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MEMORIAL VERSES
301
A DIALOGUE
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE
“Non injussa cano.”—
Virg.
Poet.
I sing of Pope—
Friend.
What, Pope, the Twitnam Bard,
Whom Dennis, Cibber, Tibbald push'd so hard!
Pope of the Dunciad! Pope who dar'd to woo,
And then to libel, Wortley-Montagu!
Pope of the Ham-walks story—
P.
Scandals all!
Scandals that now I care not to recall.
Surely a little, in two hundred Years,
One may neglect Contemporary Sneers:—
Surely allowance for the Man may make
That had all Grub Street yelping in his Wake!
And who (I ask you) has been never Mean,
When urged by Envy, Anger or the Spleen?
No: I prefer to look on Pope as one
Not rightly happy till his Life was done;
Whose whole Career, romance it as you please,
Was (what he call'd it) but a “long Disease”:
Think of his Lot,—his Pilgrimage of Pain,
His “crazy Carcass” and his restless Brain;
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His dreary Vigil and his aching Head;
Think of all this, and marvel then to find
The “crooked Body with a crooked Mind!”
Nay rather, marvel that, in Fate's Despite,
You find so much to solace and delight,—
So much of Courage, and of Purpose high
In that unequal Struggle not to die.
I grant you freely that Pope played his Part
Sometimes ignobly—but he lov'd his Art;
I grant you freely that he sought his Ends
Not always wisely—but he lov'd his Friends;
And who of Friends a nobler Roll could show—
Swift, St. John, Bathurst, Marchmont, Peterb'ro',
Arbuthnot—
Fr.
Atticus?
P.
Well (entre nous),
Most that he said of Addison was true.
Plain Truth, you know—
Fr.
Is often not polite
(So Hamlet thought)—
P.
And Hamlet (Sir) was right.
But leave Pope's Life. to-day, methinks, we touch
The Work too little and the Man too much.
Take up the Lock, the Satires, Eloise—
What Art supreme, what Elegance, what Ease!
How, keen the Irony, the Wit how bright,
The Style how rapid, and the Verse how light!
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At Skill, at Turn, at Point, at Epithet.
“True Wit is Nature to Advantage dress'd”—
Was ever Thought so pithily express'd?
“And ten low Words oft creep in one dull Line”—
Ah, what a Homily on Yours . . and Mine!
Or take—to choose at Random—take but This—
“Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss.”
Fr.
Pack'd and precise, no Doubt. Yet surely those
Are but the Qualities we ask of Prose.
Was he a Poet?
P.
Yes: if that be what
Byron was certainly and Bowles was not;
Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date,
What Dryden had, that was denied to Tate—
Fr.
Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine,
Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line—
P.
True, there are Classes. Pope was most of all
Akin to Horace, Persius, Juvenal;
Pope was, like them, the Censor of his Age,
An Age more suited to Repose than Rage;
When Rhyming turn'd from Freedom to the Schools,
And shock'd with Licence, shudder'd into Rules;
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With one supreme Commandment, Be thou Clear;
When Thought meant less to reason than compile,
And the Muse labour'd . . chiefly with the File.
Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its Breath
As in the Days of great Elizabeth;
And to the Bards of Anna, was denied
The Note that Wordsworth heard on Duddon-side.
But Pope took up his Parable, and knit
The Woof of Wisdom with the Warp of Wit;
He trimm'd the Measure on its equal Feet,
And smooth'd and fitted till the Line was neat;
He taught the Pause with due Effect to fall;
He taught the Epigram to come at Call;
He wrote—
Fr.
His Iliad!
P.
Well, suppose you own
You like your Iliad in the Prose of Bohn,—
Tho' if you'd learn in Prose how Homer sang,
'Twere best to learn of Butcher and of Lang,—
Suppose you say your Worst of Pope, declare
His Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,
His Art but Artifice—I ask once more
Where have you seen such Artifice before?
Where have you seen a Parterre better grac'd,
Or Gems that glitter like his Gems of Paste?
Where can you show, among your Names of Note,
So much to copy and so much to quote?
And where, in Fine, in all our English Verse,
A Style more trenchant and a Sense more terse?
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Of formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;
That like along the finished Line to feel
The Ruffle's Flutter and the Flash of Steel;
That like my Couplet as compact as clear;
That like my Satire sparkling tho' severe,
Unmix'd with Bathos and unmarr'd by Trope
I fling my Cap for Polish—and for Pope!
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A FAMILIAR EPISTLE
TO ------ ESQ. OF ------ WITH A LIFE OF THE LATE INGENIOUS MR. WM. HOGARTH
Dear Cosmopolitan,—I knowI should address you a Rondeau,
Or else announce what I've to say
At least en Ballade fratrisée;
But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,
And take to simple Hudibrasticks;
Why should I choose another Way,
When this was good enough for Gay?
You love, my Friend, with me, I think,
That Age of Lustre and of Link;
Of Chelsea China and long “s”es,
Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;
That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;
—No H---lts no K---g---n P---ls were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy Tonsons and your Curlls;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The Author in a Sheep-skin Back;
Then Savage and his Brother-Sinners
In Porridge-Island div'd for Dinners;
Or doz'd on Covent Garden Bulks,
And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;—
You know that by-gone Time, I say,
That aimless, easy-moral'd Day,
When rosy Morn found Madam still
Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille;
When good Sir John reel'd Home to Bed,
From Pontack's or the Shakespear's Head;
When Trip convey'd his Master's Cloaths,
And took his Titles and his Oaths;
While Betty, in a cast Brocade,
Ogled My Lord at Masquerade;
When Garrick play'd the guilty Richard,
Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. Pritchard;
When Foote grimac'd his snarling Wit;
When Churchill bullied in the Pit;
When the Cuzzoni sang—
That Age of Lustre and of Link;
Of Chelsea China and long “s”es,
Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;
That Age of Folly and of Cards,
Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;
—No H---lts no K---g---n P---ls were then
Dispensing Competence to Men;
The gentle Trade was left to Churls,
Your frowsy Tonsons and your Curlls;
Mere Wolves in Ambush to attack
The Author in a Sheep-skin Back;
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In Porridge-Island div'd for Dinners;
Or doz'd on Covent Garden Bulks,
And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;—
You know that by-gone Time, I say,
That aimless, easy-moral'd Day,
When rosy Morn found Madam still
Wrangling at Ombre or Quadrille;
When good Sir John reel'd Home to Bed,
From Pontack's or the Shakespear's Head;
When Trip convey'd his Master's Cloaths,
And took his Titles and his Oaths;
While Betty, in a cast Brocade,
Ogled My Lord at Masquerade;
When Garrick play'd the guilty Richard,
Or mouth'd Macbeth with Mrs. Pritchard;
When Foote grimac'd his snarling Wit;
When Churchill bullied in the Pit;
When the Cuzzoni sang—
But there!
The farther Catalogue I spare,
Having no Purpose to eclipse
That tedious Tale of Homer's Ships;—
This is the Man that drew it all
From Pannier Alley to the Mall,
Then turn'd and drew it once again
From Bird-Cage Walk to Lewknor's Lane;—
Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;
Its bawling Quacks, its starveling Scots;
Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,
Its Henleys, Lovats, Malcolms, Chartres;
Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease;
Its quicquid agunt Homines;—
Nor yet omitted to pourtray
Furens quid possit Foemina;—
In short, held up to ev'ry Class
Nature's unflatt'ring looking-Glass;
And, from his Canvass, spoke to All
The Message of a Juvenal.
Take Him. His Merits most aver:
The farther Catalogue I spare,
Having no Purpose to eclipse
That tedious Tale of Homer's Ships;—
This is the Man that drew it all
From Pannier Alley to the Mall,
Then turn'd and drew it once again
From Bird-Cage Walk to Lewknor's Lane;—
Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;
Its bawling Quacks, its starveling Scots;
Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,
Its Henleys, Lovats, Malcolms, Chartres;
Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease;
Its quicquid agunt Homines;—
308
Furens quid possit Foemina;—
In short, held up to ev'ry Class
Nature's unflatt'ring looking-Glass;
And, from his Canvass, spoke to All
The Message of a Juvenal.
His weak Point is—his Chronicler!
Novr. 1, 1879.
309
HENRY FIELDING
(TO JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL)
Not from the ranks of those we call
Philosopher or Admiral,—
Neither as Locke was, nor as Blake,
Is that Great Genius for whose sake
We keep this Autumn festival.
Philosopher or Admiral,—
Neither as Locke was, nor as Blake,
Is that Great Genius for whose sake
We keep this Autumn festival.
And yet in one sense, too, was he
A soldier—of humanity;
And, surely, philosophic mind
Belonged to him whose brain designed
That teeming Comic Epos where,
As in Cervantes and Molière,
Jostles the medley of Mankind.
A soldier—of humanity;
And, surely, philosophic mind
Belonged to him whose brain designed
That teeming Comic Epos where,
As in Cervantes and Molière,
Jostles the medley of Mankind.
Our English Novel's pioneer!
His was the eye that saw first clear
How, not in natures half-effaced
By cant of Fashion and of Taste,—
Not in the circles of the Great,
Faint-blooded and exanimate,—
Lay the true field of Jest and Whim,
Which we to-day reap after him.
No:—he stepped lower down and took
The piebald People for his Book!
His was the eye that saw first clear
How, not in natures half-effaced
By cant of Fashion and of Taste,—
Not in the circles of the Great,
Faint-blooded and exanimate,—
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Which we to-day reap after him.
No:—he stepped lower down and took
The piebald People for his Book!
Ah, what a wealth of Life there is
In that large-laughing page of his!
What store and stock of Common-Sense,
Wit, Wisdom, Books, Experience!
How his keen Satire flashes through,
And cuts a sophistry in two!
How his ironic lightning plays
Around a rogue and all his ways!
Ah, how he knots his lash to see
That ancient cloak, Hypocrisy!
In that large-laughing page of his!
What store and stock of Common-Sense,
Wit, Wisdom, Books, Experience!
How his keen Satire flashes through,
And cuts a sophistry in two!
How his ironic lightning plays
Around a rogue and all his ways!
Ah, how he knots his lash to see
That ancient cloak, Hypocrisy!
Whose are the characters that give
Such round reality?—that live
With such full pulse? Fair Sophy yet
Sings Bobbing Joan at the spinet;
We see Amelia cooking still
That supper for the recreant Will;
We hear Squire Western's headlong tones
Bawling “Wut ha?—wut ha?” to Jones.
Are they not present now to us,—
The Parson with his Æschylus?
Slipslop the frail, and Northerton,
Partridge, and Bath, and Harrison?—
Are they not breathing, moving,—all
The motley, merry carnival
That Fielding kept, in days agone?
He was the first that dared to draw
Mankind the mixture that he saw;
Not wholly good nor ill, but both,
With fine intricacies of growth.
He pulled the wraps of flesh apart,
And showed the working human heart;
He scorned to drape the truthful nude
With smooth, decorous platitude!
Such round reality?—that live
With such full pulse? Fair Sophy yet
Sings Bobbing Joan at the spinet;
We see Amelia cooking still
That supper for the recreant Will;
We hear Squire Western's headlong tones
Bawling “Wut ha?—wut ha?” to Jones.
Are they not present now to us,—
The Parson with his Æschylus?
Slipslop the frail, and Northerton,
Partridge, and Bath, and Harrison?—
Are they not breathing, moving,—all
The motley, merry carnival
That Fielding kept, in days agone?
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Mankind the mixture that he saw;
Not wholly good nor ill, but both,
With fine intricacies of growth.
He pulled the wraps of flesh apart,
And showed the working human heart;
He scorned to drape the truthful nude
With smooth, decorous platitude!
He was too frank, may be; and dared
Too boldly. Those whose faults he bared,
Writhed in the ruthless grasp that brought
Into the light their secret thought.
Therefore the Tartuffe-throng who say
“Couvrez ce sein,” and look that way,—
Therefore the Priests of Sentiment
Rose on him with their garments rent.
Therefore the gadfly swarm whose sting
Plies ever round some generous thing,
Buzzed of old bills and tavern-scores,
Old “might-have-beens” and “heretofores”;—
Then, from that garbled record-list,
Made him his own Apologist.
Too boldly. Those whose faults he bared,
Writhed in the ruthless grasp that brought
Into the light their secret thought.
Therefore the Tartuffe-throng who say
“Couvrez ce sein,” and look that way,—
Therefore the Priests of Sentiment
Rose on him with their garments rent.
Therefore the gadfly swarm whose sting
Plies ever round some generous thing,
Buzzed of old bills and tavern-scores,
Old “might-have-beens” and “heretofores”;—
Then, from that garbled record-list,
Made him his own Apologist.
And was he? Nay,—let who has known
Nor Youth nor Error, cast the stone!
If to have sense of Joy and Pain
Too keen,—to rise, to fall again,
To live too much,—be sin, why then,
This was no pattern among men.
But those who turn that later page,
The Journal of his middle-age,
Watch him serene in either fate,—
Philanthropist and Magistrate;
Watch him as Husband, Father, Friend,
Faithful, and patient to the end;
Grieving, as e'en the brave may grieve,
But for the loved ones he must leave:
These will admit—if any can—
That 'neath the green Estrella trees,
No artist merely, but a Man,
Wrought on our noblest island-plan,
Sleeps with the alien Portuguese.
Nor Youth nor Error, cast the stone!
If to have sense of Joy and Pain
Too keen,—to rise, to fall again,
To live too much,—be sin, why then,
This was no pattern among men.
But those who turn that later page,
The Journal of his middle-age,
It is, perhaps, needless to say that the reference here is to the Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon, published posthumously in February 1755,—a record which for its intrinsic pathos and dignity may be compared with the prologue and dedication which Fielding's predecessor and model, Cervantes, prefixed to his last romance of Persiles and Sigismunda.
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Philanthropist and Magistrate;
Watch him as Husband, Father, Friend,
Faithful, and patient to the end;
Grieving, as e'en the brave may grieve,
But for the loved ones he must leave:
These will admit—if any can—
That 'neath the green Estrella trees,
No artist merely, but a Man,
Wrought on our noblest island-plan,
Sleeps with the alien Portuguese.
313
A POSTSCRIPT TO “RETALIATION”
On the 22nd June, 1896 these verses were read for the
author by the Master of the Temple (Canon Ainger) at the
dinner given in celebration of the five hundredth meeting of
the Johnson Society of Pembroke College, Oxford. They
then concluded with a couplet appropriate to that occasion.
In their present place, it has been thought preferable to leave
them—like Goldsmith's epitaph on Reynolds—unfinished.
On the 22nd June, 1896 these verses were read for the author by the Master of the Temple (Canon Ainger) at the dinner given in celebration of the five hundredth meeting of the Johnson Society of Pembroke College, Oxford. They then concluded with a couplet appropriate to that occasion. In their present place, it has been thought preferable to leave them—like Goldsmith's epitaph on Reynolds—unfinished.
[_]
[After the Fourth Edition of Doctor Goldsmith's Retaliation was printed, the Publisher received a supplementary Epitaph on the Wit and Punster Caleb Whitefoord. Though it is found appended to the later issues of the Poem, it has been suspected that Whitefoord wrote it himself. It may be that the following, which has recently come to light, is another forgery.]
Here Johnson is laid. Have a care how you walk;
If he stir in his sleep, in his sleep he will talk.
Ye gods! how he talk'd! What a torrent of sound,
His hearers invaded, encompass'd and—drown'd!
What a banquet of memory, fact, illustration,
In that innings-for-one that he call'd conversation!
Can't you hear his sonorous “Why no, Sir!” and “Stay, Sir!
Your premiss is wrong,” or “You don't see your way, Sir!”
How he silenc'd a prig, or a slip-shod romancer!
How he pounc'd on a fool with a knock-me-down answer!
If he stir in his sleep, in his sleep he will talk.
Ye gods! how he talk'd! What a torrent of sound,
His hearers invaded, encompass'd and—drown'd!
What a banquet of memory, fact, illustration,
In that innings-for-one that he call'd conversation!
Can't you hear his sonorous “Why no, Sir!” and “Stay, Sir!
Your premiss is wrong,” or “You don't see your way, Sir!”
How he silenc'd a prig, or a slip-shod romancer!
How he pounc'd on a fool with a knock-me-down answer!
But peace to his slumbers! Tho' rough in the rind,
The heart of the giant was gentle and kind:
What signifies now, if in bouts with a friend,
When his pistol miss'd fire, he would use the butt-end?
If he trampled your flow'rs, like a bull in a garden,
What matter for that? he was sure to ask pardon;
And you felt on the whole, tho' he'd toss'd you and gor'd you,
It was something, at least, that he had not ignor'd you.
Yes! the outside was rugged. But test him within,
You found he had nought of the bear but the skin;
And for bottom and base to his anfractuosity,
A fund of fine feeling, good taste, generosity.
He was true to his conscience, his King, and his duty;
And he hated the Whigs, and he soften'd to Beauty.
Turn now to his Writings. I grant, in his tales,
The heart of the giant was gentle and kind:
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When his pistol miss'd fire, he would use the butt-end?
If he trampled your flow'rs, like a bull in a garden,
What matter for that? he was sure to ask pardon;
And you felt on the whole, tho' he'd toss'd you and gor'd you,
It was something, at least, that he had not ignor'd you.
Yes! the outside was rugged. But test him within,
You found he had nought of the bear but the skin;
And for bottom and base to his anfractuosity,
A fund of fine feeling, good taste, generosity.
He was true to his conscience, his King, and his duty;
And he hated the Whigs, and he soften'd to Beauty.
That he made little fishes talk vastly like whales;
I grant that his language was rather emphatic,
Nay, even—to put the thing plainly—dogmatic;
But read him for Style,—and dismiss from your thoughts,
The crowd of compilers who copied his faults,—
Say, where is there English so full and so clear,
So weighty, so dignified, manly, sincere?
So strong in expression, conviction, persuasion?
So prompt to take colour from place and occasion?
So widely remov'd from the doubtful, the tentative;
So truly—and in the best sense—argumentative?
315
But I hark back to him with a “Johnson for ever!”
And I feel as I muse on his ponderous figure,
Tho' he's great in this age, in the next he'll grow bigger;
And still while[OMITTED]
[Cætera Desunt.]
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HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
“Nec turpem senectam
Degere, nec cithara carentem.”
—Hor. i. 31.
Degere, nec cithara carentem.”
—Hor. i. 31.
“Not to be tuneless in old age!”
Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage,
Who, in his Winter's snow,
Still sings with note as sweet and clear
As in the morning of the year
When the first violets blow!
Ah! surely blest his pilgrimage,
Who, in his Winter's snow,
Still sings with note as sweet and clear
As in the morning of the year
When the first violets blow!
Blest!—but more blest, whom Summer's heat,
Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat,
Have taught no feverish lure;
Whose Muse, benignant and serene,
Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green
Because his verse is pure!
Whom Spring's impulsive stir and beat,
Have taught no feverish lure;
Whose Muse, benignant and serene,
Still keeps his Autumn chaplet green
Because his verse is pure!
Lie calm, O white and laureate head!
Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead,
Since from the voiceless grave,
Thy voice shall speak to old and young
While song yet speaks an English tongue
By Charles' or Thamis' wave!
Lie calm, O Dead, that art not dead,
Since from the voiceless grave,
Thy voice shall speak to old and young
While song yet speaks an English tongue
By Charles' or Thamis' wave!
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CHARLES GEORGE GORDON
“Rather be dead than praised,” he said,
That hero, like a hero dead,
In this slack-sinewed age endued
With more than antique fortitude!
That hero, like a hero dead,
In this slack-sinewed age endued
With more than antique fortitude!
“Rather be dead than praised!” Shall we,
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free
Thine eager soul, with word and line
Profane that empty house of thine?
Who loved thee, now that Death sets free
Thine eager soul, with word and line
Profane that empty house of thine?
Nay,—let us hold, be mute. Our pain
Will not be less that we refrain;
And this our silence shall but be
A larger monument to thee.
Will not be less that we refrain;
And this our silence shall but be
A larger monument to thee.
318
VICTOR HUGO
He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo!
The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow,
The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,
Rose like a storm cloud, upon angry wings.
The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow,
The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,
Rose like a storm cloud, upon angry wings.
He set the reed pipe to his lips, and lo!
The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow,
And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings
Laughed in the music, like a child that sings.
The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow,
And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings
Laughed in the music, like a child that sings.
Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still
Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill,
Look upward lonely—lonely to the height
Where thou hast climbed, for ever, out of sight!
Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill,
Look upward lonely—lonely to the height
Where thou hast climbed, for ever, out of sight!
319
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON
EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII.
Grief there will be, and may,
When King Apollo's bay
Is cut midwise;
Grief that a song is stilled,
Grief for the unfulfilled
Singer that dies.
When King Apollo's bay
Is cut midwise;
Grief that a song is stilled,
Grief for the unfulfilled
Singer that dies.
Not so we mourn thee now,
Not so we grieve that thou,
Master, art passed,
Since thou thy song didst raise,
Through the full round of days
E'en to the last.
Not so we grieve that thou,
Master, art passed,
Since thou thy song didst raise,
Through the full round of days
E'en to the last.
Grief there may be, and will,
When that the singer still
Sinks in the song;
When that the wingéd rhyme
Fails of the promised prime,
Ruined and wrong.
When that the singer still
Sinks in the song;
When that the wingéd rhyme
Fails of the promised prime,
Ruined and wrong.
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Not thus we mourn thee—we—
Not thus we grieve for thee,
Master and Friend;
Since, like a clearing flame,
Clearer thy pure song came
E'en to the end.
Not thus we grieve for thee,
Master and Friend;
Since, like a clearing flame,
Clearer thy pure song came
E'en to the end.
Nay—nor for thee we grieve
E'en as for those that leave
Life without name;
Lost as the stars that set,
Empty of men's regret,
Empty of fame.
E'en as for those that leave
Life without name;
Lost as the stars that set,
Empty of men's regret,
Empty of fame.
Rather we count thee one
Who, when his race is run,
Layeth him down,
Calm—through all coming days,
Filled with a nation's praise,
Filled with renown.
Who, when his race is run,
Layeth him down,
Calm—through all coming days,
Filled with a nation's praise,
Filled with renown.
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