translator of Plato, one of the most useful, if not of the most competent, Greek scholars of his age, a man revered for his knowledge, and beloved for the candour of his temper, and the gentleness of his manners, died in consequence of having been arrested, and detained for a debt to a victualler, who had for some time furnished his frugal meal.”

A full account of this Institution, and some more particulars relative to Sydenham, may be seen in my Dissertation on The Theory and Practice of Benevolence.

It would be amusing to trace the characters of some of those wits, (so it seems they thought themselves) who have formerly made themselves merry with the misfortunes of learned men. Persius describes the character thus:—

Scit risisse vafer, multum gaudere paratus,
Si Cynico barbam petulans Nonaria vellet:
His mane edictum, post prandia Callirhoendo.

Persius. sat. 1. sub sin.

Whose pleasure is to see a strumpet tear
A Cynics beard, and tug him by the hair.
Such all the morning to the pleadings run;
But when the business of the day is done,
On dice, and drink, and drabs, they spend their afternoon.

Dryden.

It is observable, that those who have most violently attacked genius, have been dull unsuccessful writers. A host of such ragamuffin scribblers may be found in the Dunciad.

Plato in one of his dialogues, the Theaetetes, goes at large into the inattentions of men of genius, and the impertinence of coxcombs, and has some admirable observations on the subject.

Sir Richard Blackmore was a voluminous writer, and, what is worse, a voluminous poet. He wrote no less than six epic poems; of which Johnson says, “The first had such reputation and popularity, as enraged the critics; the second was at least known enough to be ridiculed. The two last had neither friends nor enemies.” He had stung Pope, by spreading some idle reports about him; and Pope in return stung him effectually both in his prologue to the Satires, and the Dunciad.

But far o'er all sonorous Blackmore's strain;
Walls, steeples, skies, bray back to him again;
All hail him victor in both gifts of song,
Who sings so loudly, and who sings so long.

Hence he obtained the title of the everlasting Blackmore, and his name became proverbial for a dull poet.

Broome, also, obtains a place in Pope's list of dunces: and here resentment had its share. Broome rendered Pope essential service in the translation of the Odyssey. He translated almost half the Odyssey, and wrote the notes, and complained, after-wards, that he had not been properly rewarded by Pope. His complimentary verses to Pope discover a heart susceptible of the most respectful friendship, as well as much poetical taste. But who was originally most censurable, I inquire not. I introduce these things as anecdotes. See Johnson's Lives. There was another Broome, serving man to Ben Jonson.

Some writings ascribed to Homer, and bound up in some editions of that poet, were written by Pigres. Suidas, These are the Μαργιτης and Βατραχομαχια. The Culex, Ciris, &c. bound up in Wakefield's edition of Virgil, are supposed not to have been that elegant poet's production.

The love of fame is more powerful in some breasts, than the love of money or of power in others. In the “Poet's Fate,” I have given an instance from Herodotus, of a schoolmaster who purloined Homer's verses.

I have also read of an epic poet (I forget his name) whose works were said to have been destroyed by Homer, that he might have no rival. His name is mentioned by Phillips in his “Theatrum Poetarum.” An ancient, Heraclides, published poems entitled, Λεσχαι, that were acknowledged not to be his. Barberius, de Miseria Poetarum, exclaims, Quot hodie Heraclides! Quot hodie Λεσχαι vates! Pro appendice sit Gryllus septimus eruditissimi Glareani. Scio quod dico: adde ejusden Gryllum tertium. Taceo, quoniam veritas odium parit. —It is frequently mentioned by Suidas and Vossius, that such and such writers received not the reward and reputation of their works. Some modern instances might, perhaps, be produced. It is asserted by some writers, I believe unjustly, that the Gentle Shepherd was not written by Allan Ramsay, but by a friend. And a pretty little Irish poem entitled, Tiagharna Whaighe-eo, long ascribed to Carolan, was written by a David Murphy. I say nothing of Congratulationes Oxoniæ and Cantab. &c. in Obitum, &c. Cambridge Prize poems and certain Odes written for fame; but all is not gold that glitters, and

In silk and in scarlet
Shines many a harlot.
------φωναντα συνετοισιν

Pindar.

Homer in ancient times had his Zoilus. And in modern times De la Mott, (a man of genius, though he understood not Greek) has made free strictures on Homer. See his Reflexions sur la Critique. Dryden had numerous enemies, particularly Milbourne, a clergyman. And Pope was surrounded on all sides by paltry publishers and sorry authors.—A few of Virgil's verses are but half-lines, to which an allusion is made in the text.

Homer, Virgil, Dryden, and Pope were the eagles, in point of genius, the others crows, croaking at an infinite distance from these birds of the sun:

σοφος ο πολ-
-λα ειδως φυα.
Μαθοντες δε, λαβροι;
Παγλωσσια κορακες ως,
Ακραντα γαρυετον
Διος προς ορνιχα θειον.

Pind. Olymp. 2.

The charming poet Collins was poor. His poetry was the effect of great thought: some of his lesser poems are beautiful; and two or three of his odes rank among the most sublime in the English language. He is, however, obscure: but his obscurities are not the κακοι ογκοι of Longinus. De Sublim, 3.

Milton was a great admirer and judicious imitator of the Grecian poets, more particularly of Euripides and Sophocles.

The great Lyric Poet, Pindar, was born at Thebes, in Bœotia, under an atmosphere that was supposed unfavourable to genius. The text alludes to a well-known passage in one of Pindar's Odes.

With all due respect for men of real honour, talents, and learning, connected with reviews, I still maintain, that these publications are articles of trade, subservient to the manœuvring of parties, and the selfishness of individuals, who are not always men distinguished by learning, talent, disinterestedness, or integrity; hence it sometimes happens, that impertinence is puffed into note, modest merit discountenanced, and public principle receives a stab. With all possible respect, therefore, for every reviewer, who is a man of honour, and of competent abilities; whatever side he espouses in politics or religion (and had I not been influenced by considerations of a public nature, prudence would have suppressed the remark), I cannot avoid observing, that men of judgment and principle read reviews with caution; and whoever is too much inflated with the praise of writers, often interested and unprincipled, or depressed by their censure, is not qualified to write for the world.

From an elegant sonnet of Thomas Parks, it seems, that things of this kind still happen. See his fiftieth sonnet, “written in a manuscript copy of Miss Sewards, after having rescued it from the printing-house.”

Dr. Johnson observes somewhere, that booksellers have been known to treat authors very ill, but that now good authors may expect to meet with good booksellers. And Bishop Warburton remarks, “that booksellers are not the worst judges or rewarders of merit.” And this, undoubtedly, in numerous instances, is exceedingly true. And no men are more entitled to the respect of men of letters, and of the public, than upright booksellers. It must, however, be allowed that the situation of a bookseller in regard to authors, is frequently a place of less immediate responsibility, than that of most other professions; and that the complaints of many men of genius and learning are not always unreasonable or illfounded.

Blackwell, in his life of Homer, observes of the ancient bards among the Greeks: “Many of them lived contemporary with Homer: no prince's court seems to have been without one or more of them, and they resorted to the great feasts and high solemnities, all over Greece, to assist at their sacrifices, and entertain the people. We know some of their names, who tuned their lyres to the foregoing subjects; but their songs are lost, and with them many a strain of true poetry and imitation.” Chap. vi. p. 80.

In Ireland also a bard was retained in great families, and distinguished by party-coloured clothes. In England, also, noble families had a minstrel attached to them, distinguished in like manner.

The minstrels of thy noble house,
All clad in robes of blue,
With silver crescents on their arms,
Attend in order due.

See Percy's English Ballads.

The progress of this character from king's poet up to the laureat, with all its honours, perquisites, &c. may be seen in Warton's History of English Poetry. Several ingenious and learned men have undoubtedly been Laureats: but to applaud all that kings and all that a nation does, has been generally found dull up-hill work, and therefore,

See Senates nod to lullabies divine!

Dunciad, b. i. 1. 316.

Britain, divided into parties;—and what effect the ferments of party produce on the exertions of genius may be collected from the history of Milton.

That most ingenious people, the Grecians, had an early attachment to systematic philosophy, and were divided into numerous sects; but though divided in their speculations, they united in the promotion of the arts and sciences. The ancient Athenians were bound αμυνειν δε και μονοι, και μετα παντων, και ιερα τα πατρια τιμησειν, (vide Stobæi Sentent. de Republic. Sermo 41.) but were circumscribed by no such frivolous peculiarities, as have necessarily produced a sectarian spirit in England: and this could be proved from various remains of the ancient legislators and philosophers, Draco, Solon, Zeleucus, and Pythagoras. This subject I have discussed in some observations on the Athenian test oath, preserved by Stobæus, in my Enquiry into the nature of Subscription to the 39 articles, 2 Edit. p. 117.

Pericles in his celebrated funeral oration enumerates the superior advantages possessed by the Athenians over other nations, and observes, πολιν κοινην παρεχομεν, και ουκ εστιν οτε ξυνηλασιαις απειργομεν τινα η μαθηματος η θεαματος, ο μη κρυφθεν αν τις των πολεμιων ιδων ωφεληθειη. Observations similar to these are also made by Lysias and Plato, in their funeral orations.

Cartwright, in the time of Elizabeth, was the zealous champion of the puritans, on one side, in these matters, and Hooker, the author of the Ecclesiastical Polity, was considered by his party as the malleus hæreticorum, on the other. A minute distinction of all their peculiarities is made by James Pierce in Vindic. Frat. Nonconf. Part 1. in Hume's history, and Burnet's history of the Reformation.

After all, both parties, doubtless, possessed talents and learning:—but there has ever been an unwillingness in one party to do justice to the other.

Montesquieu in his Esprit des loix, and Voltaire in his letters on the English nation, ascribe the fervors of party to the spirit of liberty in the English constitution. Whether justly, I inquire not.

I am sorry to observe in so admirable a poem as the Dunciad, that Pope occasionally humours party prejudice by placing among his dunces men of great genius. Blackmore was not so very dull, as the bard of Twickenham has represented him, though rumbling enough in reason. But De Foe, the author of Robinson Crusoe, of Letters on the Spirit of Commerce, and of the True-born Englishman, was a fine genius; and even Quarles, though he chose leaden subjects, adorned them with the true gold of poetry.

However, Pope, after all, by no means adopted those principles ascribed to him in a poem, entitled the Shade of Pope.

Dream of a Dream, and Shadow of a Shade.

Many poets have confounded poetic with bacchanalian fury; hence we find Anacreon (pronior in utramq; venerem,) perpetually exclaiming,

Αφες με τους θεους σοι,
Πιειν, πιειν αμυστι,
Θελω, θελω μανηναι.
He called himself, οινοποτης, wine-drinker, and Simonides junior called him οινοβαπης, heavy with wine. He lived and died a jolly fellow. According to Valerius Maximus he was choaked with a grape-stone.

So Horace, in the fine ode, in which he celebrates the praises of Bacchus,

Evoe, recenti mens trepidat metu,
Plenoq; Bacchi pectore turbidum,
Lætatur.

Hor. Lib. I. Od. xiv.

—Satur est cum dicit Horatius, Evoe; says Juvenal.—The celebrated Persian poet Hafez, by his religion, was forbidden the use of wine; but he was a poet, and laughed at the laws of his religion. He seems to have been a lusty drinker, and some of his most elegant odes are to the tune of, Jolly mortals, fill your glasses. See Jones's Poes. Asiat. Cap. IV.

Quod si ebrius sum, ecquid est remedium?
Ut prorsus sensibus destituas, affer alium calicem.

A well known blind itinerant musician and poet of Ireland, author of a poetical species of composition, known in that country by the name of Planxty, of which, “A Bumper, Squire Jones,” is a paraphrase, beginning thus,

Ye good fellows all,
Who love to be told where there's claret good store,
Attend to the call
Of one who's ne'er frighted,
But greatly delighted,
With six bottles more.
Be sure you don't pass
The good house Money-glass,
Which the jolly red god so peculiarly owns;
'Twill well suit your humour,
For pray what would you more,
Than mirth, with good claret, and bumpers, squire Jones?

Squire Jones, a hospitable country squire, used to give Carolan as much wine as his skin would hold, and in this excellent song the merry minstrel has embalmed the good fellow's convivial character. Carolan was a genuine representative of the ancient bard. He was always strolling about, feasting on all the good things that fell in his way: he could never tune his harp, or compose a song, says Dr. Campbell, without the inspiration of whiskey, of which, in his latter days, he always took care to have a bottle at his bed-side. Poor Carolan fell a martyr to this Irish wine. Mirth and good-humour may be helped forward by poetry, but the poet should be cautious of falling a martyr to them. The poison contained in Burn's beautiful drinking ode, called “Scotch Drink,” has been admirably counteracted by the pretty Scotch tale called, The Cotter's Saturday Evening, written by a person of the name of Mac Neal.

Dr. Johnson, in his Lives of the English Poets, has noticed this failing in several of them.

“I have more than once, “says poor Werter, “experienced the effect of drinking;—my passions have almost bordered on madness, and I do not repent of it; for I have learned by experience to know, that all those extraordinary men, who have committed any great, or seemingly supernatural actions, have at all times been branded, as if they were drunkards or madmen.” Goethe Sorrows of Werter.

But let not the sallies of good humour, of pleasure, or disappointment, be mistaken for a principle to be admitted in poetry; with that only I contend: and let me never be confounded with those sober persons,—by the bye they are often merciless hypocrites, of whom Werter exclaims, “Take shame to yourselves, ye sober, ye sages of the world.”

From the admirable dialogue of Plato's called the Phædo, it may be concluded, that Socrates considered a superiority over sensual gratifications, as going into the very essence of the philosophical character. Περι ψυχης. 8. 9. Plato's Phædrus will shew us what he thought of the poetical character.

Even Horace, a bard sufficiently convivial, in an ode that celebrates the praises of the vine, gives at the same time a caution against an immoderate and destructive use of it.

------ Sæva hinc Berecynthio
Cornu tympana, quæ subsequitur coecus amor sui,
Et tollens vacuum plus nimio gloria vorticem,
Arcaniq; fides prodiga, perlucidior vitro.

L. I. Od. xix.

Homer is generally understood by the critics (on what authority I know not) to have had an eye on himself in the character of Demodocus, in the Odyssey.

Horace indeed says of him,

Laudibus arguitur vini vinosus Homerus.

Hor. Ep. Lib. I.

Great Homer was not of a sober strain.

This passage, however, is put into the mouth of Cratinus; and Horace introduces it in order to satirize the “Imitatores Servum Pocus,” “The servile herd of imitators.”

Shakspeare could enjoy the social glass with his dramatic friends, Jonson, Beaumont, and Fletcher; but he was no toper. The writer of epigrams and songs may, perhaps, work himself up to a little heat by intoxication, but our sublimest poets, Milton and Gray, exercised temperance; and indeed the sublimest species of poetry demands temperance.

See Milton on the Reasons of Church Government, Book II. and his charming elegy addressed to Charles Deodatus.

Talibus inde licent convivia larga poetis,
Sæpius et veteri commaduisse mero.
At qui bella refert, et adulto sub Jove cœlum,
Heroasq; pios, semideosq; duces,
Ille quidem parce, Samii pro more magistri,
Vivat, et innocuos præbeat herba cibos.

We have an ingenious poem in the English language, written in the last century, called the Purple Isle, the work of Phineas Fletcher: Alexander Thomson has well described the appearances in this Island, in a modern poem entitled The Paradise of Taste. See the Seventh Canto of the Island of Fancy.

In the Pleasures of Imagination by Dr. Akenside, and in several of the Dialogues of Plato, particularly his Theætetes, may be traced the reasons of these aberrations of genius.—Alas! poor Spenser, poor Collins, poor Goldsmith, and poor Chatterton.

It is not meant to say, that even Shakspeare followed invariably a correct and chastized taste, or that he never purchased public applause by offering incense at the shrine of public taste. Voltaire, in his Essays on Dramatic Poetry, has carried the matter too far; but in many respects his reflections are unquestionably just. In delineating human characters and passions, and in the display of the sublimer excellencies of poetry, Shakspeare was unrivalled.

There he our fancy of itself bereaving,
Did make us marble with too much conceiving.

Milton's Sonnet to Shakspeare.

Pomp and splendour a poor substitute for genius.

The dramatic muse seems of late years to have taken her residence in Germany. Schiller, Kotzebue, and Goethé, possess great merit both for passion and sentiment, and the English nation have done them justice. One or two principles which the French and English critics had too implicity followed from Aristotle, are indeed not adopted, but have been, I hope, successfully, counteracted by these writers; yet are these dramatists characterised by a wildness bordering on extravagance, attendant on a state of half civilization. Schiller and Kotzebue, amid some faults, possess great excellencies.

With respect to England, it has been long noticed by very intelligent observers, that the dramatic taste of the present age is vitiated. Pope, who directed very powerful satire against the stage in his time, makes Dulness say in general terms,

Contending theatres our empire raise,
Alike their censure, and alike their praise.

It would be the highest arrogance in me to make such an assertion, with my slender knowledge in these matters; ready too, as I am, to admire some excellent pieces that have fallen in my way; and to affirm, that there is by no means a deficiency of poetic talent in England.

Aristotle observes, that all the parts of the Epic poet are to be found in tragedy, and, consequently, that this species of writing is, of all others, most interesting to men of talents. (Περι ποιητικης.) And baron Kotzebue thinks the theatre the best school of instruction, both in morals and taste, even for children; and that better effects are produced by a play, than by a sermon. See his life, written by himself, just translated by Anne Plumptre.

How much then is it to be wished, that so admirable a mean of amusement and instruction might be advanced to its true point of excellence! But the principles laid down by Bishop Hurd, though calculated to advance the love of splendour, will not, I suspect, advance the true province of the Drama.

Loves of the Plants, by Dr. Darwin.

The Task, by Cowper: written at the request of a lady. The introductory poem is entitled, The Sofa.

Dr. Walcot, whose poetry is of a satirical and humorous character.

The Pleasures of Memory, by Rogers; and the Pleasures of Hope, by Campbell.

Joan of Arc, by Southey;—a volume of poems with an introductory sonnet to Mary Wolstonecraft, and a poem, on the praise of woman, breathes the same spirit.

Alludes to the character of a volume of poems, entitled Lyrical Ballads. Under this head also, should be mentioned Smythe's English Lyrics.

Characteristic of a volume of poems, the joint production of Coleridge, Lloyd, and Lamb.

Descriptive Poems, such as Leusden hill, by Thomas Crowe; and the Malvern hills, by Joseph Cottle.

Roscoe's Reign of Leo de Medici is interspersed with poetry. Roscoe has also translated, The Nurse, a poem, from the Italian of Luigi Tansillo.

Icelandic poetry, or the Edda of Sæmund, translated by Amos Cottle; and the Oberon of Wieland, by Sotheby.

Thomas Maurice, the author of the Indian Autiquities, is republishing his poems; the Song to Mithra is in the third volume of Indian Antiquities.

The Paradise of Taste, and Pictures of Poetry, by Alexander Thomson.

There is a tale of this character by Dr. Aikin, and the Hermit of Warkworth by Bishop Percy. It will please the friends of taste to hear, that Cartwright's Armine and Elvira, which has been long out of print, is now republishing.

The Farmer's Boy, a poem just published, on the Seasons, by Robert Bloomfield.

Many of the anonymous poetical pieces thrown into magazines, possess poetical merit. Those of a young lady in the Monthly Magazine, will, I hope, in time be more generally known. Those of Rushton, of Liverpool, will also, I hope, be published by some judicious friend:—this worthy man is a bookseller, who has been afficted with blindness from his youth.

Gaberlunzie man, beggar man. See an old Scottish ballad with this title, in Percy's collection of English Ballads. This ballad is ascribed to James the Fifth of Scotland.

Several of the ancient Greek poets, more particularly Euripedes, in his Hippolytus, and other plays, speak degradingly of woman. There is a most exquisite piece of poetry concerning Danae, preserved by Dionysius of Halicarnassus (Περι συνθεσεως ονοματων) which has been well imitated by the Adventurer: but the same Simonides has written the most bitter iambics against the sex in general, beginning thus,

Χωρις γυναικος θεος εποιησεν νοον
Τα πρωτα.
God formed intelligence, without regard
To woman.

And again,

Ιστοι γυναικων εργα, κουκ εκκλησιαι.
The woman's work is spinning, not debate.

Persius, the Roman satirist, no less than Pope, the English, have a fling at women, in reference to intellect.

Plutarch, however, a very sensible and learned writer, has undertaken a defence of the sex, in a treatise on the Virtues of Women, contending, that virtue, talents, and genius, are not specifically distinct in the two sexes; and that the sweetest melodies in poetry, and great excellence in the art of painting, were attained by one sex as well as the other. Mary Woolstonecraft Godwin, and her memorialist Mary Hays, have scarcely exceeded the observation, “that individual unlikenesses exclude not from specific definitions.”

Sappho, loved by Anacreon. Her celebrated ode beginning,

Φαινεται μοι κηνος ισος θεοισιν,
is produced by Longinus as one of the noblest and completest examples of the sublime; and it has been transferred into all languages that have attempted poetry. We have a fine translation of it in English. Modern critics have also done it justice; and there is no poem of antiquity, of the same size, that has been so scrutinized by the nice severities of criticism.

The ode of Erynna, commonly bound up with Anacreon's and Sappho's odes, possess great poetical spirit.

Pindar, it is said, was excited to write poetry, by hearing the poetical recitations of Corinna, and was five times conquered by a female poet. See Vossius de Poetis Græcis.

While Ægidius Menidius has done justice to female philosophers (Hist. Mulierum Philosopharum, ad Annam Fabram Dacieram) those who have made lists of poets have not thought the poetesses unworthy of their notice. See Valerianus de Miseriis Poetarum Græc. and Phillips's Theatrum Poetarum Græcorum, sub fin.

Socrates, as well as Pericles, was a great admirer of the celebrated Aspasia, who is spoken of not only as a philosopher and rhetorician, but as a poet. I have not heard that we have any of her poetical remains: but the Menexenus of Plato, though expressive of a little satire against the character of a rhetorician, affords proof, that Socrates must have thought very highly of the talents of Aspasia, in that respect.

Vittoria Colonna accounted the principal Italian poetess, of whom Alexander Thomson, after speaking of Guistina, the fair pupil of Petrarch, says,

But later still, the same Italian shore
Beheld Colonna at her husband's grave,
Heard her in many a note his loss deplore,
And sorrow's last relief from death to crave.

Thomson's Pictures of Poetry.

Madame and Mademoiselle Deshouilliers. Their poems are in two volumes. Des Moutons, les Oiseaux, and les Fleurs, have been much admired. Two or three of Madame Deshouilliers' songs have all the energetic softness of Sappho. She is allowed to be the first of the French poetesses.

Madame Dacier was a critic and translator, rather than a poetess. Several of the first poetical productions of Greece she translated into French prose, more particularly the Iliad and Odyssey.

The poems entitled Corsica, the Tears of the Tankard, and the Mouse's Petition, of Letitia Barbauld, wife of Rochmond Barbauld, and sister of Dr. Aikin, are well known.

The names of Smith, More, Williams, Robinson, Carter, Seward, Opie, and Christall, are well known:—whoever wishes to be acquainted with such other English ladies, as have attempted poetry, may receive satisfaction from two volumes of poems, written entirely by ladies, published, if I mistake not, about twenty years ago, (I have not the volumes at hand).—Two of the best modern writers of plays, at least that I have read, are ladies.

Whoever has seen the Milton Gallery, by Fuseli, will immediately perceive that I allude to a design of his from the L'Allegro.

Vide Æliani Var. Hist. Sect. 29. From that ornament of the judge among the Egyptians, Moses, no doubt, derived the ornament worn on the breast-plate of the Jewish high-priest.


303

THE REDRESS.
[_]

N. B. The names of Dr. Aikin, and William Frend, stood successively at the beginning of this poem: but its didactic form can render it proper only

TO A YOUNG POET.

Yes, yes—there are, my friend, whose skilful pen
Would manage poets just like other men;
Their spirits bind by rules of common sense,
And make them reckon right their pounds and pence.
Ah! just restraint! ah! soul-directing rules,
More wise, more friendly, than the lore of schools.
And, yet, if statesmen err in common things,
Statesmen, the representatives of Kings ;
If financiers may sometimes count amiss,
And Princes falsely rate a nation's bliss .

304

If schools, where science sits enthron'd in state,
Have called e'en minus plus, and little great ;
While prelates , senators, go sometimes wrong,
Ah! who shall blame too much the child of song?
Enough—better the present to endure,
Than pore on wrongs, and not prvoide a cure.
I too could wish, nor need the wish be vain,
That nor imagin'd woes, nor real pain,
Might be the poet's lot; nor fortune's frown
Keep the proud tow'rings of his genius down:
That who has learn'd the poet's art, to please,
Might, if not move in splendour, sing at ease;
View undisturb'd life's pageantry pass by,
Paint what he saw, and without murm'ring die.
This honest wish first led me to relate,
In simple, hasty rhymes, the Poet's Fate:
To answer sneer, best answer, with a sneer,
Whether to pedant, coxcomb, or to peer;

305

To point at genius, as I pass'd along;
I ask'd no pension for my humble song.
Oh! when I trace man's nature, end, and aim,
Whether he toil for wealth, or pant for fame,
Or arts delight, or glory rouse to arms,
Or pleasure soften with her syren charms;
Whate'er his genius lead him to pursue,
Or conscience prompt, or warn him not, to do,
Still, as the planets round one centre run,
And catch a living lustre from the sun;
Thus onward move the restless tribes of man,
And keep, thro' different paths, one common plan
To bliss still moves each instinct of the soul,
Passion's soft melting, Reason's grave controul;
Ev'n wayward Mis'ry wishes to be blest,
Ev'n Folly, wandering far, still looks to rest.
Nature but acts the sweet musician's part,
And strikes each chord, that vibrates on the heart:
While such, as burn with true poetic fire,
Aim to excite in all, what all desire;
Their art's perfection this, their proudest lore,
To touch the strings, that Nature touch'd before;

306

With skill to touch, and bear the soul along
With all th' enchanting ravishment of song.
Or when I read the list of human woes,
The treach'rous friendships, the more open foes,
The hope's fair blossoms, doom'd in dust to lie,
The full-blown joys, that do but smile and die;
The silent cares, the fancy's vision'd sight
Of ills, which while conceal'd, the more affright;
And, pitying, view the short-liv'd creature man,
Fond to crop all the little sweets he can,
All that may calm the pang of secret grief,
Wake the short glow, and yield the light relief;
Who knows to act the kind physician's part,
And raise to pleasure e'en the wounded heart,
On him may heav'ns most kindly beams descend,
For he is human nature's watchful friend:
And such the poet's task, to soothe the breast,
And lull with magic hand the cares to rest.
Yet, know, who hope the noble prize to gain,
Reach at, what few, though thousands seek, attain.
'Tis not enough some feeble thought to nurse,
Or weave soft nonsense into flimsy verse:

307

Who proudly hopes to wreathe the living lay,
Is born from heav'n, a soul of purest ray,
Feels like some god within the sacred fire,
And rapture listens, while he strikes the lyre ;
From art and nature every charm must seize,
And live content, if he but learn to please:
His first great wish, to earn the poet's name,
His loftier hope, to live in future fame.
Ah! will not this suffice? Then plough the seas,
For anxious riches barter learned ease;
To thee let India all her stores unfold,
Wake but for wealth, and only dream of gold;
Then like Avarus, hoard, and dream, and plan,
Or, like Orbilio, brutalize the man;
Or bask, at pleasure's call, in loose delight,
Sport all the day, and riot all the night;
Speed time's light wings, as young Lorenzo gay,
Ah! frailest trifler through life's little day;
Or scale yon height, at mad ambition's call,
And climb, where thousands only climb, to fall.

308

From pride's rough steep, like Cæsar headlong hurl'd,
The school-boy's tale, though vulture of the world.
It will not do—no—'tis decreed by fate,
Thus wide the difference of the good and great,
That such, whose breasts with noblest ardour glow,
What Folly craves, should proudly dare forego;
Hence, such as aim'd to raise the stately rhyme,
Have seen, unenvying, fierce ambition climb,
Seen avarice delve in mines, nor yet repin'd,
Prouder, and wealthier, in the stores of mind .
And, what if Wealth has sometimes courted fame,
By vain alliance with the poet's name?
Yet Genius to itself true glory brings,
And might be ruin'd by the smile of kings;

309

Spin silken lies, or weave a flimsy lay,
Bartering soft nonsense for a hireling's pay;
Till the town wonders, who's the greatest fool,
The noble patron, or his rhyming tool.
Peace to the man, to fortune while unknown,
That owes his vigour to himself alone,
Enriching others, though of nought possest,
And blessing, though he seem himself unblest.
Round the broad oak let feeble ivy twine,
And round th' umbrageous elm the slender vine;
The faint exotic in the green-house thrive,
And, but when rear'd like feeble nurslings live;
Yet feed the gayest flowers on heav'n's own dew,
And catch from genial suns their boldest hue;
Nature's high voice proclaims the region blest,
And Beauty crops the sweetness for her breast.
Happy the man, whom moderate joys invite,
Wisdom his treasure, song his dear delight,
Serenely cheerful, if not proudly gay,
Who every upstart craving drives away.
Should (for the sylvan scene is wont to please,
Whom nature charms, and soft poetic ease,)

310

Should he through native fields, and fav'rite groves,
Find the retreat of more than fabled loves;
Study and toil, an ever constant pair,
Protect his haunts, and still each busy care.
His the neat cottage, his the frugal board,
That crave supply from no resplendent hoard;
Genius requires what nature not denies,
And Taste but asks what Prudence well supplies.
What tho' no high triumphal arch arise,
Nor towering column catch inquiring eyes;
Nor mansion boast Palladio's great design,
Nor deck'd in grace of Grecian order shine?
What though nor Pembroke's statues grace thy hall,
Nor Argyle's tapestry adorn thy wall,
Nor Browne's light-labour'd spruceness smiles, display'd
In all the pride of lawn, the pomp of shade?

311

Her spark'ling gems to thee not India sends,
Nor Italy her mimic arts commends;
Nor shelves with Roxburgh's, Spencer's lustre shine,
Nor Crachrode's , Wodhull's, Hollis', stores are thine?
Ah! what avails?—For thee shall nature pour,
From copious urn, a never-wasting store;
Give thee, (ah! dare not thou the gift disdain)
The pregnant mind, the fancy's richest vein,

312

Teach thee within how small a circle lies,
What forms the truly good, the truly wise;
That noblest joy is gain'd at light expence,
And prodigality is want of sense;
That life's blest current calmly glides along,
While simple means inspire the proudest song.
But, know, the man, whom I aspire to praise,
And high above the vulgar crowd to raise,
Must not o'er murm'ring stream still sigh and weep,
Nor chain'd by sloth, in daisied meadows sleep,
Nor stretch'd at length, distract the fields and groves
With fancied wrongs, and visionary loves,
Weary with sheepish plaints the ear of day,
And worry nymphs and swains with woeful lay,
Till forms phantastic craze an empty brain,
And languor knows not its own flimsy strain.
No—if thy soul delight in sylvan shade,
Scorn not the plough, the mattock, and the spade,
But seize each instrument of rustic life,
And keep off envy, penury, and strife;
Protect thy flock, and learn the care of bees,
And plant with fostering hand the tender trees,

313

Lop the luxuriance of the mantling vine,
And in gay splendour bid the garden shine.
Let art to nature skilful aid supply,
And happy graffs delight the watchful eye;
Nor scorn at times the labours of the field,
The loitering steer to guide, the fork to wield;
Here let the net its subtle thread display,
And here the scarecrow drive the birds away .
Thus as the smiling seasons circling roll,
Strong in resource, and provident of soul,
Range thro' thy lands, and watch the infant grain,
The guide and glory of the past'ral train;
So round thy fields may heav'n propitious smile,
And a rich harvest crown thy honest toil.

314

Thus ancient heroes pass'd their golden days,
Thus train'd, the poet wak'd the sweetest lays;
Hence Rome, the queen of states, in virtue strong,
And tuneful Maro poured the richest song .
But happiest thou, should sylvan strains delight,
And rural cares, and rural scenes invite,
If, where thou choosest thy sequester'd seat,
There love shall deign to fix his blest retreat,
And, she, the gentle mistress of thy heart,
In care and bliss divide her equal part;
While playful babes the lingering hours beguile,
Hang on thy lips, and live upon thy smile:

315

Thus blest by heav'n, what canst thou wish beside,
Peace in thy heart, and beauty at thy side?
Tibullus (such as never lov'd may blame),
Thus sunk to glory, and yet rose to fame,
In vain to him war lifts the standard high,
And points to wealth beneath an eastern sky;
Arms he relinquished, fir'd with rural charms,
And found his treasure in his Delia's arms;
Caught at her eye the soul-bewitching pain,
And wak'd, as beauty taught, th' elegiac strain;
Love saw him labouring mid the rustic throng,
And clapp'd the wing, and triumph'd in his song.
But live there such, whose breasts were doom'd to prove
The restless cares of ill-requited love?

316

For them shall pity shed her softest sigh,
And drop her pearly tear of sympathy:
Ah! such too oft have been the tuneful throng,
And hence have bloom'd the sweetest flowers of song.
Thus Petrarch , vanquish'd by his lovely foe,
Breath'd the soft sonnet to beguile his woe;
Hence the wild fires, in Cowley's verse that play,
Hammond's meek strain, and Shenstone's past'ral lay.
But, ah! fond youth, beware the fev'rish dreams,
And the slow languor of too am'rous themes;
Lest, like the snows that feel the solar ray,
And into dribbling currents melt away,
So the soft power enslave thy yielding heart,
And all the soul of man from thee depart,

317

Till a mere wandering exile thou be found,
The idle tale of all the country round .
But think not rashly that my counsels mean
To bind the poet to the silvan scene:
No; various is the lot of human kind,
And as the features differ, so the mind:
A city some, and some the country please,
Those active walks, these unambitious ease.
Should the gay town allure thy curious eyes,
Go, watch its manners, changeful as the skies:
But oh! beware, ere yet thy name be known,
To throw thyself at random on the town,

318

Poor in resource, and desperate of purse,
A mere adventurer in gainless verse,
To curse in penury, and spleen'd with woe,
All our good friends in Pater-noster-Row.
Ah! think of Chatterton , that child of care,
Ploughing in hope, and reaping in despair.
There are who say, and bards of fairest fame,
That prudence, though in poets, is no shame;
Who quit not bus'ness for an airy flight,
But deem it just, to work, as well as write :

319

Who draw a line, and mark the separate plan,
To please, as poet, and to thrive as man;
Thinking, that verse, however rich and rare,
Like a sweet sauce, but helps more solid fare;
Thus Independence soars on eagles wings,
And pities wriggling bards, who pipe to kings.
But if, and Fortune sometimes aids the bold,
You still resolve your daring course to hold,
Jeering at madam Prudence, and refuse
All counsel, save the warbling of your muse;
Then heav'n protect thee, and with vigour bless,
And to thy daring equal thy success:
Still I, at modest distance must attend,
Still to the last will act the poet's friend.
As the wise general, ere he braves the field,
Or dares in martial feat the sword to wield,
Marks the position of the threat'ning foe,
Plans a retreat, then meditates the blow:
So thou, too wildly ere thou dare to stray,
Well know thy strength, nor dare a doubtful way;
Nor sigh for profit, if you pant for fame,
Content, if you deserve the poet's name ;

320

Ask Milton, if you burn with epic rage,
What the reward of his Heroic page :
Read his advent'rous song, and what it cost,
Then own, his Paradise indeed was lost;
Ah! lost; ah! doubly lost, if grosser pence
Were the just estimate of matchless sense;
If pride of science crav'd a fool's applause,
And towering genius could be paid with straws.
Ask you the value of the Lyric lay?
Speak, mighty Dryden, and majestic Gray:
And say, oh! Collins, 'mid thy dazzling page,
How dull the organs of a tasteless age.
Critiques, reports, puns, essays, scraps of news,
All earn their penny but the lyric muse.
Should you the goosequill dip again in ink,
Like an old tippler eager still for drink,
Or, as with wing already sing'd, the fly
Still hovers round the candle, tho' he die,
The flame that sing'd his wing, now fires his head,
Till the bold flutterer sleeps among the dead;

321

Should you, still smarting, dare to write again,
Oh! may you never wake the lyric strain ,
In fruitless Sonnet prattling griefs relate,
Nor in Elegiacs mourn the Poet's Fate.
Seek thou the Stage—and keep the town alive—
The blessed Stage, where lucky authors thrive ,

322

Or dash at satire—there a feeble wit,
If a bold coxcomb, has a chance to hit,
May strike unseen, though half-inclin'd to dose,
With rude rough rhymes and stiff pedantic prose—
With odds and ends of learning daze the great,
And let some man of quality translate.
Then sleep high-bolster'd on some downy trope,
And dream yourself to be the Shade of Pope .

323

Or wrap your soul in deep poetic trance,
Then soar at Eastern Tales, and bold Romance,
Saddle the Hyppogryf , and speed your way,
Make danger smile, and Hell itself obey;
Bid all around the pomp terrific rise ,
Screams rend our ears, and visions fill our eyes;
Let ghostly lovers, fiend-like forms appear;
Impel no passion of the soul but fear:
Thus a knight-errant minstrel drive along,
In all the dread magnificence of song;
Till Germans—you so well can imitate—
Wonder, that you their horrors should translate:
Spain, Portugal, shall meet you on the way,
Rivals of Lope de Viga's rapid lay .

324

There are who scorn each creeping chirping thing,
Who needs must soar on metaphysic wing;
Soon in the clouds, and fairly out of sight,
They think the world all wondering at their flight:
Mistaken bards! I wonder much, I own,
But ah! such flights but rarely charm the town:
Tho' pure as heav'n's own beam the nice-spun lay,
The sensual town must see for what they pay:
Blackmore's Creation did but make them doze,
And Cowley's Davideis they sell for prose.
Well weigh your powers, and well your subject choose,
Whether you woo the gay, or solemn muse.
Light-lacquer'd fiction shall beguile the sense;
But truth with dulness is the great offence.
A serious theme, well polish'd may prevail;
But genuine wit is sure to find a sale .

325

—And take it with you for a constant rule,
That vice and folly claim your ridicule.
Near folly let your standard be display'd,
Near vice your light artillery well be laid;
If nought but sport you mean, then sport with ease;
The wit is less than nought, that fails to please;
Try—if with humour you the page can fill—
Bath Guides, or Eloise en Dishabille :

326

Yet, as your serious thoughts must be refin'd,
Not always diving in the depths of mind;
So must your wit be classic, sparkling, keen;
Tho' bold, not blustering; free, but not obscene .
If am'rous, still on offals scorn to feed,
And dread to write, what others blush to read.
Now ponder well Cornaro's sober page,
The Æsculapius of a temp'rate age;
Who warns you, if you prize Pierian lore,
Shun the mad rout, and Bacchanalian roar:
Or hear some deep learn'd Plutarch well define
The vine of Bacchus, and the Muse's vine;

327

This fires the soul, and purifies the sense,
Yields copious pleasures, and at small expence;
That but inflames the passions, drowns the soul;
And ruin follows fast the flowing bowl.
Ah! think not thou poetic fury reigns
In none but groveling hearts, and drunken brains:—
Say, Plato, whence perennial springs arise,
Where the least temp'rate are the truly wise;
How by a sacred furor onward driv'n ,
Minds mix with minds, and find a mystic heav'n:
Still the soul feels a symmetry divine—
Still truth irradiates the harmonious line—
While yet the enthusiast poet rolls along,
In thought ecstatic, and sublime of song.
Ah! different he, whose Muse is but a punk,
Never inspir'd, but when she's mad or drunk.
But think not thou too rashly, that I pass
The bigot censure on the social glass:
No—with Sir William would I recommend
Health to yourself, your enemy, your friend;

328

Three glasses thus may sparkle; and one more
A pure libation to good humour pour.
And now the work is done:—now rise to view
The hero-poet, to his genius true!
Too proud, to tremble at the poet's fate,
Too great, to heed each feeble critic's hate;
Too fixt, to truckle a mere statesman's tool,
No rhyming villain, yet no simpering fool;
Too brave, to give to modest worth offence,
Too pure, to sink himself the slave of sense.
Wish you the world your writings to commend?
Be sure you make the bookseller your friend :

329

And know, a bookseller will oft'ner choose,
With luckier stars a subject, than your muse;
Seek his advice, who, sometimes, best can tell,
How stands the market, and what books will sell.
His interest study, then, nor blush to find,
That tradesmen, sometimes, can be just and kind.
Indeed, some reckon it a truth confest,
That of all patrons booksellers are best:
But drones hive not,—as all the learned know,—
In Paul's Church-yard, or Paternoster-Row.
Wish you a patron? rather seek a friend,
Who knows your worth, nor blushes to commend;
Who in your heart may hold the foremost place,
And whom to rev'rence, ne'er shall be disgrace;

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Who forms himself by virtue's steady rule,
Will blush to find his poet knave or fool.
Wish you a patron? Learn what diff'rence lies
'Twixt one, whom while you flatter, you despise;
And one, whom wisdom's self might well approve;
You need not flatter, where you needs must love.
Oh! might I, then, in parting, but commend
My youthful poet to some valued friend!
Prudent, yet warm, though learn'd, of soul sincere,
Still prone to praise, and yet of taste severe;
No smooth dissembler who sits purring by,
Of soul insidious, though of smiling eye,
Pouring his loathsome flatt'ries in your face,
Calling your verse the paragon of grace;
But who, departing, shall with treach'rous pains,
Blast your fair hopes, and damn your youthful strains;
But such as knows to trace the rude design,
Mark the crude thought, and point th' unpolish'd line:
Who your full stretch of song shall take in view,
True to your faults, and to your genius true;
Who, strict to honour, still reveres your name,
And, far from envying, points the road to fame.

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Thus would thy modest merit take no fright,
Though folly scorn, and envy's tooth should bite;
Catch no disorder from the flatt'rer's art;
And dread no secret villain's venom'd dart:
As the wild flocks, that rang'd the lofty brow
Of Ida, frowning on the vale below ,
If wounded by some archer, quickly flew,
And from the neighb'ring plant a virtue drew;
So wouldst thou learn each little fault to mend,
Cheer'd by the guidance of some critic friend;
So learn to know, how far the censure's just,
How far, hereafter, still thyself to trust.
Go now,—whoe'er may shoot his shaft of blame,—
Truth be thy balm, and justice shield thy fame!
 

See William Frend's Principles of Taxation, and William Morgan's Statement of Facts.

This subject is argued with great learning, more particularly on the article of war, by Algernon Sydney, in his Discourses on Government, Ch. ii. sect. 21, 22, 23; and has lately been well examined by Anthony Robinson, and historically traced, with respect to the wars of Great Britain.

Alludes to William Frend's Treatise of Algebra, in which he opposes the doctrine of negative quantities, as laid down in the books of Algebra taught in our Universities.

Alludes to Benjamin Malkin's Essays on Subjects connected with Civilization.

The reader must indulge the author here in a little poetical language, in describing the force of genius.

The finest blossoms of poetry have been consecrated to the cause of virtue, as the respectable translator of Euripides, Michael Wodhull, has shewn, in a poem, entitled the Use of Poetry, in a small volume of poems (the principal of which is, the Equality of Mankind), that has, I believe, only been circulated among the author's friends. I wish that impartial pen had not been obliged to give two or three instances of great deviation from the simplicity and greatness of the poetic character in two excellent English poets.

See this subject elegantly handled in Samuel Rogers's Epistle to a Friend.

The fine collection of statues, at Wilton-House, in the possession of the Earl of Pembroke, is well known.

Some of the most beautiful French tapestry in this kingdom is at the Duke of Argyle's seat, at Inverary, Argyleshire.

For an account of the peculiar taste of Browne, in laying out ground, see Mason's English Garden, Gilpin's Essays, and Price on the Picturesque, as compared with the Sublime and Beautiful. The place where Browne has displayed the utmost exertion of his skill is at Blenheim-House, the seat of the Duke of Marlborough, in Oxfordshire.

The Florentine Gallery, in which was the celebrated Venus de Medicis; the Vatican, at Rome, where the Apollo Belvidere, and Laocoon, formed the principal ornaments; the Villa Borghese, replete with the finest statues, and the most exquisite paintings; the Farnese Palace, &c. &c. all well known to travellers and readers of travels.—The fine arts were advanced to such high perfection no where as in Italy. See De Pile's Abridgement of the Lives of the Roman and Florentine Painters. Most of the above statues have been lately removed to Rome.

The Duke of Roxburgh, and Earl Spencer, have splendid and valuable libraries.

A gentleman lately deceased, well known for his valuable library and museum.—Michael Wodhull, mentioned in a former note, is in possession of a valuable collection of books, enriched, as I perceive, from Dr. Askew's catalogue, with many of that gentleman's splendid editions.—Thomas Brand Hollis has a fine collection of antiques, at his seat called the Hide, near Colchester, in Essex.

Nec tamen interdum pudeat tenuisse bidentem,
Aut stimulo tardos increpuisse boves:
Non agnamve sinu pigeat, fœtumve capellæ
Desertum, oblitam matre, referre domum.

Tibullus. lib. i. el. 4.

Nor would I blush at times the prong to wield,
Or chide with quick'ning goad the lazy steer;
Nor grudge a lamb, beneath my arm, from field,
Or kidling lorn, of heedless dam, to bear.

Henlry's Translation.

Hanc olim veteres vitam coluere coloni,
Hanc Remus et frater: sic fortis Etruria crevit,
Scilicet et Rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma.

Virgil. Georgic. lib. xi. 533.

Every thing said by mehere, or elsewhere, aboutindustry, attention to a profession, working for the booksellers, and the like, must be considered with its appropriate application. If the poet enjoys an easy independence, and can pursue the otium cum dignitate, he may be pronounced,

------Terq. quaterq. beatum.

But miserable is the man, who amidst poverty is intoxicated with an imaginary independence! He, who is destitute of fortune, that is the poet I am addressing in this poem, must find resources in himself, and take for his motto, Labor omnia vincit.

Hoc mihi contingat: sit dives jure, furorem
Qui maris et tristes ferre potest pluvias:
O, quantum est auri potius pereatq smaragdi,
Quam fleat ob nostras ulla puella vias.

Tibullus, lib. i. el. 4.

This lot be mine: let wealth be his, of right,
Who rage of sea, and winter's rain can bear,
O! perish gold, and gems of richest light,
Ere my campaigning cost one maid a tear.

Henley.

Mille Fiate, O dolce mea guerrera
Per aver co' begli occhi vostri pace,
V'aggio proferto il cor: m'a voi non piace
Mirar si basso con la mente altera.

Petrarch. Sonnetto xix.

Full many a time, oh! thou my lovely foe,
A short-liv'd truce with your fair eyes to gain,
I've proffer'd you my heart; but you disdain,
With that exalted mind, to look so low.
Ma ben veggi' or, sì come al popol tutto
Favola fui gran tempo: onde sovente
Di me medesmo meco mi vergogno.

Petrarch.

And late I feel how to the country round
A common tale I grew, in memory
Of which full oft asham'd I bow my head.

The great error of this ingenious youth, on his coming to town, was improvidence. See his life by Dr. Gregory, in the Biographia Britannica.

It was the advice of Gray to his friend West, when leaving College for the Bar; “Cherish the sweets of poetry in your bosom; they will serve you now and then to correct the disgusting sober follies of the Common Law. Misce stultitiam consiliis brevem: dulce est desipere in loco. So said Horace to Virgil, those two sons of Anac in poetry, and so say I to you, in this degenerate land of pigmies,

“Mix with your grave designs a little pleasure;
“Each day of business has its hour of leisure.”

Mason's Life of Gray, p. 15.

It deserves observation, that some of the most successful poets of the present day have been in professions. I think it of great importance to mention this circumstance.

Ο ποιητης, in the sense laid down by Aristotle.

On this subject enough has already been said.

After what has been said in the preface concerning the excellence and sublimity of lyric poetry, the reader cannot suppose, that I mean to speak degradingly of it here. By no means. We have, indeed, few compositions of this kind truly excellent in the English language, and the reason is, so much goes to constitute the perfection of this species of poetry. But we have not many compositions that possess so much genuine poetry as Dryden's Ode on St. Cæcilia's day, and Gray's and Collins's Odes; though in proportion as they come nearer to perfection, severe criticism will more clearly discover each smaller blemish. And, indeed, we have lately had some successful attempts at this refined species of writing. I speak in the text, only of its productiveness. Dryden took a fortnight to compose his Ode on St. Cæcilia's day. I never heard that he got any thing for it. Collins starved over sublime odes; and Gray, too proud to receive pay from booksellers, gave his lyric performances to Dodsley the Bookseller.

Two or three successful plays would produce more profit to an author, than all the epic poems written in England, put together. The reader, however, should take with him, that managers are not always manageable themselves; that the public taste is now as ricketty and corrupt, as in the times of Pope; and that a play, never acted, is no commodity for book-sellers. Moreover, he should be prepared to answer, at the bar of his own taste and conscience, whether he is disposed to make the due sacrifices to stage effect. Such sacrifices, in times like the present, will not be inconsiderable.—If a person of genius can surmount these difficulties, I congratulate him;—he may proceed.

This is, however, all said, as I hinted in a former place, with the greatest deference to dramatic works of real excellence; such are some of Inchbald's comedies (I mean her originals), Sheridan's, and a few others.

Monsieur de la Mott wrote an ode, called l'Ombre d'Homere. That would not suit my rhyme.

To abuse people in plain English, and to get men of quality to translate the Greek and Latin notes, is, it seems, the via ad astra now. Pope has hinted as much in his notes to the Dunciad.

See Wieland's Oberon, book the first.

Burger's Leonora, and various imitations. The works I allude to are works of genius, and the species of composition is popular. A writer, however, will here stand on the edge of a precipice, and may soon fall into errors pointed out by Longinus, Plutarch, Horace, and Persius.

The ingenious Robert Southey, in his Travels into Spain and Portugal—who has given a large account of the Spanish and Portugueze poetry—observes, that it rather exhibits “an age of genius than of taste.”

For an account of Lope de Viga's poetry, particularly his Tears of Angelica, see Southey's Travels. The Spanish and Portugueze poetry will, I understand, be soon published in a separate volume.

As the great object of poetry is to please (See Aristotle, Περι ποιητικης) he who best secures that point, whether he write on humorous or serious subjects, acts most agreeably to the character of a poet, and will be most successful as a writer. The poems that have had the most extensive sale in the present day, are in extremes with regard to each other; one being replete with religious sentiment and solemn latire; the other with fun and banter.

That the principal and immediate aim of poetry is, to please, has been opposed by Julius Scaliger, and some other critics. But though I must admit that,

Omne tulit punctum, qui miscuit utile dulci,
yet will I still abide by Aristotle's and Plutarch's opinion, that the immediate object of poetry is, to please, and that even in solemn subjects poetry is used to render them more engaging and agreeable. Poetry, therefore, must not, as Lord Bacon expresses it, “buckle and bow, too much, the mind to the nature of things.”

By this principle should we examine all the mysteries of poetry, whether of sentiment, figure. or expression. In maintaining, that the immediate and principal object of poetry, is to please, I do but speak after two very serious writers, Bishop Lowth, and Bishop Hurd. Poeticam igitur eo præcipue utilem esse statuo, quod sit jucunda, says the former. Prælect. prima. “The art of poetry,” says the latter, “will be, universally, the art of pleasing; and all its rules, but so many means, which experience finds most conducive to that end.” See his Critical Dissertations subjoined to his Commentary on Horace's Epistles to the Pisos and Augustus.

Anstey's New Bath Guide, a favourite poem, that has gone through many editions. The Eloisa en Dishabille is a poem on the same taste, though on a different subject, a humourous version of Pope's Epistle from Eloisa to Abelard, published in 1794. Both are poems, justly to be admired for their wit.

Swift and Rochester, however, have their great admirers, and their portion of popularity; and I am aware that many read Ovid's Art of Love, who will never read his metamorphosis. General utility, however, and the hazard such writers run of not succeeding, is a sufficient ground for my prudential hints.

See the History of Lewis Cornaro, a Venetian nobleman; his Discourses on a sober and temperate life, are well known. There is an account of them in the Spectator, No. 195.

See Plutarch, de audiend. Poetis.

Nobody has written more earnestly and poetically on the Furor poeticus than Plato, more particularly in his Phædrus.

Τρεις γαρ μονους κρατηρας εγκεραννυω
Τοις ευφρονουσι. τον μεν υγιειας ενα,
Ον πρωτον εκπινουσι: τον δε δευτερον
Ερωτος ηδονης τε. τον τριτον δε υπνου,
Ον εκπιοντες, οι σοφοι κεκλημενοι
Οικαδε βαδιζουσ' ο δε τεταρτος ουκετι
Ημετερος εστ', αλλ' υζρεως.

Ex Eudulo.

Whence Sir William Temple derived his rule, so frequently quoted; “The first glass may pass for health; the second for good humour; the third for our friends; but the fourth for our enemies.”—See his Treatise on health and long life.

The reader will please not to confound my hints with the strict rules of dogmatical egotists; but as accommodated to the predominant principle in this poem, general utility.

I have already hinted at the danger of laying aside a profession for poetry. If, however, my poet should venture to make literature his profession, he will, probably, soon find out, that he cannot afford to be always writing poetry. Goldsmith undertook several prose works, and found his account in following the advice of booksellers. And (if I might be allowed to give counsel) I would recommend an attention to the same rule; so far as relates to prose writing. In poetry, genius will judge for itself of proper subjects, and abide by that judgment. I have said nothing concerning the printing, the form of the book, the paper, and the decorations. These things, however, are worthy the poet's consideration, in these times. The book-seller is the proper adviser. Many useful hints may be collected from Fawcet's Art of Poetry.

This property of the Δικταμνος peculiar to Crete is mentioned by Ælian. Var. Hist. See also Virgil's Æneid, L. xii. v. 411.


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THE END.