"Sir,"I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant. The alterations which I have made, I do not require him to adopt; for my lines are, perhaps, not often better [than] his own: but he may take mine and his own together, and perhaps, between them, produce something better than either.—He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced; a wet sponge will wash all the red lines away, and leave the pages clean.—His Dedication will be least liked: it were better to contract it into a short sprightly address.—I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's success."I am, Sir, your most humble servant,"SAM. JOHNSON.""March4, 1783."
"Sir,
"I have sent you back Mr. Crabbe's poem, which I read with great delight. It is original, vigorous, and elegant. The alterations which I have made, I do not require him to adopt; for my lines are, perhaps, not often better [than] his own: but he may take mine and his own together, and perhaps, between them, produce something better than either.—He is not to think his copy wantonly defaced; a wet sponge will wash all the red lines away, and leave the pages clean.—His Dedication will be least liked: it were better to contract it into a short sprightly address.—I do not doubt of Mr. Crabbe's success.
"I am, Sir, your most humble servant,
"SAM. JOHNSON."
"March4, 1783."
That I was fully satisfied, my readers will do me the justice to believe; and I hope they will pardon me, if there should appear to them any impropriety in publishing the favourable opinion expressed in a private letter: they will judge, and truly, that by so doing, I wish to bespeak their good opinion, but have no design of extorting their applause. I would not hazard an appearance so ostentatious to gratify my vanity, but I venture to do it in compliance with my fears.
After these was published "The Newspaper": it had not the advantage of such previous criticism from any friends, nor perhaps so much of my own attention as I ought to have given to it; but the impression was disposed of, and I will not pay so little respect to the judgment of my readers as now to suppress they then approved.
Since the publication of this poem more than twenty years have elapsed, and I am not without apprehension, lest so long a silence should be construed into a blamable neglect of my own interest, which those excellent friends were desirous of promoting; or, what is yet worse, into a want of gratitude for their assistance, since it becomes me to suppose, they considered these first attempts as promises of better things, and their favours as stimulants to future exertion. And here, be the construction put upon my apparent negligence what itmay, let me not suppress my testimony to the liberality of those who are looked up to as patrons and encouragers of literary merit, or indeed of merit of any kind: their patronage has never been refused, I conceive, when it has been reasonably expected or modestly required; and it would be difficult, probably, to instance, in these times and in this country, any one who merited or was supposed to merit assistance, but who nevertheless languished in obscurity or necessity for want of it; unless in those cases where it was prevented by the resolution of impatient pride, or wearied by the solicitations of determined profligacy. And, while the subject is before me, I am unwilling to pass silently over the debt of gratitude which I owe to the memory of two deceased noblemen, His Grace the late Duke of Rutland, and the Right Honourable the Lord Thurlow: sensible of the honour done me by their notice, and the benefits received from them, I trust this acknowledgment will be imputed to its only motive, a grateful sense of their favours.
Upon this subject I could dwell with much pleasure; but,to give a reason for that appearance of neglect, as it is more difficult, so, happily, it is less required. In truth, I have, for many years, intended a republication of these poems, as soon as I should be able to join with them such other of later date as might not deprive me of the little credit the former had obtained. Long indeed has this purpose been procrastinated; and, if the duties of a profession, not before pressing upon me—if the claims of a situation, at that time untried—if diffidence of my own judgment, and the loss of my earliest friends, will not sufficiently account for my delay, I must rely upon the good-nature of my reader, that he will let them avail as far as he can, and find an additional apology in my fears of his censure.
These fears being so prevalent with me, I determined not to publish any thing more, unless I could first obtain the sanction of such an opinion as I might with some confidence rely upon. I looked for a friend who, having the discerning taste of Mr. Burke, and the critical sagacity of Doctor Johnson, would bestow upon my MS. the attention requisite to form his opinion, and would then favour me with the result of his observations; and it was my singular good fortune to gain such assistance; the opinion of a critic so qualified, and a friend so disposed to favour me. I had been honoured by an introduction to the Right Honourable Charles James Fox some years before, at the seat of Mr. Burke; and, being again with him, I received a promise that he would peruse any work I might send to him previous to its publication, and would give me his opinion. At that time, I did not think myself sufficiently prepared; and when, afterwards, I had collected some poems for his inspection, I found my right honourable friend engaged by the affairs of a great empire, and struggling with the inveteracy of a fatal disease; at such time, upon such mind, ever disposed to oblige as that mind was, I could not obtrude the petty business of criticising verses; but he remembered the promise he had kindly given, and repeated an offer, which, though I had not presumed to expect, I was happy to receive. A copy of the poems, now first published, was immediately sent to him, and (as I have the information from Lord Holland, and his Lordship's permission to inform my readers) the poem which I have named "The Parish Register" was heard by Mr. Fox, and it excited interest enough, by some of its parts, to gain for me the benefit of his judgment upon the whole. Whatever he approved, the reader will readily believe, I have carefully retained; the parts he disliked are totally expunged, and others are substituted, which I hope resemble those, more conformable to the taste of so admirable a judge. Nor can I deny myself the melancholy satisfaction of adding, that this poem (and more especially the story of Phœbe Dawson, with some parts of the second book), were the last compositions of their kind that engaged and amused the capacious, the candid, the benevolent mind of this great man.
The above information I owe to the favour of the Right Honourable Lord Holland; nor this only, but to his Lordship I am indebted for some excellent remarks upon the other parts of my MS. It was not indeed my good fortune then to know that my verses were in the hands of a nobleman who had given proof of his accurate judgment as a critic, and his elegance as a writer, by favouring the public with an easy and spirited translation of some interesting scenes of a dramatic poet, not often read in this kingdom. The Life of Lopez de Vega was then unknown to me; I had, in common with many English readers, heard of him, but could not judge whether his far-extended reputation was caused by the sublime efforts of a mighty genius, or the unequalled facility of a rapid composer, aided by peculiar and fortunate circumstances. That any part of my MS. was honoured by the remarks of Lord Holland yields me a high degree of satisfaction, and his Lordship will perceive the use I have made of them; but I must feel some regret when I know to what small portion they were limited; and discerning, as I do, the taste and judgment bestowed upon the verses of Lopez de Vega, I must perceive how much my own needed the assistance afforded to one who cannot be sensible of the benefit he has received.
But how much soever I may lament the advantages lost, let me remember with gratitude the helps I have obtained. With a single exception, every poem in the ensuing collection has been submitted to the critical sagacity of a gentleman, upon whose skill and candour their author could rely. To publish by advice of friends has been severely ridiculed, and that too by a poet, who probably, without such advice, never made public any verses of his own: in fact, it may not be easily determined who acts with less discretion, the writer who is encouraged to publish his works, merely by the advice of friends whom he consulted, or he who, against advice, publishes from the sole encouragement of his own opinion. These are deceptions to be carefully avoided; and I was happy to escape the latter, by the friendly attentions of the Reverend Richard Turner, minister of Great Yarmouth. To this gentleman I am indebted more than I am able to describe, or than he is willing to allow, for the time he has bestowed upon the attempts I have made. He is, indeed, the kind of critic for whom every poet should devoutly wish, and the friend whom every man would be happy to acquire; he has taste to discern all that is meritorious, and sagacity to detect whatsoever should be discarded; he gives just the opinion an author's wisdom should covet, however his vanity might prompt him to reject it; what altogether to expunge and what to improve he has repeatedly taught me, and, could I have obeyed him in the latter direction, as I invariably have in the former, the public would have found this collection more worthy its attention, and I should have sought the opinion of the critic more void of apprehension.
But whatever I may hope or fear, whatever assistance I have had or have needed, it becomes me to leave my verses to the judgment of the reader, without my endeavour to point out their merit, or an apology for their defects. Yet as, among the poetical attempts of one who has been for many years a priest, it may seem a want of respect for the legitimate objects of his study, that nothing occurs, unless it be incidentally, of the great subjects of religion: so it may appear a kind of ingratitude of a beneficed clergyman, that he has not employed his talent (be it estimated as it may) to some patriotic purpose—as in celebrating the unsubdued spirit of his countrymen in their glorious resistance of those enemies, who would have no peace throughout the world, except that which is dictated to the drooping spirit of suffering humanity by the triumphant insolence of military success.
Credit will be given to me, I hope, when I affirm that subjects so interesting have the due weight with me, which the sacred nature of the one, and the national importance of the other, must impress upon every mind not seduced into carelessness for religion by the lethargic influence of a perverted philosophy, nor into indifference for the cause of our country by hyperbolical or hypocritical professions of universal philanthropy; but, after many efforts to satisfy myself by various trials on these subjects, I declined all further attempt, from a conviction that I should not be able to give satisfaction to my readers. Poetry of religious nature must indeed ever be clogged with almost insuperable difficulty; but there are doubtless to be found poets who are well qualified to celebrate the unanimous and heroic spirit of our countrymen, and to describe in appropriate colours some of those extraordinary scenes, which have been and are shifting in the face of Europe, with such dreadful celerity; and to such I relinquish the duty.
It remains for me to give the reader a brief view of those articles in the following collection, which for the first time solicit his attention.
In the "Parish Register," he will find an endeavour once more to describe village-manners, not by adopting the notion of pastoral simplicity or assuming ideas of rustic barbarity, but by more natural views of the peasantry, considered as a mixed body of persons, sober or profligate, and hence, in a great measure, contented or miserable. To this more general description are added the various characters which occur in the three parts of a Register: Baptism, Marriages, and Burials.
If the "Birth of Flattery" offer no moral, as an appendage to the fable, it is hoped that nothing of an immoral, nothing of improper, tendency will be imputed to a piece of poetical playfulness. In fact, genuine praise, like all other species of truth, is known by its bearing full investigation: it is what the giver is happy that he can justly bestow, and the receiver conscious that he may boldly accept; but adulation must ever be afraid of inquiry, and must, in proportion to their degrees of moral sensibility,
Be shame "to him that gives and him that takes."
The verses in page[s 234-7] want a title; nor does the motto, although it gave occasion to them, altogether express the sense of the writer, who meant to observe that some of our best acquisitions, and some of our nobler conquests, are rendered ineffectual, by the passing away of opportunity, and the changes made by time: an argument that such acquirements and moral habits are reserved for a state of being in which they have the uses here denied them.
In the story of "Sir Eustace Grey," an attempt is made to describe the wanderings of a mind first irritated by the consequences of error and misfortune, and afterwards soothed by a species of enthusiastic conversion, still keeping him insane: a task very difficult, and, if the presumption of the attempt may find pardon, it will not be refused to the failure of the poet. It is said of our Shakspeare, respecting madness,
"In that circle none dare walk but he."
Yet be it granted to one who dares not to pass the boundary fixed for common minds, at least to step near to the tremendous verge, and form some idea of the terrors that are stalking in the interdicted space.
When first I had written "Aaron, or The Gipsy," I had no unfavourable opinion of it; and, had I been collecting my verses at that time for publication, I should certainly have included this tale. Nine years have since elapsed, and I continue to judge the same of it, thus literally obeying one of the directions given by the prudence of criticism to the eagerness of the poet; but how far I may have conformed to rules of more importance must be left to the less partial judgment of the readers.
The concluding poem, entitled "Woman!" was written at the time when the quotation from Mr. Ledyard was first made public; the expression has since become hackneyed; but the sentiment is congenial with our feelings, and though somewhat amplified in these verses, it is hoped they are not so far extended as to become tedious.
After this brief account of his subjects, the author leaves them to their fate, not presuming to make any remarks upon the kinds of versification he has chosen, or the merit of the execution. He has indeed brought forward the favourable opinion of his friends, and for that he earnestly hopes his motives will be rightly understood; it was a step of which he felt the advantage while he foresaw the danger; he was aware of the benefit, if his readers would consider him as one who puts on a defensive armour against hasty and determined severity; but he feels also the hazard, lest they should suppose he looks upon himself to be guarded by his friends, and so secure in the defence, that he may defy the fair judgment of legal criticism. It will probably be said, "he has brought with him his testimonials to the bar of the public," and he must admit the truth of the remark; but he begs leave to observe in reply, that of those who bear testimonials of any kind the greater numbers feel apprehension, and not security: they are indeed so far from the enjoyment of victory, of the exultation of triumph, that, with all they can do for themselves, with all their friends have done for them, they are, like him, in dread of examination, and in fear of disappointment.
Muston, Leicestershire,
September, 1807.
Books afford Consolation to the troubled Mind, by substituting a lighter Kind of Distress for its own—They are productive of other Advantages—An Author's Hope of being known in distant Times—Arrangement of the Library—Size and Form of the Volumes—The ancient Folio, clasped and chained—Fashion prevalent even in this Place—The Mode of publishing in Numbers, Pamphlets, &c.—Subjects of the different Classes—Divinity—Controversy—The Friends of Religion often more dangerous than her Foes—Sceptical Authors—Reason too much rejected by the former Converts; exclusively relied upon by the latter—Philosophy ascending through the Scale of Being to moral Subjects—Books of Medicine: their Variety, Variance, and Proneness to System: the Evil of this, and the Difficulty it causes—Farewell to this Study—Law: the increasing Number of its Volumes—Supposed happy State of Man without Laws—Progress ofSociety—Historians: their Subjects—Dramatic Authors, Tragic and Comic—Ancient Romances—The Captive Heroine—Happiness in the Perusal of such Books: why—Criticism—Apprehensions of the Author, removed by the Appearance of the Genius of the Place; whose Reasoning and Admonition conclude the Subject.
When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;When every object that appears in view,Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too:Where shall affliction from itself retire?Where fade away and placidly expire?Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain;Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain:Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,10Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream.For, when the soul is labouring in despair,In vain the body breathes a purer air:No storm-toss'd sailor sighs for slumberingseas—He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;}On the smooth mirror of the deep resides}Reflected wo, and o'er unruffled tides}The ghost of every former danger glides.Thus, in the calms of life, we only seeA steadier image of our misery;20But lively gales and gently-clouded skiesDisperse the sad reflections as they rise;And busy thoughts and little cares availTo ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,We bleed anew in every former grief,And joys departed furnish no relief.Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart:30The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,And anxious searches for congenialcares—}Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined,}By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind.}And steal our grief away and leave their own behind:A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endureWithout regret, nor e'en demand a cure.But what strange art, what magic can disposeThe troubled mind to change its native woes?Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see40Others more wretched, more undone than we?This, books can do—nor this alone: they giveNew views to life, and teach us how to live;They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise;Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise.Their aid they yield to all: they never shunThe man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone;Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;Nor tell to various people various things,50But show to subjects, what they show to kings.Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene,Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene;Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold,The soul's best cure in all her cares behold!Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,And mental physic the diseased in mind.See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage;See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;Here alt'ratives by slow degrees control60The chronic habits of the sickly soul;And round the heart, and o'er the aching head,Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,And view composed this silentmultitude:—Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound,Here all the living languages abound,Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,In tombs that open to the curious eye.Bless'd be the gracious Power, who taught mankind70To stamp a lasting image of the mind!—Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,Their mutual feelings in the opening spring;But man alone has skill and power to sendThe heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;'Tis his alone to please, instruct, adviseAges remote, and nations yet to rise.In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep,When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,80And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest—Why then denies the studious man to shareMan's common good, who feels his common care?Because the hope is his, that bids him flyNight's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;That after-ages may repeat his praise,And fame's fair meed be his for length of days.Delightful prospect! when we leave behindA worthy offspring of the fruitful mind,Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day,90Shall all our labour, all our care repay.Yet all are not these births of noble kind,Not all the children of a vigorous mind;But, where the wisest should alone preside,The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide;Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and showThe poor and troubled source from which they flow:Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.But, though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves100This seat serene, and virtue's self approves;Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find,The curious here, to feed a craving mind;Here the devout their peaceful temple choose;And here the poet meets his favouring muse.With awe around these silent walks I tread:These are the lasting mansions of thedead.—"The dead," methinks, a thousand tongues reply;"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime,110And laugh at all the little strife of time."Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above,Each in his sphere the literary Jove;And ye, the common people of these skies,A humbler crowd of nameless deities:Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mindThrough history's mazes, and the turnings find;Or whether, led by science, ye retire,Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire;Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers,120And crowns your placid brows with living flowers;Or godlike wisdom teaches you to showThe noblest road to happiness below;Or men and manners prompt the easy pageTo mark the flying follies of the age:Whatever good ye boast, that good impart;Inform the head and rectify the heart!Lo! all in silence, all in order stand;And mighty folios first, a lordly band,Then quartos, their well-order'd ranks maintain,130And light octavos fill a spacious plain;See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,A humbler band of duodecimos;While undistinguished trifles swell the scene,The last new play and fritter'd magazine.Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state;Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,Are much admired, and are but little read:The commons next, a middle rank, are found;140Professions fruitful pour their offspring round;Reasoners and wits are next their place allow'd,And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd.First, let us view the form, the size, the dress;For these the manners, nay the mind express;That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid;Those ample clasps, of solid metal made;The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age;The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page;On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd,150Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold;These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim,A painful candidate for lasting fame:No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurkIn the deep bosom of that weighty work;No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style,Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile.Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie,And slumber out their immortality:Theyhadtheir day, when, after all his toil,160His morning study, and his midnight oil,At length an author'sONEgreat work appear'd,By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd:Expecting nations hail'd it from the press;Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address;Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift,And ladies read the work they could not lift.Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools,Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she goes,170And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes.For lo! these fav'rites of the ancient modeLie all neglected like the Birth-day Ode;Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain[14];Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain;No readers now invade their still retreat,None try to steal them from their parent-seat;Like ancient beauties, they may now discardChains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard.Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by,180And roll'd o'er labour'd works th' attentive eye;Page after page, the much-enduring menExplored the deeps and shallows of the pen;Till, every former note and comment known,They mark'd the spacious margin with their own:Minute corrections proved their studious care;The little index, pointing, told us where;And many an emendation show'd the ageLook'd far beyond the rubric title-page.Our nicer palates lighter labours seek,190Cloy'd with a folio-Numberonce a week;Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down:E'en light Voltaire isnumber'dthrough the town:Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law,From men of study, and from men of straw;Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times,Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes:But though to write be now a task of ease,The task is hard by manly arts to please,When all our weakness is exposed to view,200And half our judges are our rivals too.Amid these works, on which the eager eyeDelights to fix, or glides reluctant by,When all combined, their decent pomp display,Where shall we first our early offering pay?To thee,Divinity! to thee, the lightAnd guide of mortals through their mental night;By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide;To bear with pain, and to contend with pride;When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive;210And with the world in charity to live.Not truths like these inspired that numerous race,Whose pious labours fill this ample space;But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,Awaked to war the long-contending foes.For dubious meanings, learn'd polemics strove.And wars on faith prevented works of love;The brands of discord far around were hurl'd,And holy wrath inflamed a sinfulworld—Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,220With wit disgusting and despised without;Saints in design, in execution men,Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.Methinks, I see, and sicken at the sight,Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight:Spirits who prompted every damning page,With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage.Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around,And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground!They pray, they fight, they murder, and theyweep—230Wolves, in their vengeance, in their manners sheep;Too well they act the prophet's fatal part,Denouncing evil with a zealous heart;And each, like Jonas, is displeased, if GodRepent his anger, or withhold his rod.But here the dormant fury rests unsought,And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought;Here all the rage of controversy ends,And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends:An Athanasian here, in deep repose,240Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes;Socinians here with Calvinists abide,And thin partitions angry chiefs divide;Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet.Great authors, for the church's glory fired,Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired;And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race,Lie, "Crums of Comfort for the Babes of Grace."Against her foes Religion well defends250Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends;If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads,And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads.But most she fears the controversial pen,The holy strife of disputatious men;Who the bless'd Gospel's peaceful page explore,Only to fight against its precepts more.Near to these seats, behold yon slender frames,All closely fill'd and mark'd with modern names;Where no fair science ever shows her face,260Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace.There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng,And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong:Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain;Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again;Coldly profane, and impiously gay;Their end the same, though various in their way.When first Religion came to bless the land,Her friends were then a firm believing band;To doubt was, then, to plunge in guilt extreme,270And all was gospel that a monk could dream;Insulted Reason fled the grov'ling soul,For Fear to guide, and visions to control.But now, when Reason has assumed her throne,She, in her turn, demands to reign alone;Rejecting all that lies beyond her view,And, being judge, will be a witness too.Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind,To seek for truth, without a power to find;Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite,280And pour on erring man resistless light?Next to the seats, well stored with works divine,An ample space,Philosophy! is thine;Our reason's guide, by whose assisting lightWe trace the moral bounds of wrong and right;Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay,To the bright orbs of yon celestial way!'Tis thine, the great, the golden chain to trace,Which runs through all, connecting race with race;Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain,290Which thy inferior light pursues in vain:—How vice and virtue in the soul contend;How widely differ, yet how nearly blend!What various passions war on either part,And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart;How Fancy loves around the world to stray,While Judgment slowly picks his sober way!The stores of memory, and the flights sublimeOf genius, bound by neither space nortime—All these divine Philosophy explores,300Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores.From these, descending to the earth, she turns,And matter, in its various form, discerns;She parts the beamy light with skill profound,Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound;'Tis hers the lightning from the clouds to call,And teach the fiery mischief where to fall.Yet more her volumes teach—on these we lookAs abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book:Here, first described, the torpid earth appears,310And next, the vegetable robe it wears:Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields and groves,Nurse the still flame, and feed the silentloves—Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain,Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain;But as the green blood moves along the blade,The bed of Flora on the branch is made;Where, without passion, love instinctive lives,And gives new life, unconscious that it gives.Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace,320In dens and burning plains, her savage race;With those tame tribes who on their lord attend,And find in man, a master and a friend;Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new,A moral world, that well demands our view.This world is here; for, of more lofty kind,These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind;They paint the state of man, ere yet enduedWith knowledge—man, poor, ignorant, and rude;Then, as his state improves, their pages swell,330And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell:Here we behold how inexperience buys,At little price, the wisdom of the wise;Without the troubles of an active state,Without the cares and dangers of the great,Without the miseries of the poor, we knowWhat wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow;We see how reason calms the raging mind,And how contending passions urge mankind.Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire;340Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire;Whilst others, won by either, now pursueThe guilty chase, now keep the good in view;For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life;For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain,Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul,New interests draw, new principles control:Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief,350But here the tortured body finds relief;For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapesHer subtile gin, that not a fly escapes!TherePhysicfills the space, and far around,Pile above pile, her learned works abound:Glorious their aim—to ease the labouring heart;To war with death, and stop his flying dart;To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew,And life's short lease on easier terms renew;To calm the frenzy of the burning brain;360To heal the tortures of imploring pain;}Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave,}To ease the victim no device can save,}And smooth the stormy passage to the grave.But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure,Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure;For grave deceivers lodge their labours here,And cloud the science they pretend to clear.Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent;Like fire and storms, they call us to repent;370But storms subside, and fires forget to rage,Theseare eternal scourges of the age.'Tis not enough that each terrific handSpreads desolation round a guilty land;But, train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes,Their pen relentless kills through future times.Say ye, who search these records of the dead,Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read:Can all the real knowledge ye possess,Or those (if such there are) who more than guess,380Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes,And mend the blunders pride or folly makes?What thought so wild, what airy dream so light,That will not prompt a theorist to write?What art so prevalent, what proof so strong,That will convince him his attempt is wrong?One in the solids finds each lurking ill,Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill;A learned friend some subtler reason bringsAbsolves the channels, but condemns their springs;390The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye,Escape no more his subtler theory;The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart,Lends a fair system to these sons of art;}The vital air, a pure and subtile stream,}Serves a foundation for an airy scheme,}Assists the doctor, and supports his dream.Some have their favourite ills, and each diseaseIs but a younger branch that kills from these.One to the gout contracts all human pain;400He views it raging in the frantic brain;Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar,And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh.Bilious by some, by others nervous seen,Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen;And every symptom of the strange diseaseWith every system of the sage agrees.Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted longThe tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song;Ye first seducers of my easy heart,410Who promised knowledge ye could not impart;Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes;Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose;Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt,Light up false fires, and send us farabout—Still may yon spider round your pages spin,Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin!Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell;Most potent, grave, and reverend friends—farewell!Near these, and where the setting sun displays420Through the dim window his departing rays,And gilds yon columns, there, on either side,The huge abridgments of theLawabide.Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand,And spread their guardian terrors round the land;Yet, as the best that human care can do,Is mix'd with error, oft with evil too,Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade,Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were made;And justice vainly each expedient tries,430While art eludes it, or while power defies."Ah! happy age," the youthful poet sings,"When the free nations knew not laws nor kings;When all were bless'd to share a common store,And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor;No wars nor tumults vex'd each still domain,No thirst of empire, no desire of gain;No proud great man, nor one who would be great,Drove modest merit from its proper state;Nor into distant climes would avarice roam,440To fetch delights for luxury at home:Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe,They dwelt at liberty, and love was law!""Mistaken youth! each nation first was rude,Each man a cheerless son of solitude,To whom no joys of social life were known;None felt a care that was not all his own;Or in some languid clime his abject soulBow'd to a little tyrant's stern control;A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised,450And in rude song his ruder idol praised;The meaner cares of life were all he knew;Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few.But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,And Science waken'd from her long repose;When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease,Ran round the land, and pointed to the seas;When Emulation, born with jealous eye,And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry;Then one by one the numerous laws were made,460Those to control, and these to succour trade;To curb the insolence of rude command,To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand;To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress,And feed the poor with Luxury's excess."Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong,His nature leads ungovern'd man along;Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide,The laws are form'd and placed on ev'ry side:Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed,470New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed;More and more gentle grows the dying stream,More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem;Till, like a miner working sure and slow,Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;The basis sinks, the ample piles decay;The stately fabric shakes and falls away;Primeval want and ignorance come on,But freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone.Next,Historyranks;—there full in front she lies,480And every nation her dread tale supplies.Yet History has her doubts, and every ageWith sceptic queries marks the passing page;Records of old nor later date areclear—Too distant those, and these are placed too near;There time conceals the objects from our view,Here our own passions and a writer's too.Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose,Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes;Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain,490Lo! how they sunk to slavery again!Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd,A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd;Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all,And foes join foes to triumph in her fall.Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race,The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace;The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run,How soon triumphant, and how soon undone;How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale,500And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale.Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood:There, such the taste of our degenerate age,Stand the profane delusions of theStage.Yet virtue owns theTragic Museafriend—Fable her means, morality her end;For this she rules all passions in their turns,And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns;Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl;510Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul;She makes the vile to virtue yield applause,And own her sceptre while they break her laws;For vice in others is abhorr'd of all,And villains triumph when the worthless fall.Not thus her sisterComedyprevails,Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails:Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound,And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound;Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill,520Laughs at her malice, and is folly still.Yet well the Muse portrays in fancied scenesWhat pride will stoop to, what profession means;How formal fools the farce of state applaud;How caution watches at the lips of fraud;The wordy variance of domestic life;The tyrant husband, the retorting wife,The snares for innocence, the lie of trade,And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade.With her the virtues too obtain a place,530Each gentle passion, each becoming grace;The social joy in life's securer road,Its easy pleasure, its substantial good;The happy thought that conscious virtue gives.And all that ought to live, and all that lives.But who are these? Methinks, a noble mienAnd awful grandeur in their form areseen—Now in disgrace. What, though by time is spreadPolluting dust o'er every reverend head;What, though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie,540And dull observers pass insulting by:Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe,What seems so grave, should no attention draw!Come, let us then with [reverent] step advance,And greet—the ancient worthies ofRomance.Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread;A thousand visions float around my head.Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound,And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round;See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise,550Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes;Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate,And bloody hand that beckons on tofate:—"And who art thou, thou little page, unfold!Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold?Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resignThe captive queen—for Claribel is mine."Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds,Black suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds;The giant falls, his recreant throat I seize,560And from his corslet take the massy keys;Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move,Released from bondage with my virgin love;She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth,Unequall'd love and unsuspected truth!Ah! happy he who thus, in magic themes,O'er worlds bewitch'd in early rapture dreams,Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand,And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land;Where doubtful objects strange desires excite,570And Fear and Ignorance afford delight.But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys,Which Reason scatters, and which Timedestroys—Too dearly bought: maturer judgment callsMy busied mind from tales and madrigals;My doughty giants all are slain or fled,And all my knights, blue, green, and yellow, dead!No more the midnight fairy tribe I view,All in the merry moonshine tippling dew;E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain,580The church-yard ghost, is now at rest again;And all these wayward wanderings of my youthFly Reason's power and shun the light of truth.With fiction, then, does real joy reside,And is our reason the delusive guide?Is it, then, right to dream the syrens sing,Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing?No, 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown,That makes th' imagined paradise its own;Soon as reflections in the bosom rise,590Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes;The tear and smile, that once together rose,Are then divorced; the head and heart are foes:Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan,And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man.While thus, of power and fancied empire vain,With various thoughts my mind I entertain;While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,Pleased with the pride that will not let them please;Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise,600And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes;For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound,I see theCriticarmy ranged around.Foes to our race! if ever ye have knownA father's fears for offspring of yourown.—If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line,Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine,Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt,With rage as sudden dash'd the stanzaout—If, after fearing much and pausing long,610Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song,And from the crusty critics of those daysImplored the feeble tribute of their praise:Remember now the fears that moved you then,And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen!What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foesLie waiting all around them to oppose!What treacherous friends betray them to the fight!What dangers threaten them—yet still they write:A hapless tribe! to every evil born,620Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn;Strangers they come amid a world of wo,And taste the largest portion ere they go.Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;The roof, methought, return'd a solemn sound;Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds, like smoke,From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke;Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem,Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream;Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine630Round the large members of a form divine;}His silver beard, that swept his aged breast,}His piercing eye, that inward light express'd,}Were seen—but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest.Fear chill'd my heart: to one of mortal race,How awful seem'd the Genius of the place!So, in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses sawHis parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe;Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,When from the pitying power broke forth a solemnsound:—}640"Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save}The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave;}Grief is to man as certain as the grave:Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies;Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall,But showers of sorrow are the lot ofall:Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdrawTh' afflicting rod, or break the general law?Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,650Life's little cares and little pains refuse?Shall he not rather feel a double shareOf mortal wo, when doubly arm'd to bear?"Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mindOn the precarious mercy of mankind;Who hopes for wild and visionary things,And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous wings:But as, of various evils that befallThe human race, some portion goes to all:To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd,660Who feels his consolation in his mind;And, lock'd within his bosom, bears aboutA mental charm for every care without.E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;And every wound the tortured bosom feels,Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;Some generous friend, of ample power possess'd;Some feeling heart that bleeds for the distress'd;Some breast that glows with virtues all divine;670Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine."Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen,Merit the scorn they meet from little men.With cautious freedom if the numbers flow,Not wildly high, nor pitifully low;If vice alone their honest aims oppose,Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes?Happy for men in every age and clime,If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme!Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue680Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too.Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great,Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known,Are visions far less happy than thy own:Go on! and, while the sons of care complain,Be wisely gay and innocently vain;While serious souls are by their fears undone,Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun,And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show690More radiant colours in their worlds below;Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,And tell them, Such are all the toys they love."
When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;When every object that appears in view,Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too:Where shall affliction from itself retire?Where fade away and placidly expire?Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain;Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain:Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,10Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream.For, when the soul is labouring in despair,In vain the body breathes a purer air:No storm-toss'd sailor sighs for slumberingseas—He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;}On the smooth mirror of the deep resides}Reflected wo, and o'er unruffled tides}The ghost of every former danger glides.Thus, in the calms of life, we only seeA steadier image of our misery;20But lively gales and gently-clouded skiesDisperse the sad reflections as they rise;And busy thoughts and little cares availTo ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,We bleed anew in every former grief,And joys departed furnish no relief.Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart:30The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,And anxious searches for congenialcares—}Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined,}By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind.}And steal our grief away and leave their own behind:A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endureWithout regret, nor e'en demand a cure.But what strange art, what magic can disposeThe troubled mind to change its native woes?Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see40Others more wretched, more undone than we?This, books can do—nor this alone: they giveNew views to life, and teach us how to live;They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise;Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise.Their aid they yield to all: they never shunThe man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone;Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;Nor tell to various people various things,50But show to subjects, what they show to kings.Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene,Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene;Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold,The soul's best cure in all her cares behold!Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,And mental physic the diseased in mind.See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage;See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;Here alt'ratives by slow degrees control60The chronic habits of the sickly soul;And round the heart, and o'er the aching head,Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,And view composed this silentmultitude:—Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound,Here all the living languages abound,Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,In tombs that open to the curious eye.Bless'd be the gracious Power, who taught mankind70To stamp a lasting image of the mind!—Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,Their mutual feelings in the opening spring;But man alone has skill and power to sendThe heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;'Tis his alone to please, instruct, adviseAges remote, and nations yet to rise.In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep,When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,80And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest—Why then denies the studious man to shareMan's common good, who feels his common care?Because the hope is his, that bids him flyNight's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;That after-ages may repeat his praise,And fame's fair meed be his for length of days.Delightful prospect! when we leave behindA worthy offspring of the fruitful mind,Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day,90Shall all our labour, all our care repay.Yet all are not these births of noble kind,Not all the children of a vigorous mind;But, where the wisest should alone preside,The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide;Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and showThe poor and troubled source from which they flow:Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.But, though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves100This seat serene, and virtue's self approves;Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find,The curious here, to feed a craving mind;Here the devout their peaceful temple choose;And here the poet meets his favouring muse.With awe around these silent walks I tread:These are the lasting mansions of thedead.—"The dead," methinks, a thousand tongues reply;"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime,110And laugh at all the little strife of time."Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above,Each in his sphere the literary Jove;And ye, the common people of these skies,A humbler crowd of nameless deities:Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mindThrough history's mazes, and the turnings find;Or whether, led by science, ye retire,Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire;Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers,120And crowns your placid brows with living flowers;Or godlike wisdom teaches you to showThe noblest road to happiness below;Or men and manners prompt the easy pageTo mark the flying follies of the age:Whatever good ye boast, that good impart;Inform the head and rectify the heart!
When the sad soul, by care and grief oppress'd,
Looks round the world, but looks in vain for rest;
When every object that appears in view,
Partakes her gloom and seems dejected too:
Where shall affliction from itself retire?
Where fade away and placidly expire?
Alas! we fly to silent scenes in vain;
Care blasts the honours of the flow'ry plain:
Care veils in clouds the sun's meridian beam,
10
Sighs through the grove and murmurs in the stream.
For, when the soul is labouring in despair,
In vain the body breathes a purer air:
No storm-toss'd sailor sighs for slumberingseas—
He dreads the tempest, but invokes the breeze;
}
On the smooth mirror of the deep resides
}
Reflected wo, and o'er unruffled tides
}
The ghost of every former danger glides.
Thus, in the calms of life, we only see
A steadier image of our misery;
20
But lively gales and gently-clouded skies
Disperse the sad reflections as they rise;
And busy thoughts and little cares avail
To ease the mind, when rest and reason fail.
When the dull thought, by no designs employ'd,
Dwells on the past, or suffer'd or enjoy'd,
We bleed anew in every former grief,
And joys departed furnish no relief.
Not Hope herself, with all her flattering art,
Can cure this stubborn sickness of the heart:
30
The soul disdains each comfort she prepares,
And anxious searches for congenialcares—
}
Those lenient cares, which, with our own combined,
}
By mix'd sensations ease th' afflicted mind.
}
And steal our grief away and leave their own behind:
A lighter grief! which feeling hearts endure
Without regret, nor e'en demand a cure.
But what strange art, what magic can dispose
The troubled mind to change its native woes?
Or lead us willing from ourselves, to see
40
Others more wretched, more undone than we?
This, books can do—nor this alone: they give
New views to life, and teach us how to live;
They soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise;
Fools they admonish, and confirm the wise.
Their aid they yield to all: they never shun
The man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone;
Unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud,
They fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd;
Nor tell to various people various things,
50
But show to subjects, what they show to kings.
Come, Child of Care! to make thy soul serene,
Approach the treasures of this tranquil scene;
Survey the dome, and, as the doors unfold,
The soul's best cure in all her cares behold!
Where mental wealth the poor in thought may find,
And mental physic the diseased in mind.
See here the balms that passion's wounds assuage;
See coolers here, that damp the fire of rage;
Here alt'ratives by slow degrees control
60
The chronic habits of the sickly soul;
And round the heart, and o'er the aching head,
Mild opiates here their sober influence shed.
Now bid thy soul man's busy scenes exclude,
And view composed this silentmultitude:—
Silent they are, but, though deprived of sound,
Here all the living languages abound,
Here all that live no more; preserved they lie,
In tombs that open to the curious eye.
Bless'd be the gracious Power, who taught mankind
70
To stamp a lasting image of the mind!—
Beasts may convey, and tuneful birds may sing,
Their mutual feelings in the opening spring;
But man alone has skill and power to send
The heart's warm dictates to the distant friend;
'Tis his alone to please, instruct, advise
Ages remote, and nations yet to rise.
In sweet repose, when labour's children sleep,
When joy forgets to smile and care to weep,
When passion slumbers in the lover's breast,
80
And fear and guilt partake the balm of rest—
Why then denies the studious man to share
Man's common good, who feels his common care?
Because the hope is his, that bids him fly
Night's soft repose, and sleep's mild power defy;
That after-ages may repeat his praise,
And fame's fair meed be his for length of days.
Delightful prospect! when we leave behind
A worthy offspring of the fruitful mind,
Which, born and nursed through many an anxious day,
90
Shall all our labour, all our care repay.
Yet all are not these births of noble kind,
Not all the children of a vigorous mind;
But, where the wisest should alone preside,
The weak would rule us, and the blind would guide;
Nay, man's best efforts taste of man, and show
The poor and troubled source from which they flow:
Where most he triumphs, we his wants perceive,
And for his weakness in his wisdom grieve.
But, though imperfect all, yet wisdom loves
100
This seat serene, and virtue's self approves;
Here come the grieved, a change of thought to find,
The curious here, to feed a craving mind;
Here the devout their peaceful temple choose;
And here the poet meets his favouring muse.
With awe around these silent walks I tread:
These are the lasting mansions of thedead.—
"The dead," methinks, a thousand tongues reply;
"These are the tombs of such as cannot die!
Crown'd with eternal fame, they sit sublime,
110
And laugh at all the little strife of time."
Hail, then, immortals! ye who shine above,
Each in his sphere the literary Jove;
And ye, the common people of these skies,
A humbler crowd of nameless deities:
Whether 'tis yours to lead the willing mind
Through history's mazes, and the turnings find;
Or whether, led by science, ye retire,
Lost and bewilder'd in the vast desire;
Whether the Muse invites you to her bowers,
120
And crowns your placid brows with living flowers;
Or godlike wisdom teaches you to show
The noblest road to happiness below;
Or men and manners prompt the easy page
To mark the flying follies of the age:
Whatever good ye boast, that good impart;
Inform the head and rectify the heart!
Lo! all in silence, all in order stand;And mighty folios first, a lordly band,Then quartos, their well-order'd ranks maintain,130And light octavos fill a spacious plain;See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,A humbler band of duodecimos;While undistinguished trifles swell the scene,The last new play and fritter'd magazine.Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state;Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,Are much admired, and are but little read:The commons next, a middle rank, are found;140Professions fruitful pour their offspring round;Reasoners and wits are next their place allow'd,And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd.First, let us view the form, the size, the dress;For these the manners, nay the mind express;That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid;Those ample clasps, of solid metal made;The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age;The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page;On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd,150Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold;These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim,A painful candidate for lasting fame:No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurkIn the deep bosom of that weighty work;No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style,Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile.Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie,And slumber out their immortality:Theyhadtheir day, when, after all his toil,160His morning study, and his midnight oil,At length an author'sONEgreat work appear'd,By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd:Expecting nations hail'd it from the press;Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address;Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift,And ladies read the work they could not lift.Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools,Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she goes,170And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes.For lo! these fav'rites of the ancient modeLie all neglected like the Birth-day Ode;Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain[14];Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain;No readers now invade their still retreat,None try to steal them from their parent-seat;Like ancient beauties, they may now discardChains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard.Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by,180And roll'd o'er labour'd works th' attentive eye;Page after page, the much-enduring menExplored the deeps and shallows of the pen;Till, every former note and comment known,They mark'd the spacious margin with their own:Minute corrections proved their studious care;The little index, pointing, told us where;And many an emendation show'd the ageLook'd far beyond the rubric title-page.Our nicer palates lighter labours seek,190Cloy'd with a folio-Numberonce a week;Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down:E'en light Voltaire isnumber'dthrough the town:Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law,From men of study, and from men of straw;Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times,Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes:But though to write be now a task of ease,The task is hard by manly arts to please,When all our weakness is exposed to view,200And half our judges are our rivals too.
Lo! all in silence, all in order stand;
And mighty folios first, a lordly band,
Then quartos, their well-order'd ranks maintain,
130
And light octavos fill a spacious plain;
See yonder, ranged in more frequented rows,
A humbler band of duodecimos;
While undistinguished trifles swell the scene,
The last new play and fritter'd magazine.
Thus 'tis in life, where first the proud, the great,
In leagued assembly keep their cumbrous state;
Heavy and huge, they fill the world with dread,
Are much admired, and are but little read:
The commons next, a middle rank, are found;
140
Professions fruitful pour their offspring round;
Reasoners and wits are next their place allow'd,
And last, of vulgar tribes a countless crowd.
First, let us view the form, the size, the dress;
For these the manners, nay the mind express;
That weight of wood, with leathern coat o'erlaid;
Those ample clasps, of solid metal made;
The close-press'd leaves, unclosed for many an age;
The dull red edging of the well-fill'd page;
On the broad back the stubborn ridges roll'd,
150
Where yet the title stands in tarnish'd gold;
These all a sage and labour'd work proclaim,
A painful candidate for lasting fame:
No idle wit, no trifling verse can lurk
In the deep bosom of that weighty work;
No playful thoughts degrade the solemn style,
Nor one light sentence claims a transient smile.
Hence, in these times, untouch'd the pages lie,
And slumber out their immortality:
Theyhadtheir day, when, after all his toil,
160
His morning study, and his midnight oil,
At length an author'sONEgreat work appear'd,
By patient hope, and length of days, endear'd:
Expecting nations hail'd it from the press;
Poetic friends prefix'd each kind address;
Princes and kings received the pond'rous gift,
And ladies read the work they could not lift.
Fashion, though Folly's child, and guide of fools,
Rules e'en the wisest, and in learning rules;
From crowds and courts to Wisdom's seat she goes,
170
And reigns triumphant o'er her mother's foes.
For lo! these fav'rites of the ancient mode
Lie all neglected like the Birth-day Ode;
Ah! needless now this weight of massy chain[14];
Safe in themselves, the once-loved works remain;
No readers now invade their still retreat,
None try to steal them from their parent-seat;
Like ancient beauties, they may now discard
Chains, bolts, and locks, and lie without a guard.
Our patient fathers trifling themes laid by,
180
And roll'd o'er labour'd works th' attentive eye;
Page after page, the much-enduring men
Explored the deeps and shallows of the pen;
Till, every former note and comment known,
They mark'd the spacious margin with their own:
Minute corrections proved their studious care;
The little index, pointing, told us where;
And many an emendation show'd the age
Look'd far beyond the rubric title-page.
Our nicer palates lighter labours seek,
190
Cloy'd with a folio-Numberonce a week;
Bibles, with cuts and comments, thus go down:
E'en light Voltaire isnumber'dthrough the town:
Thus physic flies abroad, and thus the law,
From men of study, and from men of straw;
Abstracts, abridgments, please the fickle times,
Pamphlets and plays, and politics and rhymes:
But though to write be now a task of ease,
The task is hard by manly arts to please,
When all our weakness is exposed to view,
200
And half our judges are our rivals too.
Amid these works, on which the eager eyeDelights to fix, or glides reluctant by,When all combined, their decent pomp display,Where shall we first our early offering pay?
Amid these works, on which the eager eye
Delights to fix, or glides reluctant by,
When all combined, their decent pomp display,
Where shall we first our early offering pay?
To thee,Divinity! to thee, the lightAnd guide of mortals through their mental night;By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide;To bear with pain, and to contend with pride;When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive;210And with the world in charity to live.Not truths like these inspired that numerous race,Whose pious labours fill this ample space;But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,Awaked to war the long-contending foes.For dubious meanings, learn'd polemics strove.And wars on faith prevented works of love;The brands of discord far around were hurl'd,And holy wrath inflamed a sinfulworld—Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,220With wit disgusting and despised without;Saints in design, in execution men,Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.
To thee,Divinity! to thee, the light
And guide of mortals through their mental night;
By whom we learn our hopes and fears to guide;
To bear with pain, and to contend with pride;
When grieved, to pray; when injured, to forgive;
210
And with the world in charity to live.
Not truths like these inspired that numerous race,
Whose pious labours fill this ample space;
But questions nice, where doubt on doubt arose,
Awaked to war the long-contending foes.
For dubious meanings, learn'd polemics strove.
And wars on faith prevented works of love;
The brands of discord far around were hurl'd,
And holy wrath inflamed a sinfulworld—
Dull though impatient, peevish though devout,
220
With wit disgusting and despised without;
Saints in design, in execution men,
Peace in their looks, and vengeance in their pen.
Methinks, I see, and sicken at the sight,Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight:Spirits who prompted every damning page,With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage.Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around,And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground!They pray, they fight, they murder, and theyweep—230Wolves, in their vengeance, in their manners sheep;Too well they act the prophet's fatal part,Denouncing evil with a zealous heart;And each, like Jonas, is displeased, if GodRepent his anger, or withhold his rod.But here the dormant fury rests unsought,And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought;Here all the rage of controversy ends,And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends:An Athanasian here, in deep repose,240Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes;Socinians here with Calvinists abide,And thin partitions angry chiefs divide;Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet.Great authors, for the church's glory fired,Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired;And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race,Lie, "Crums of Comfort for the Babes of Grace."Against her foes Religion well defends250Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends;If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads,And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads.But most she fears the controversial pen,The holy strife of disputatious men;Who the bless'd Gospel's peaceful page explore,Only to fight against its precepts more.Near to these seats, behold yon slender frames,All closely fill'd and mark'd with modern names;Where no fair science ever shows her face,260Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace.There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng,And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong:Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain;Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again;Coldly profane, and impiously gay;Their end the same, though various in their way.When first Religion came to bless the land,Her friends were then a firm believing band;To doubt was, then, to plunge in guilt extreme,270And all was gospel that a monk could dream;Insulted Reason fled the grov'ling soul,For Fear to guide, and visions to control.But now, when Reason has assumed her throne,She, in her turn, demands to reign alone;Rejecting all that lies beyond her view,And, being judge, will be a witness too.Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind,To seek for truth, without a power to find;Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite,280And pour on erring man resistless light?
Methinks, I see, and sicken at the sight,
Spirits of spleen from yonder pile alight:
Spirits who prompted every damning page,
With pontiff pride and still-increasing rage.
Lo! how they stretch their gloomy wings around,
And lash with furious strokes the trembling ground!
They pray, they fight, they murder, and theyweep—
230
Wolves, in their vengeance, in their manners sheep;
Too well they act the prophet's fatal part,
Denouncing evil with a zealous heart;
And each, like Jonas, is displeased, if God
Repent his anger, or withhold his rod.
But here the dormant fury rests unsought,
And Zeal sleeps soundly by the foes she fought;
Here all the rage of controversy ends,
And rival zealots rest like bosom-friends:
An Athanasian here, in deep repose,
240
Sleeps with the fiercest of his Arian foes;
Socinians here with Calvinists abide,
And thin partitions angry chiefs divide;
Here wily Jesuits simple Quakers meet,
And Bellarmine has rest at Luther's feet.
Great authors, for the church's glory fired,
Are, for the church's peace, to rest retired;
And close beside, a mystic, maudlin race,
Lie, "Crums of Comfort for the Babes of Grace."
Against her foes Religion well defends
250
Her sacred truths, but often fears her friends;
If learn'd, their pride, if weak, their zeal she dreads,
And their hearts' weakness, who have soundest heads.
But most she fears the controversial pen,
The holy strife of disputatious men;
Who the bless'd Gospel's peaceful page explore,
Only to fight against its precepts more.
Near to these seats, behold yon slender frames,
All closely fill'd and mark'd with modern names;
Where no fair science ever shows her face,
260
Few sparks of genius, and no spark of grace.
There sceptics rest, a still-increasing throng,
And stretch their widening wings ten thousand strong:
Some in close fight their dubious claims maintain;
Some skirmish lightly, fly and fight again;
Coldly profane, and impiously gay;
Their end the same, though various in their way.
When first Religion came to bless the land,
Her friends were then a firm believing band;
To doubt was, then, to plunge in guilt extreme,
270
And all was gospel that a monk could dream;
Insulted Reason fled the grov'ling soul,
For Fear to guide, and visions to control.
But now, when Reason has assumed her throne,
She, in her turn, demands to reign alone;
Rejecting all that lies beyond her view,
And, being judge, will be a witness too.
Insulted Faith then leaves the doubtful mind,
To seek for truth, without a power to find;
Ah! when will both in friendly beams unite,
280
And pour on erring man resistless light?
Next to the seats, well stored with works divine,An ample space,Philosophy! is thine;Our reason's guide, by whose assisting lightWe trace the moral bounds of wrong and right;Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay,To the bright orbs of yon celestial way!'Tis thine, the great, the golden chain to trace,Which runs through all, connecting race with race;Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain,290Which thy inferior light pursues in vain:—How vice and virtue in the soul contend;How widely differ, yet how nearly blend!What various passions war on either part,And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart;How Fancy loves around the world to stray,While Judgment slowly picks his sober way!The stores of memory, and the flights sublimeOf genius, bound by neither space nortime—All these divine Philosophy explores,300Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores.From these, descending to the earth, she turns,And matter, in its various form, discerns;She parts the beamy light with skill profound,Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound;'Tis hers the lightning from the clouds to call,And teach the fiery mischief where to fall.Yet more her volumes teach—on these we lookAs abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book:Here, first described, the torpid earth appears,310And next, the vegetable robe it wears:Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields and groves,Nurse the still flame, and feed the silentloves—Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain,Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain;But as the green blood moves along the blade,The bed of Flora on the branch is made;Where, without passion, love instinctive lives,And gives new life, unconscious that it gives.Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace,320In dens and burning plains, her savage race;With those tame tribes who on their lord attend,And find in man, a master and a friend;Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new,A moral world, that well demands our view.This world is here; for, of more lofty kind,These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind;They paint the state of man, ere yet enduedWith knowledge—man, poor, ignorant, and rude;Then, as his state improves, their pages swell,330And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell:Here we behold how inexperience buys,At little price, the wisdom of the wise;Without the troubles of an active state,Without the cares and dangers of the great,Without the miseries of the poor, we knowWhat wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow;We see how reason calms the raging mind,And how contending passions urge mankind.Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire;340Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire;Whilst others, won by either, now pursueThe guilty chase, now keep the good in view;For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life;For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain,Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.
Next to the seats, well stored with works divine,
An ample space,Philosophy! is thine;
Our reason's guide, by whose assisting light
We trace the moral bounds of wrong and right;
Our guide through nature, from the sterile clay,
To the bright orbs of yon celestial way!
'Tis thine, the great, the golden chain to trace,
Which runs through all, connecting race with race;
Save where those puzzling, stubborn links remain,
290
Which thy inferior light pursues in vain:—
How vice and virtue in the soul contend;
How widely differ, yet how nearly blend!
What various passions war on either part,
And now confirm, now melt the yielding heart;
How Fancy loves around the world to stray,
While Judgment slowly picks his sober way!
The stores of memory, and the flights sublime
Of genius, bound by neither space nortime—
All these divine Philosophy explores,
300
Till, lost in awe, she wonders and adores.
From these, descending to the earth, she turns,
And matter, in its various form, discerns;
She parts the beamy light with skill profound,
Metes the thin air, and weighs the flying sound;
'Tis hers the lightning from the clouds to call,
And teach the fiery mischief where to fall.
Yet more her volumes teach—on these we look
As abstracts drawn from Nature's larger book:
Here, first described, the torpid earth appears,
310
And next, the vegetable robe it wears:
Where flow'ry tribes, in valleys, fields and groves,
Nurse the still flame, and feed the silentloves—
Loves, where no grief, nor joy, nor bliss, nor pain,
Warm the glad heart or vex the labouring brain;
But as the green blood moves along the blade,
The bed of Flora on the branch is made;
Where, without passion, love instinctive lives,
And gives new life, unconscious that it gives.
Advancing still in Nature's maze, we trace,
320
In dens and burning plains, her savage race;
With those tame tribes who on their lord attend,
And find in man, a master and a friend;
Man crowns the scene, a world of wonders new,
A moral world, that well demands our view.
This world is here; for, of more lofty kind,
These neighbouring volumes reason on the mind;
They paint the state of man, ere yet endued
With knowledge—man, poor, ignorant, and rude;
Then, as his state improves, their pages swell,
330
And all its cares, and all its comforts, tell:
Here we behold how inexperience buys,
At little price, the wisdom of the wise;
Without the troubles of an active state,
Without the cares and dangers of the great,
Without the miseries of the poor, we know
What wisdom, wealth, and poverty bestow;
We see how reason calms the raging mind,
And how contending passions urge mankind.
Some, won by virtue, glow with sacred fire;
340
Some, lured by vice, indulge the low desire;
Whilst others, won by either, now pursue
The guilty chase, now keep the good in view;
For ever wretched, with themselves at strife,
They lead a puzzled, vex'd, uncertain life;
For transient vice bequeaths a lingering pain,
Which transient virtue seeks to cure in vain.
Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul,New interests draw, new principles control:Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief,350But here the tortured body finds relief;For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapesHer subtile gin, that not a fly escapes!TherePhysicfills the space, and far around,Pile above pile, her learned works abound:Glorious their aim—to ease the labouring heart;To war with death, and stop his flying dart;To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew,And life's short lease on easier terms renew;To calm the frenzy of the burning brain;360To heal the tortures of imploring pain;}Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave,}To ease the victim no device can save,}And smooth the stormy passage to the grave.But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure,
Whilst thus engaged, high views enlarge the soul,
New interests draw, new principles control:
Nor thus the soul alone resigns her grief,
350
But here the tortured body finds relief;
For see where yonder sage Arachnè shapes
Her subtile gin, that not a fly escapes!
TherePhysicfills the space, and far around,
Pile above pile, her learned works abound:
Glorious their aim—to ease the labouring heart;
To war with death, and stop his flying dart;
To trace the source whence the fierce contest grew,
And life's short lease on easier terms renew;
To calm the frenzy of the burning brain;
360
To heal the tortures of imploring pain;
}
Or, when more powerful ills all efforts brave,
}
To ease the victim no device can save,
}
And smooth the stormy passage to the grave.
But man, who knows no good unmix'd and pure,
Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure;For grave deceivers lodge their labours here,And cloud the science they pretend to clear.Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent;Like fire and storms, they call us to repent;370But storms subside, and fires forget to rage,Theseare eternal scourges of the age.'Tis not enough that each terrific handSpreads desolation round a guilty land;But, train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes,Their pen relentless kills through future times.Say ye, who search these records of the dead,Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read:Can all the real knowledge ye possess,Or those (if such there are) who more than guess,380Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes,And mend the blunders pride or folly makes?What thought so wild, what airy dream so light,That will not prompt a theorist to write?What art so prevalent, what proof so strong,That will convince him his attempt is wrong?One in the solids finds each lurking ill,Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill;A learned friend some subtler reason bringsAbsolves the channels, but condemns their springs;390The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye,Escape no more his subtler theory;The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart,Lends a fair system to these sons of art;}The vital air, a pure and subtile stream,}Serves a foundation for an airy scheme,}Assists the doctor, and supports his dream.Some have their favourite ills, and each diseaseIs but a younger branch that kills from these.One to the gout contracts all human pain;400He views it raging in the frantic brain;Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar,And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh.Bilious by some, by others nervous seen,Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen;And every symptom of the strange diseaseWith every system of the sage agrees.Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted longThe tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song;Ye first seducers of my easy heart,410Who promised knowledge ye could not impart;Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes;Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose;Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt,Light up false fires, and send us farabout—Still may yon spider round your pages spin,Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin!Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell;Most potent, grave, and reverend friends—farewell!
Oft finds a poison where he sought a cure;
For grave deceivers lodge their labours here,
And cloud the science they pretend to clear.
Scourges for sin, the solemn tribe are sent;
Like fire and storms, they call us to repent;
370
But storms subside, and fires forget to rage,
Theseare eternal scourges of the age.
'Tis not enough that each terrific hand
Spreads desolation round a guilty land;
But, train'd to ill, and harden'd by its crimes,
Their pen relentless kills through future times.
Say ye, who search these records of the dead,
Who read huge works, to boast what ye have read:
Can all the real knowledge ye possess,
Or those (if such there are) who more than guess,
380
Atone for each impostor's wild mistakes,
And mend the blunders pride or folly makes?
What thought so wild, what airy dream so light,
That will not prompt a theorist to write?
What art so prevalent, what proof so strong,
That will convince him his attempt is wrong?
One in the solids finds each lurking ill,
Nor grants the passive fluids power to kill;
A learned friend some subtler reason brings
Absolves the channels, but condemns their springs;
390
The subtile nerves, that shun the doctor's eye,
Escape no more his subtler theory;
The vital heat, that warms the labouring heart,
Lends a fair system to these sons of art;
}
The vital air, a pure and subtile stream,
}
Serves a foundation for an airy scheme,
}
Assists the doctor, and supports his dream.
Some have their favourite ills, and each disease
Is but a younger branch that kills from these.
One to the gout contracts all human pain;
400
He views it raging in the frantic brain;
Finds it in fevers all his efforts mar,
And sees it lurking in the cold catarrh.
Bilious by some, by others nervous seen,
Rage the fantastic demons of the spleen;
And every symptom of the strange disease
With every system of the sage agrees.
Ye frigid tribe, on whom I wasted long
The tedious hours, and ne'er indulged in song;
Ye first seducers of my easy heart,
410
Who promised knowledge ye could not impart;
Ye dull deluders, truth's destructive foes;
Ye sons of fiction, clad in stupid prose;
Ye treacherous leaders, who, yourselves in doubt,
Light up false fires, and send us farabout—
Still may yon spider round your pages spin,
Subtile and slow, her emblematic gin!
Buried in dust and lost in silence, dwell;
Most potent, grave, and reverend friends—farewell!
Near these, and where the setting sun displays420Through the dim window his departing rays,And gilds yon columns, there, on either side,The huge abridgments of theLawabide.Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand,And spread their guardian terrors round the land;Yet, as the best that human care can do,Is mix'd with error, oft with evil too,Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade,Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were made;And justice vainly each expedient tries,430While art eludes it, or while power defies."Ah! happy age," the youthful poet sings,"When the free nations knew not laws nor kings;When all were bless'd to share a common store,And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor;No wars nor tumults vex'd each still domain,No thirst of empire, no desire of gain;No proud great man, nor one who would be great,Drove modest merit from its proper state;Nor into distant climes would avarice roam,440To fetch delights for luxury at home:Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe,They dwelt at liberty, and love was law!""Mistaken youth! each nation first was rude,Each man a cheerless son of solitude,To whom no joys of social life were known;None felt a care that was not all his own;Or in some languid clime his abject soulBow'd to a little tyrant's stern control;A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised,450And in rude song his ruder idol praised;The meaner cares of life were all he knew;Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few.But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,And Science waken'd from her long repose;When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease,Ran round the land, and pointed to the seas;When Emulation, born with jealous eye,And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry;Then one by one the numerous laws were made,460Those to control, and these to succour trade;To curb the insolence of rude command,To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand;To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress,And feed the poor with Luxury's excess."Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong,His nature leads ungovern'd man along;Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide,The laws are form'd and placed on ev'ry side:Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed,470New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed;More and more gentle grows the dying stream,More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem;Till, like a miner working sure and slow,Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;The basis sinks, the ample piles decay;The stately fabric shakes and falls away;Primeval want and ignorance come on,But freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone.
Near these, and where the setting sun displays
420
Through the dim window his departing rays,
And gilds yon columns, there, on either side,
The huge abridgments of theLawabide.
Fruitful as vice the dread correctors stand,
And spread their guardian terrors round the land;
Yet, as the best that human care can do,
Is mix'd with error, oft with evil too,
Skill'd in deceit, and practised to evade,
Knaves stand secure, for whom these laws were made;
And justice vainly each expedient tries,
430
While art eludes it, or while power defies.
"Ah! happy age," the youthful poet sings,
"When the free nations knew not laws nor kings;
When all were bless'd to share a common store,
And none were proud of wealth, for none were poor;
No wars nor tumults vex'd each still domain,
No thirst of empire, no desire of gain;
No proud great man, nor one who would be great,
Drove modest merit from its proper state;
Nor into distant climes would avarice roam,
440
To fetch delights for luxury at home:
Bound by no ties which kept the soul in awe,
They dwelt at liberty, and love was law!"
"Mistaken youth! each nation first was rude,
Each man a cheerless son of solitude,
To whom no joys of social life were known;
None felt a care that was not all his own;
Or in some languid clime his abject soul
Bow'd to a little tyrant's stern control;
A slave, with slaves his monarch's throne he raised,
450
And in rude song his ruder idol praised;
The meaner cares of life were all he knew;
Bounded his pleasures, and his wishes few.
But when by slow degrees the Arts arose,
And Science waken'd from her long repose;
When Commerce, rising from the bed of ease,
Ran round the land, and pointed to the seas;
When Emulation, born with jealous eye,
And Avarice, lent their spurs to industry;
Then one by one the numerous laws were made,
460
Those to control, and these to succour trade;
To curb the insolence of rude command,
To snatch the victim from the usurer's hand;
To awe the bold, to yield the wrong'd redress,
And feed the poor with Luxury's excess."
Like some vast flood, unbounded, fierce, and strong,
His nature leads ungovern'd man along;
Like mighty bulwarks made to stem that tide,
The laws are form'd and placed on ev'ry side:
Whene'er it breaks the bounds by these decreed,
470
New statutes rise, and stronger laws succeed;
More and more gentle grows the dying stream,
More and more strong the rising bulwarks seem;
Till, like a miner working sure and slow,
Luxury creeps on, and ruins all below;
The basis sinks, the ample piles decay;
The stately fabric shakes and falls away;
Primeval want and ignorance come on,
But freedom, that exalts the savage state, is gone.
Next,Historyranks;—there full in front she lies,480And every nation her dread tale supplies.Yet History has her doubts, and every ageWith sceptic queries marks the passing page;Records of old nor later date areclear—Too distant those, and these are placed too near;There time conceals the objects from our view,Here our own passions and a writer's too.Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose,Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes;Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain,490Lo! how they sunk to slavery again!Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd,A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd;Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all,And foes join foes to triumph in her fall.Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race,The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace;The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run,How soon triumphant, and how soon undone;How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale,500And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale.Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood:There, such the taste of our degenerate age,Stand the profane delusions of theStage.Yet virtue owns theTragic Museafriend—Fable her means, morality her end;For this she rules all passions in their turns,And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns;Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl;510Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul;She makes the vile to virtue yield applause,And own her sceptre while they break her laws;For vice in others is abhorr'd of all,And villains triumph when the worthless fall.Not thus her sisterComedyprevails,Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails:Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound,And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound;Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill,520Laughs at her malice, and is folly still.Yet well the Muse portrays in fancied scenesWhat pride will stoop to, what profession means;How formal fools the farce of state applaud;How caution watches at the lips of fraud;The wordy variance of domestic life;The tyrant husband, the retorting wife,The snares for innocence, the lie of trade,And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade.With her the virtues too obtain a place,530Each gentle passion, each becoming grace;The social joy in life's securer road,Its easy pleasure, its substantial good;The happy thought that conscious virtue gives.And all that ought to live, and all that lives.
Next,Historyranks;—there full in front she lies,
480
And every nation her dread tale supplies.
Yet History has her doubts, and every age
With sceptic queries marks the passing page;
Records of old nor later date areclear—
Too distant those, and these are placed too near;
There time conceals the objects from our view,
Here our own passions and a writer's too.
Yet, in these volumes, see how states arose,
Guarded by virtue from surrounding foes;
Their virtue lost, and of their triumphs vain,
490
Lo! how they sunk to slavery again!
Satiate with power, of fame and wealth possess'd,
A nation grows too glorious to be bless'd;
Conspicuous made, she stands the mark of all,
And foes join foes to triumph in her fall.
Thus speaks the page that paints ambition's race,
The monarch's pride, his glory, his disgrace;
The headlong course, that madd'ning heroes run,
How soon triumphant, and how soon undone;
How slaves, turn'd tyrants, offer crowns to sale,
500
And each fall'n nation's melancholy tale.
Lo! where of late the Book of Martyrs stood,
Old pious tracts, and Bibles bound in wood:
There, such the taste of our degenerate age,
Stand the profane delusions of theStage.
Yet virtue owns theTragic Museafriend—
Fable her means, morality her end;
For this she rules all passions in their turns,
And now the bosom bleeds, and now it burns;
Pity with weeping eye surveys her bowl;
510
Her anger swells, her terror chills the soul;
She makes the vile to virtue yield applause,
And own her sceptre while they break her laws;
For vice in others is abhorr'd of all,
And villains triumph when the worthless fall.
Not thus her sisterComedyprevails,
Who shoots at folly, for her arrow fails:
Folly, by dulness arm'd, eludes the wound,
And harmless sees the feather'd shafts rebound;
Unhurt she stands, applauds the archer's skill,
520
Laughs at her malice, and is folly still.
Yet well the Muse portrays in fancied scenes
What pride will stoop to, what profession means;
How formal fools the farce of state applaud;
How caution watches at the lips of fraud;
The wordy variance of domestic life;
The tyrant husband, the retorting wife,
The snares for innocence, the lie of trade,
And the smooth tongue's habitual masquerade.
With her the virtues too obtain a place,
530
Each gentle passion, each becoming grace;
The social joy in life's securer road,
Its easy pleasure, its substantial good;
The happy thought that conscious virtue gives.
And all that ought to live, and all that lives.
But who are these? Methinks, a noble mienAnd awful grandeur in their form areseen—Now in disgrace. What, though by time is spreadPolluting dust o'er every reverend head;What, though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie,540And dull observers pass insulting by:Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe,What seems so grave, should no attention draw!Come, let us then with [reverent] step advance,And greet—the ancient worthies ofRomance.Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread;A thousand visions float around my head.Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound,And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round;See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise,550Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes;Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate,And bloody hand that beckons on tofate:—"And who art thou, thou little page, unfold!Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold?Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resignThe captive queen—for Claribel is mine."Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds,Black suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds;The giant falls, his recreant throat I seize,560And from his corslet take the massy keys;Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move,Released from bondage with my virgin love;She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth,Unequall'd love and unsuspected truth!Ah! happy he who thus, in magic themes,O'er worlds bewitch'd in early rapture dreams,Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand,And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land;Where doubtful objects strange desires excite,570And Fear and Ignorance afford delight.But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys,Which Reason scatters, and which Timedestroys—Too dearly bought: maturer judgment callsMy busied mind from tales and madrigals;My doughty giants all are slain or fled,And all my knights, blue, green, and yellow, dead!No more the midnight fairy tribe I view,All in the merry moonshine tippling dew;E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain,580The church-yard ghost, is now at rest again;And all these wayward wanderings of my youthFly Reason's power and shun the light of truth.With fiction, then, does real joy reside,And is our reason the delusive guide?Is it, then, right to dream the syrens sing,Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing?No, 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown,That makes th' imagined paradise its own;Soon as reflections in the bosom rise,590Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes;The tear and smile, that once together rose,Are then divorced; the head and heart are foes:Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan,And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man.
But who are these? Methinks, a noble mien
And awful grandeur in their form areseen—
Now in disgrace. What, though by time is spread
Polluting dust o'er every reverend head;
What, though beneath yon gilded tribe they lie,
540
And dull observers pass insulting by:
Forbid it shame, forbid it decent awe,
What seems so grave, should no attention draw!
Come, let us then with [reverent] step advance,
And greet—the ancient worthies ofRomance.
Hence, ye profane! I feel a former dread;
A thousand visions float around my head.
Hark! hollow blasts through empty courts resound,
And shadowy forms with staring eyes stalk round;
See! moats and bridges, walls and castles rise,
550
Ghosts, fairies, demons, dance before our eyes;
Lo! magic verse inscribed on golden gate,
And bloody hand that beckons on tofate:—
"And who art thou, thou little page, unfold!
Say, doth thy lord my Claribel withhold?
Go tell him straight, Sir Knight, thou must resign
The captive queen—for Claribel is mine."
Away he flies; and now for bloody deeds,
Black suits of armour, masks, and foaming steeds;
The giant falls, his recreant throat I seize,
560
And from his corslet take the massy keys;
Dukes, lords, and knights in long procession move,
Released from bondage with my virgin love;
She comes! she comes! in all the charms of youth,
Unequall'd love and unsuspected truth!
Ah! happy he who thus, in magic themes,
O'er worlds bewitch'd in early rapture dreams,
Where wild Enchantment waves her potent wand,
And Fancy's beauties fill her fairy land;
Where doubtful objects strange desires excite,
570
And Fear and Ignorance afford delight.
But lost, for ever lost, to me these joys,
Which Reason scatters, and which Timedestroys—
Too dearly bought: maturer judgment calls
My busied mind from tales and madrigals;
My doughty giants all are slain or fled,
And all my knights, blue, green, and yellow, dead!
No more the midnight fairy tribe I view,
All in the merry moonshine tippling dew;
E'en the last lingering fiction of the brain,
580
The church-yard ghost, is now at rest again;
And all these wayward wanderings of my youth
Fly Reason's power and shun the light of truth.
With fiction, then, does real joy reside,
And is our reason the delusive guide?
Is it, then, right to dream the syrens sing,
Or mount enraptured on the dragon's wing?
No, 'tis the infant mind, to care unknown,
That makes th' imagined paradise its own;
Soon as reflections in the bosom rise,
590
Light slumbers vanish from the clouded eyes;
The tear and smile, that once together rose,
Are then divorced; the head and heart are foes:
Enchantment bows to Wisdom's serious plan,
And Pain and Prudence make and mar the man.
While thus, of power and fancied empire vain,With various thoughts my mind I entertain;While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,Pleased with the pride that will not let them please;Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise,600And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes;For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound,I see theCriticarmy ranged around.Foes to our race! if ever ye have knownA father's fears for offspring of yourown.—If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line,Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine,Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt,With rage as sudden dash'd the stanzaout—If, after fearing much and pausing long,610Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song,And from the crusty critics of those daysImplored the feeble tribute of their praise:Remember now the fears that moved you then,And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen!What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foesLie waiting all around them to oppose!What treacherous friends betray them to the fight!What dangers threaten them—yet still they write:A hapless tribe! to every evil born,620Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn;Strangers they come amid a world of wo,And taste the largest portion ere they go.
While thus, of power and fancied empire vain,
With various thoughts my mind I entertain;
While books, my slaves, with tyrant hand I seize,
Pleased with the pride that will not let them please;
Sudden I find terrific thoughts arise,
600
And sympathetic sorrow fills my eyes;
For, lo! while yet my heart admits the wound,
I see theCriticarmy ranged around.
Foes to our race! if ever ye have known
A father's fears for offspring of yourown.—
If ever, smiling o'er a lucky line,
Ye thought the sudden sentiment divine,
Then paused and doubted, and then, tired of doubt,
With rage as sudden dash'd the stanzaout—
If, after fearing much and pausing long,
610
Ye ventured on the world your labour'd song,
And from the crusty critics of those days
Implored the feeble tribute of their praise:
Remember now the fears that moved you then,
And, spite of truth, let mercy guide your pen!
What vent'rous race are ours! what mighty foes
Lie waiting all around them to oppose!
What treacherous friends betray them to the fight!
What dangers threaten them—yet still they write:
A hapless tribe! to every evil born,
620
Whom villains hate, and fools affect to scorn;
Strangers they come amid a world of wo,
And taste the largest portion ere they go.
Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;The roof, methought, return'd a solemn sound;Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds, like smoke,From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke;Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem,Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream;Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine630Round the large members of a form divine;}His silver beard, that swept his aged breast,}His piercing eye, that inward light express'd,}Were seen—but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest.Fear chill'd my heart: to one of mortal race,How awful seem'd the Genius of the place!So, in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses sawHis parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe;Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,When from the pitying power broke forth a solemnsound:—}640"Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save}The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave;}Grief is to man as certain as the grave:Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies;Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall,But showers of sorrow are the lot ofall:Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdrawTh' afflicting rod, or break the general law?Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,650Life's little cares and little pains refuse?Shall he not rather feel a double shareOf mortal wo, when doubly arm'd to bear?"Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mindOn the precarious mercy of mankind;Who hopes for wild and visionary things,And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous wings:But as, of various evils that befallThe human race, some portion goes to all:To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd,660Who feels his consolation in his mind;And, lock'd within his bosom, bears aboutA mental charm for every care without.E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;And every wound the tortured bosom feels,Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;Some generous friend, of ample power possess'd;Some feeling heart that bleeds for the distress'd;Some breast that glows with virtues all divine;670Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine."Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen,Merit the scorn they meet from little men.With cautious freedom if the numbers flow,Not wildly high, nor pitifully low;If vice alone their honest aims oppose,Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes?Happy for men in every age and clime,If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme!Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue680Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too.Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great,Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known,Are visions far less happy than thy own:Go on! and, while the sons of care complain,Be wisely gay and innocently vain;While serious souls are by their fears undone,Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun,And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show690More radiant colours in their worlds below;Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,And tell them, Such are all the toys they love."
Pensive I spoke, and cast mine eyes around;
The roof, methought, return'd a solemn sound;
Each column seem'd to shake, and clouds, like smoke,
From dusty piles and ancient volumes broke;
Gathering above, like mists condensed they seem,
Exhaled in summer from the rushy stream;
Like flowing robes they now appear, and twine
630
Round the large members of a form divine;
}
His silver beard, that swept his aged breast,
}
His piercing eye, that inward light express'd,
}
Were seen—but clouds and darkness veil'd the rest.
Fear chill'd my heart: to one of mortal race,
How awful seem'd the Genius of the place!
So, in Cimmerian shores, Ulysses saw
His parent-shade, and shrunk in pious awe;
Like him I stood, and wrapt in thought profound,
When from the pitying power broke forth a solemnsound:—
}
640
"Care lives with all; no rules, no precepts save
}
The wise from wo, no fortitude the brave;
}
Grief is to man as certain as the grave:
Tempests and storms in life's whole progress rise,
And hope shines dimly through o'erclouded skies;
Some drops of comfort on the favour'd fall,
But showers of sorrow are the lot ofall:
Partial to talents, then, shall Heav'n withdraw
Th' afflicting rod, or break the general law?
Shall he who soars, inspired by loftier views,
650
Life's little cares and little pains refuse?
Shall he not rather feel a double share
Of mortal wo, when doubly arm'd to bear?
"Hard is his fate who builds his peace of mind
On the precarious mercy of mankind;
Who hopes for wild and visionary things,
And mounts o'er unknown seas with vent'rous wings:
But as, of various evils that befall
The human race, some portion goes to all:
To him perhaps the milder lot's assign'd,
660
Who feels his consolation in his mind;
And, lock'd within his bosom, bears about
A mental charm for every care without.
E'en in the pangs of each domestic grief,
Or health or vigorous hope affords relief;
And every wound the tortured bosom feels,
Or virtue bears, or some preserver heals;
Some generous friend, of ample power possess'd;
Some feeling heart that bleeds for the distress'd;
Some breast that glows with virtues all divine;
670
Some noble RUTLAND, Misery's friend and thine.
"Nor say, the Muse's song, the Poet's pen,
Merit the scorn they meet from little men.
With cautious freedom if the numbers flow,
Not wildly high, nor pitifully low;
If vice alone their honest aims oppose,
Why so ashamed their friends, so loud their foes?
Happy for men in every age and clime,
If all the sons of vision dealt in rhyme!
Go on then, Son of Vision! still pursue
680
Thy airy dreams; the world is dreaming too.
Ambition's lofty views, the pomp of state,
The pride of wealth, the splendour of the great,
Stripp'd of their mask, their cares and troubles known,
Are visions far less happy than thy own:
Go on! and, while the sons of care complain,
Be wisely gay and innocently vain;
While serious souls are by their fears undone,
Blow sportive bladders in the beamy sun,
And call them worlds! and bid the greatest show
690
More radiant colours in their worlds below;
Then, as they break, the slaves of care reprove,
And tell them, Such are all the toys they love."