The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
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Or moved by want, or pressed by hunger's call,
Mourning in shame, he scarce durst raise his head,
But spoke immortal verse to gain his bread.
Plautus, whose verses made all ages smile,
A miller was—then sat, and wrote awhile;
It was no shame that he, a poet born,
Should sometimes sing, whilst others ground the corn.
Xylander studied at eighteen for fame,
His hope, his glory, was a poet's name:
His notes on Dion Cassius, every line,
Were sold for want, that he once more could dine;
Then his young vanity for ever fled,
He thought, he studied, how to write for bread.
Agrippa in a workhouse laid his head,
But soon they found the great Agrippa dead;
Forced from his native valleys to depart,
Despair and poverty had broke his heart.
The tuneful Camoens sweetly strung his lyre—
Dimmed was the poet's eye, and quenched his fire;
He, who could tune his wildest notes so sweet,
Perished from hunger in the public street;
Child of the muses! he, a poet born,
Found, with his broken harp, a corpse at morn!
Upon the bard the haughty, wealthy gaze,
And those who most neglected, gave him praise.
He heard it not, his noble soaring mind
Was glad to leave such cold neglect behind.
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Till he a crown had borrowed from a friend;
And when in study he sat up at night,
So poor, he oft was destitute of light;
But soared above all want, he wrote—and praise
Has formed his chaplet in succeeding days.
Great Ariosto bitterly complains
Of poets' misery, of poets' gains,
Till great Alphonso gave a lovely spot,
And built the bard a little rustic cot;
When these were done, the poet's soul was glad,
Yet he so poor, his furniture was bad;
He found few riches flow from poets' strings,
And palaces and verse are different things.
See great Lord Burleigh, fav'rite of the queen,
When Spenser was approaching, step between
Her and the bard whose fame through lands resounds,
Keeping the poet from the hundred pounds:
He thought his clerks deserv'd far more than he—
The child of genius and of poverty.
But Burleigh's name detested shall be read,
Who caused the bard to die for want of bread.
O poets! hope not favour from the great,
These merit often cast beneath their feet.
Savage, unfortunate, by want distressed,
When cares and sorrows on his bosom pressed,
Th' eccentric ‘Wand'rer’ he had studied years,
Smiled on its lines, or wet them with his tears,
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For poor ten pounds the beauteous poem sold;
And mighty Milton, who could sing of heaven,
For his great work, had just the same sum given.
Otway and Butler suffered here in time,
One starved, and one imprisoned for his rhyme;
But Chatterton, the noble-minded youth,
Whose genius soared in hyperbole or truth,
Whose fancy mounted on her airy wings,
As o'er the clouds he touched his powerful strings,
Oppressed with misery, o'ercome with care,
Fell, early victim to a dark despair!
A luxury he thought a single tart,
And study and long starving broke his heart.
He who to water got sometimes no bread,
We see applauded, when the youth is dead.
Poor Boyce, who wrote ‘Creation,’ see him stand,
White as the paper, while Death shook his hand!
Cold in the garret, destitute of fire,
This son of song the world left to expire.
No crust of cheese, and not an ounce of bread
Found in his garret, when the bard was dead!
Here had he died in penury alone,
O'er his worn shoulders an old blanket thrown,
A skewer thrust in before to keep it fast,
And in his hand was found his pen at last!
The tuneful Burns, old Scotia's darling pride,
In his youth's bloom full prematurely died,
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To ask a favour even from a friend;
He struggled hard against his adverse fate,
And when assistance came, it came too late:
Yet, when the harp of Burns had ceased its sounds,
They heaped upon his dust seven thousand pounds!
I speak the truth, what every man must feel—
This would have bought and stocked for him Mossgiel;
But poets seldom rise while here they live,
The critics break their hearts, and then a stone they give.”
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |