Ah, yes, that "drop of human blood!"—We had it once, may be,When our young song's impetuous floodFirst poured its ecstasy;But now the shrunk poetic veinYields not that priceless drop again.We toil,—as toiled we not of old;Our patient hands distilThe shining spheres of chemic goldWith hard-won, fruitless skill;But that red drop still seems to beBeyond our utmost alchemy.Perchance, but most in later age,Time's after-gift, a tear,Will strike a pathos on the pageBeyond all art sincere;But that "one drop of human blood"Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.
Ah, yes, that "drop of human blood!"—We had it once, may be,When our young song's impetuous floodFirst poured its ecstasy;But now the shrunk poetic veinYields not that priceless drop again.
We toil,—as toiled we not of old;Our patient hands distilThe shining spheres of chemic goldWith hard-won, fruitless skill;But that red drop still seems to beBeyond our utmost alchemy.
Perchance, but most in later age,Time's after-gift, a tear,Will strike a pathos on the pageBeyond all art sincere;But that "one drop of human blood"Has gone with life's first leaf and bud.
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. ALEXANDER POPE.
"Non injussa cano."Virg.
"Non injussa cano."Virg.
Poet. I sing ofPope—Friend. What,Pope, theTwitnamBard,WhomDennis,Cibber,Tibbaldpush'd so hard!Popeof theDunciad!Popewho dar'd to woo,And then to libel,Wortley-Montagu!Popeof theHam-walksstory—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 makeThat had allGrub-streetyelping 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 onPopeas oneNot 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;Think of his Night-Hours with their Feet of Lead,His dreary Vigil and his aching Head;Think of all this, and marvel then to findThe "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 highIn that unequal Strugglenotto die.I grant you freely thatPopeplayed his PartSometimes ignobly—but he lov'd his Art;I grant you freely that he sought his EndsNot 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 ofAddisonwastrue.Plain Truth, you know—Fr.Is often not polite(SoHamletthought)—P.AndHamlet(Sir) was right.But leavePope'sLife. To-day, methinks, we touchThe Work too little and the Man too much.Take up theLock, theSatires,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!Then read once more, and you shall wonder yetAt 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 thoseAre but the Qualities we ask of Prose,Was he aPoet?P.Yes: if that be whatByronwas certainly andBowleswas not;Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date,WhatDrydenhad, that was denied toTate—Fr.Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine,Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line—P.True, there are Classes.Popewas most of allAkin toHorace,Persius,Juvenal;Popewas, 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;WhenPhœbustouch'd the Poet's trembling EarWith one supreme CommandmentBe thou Clear;When Thought meant less to reason than compile,And theMuselabour'd ... chiefly with the File.Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its BreathAs in the Days of greatElizabeth;And to the Bards ofAnnawas deniedThe Note thatWordsworthheard onDuddon-side.ButPopetook up his Parable, and knitThe 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.HisIliad!P.Well, suppose you ownYou like yourIliadin the Prose ofBohn,—Tho' if you'd learn in Prose howHomersang,'Twere best to learn ofButcherand ofLang,—Suppose you say your Worst ofPope, declareHis Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,His Art but Artifice—I ask once moreWhere 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?So I, that love the oldAugustanDaysOf formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;That like along the finish'd Line to feelThe 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 forPope!
Poet. I sing ofPope—
Friend. What,Pope, theTwitnamBard,WhomDennis,Cibber,Tibbaldpush'd so hard!Popeof theDunciad!Popewho dar'd to woo,And then to libel,Wortley-Montagu!Popeof theHam-walksstory—
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 makeThat had allGrub-streetyelping 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 onPopeas oneNot 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;Think of his Night-Hours with their Feet of Lead,His dreary Vigil and his aching Head;Think of all this, and marvel then to findThe "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 highIn that unequal Strugglenotto die.I grant you freely thatPopeplayed his PartSometimes ignobly—but he lov'd his Art;I grant you freely that he sought his EndsNot 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 ofAddisonwastrue.Plain Truth, you know—
Fr.Is often not polite(SoHamletthought)—
P.AndHamlet(Sir) was right.But leavePope'sLife. To-day, methinks, we touchThe Work too little and the Man too much.Take up theLock, theSatires,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!Then read once more, and you shall wonder yetAt 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 thoseAre but the Qualities we ask of Prose,Was he aPoet?
P.Yes: if that be whatByronwas certainly andBowleswas not;Or say you grant him, to come nearer Date,WhatDrydenhad, that was denied toTate—
Fr.Which means, you claim for him the Spark divine,Yet scarce would place him on the highest Line—
P.True, there are Classes.Popewas most of allAkin toHorace,Persius,Juvenal;Popewas, 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;WhenPhœbustouch'd the Poet's trembling EarWith one supreme CommandmentBe thou Clear;When Thought meant less to reason than compile,And theMuselabour'd ... chiefly with the File.Beneath full Wigs no Lyric drew its BreathAs in the Days of greatElizabeth;And to the Bards ofAnnawas deniedThe Note thatWordsworthheard onDuddon-side.ButPopetook up his Parable, and knitThe 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.HisIliad!
P.Well, suppose you ownYou like yourIliadin the Prose ofBohn,—Tho' if you'd learn in Prose howHomersang,'Twere best to learn ofButcherand ofLang,—Suppose you say your Worst ofPope, declareHis Jewels Paste, his Nature a Parterre,His Art but Artifice—I ask once moreWhere 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?
So I, that love the oldAugustanDaysOf formal Courtesies and formal Phrase;That like along the finish'd Line to feelThe 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 forPope!
To * * Esq. of * * with a Life of the late Ingenious Mr. Wm. Hogarth.
Dear Cosmopolitan,—I knowI should address you aRondeau,Or else announce what I've to sayAt leasten Ballade fratrisée;But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,And take to simpleHudibrasticks;Why should I choose another Way,When this was good enough forGay?You love, myFriend, with me, I think,That Age of Lustre and of Link;OfChelseaChina and long "s"es,Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;That Age of Folly and of Cards,Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;—NoH—lts, noK—g—n P—lswere thenDispensing Competence to Men;The gentle Trade was left to Churls,Your frowsyTonsonsand yourCurlls;Mere Wolves in Ambush to attackTheAuthorin a Sheep-skin Back;ThenSavageand his Brother-SinnersInPorridge-Islanddiv'd for Dinners;Or doz'd onCovent GardenBulks,And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;—You know that by-gone Time, I say,That aimless easy-moral'd Day,When rosy Morn foundMadamstillWrangling atOmbreorQuadrille,When good SirJohnreel'd Home to Bed,FromPontack'sor theShakespear's Head;WhenTripconvey'dhis Master's Cloaths,And took his Titles and his Oaths;WhileBetty, in a castBrocade,OgledMy Lordat Masquerade;WhenGarrickplay'd the guiltyRichard,Or mouth'dMacbethwith Mrs.Pritchard;WhenFootegrimac'd his snarling Wit;WhenChurchillbullied in the Pit;When theCuzzonisang—But there!The further Catalogue I spare,Having no Purpose to eclipseThat tedious Tale ofHomer'sShips;—This is theManthat drew it allFromPannier Alleyto theMall,Then turn'd and drew it once againFromBird-Cage WalktoLewknor's Lane;—Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;Its brawling Quacks, its starveling Scots;Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,ItsHenleys,Lovats,Malcolms,Chartres;Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease;Itsquicquid agunt Homines;—Nor yet omitted to pourtrayFurens quid possit Foemina;—In short, held up to ev'ry ClassNature'sunflatt'ring looking-Glass;And, from his Canvass, spoke to AllThe Message of aJuvenal.Take Him. His Merits most aver:His weak Point is—his Chronicler!
Dear Cosmopolitan,—I knowI should address you aRondeau,Or else announce what I've to sayAt leasten Ballade fratrisée;But No: for once I leave Gymnasticks,And take to simpleHudibrasticks;Why should I choose another Way,When this was good enough forGay?
You love, myFriend, with me, I think,That Age of Lustre and of Link;OfChelseaChina and long "s"es,Of Bag-wigs and of flowered Dresses;That Age of Folly and of Cards,Of Hackney Chairs and Hackney Bards;—NoH—lts, noK—g—n P—lswere thenDispensing Competence to Men;The gentle Trade was left to Churls,Your frowsyTonsonsand yourCurlls;Mere Wolves in Ambush to attackTheAuthorin a Sheep-skin Back;ThenSavageand his Brother-SinnersInPorridge-Islanddiv'd for Dinners;Or doz'd onCovent GardenBulks,And liken'd Letters to the Hulks;—You know that by-gone Time, I say,That aimless easy-moral'd Day,When rosy Morn foundMadamstillWrangling atOmbreorQuadrille,When good SirJohnreel'd Home to Bed,FromPontack'sor theShakespear's Head;WhenTripconvey'dhis Master's Cloaths,And took his Titles and his Oaths;WhileBetty, in a castBrocade,OgledMy Lordat Masquerade;WhenGarrickplay'd the guiltyRichard,Or mouth'dMacbethwith Mrs.Pritchard;WhenFootegrimac'd his snarling Wit;WhenChurchillbullied in the Pit;When theCuzzonisang—But there!The further Catalogue I spare,Having no Purpose to eclipseThat tedious Tale ofHomer'sShips;—This is theManthat drew it allFromPannier Alleyto theMall,Then turn'd and drew it once againFromBird-Cage WalktoLewknor's Lane;—Its Rakes and Fools, its Rogues and Sots;Its brawling Quacks, its starveling Scots;Its Ups and Downs, its Rags and Garters,ItsHenleys,Lovats,Malcolms,Chartres;Its Splendour, Squalor, Shame, Disease;Itsquicquid agunt Homines;—Nor yet omitted to pourtrayFurens quid possit Foemina;—In short, held up to ev'ry ClassNature'sunflatt'ring looking-Glass;And, from his Canvass, spoke to AllThe Message of aJuvenal.
Take Him. His Merits most aver:His weak Point is—his Chronicler!
Novr.1, 1879.
(To James Russell Lowell.)
Not from the ranks of those we callPhilosopher or Admiral,—Neither asLockewas, nor asBlake,Is that Great Genius for whose sakeWe keep this Autumn festival.And yet in one sense, too, was heA soldier—of humanity;And, surely, philosophic mindBelonged to him whose brain designedThat teemingComic Eposwhere,As inCervantesandMolière,Jostles the medley of Mankind.OurEnglish Novel'spioneer!His was the eye that first saw clearHow, not in natures half-effacedBy 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 tookThe piebaldPeoplefor his Book!Ah, what a wealth of Life there isIn 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 playsAround a rogue and all his ways!Ah, how he knots his lash to seeThat ancient cloak, Hypocrisy!Whose are the characters that giveSuch round reality?—that liveWith such full pulse? FairSophyyetSingsBobbing Joanat the spinet;We seeAmeliacooking stillThat supper for the recreantWill;We hear SquireWestern'sheadlong tonesBawling "Wut ha?—wut ha?" toJones.Are they not present now to us,—The Parson with hisÆschylus?Slipslopthe frail, andNortherton,Partridge, andBath, andHarrison?—Are they not breathing, moving,—allThe motley, merry carnivalThatFieldingkept, in days agone?He was the first who dared to drawMankind 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 nudeWith smooth, decorous platitude!He was too frank, may be; and daredToo boldly. Those whose faults he bared,Writhed in the ruthless grasp that broughtInto the light their secret thought.Therefore theTartuffe-throng who say"Couvrez ce sein," and look that way,—Therefore the Priests of SentimentRose on him with their garments rent.Therefore the gadfly swarm whose stingPlies 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 knownNor Youth nor Error, cast the stone!If to have sense of Joy and PainToo 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 aMan,Wrought on our noblest island-plan,Sleeps with the alien Portuguese.
Not from the ranks of those we callPhilosopher or Admiral,—Neither asLockewas, nor asBlake,Is that Great Genius for whose sakeWe keep this Autumn festival.
And yet in one sense, too, was heA soldier—of humanity;And, surely, philosophic mindBelonged to him whose brain designedThat teemingComic Eposwhere,As inCervantesandMolière,Jostles the medley of Mankind.
OurEnglish Novel'spioneer!His was the eye that first saw clearHow, not in natures half-effacedBy 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 tookThe piebaldPeoplefor his Book!
Ah, what a wealth of Life there isIn 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 playsAround a rogue and all his ways!Ah, how he knots his lash to seeThat ancient cloak, Hypocrisy!
Whose are the characters that giveSuch round reality?—that liveWith such full pulse? FairSophyyetSingsBobbing Joanat the spinet;We seeAmeliacooking stillThat supper for the recreantWill;We hear SquireWestern'sheadlong tonesBawling "Wut ha?—wut ha?" toJones.Are they not present now to us,—The Parson with hisÆschylus?Slipslopthe frail, andNortherton,Partridge, andBath, andHarrison?—Are they not breathing, moving,—allThe motley, merry carnivalThatFieldingkept, in days agone?
He was the first who dared to drawMankind 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 nudeWith smooth, decorous platitude!
He was too frank, may be; and daredToo boldly. Those whose faults he bared,Writhed in the ruthless grasp that broughtInto the light their secret thought.Therefore theTartuffe-throng who say"Couvrez ce sein," and look that way,—Therefore the Priests of SentimentRose on him with their garments rent.Therefore the gadfly swarm whose stingPlies 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 knownNor Youth nor Error, cast the stone!If to have sense of Joy and PainToo 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 aMan,Wrought on our noblest island-plan,Sleeps with the alien Portuguese.
"Nec turpem senectamDegere, nec cithara carentem."—Hor.i. 31.
"Nec turpem senectamDegere, 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 clearAs in the morning of the yearWhen 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 greenBecause 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 youngWhile song yet speaks an English tongueBy Charles' or Thamis' wave!
"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 clearAs in the morning of the yearWhen 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 greenBecause 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 youngWhile song yet speaks an English tongueBy Charles' or Thamis' wave!
"Rather be dead than praised," he said,That hero, like a hero dead,In this slack-sinewed age enduedWith more than antique fortitude!"Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we,Who loved thee, now that Death sets freeThine eager soul, with word and lineProfane that empty house of thine?Nay,—let us hold, be mute. Our painWill not be less that we refrain;And this our silence shall but beA larger monument to thee.
"Rather be dead than praised," he said,That hero, like a hero dead,In this slack-sinewed age enduedWith more than antique fortitude!
"Rather be dead than praised!" Shall we,Who loved thee, now that Death sets freeThine eager soul, with word and lineProfane that empty house of thine?
Nay,—let us hold, be mute. Our painWill not be less that we refrain;And this our silence shall but beA larger monument to thee.
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.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 bringsLaughed in the music, like a child that sings.Master of each, Arch-Master! We that stillWait in the verge and outskirt of the HillLook upward lonely—lonely to the heightWhere thou has climbed, for ever, out of sight!
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.
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 bringsLaughed in the music, like a child that sings.
Master of each, Arch-Master! We that stillWait in the verge and outskirt of the HillLook upward lonely—lonely to the heightWhere thou has climbed, for ever, out of sight!
EMIGRAVIT, OCTOBER VI., MDCCCXCII.
Grief there will be, and may,When King Apollo's bayIs cut midwise;Grief that a song is stilled,Grief for the unfulfilledSinger 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.Grief there may be, and will,When that the Singer stillSinks in the song;When that the wingéd rhymeFails of the promised prime,Ruined and wrong.Not thus we mourn thee—we—Not thus we grieve for thee,Masterand Friend;Since, like a clearing flame,Clearer thy pure song cameE'en to the end.Nay—nor for thee we grieveE'en as for those that leaveLife without name;Lost as the stars that set,Empty of men's regret,Empty of fame.Rather we count thee oneWho, when his race is run,Layeth him down,Calm—through all coming days,Filled with a nation's praise,Filled with renown.
Grief there will be, and may,When King Apollo's bayIs cut midwise;Grief that a song is stilled,Grief for the unfulfilledSinger 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.
Grief there may be, and will,When that the Singer stillSinks in the song;When that the wingéd rhymeFails of the promised prime,Ruined and wrong.
Not thus we mourn thee—we—Not thus we grieve for thee,Masterand Friend;Since, like a clearing flame,Clearer thy pure song cameE'en to the end.
Nay—nor for thee we grieveE'en as for those that leaveLife without name;Lost as the stars that set,Empty of men's regret,Empty of fame.
Rather we count thee oneWho, when his race is run,Layeth him down,Calm—through all coming days,Filled with a nation's praise,Filled with renown.
If those who wield the Rod forget,'Tis truly—Quis custodiet?
If those who wield the Rod forget,'Tis truly—Quis custodiet?
A certain Bard (as Bards will do)Dressed up his Poems for Review.His Type was plain, his Title clear;His Frontispiece byFourdrinier.Moreover, he had on the BackA sort of sheepskin Zodiac;—A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,—in fine,A neat and "classical" Design.But thein-Side?—Well, good or bad,The Inside was the best he had:Much Memory,—more Imitation;—Some Accidents of Inspiration;—Some Essays in that finer FashionWhere Fancy takes the place of Passion;—And some (of course) more roughly wroughtTo catch the Advocates of Thought.In the less-crowded Age ofAnne,Our Bard had been a favoured Man;Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,Had ranked him next toGarthorTickell;—He might have even dared to hopeA Line's Malignity fromPope!But now, when Folks are hard to please,And Poets are as thick as—Peas,The Fates are not so prone to flatter,Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter.The Book, then, had a minor Credit:The Critics took, and doubtless read it.Said A.—These little Songs displayNo lyric Gift; but still a Ray,—A Promise. They will do no Harm.'Twas kindly, if notverywarm.Said B.—The Author may, in Time,Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.This, certainly, could not be worse.Sorely discomfited, our BardWorked for another ten Years—hard.Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;Before his second Volume cameHis Critics had forgot his Name:And who, forsooth, is bound to knowEach Laureatein embryo!They tried and tested him, no less,-The sworn Assayers of the Press.Said A.—The Author may, in Time....Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.Then B.—These little Songs display....And so forth, in the sense of A.Over the Bard I throw a Veil.There is noMoralto this Tale.
A certain Bard (as Bards will do)Dressed up his Poems for Review.His Type was plain, his Title clear;His Frontispiece byFourdrinier.Moreover, he had on the BackA sort of sheepskin Zodiac;—A Mask, a Harp, an Owl,—in fine,A neat and "classical" Design.But thein-Side?—Well, good or bad,The Inside was the best he had:Much Memory,—more Imitation;—Some Accidents of Inspiration;—Some Essays in that finer FashionWhere Fancy takes the place of Passion;—And some (of course) more roughly wroughtTo catch the Advocates of Thought.
In the less-crowded Age ofAnne,Our Bard had been a favoured Man;Fortune, more chary with the Sickle,Had ranked him next toGarthorTickell;—He might have even dared to hopeA Line's Malignity fromPope!But now, when Folks are hard to please,And Poets are as thick as—Peas,The Fates are not so prone to flatter,Unless, indeed, a Friend ... No Matter.
The Book, then, had a minor Credit:The Critics took, and doubtless read it.Said A.—These little Songs displayNo lyric Gift; but still a Ray,—A Promise. They will do no Harm.'Twas kindly, if notverywarm.Said B.—The Author may, in Time,Acquire the Rudiments of Rhyme:His Efforts now are scarcely Verse.This, certainly, could not be worse.
Sorely discomfited, our BardWorked for another ten Years—hard.Meanwhile the World, unmoved, went on;New Stars shot up, shone out, were gone;Before his second Volume cameHis Critics had forgot his Name:
And who, forsooth, is bound to knowEach Laureatein embryo!They tried and tested him, no less,-The sworn Assayers of the Press.Said A.—The Author may, in Time....Or much what B. had said of Rhyme.Then B.—These little Songs display....And so forth, in the sense of A.Over the Bard I throw a Veil.
There is noMoralto this Tale.
With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?Hereon men waste their Eloquence.
With Verse, is Form the first, or Sense?Hereon men waste their Eloquence.
"Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.How can you lend your Theme its Force?How can you be direct and clear,Concise, and (best of all) sincere,If you must pen your Strain sublimeIn Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?Who ever heard true Grief relateIts heartfelt Woes in 'six' and 'eight'?Or felt his manly Bosom swellBeneath a French-madeVillanelle?How can yourMens diviniorsingWithin the Sonnet's scanty Ring,Where she must chant her Orphic TaleIn just so many Lines, or fail?...""Form is the first (the Others bawl);If not, why write in Verse at all?Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose(If verse be such Restraint) in Prose?For surely if you speak your SoulMost freely where there's least Control,It follows you must speak it bestBy Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;And barred no more by Lack of Skill,The Mob may crowdParnassusHill!..."Just at this Point—for you must know,All this was but the To-and-froOfMattandDickwho played with Thought,And lingered longer than they ought(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's BoxAnd trifle round a Paradox!)—There came—but I forgot to say,'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May—There came a Fellow where they sat,His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,Who bore a Basket. Straight his LoadHe set upon the Ground, and showedHis newest Toy—a Card with Strings.On this side was a Bird with Wings,On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!The Twain were one.SaidMatt, "E'en so.Here's the Solution in a Word:—Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.The Poet twirls them in his Mind,And wins the Trick with both combined."
"Sense (cry the one Side), Sense, of course.How can you lend your Theme its Force?How can you be direct and clear,Concise, and (best of all) sincere,If you must pen your Strain sublimeIn Bonds of Measure and of Rhyme?Who ever heard true Grief relateIts heartfelt Woes in 'six' and 'eight'?Or felt his manly Bosom swellBeneath a French-madeVillanelle?How can yourMens diviniorsingWithin the Sonnet's scanty Ring,Where she must chant her Orphic TaleIn just so many Lines, or fail?..."
"Form is the first (the Others bawl);If not, why write in Verse at all?Why not your throbbing Thoughts expose(If verse be such Restraint) in Prose?For surely if you speak your SoulMost freely where there's least Control,It follows you must speak it bestBy Rhyme (or Reason) unreprest.Blest Hour! be not delayed too long,When Britain frees her Slaves of Song;And barred no more by Lack of Skill,The Mob may crowdParnassusHill!..."
Just at this Point—for you must know,All this was but the To-and-froOfMattandDickwho played with Thought,And lingered longer than they ought(So pleasant 'tis to tap one's BoxAnd trifle round a Paradox!)—There came—but I forgot to say,'Twas in the Mall, the Month was May—There came a Fellow where they sat,His Elf-locks peeping through his Hat,Who bore a Basket. Straight his LoadHe set upon the Ground, and showedHis newest Toy—a Card with Strings.On this side was a Bird with Wings,On that, a Cage. You twirled, and lo!The Twain were one.SaidMatt, "E'en so.Here's the Solution in a Word:—Form is the Cage and Sense the Bird.The Poet twirls them in his Mind,And wins the Trick with both combined."
When Fate presents us with the Bays,We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.We scarcely think our Fame eternalIf vouched for by theFarthing Journal;But when theCraftsman'sself has spoken,We take it for a certain Token.This an Example best will show,Derived fromDennis Diderot.A hackney Author, who'd essayedAll Hazards of the scribbling Trade;And failed to live by every Mode,FromPersian TaletoBirthday Ode;Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,In Theologic Speculation.'Tis commonly affirmed his PenHad been most orthodox till then;But oft, asSocrateshas said,The Stomach's stronger than the Head;And, for a sudden Change of Creed,There is noJesuitlike Need.Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,By force of Habit, from the Gaul.He showed (the Trick is nowise new)That Nothing we believe is true;But chiefly that Mistake is rifeTouching the point ofAfter-Life;Here all were wrong fromPlatodown:His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.The Thing created quite a Scare:—He got a Letter fromVoltaire,Naming himAmiandConfrère;Besides two most attractive OffersOf Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.He fell forthwith his Head to lift,To talk of "I andDr. Sw—ft;"And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,On equal Terms, withBolingbroke.But, at the last, a Missive cameThat put the Copestone to his Fame.The Boy who brought it would not wait:It bore aCovent-GardenDate;—A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink.And Air ofBridewellor the Clink,It ran in this wise:—Learned Sir!We, whose Subscriptions follow here,Desire to state our Fellow-feelingIn this Religion you're revealing.You make it plain that if so beWe 'scape on Earth fromTyburn Tree,There's nothing left for us to fearIn this—or any other Sphere.We offer you our Thanks; and hopeYour Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!With that came all the Names beneath,AsBlueskin, Jerry Clinch, Macheath,Bet Careless, and the Rest—a ScoreOf Rogues andBona Robasmore.ThisNewgate Calendarhe read:'Tis not recorded what he said.
When Fate presents us with the Bays,We prize the Praiser, not the Praise.We scarcely think our Fame eternalIf vouched for by theFarthing Journal;But when theCraftsman'sself has spoken,We take it for a certain Token.This an Example best will show,Derived fromDennis Diderot.
A hackney Author, who'd essayedAll Hazards of the scribbling Trade;And failed to live by every Mode,FromPersian TaletoBirthday Ode;Embarked at last, thro' pure Starvation,In Theologic Speculation.'Tis commonly affirmed his PenHad been most orthodox till then;But oft, asSocrateshas said,The Stomach's stronger than the Head;And, for a sudden Change of Creed,There is noJesuitlike Need.Then, too, 'twas cheap; he took it all,By force of Habit, from the Gaul.He showed (the Trick is nowise new)That Nothing we believe is true;But chiefly that Mistake is rifeTouching the point ofAfter-Life;Here all were wrong fromPlatodown:His Price (in Boards) was Half-a-Crown.The Thing created quite a Scare:—He got a Letter fromVoltaire,Naming himAmiandConfrère;Besides two most attractive OffersOf Chaplaincies from noted Scoffers.He fell forthwith his Head to lift,To talk of "I andDr. Sw—ft;"And brag, at Clubs, as one who spoke,On equal Terms, withBolingbroke.But, at the last, a Missive cameThat put the Copestone to his Fame.The Boy who brought it would not wait:It bore aCovent-GardenDate;—A woful Sheet with doubtful Ink.And Air ofBridewellor the Clink,It ran in this wise:—Learned Sir!We, whose Subscriptions follow here,Desire to state our Fellow-feelingIn this Religion you're revealing.You make it plain that if so beWe 'scape on Earth fromTyburn Tree,There's nothing left for us to fearIn this—or any other Sphere.We offer you our Thanks; and hopeYour Honor, too, may cheat the Rope!With that came all the Names beneath,AsBlueskin, Jerry Clinch, Macheath,Bet Careless, and the Rest—a ScoreOf Rogues andBona Robasmore.
ThisNewgate Calendarhe read:'Tis not recorded what he said.
The most oppressive Form of CantIs that of your Art-Dilettant:—Or rather "was." The Race, I own,To-day is, happily, unknown.A Painter, now by Fame forgot,Had painted—'tis no matter what;Enough that he resolved to tryThe Verdict of a critic Eye.The Friend he sought made no PretenceTo more than candid Common-sense,Nor held himself from Fault exempt.He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.Then, pausing long, showed here and thereThat Parts required a nicer Care,—A closer Thought. The Artist heard,Expostulated, chafed, demurred.Just then popped in a passing Beau,Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;—One of those Mushroom Growths that springFromGrand Toursand from Tailoring;—And dealing much in terms of ArtPicked up at Sale and auction Mart.Straight to the Masterpiece he ranWith lifted Glass, and thus began,Mumbling as fast as he could speak:—"Sublime!—prodigious!—truly Greek!That 'Air of Head' is just divine;That contourGuido, every line;That Forearm, too, has quite theGustoOf the third Manner ofRobusto...."Then, with a Simper and a Cough,He skipped a little farther off:—"The middle Distance, too, is placedQuite in the best Italian Taste;And Nothing could be more effectiveThan theOrdonnanceand Perspective....You've sold it?—No?—Then take my word,I shall speak of it toMy Lord.What!—I insist. Don't stir, I beg.Adieu!" With that he made a Leg,Offered on either Side his Box,—So took hisVirtúoff toCock's.The Critic, with a Shrug, once moreTurned to the Canvas as before."Nay,"—said the Painter—"I allowThe Worst that you can tell me now.'Tis plain my Art must go to School,To win such Praises—from aFool!"
The most oppressive Form of CantIs that of your Art-Dilettant:—Or rather "was." The Race, I own,To-day is, happily, unknown.
A Painter, now by Fame forgot,Had painted—'tis no matter what;Enough that he resolved to tryThe Verdict of a critic Eye.The Friend he sought made no PretenceTo more than candid Common-sense,Nor held himself from Fault exempt.He praised, it seems, the whole Attempt.Then, pausing long, showed here and thereThat Parts required a nicer Care,—A closer Thought. The Artist heard,Expostulated, chafed, demurred.
Just then popped in a passing Beau,Half Pertness, half Pulvilio;—One of those Mushroom Growths that springFromGrand Toursand from Tailoring;—And dealing much in terms of ArtPicked up at Sale and auction Mart.Straight to the Masterpiece he ranWith lifted Glass, and thus began,Mumbling as fast as he could speak:—"Sublime!—prodigious!—truly Greek!That 'Air of Head' is just divine;That contourGuido, every line;That Forearm, too, has quite theGustoOf the third Manner ofRobusto...."Then, with a Simper and a Cough,He skipped a little farther off:—"The middle Distance, too, is placedQuite in the best Italian Taste;And Nothing could be more effectiveThan theOrdonnanceand Perspective....You've sold it?—No?—Then take my word,I shall speak of it toMy Lord.What!—I insist. Don't stir, I beg.Adieu!" With that he made a Leg,Offered on either Side his Box,—So took hisVirtúoff toCock's.
The Critic, with a Shrug, once moreTurned to the Canvas as before."Nay,"—said the Painter—"I allowThe Worst that you can tell me now.'Tis plain my Art must go to School,To win such Praises—from aFool!"
In Art some hold Themselves contentIf they but compass what they meant;Others prefer, their Purpose gained,Still to find Something unattained—Something whereto they vaguely gropeWith no more Aid than that of Hope.Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!The prudent Follower ofGayDeclines to speak for either View,But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.Once—'twas in good QueenAnna'sTime—While yet in this benighted ClimeTheGeniusof theArts(now knownOn mouldy Pediments alone)Protected all the Men of Mark,Two Painters met Her in the Park.Whether She wore the Robe of AirPortrayed byVerrioandLaguerre;Or, likeBelinda, trod this Earth,Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,And armed at every Point for SlaughterWith Essences and Orange-water,I know not: but it seems that then,After some talk of Brush and Pen,—Some chat of Art both High and Low,OfVan's"Goose-Pie" andKneller's"Mot,"—The Lady, as a Goddess should,Bade Them ask of Her what They would."Then, Madam, my request," saysBrisk,Giving hisRamilliea whisk,"Is that your Majesty will crownMy humble Efforts with Renown.Let me, I beg it—Thanks to You—Be praised for Everything I do,Whether I paint a Man of Note,Or only plan a Petticoat.""Nay," quoth the other, "I confess"(This One was plainer in his Dress,And even poorly clad), "for me,I scorn Your Popularity.Why should I care to catch at onceThe Point of View of every Dunce?Let me do well, indeed, but findThe Fancy first, the Work behind;Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted...."The Goddess both Petitions granted.Each in his Way, achieved Success;But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.
In Art some hold Themselves contentIf they but compass what they meant;Others prefer, their Purpose gained,Still to find Something unattained—Something whereto they vaguely gropeWith no more Aid than that of Hope.Which are the Wiser? Who shall say!The prudent Follower ofGayDeclines to speak for either View,But sets his Fable 'twixt the two.
Once—'twas in good QueenAnna'sTime—While yet in this benighted ClimeTheGeniusof theArts(now knownOn mouldy Pediments alone)Protected all the Men of Mark,Two Painters met Her in the Park.Whether She wore the Robe of AirPortrayed byVerrioandLaguerre;Or, likeBelinda, trod this Earth,Equipped with Hoop of monstrous Girth,And armed at every Point for SlaughterWith Essences and Orange-water,I know not: but it seems that then,After some talk of Brush and Pen,—Some chat of Art both High and Low,OfVan's"Goose-Pie" andKneller's"Mot,"—The Lady, as a Goddess should,Bade Them ask of Her what They would."Then, Madam, my request," saysBrisk,Giving hisRamilliea whisk,"Is that your Majesty will crownMy humble Efforts with Renown.Let me, I beg it—Thanks to You—Be praised for Everything I do,Whether I paint a Man of Note,Or only plan a Petticoat.""Nay," quoth the other, "I confess"(This One was plainer in his Dress,And even poorly clad), "for me,I scorn Your Popularity.Why should I care to catch at onceThe Point of View of every Dunce?Let me do well, indeed, but findThe Fancy first, the Work behind;Nor wholly touch the thing I wanted...."The Goddess both Petitions granted.
Each in his Way, achieved Success;But One grew Great. And which One? Guess.