Classic Poem

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

Kind friend, I thank thee; yes! too well I see: —
Prudence and genius rarely well agree;
This peering, sportive, negligent, and proud,
Forward to prate, and prone to think aloud;
That cautious, sober, frugal, creeps along,
Snug ev'ry thought, and rarely rous'd by song.
Hollis, I thank thee; — how could I now proceed,
Till pity's heart, at every line, should bleed!
Griefs, wants, false hopes, and restless fears relate,
The motley mis'rles of the poet's fate.
How might I chronicle in mournful lays
The tuneful mendicants of ancient days!
The noblest bards, who met with worst success,
The monied bards, who made their money less;
State bards, and bards enchampion'd round the church,
Yet church and state both left them in the lurch;
Bards, who still daring, fail'd in every thing,
And bards, th' unpension'd flatterers of a king;
Bards, exil'd from the dear delights of life,
Or doom'd to patience and domestic strife;
Bards, who some haughty tyrant dar'd withstand,
The harmless victims of that tyrant's hand;
Starv'd bards; and such by their own hands who died;
Bards, choak'd with envy, and convuls'd with pride;
Bards, borne in vengeance by the god of fire,
Storm'd by the muse, and murder'd by the lyre!

But lest some youthful genius should take fright,
Nor dare, through dread of poverty, to write;
Lest the keen swarm of poets should combine,
(Against a drone thus bees industrious join)
And glue me down, besmear'd with angry rhymes,
A dread example, to remotest times,
Of one inglorious bard, who dar'd disgrace
The sons of Phaebus, that ennobled race;
Know thou, as yet my verse has but display'd
What many a critic, many a bard has said;
Chaff'rers, retailing poetry and plays,
And prudent patrons, prodigal of praise:
But not that critic, and I scorn a lie,
That chaff'rer, patron, or that bard was I. —
For me, my judgment still remain'd behind,
But once for all, I now unfold my mind.

'Tis false, while all are forward to commend,
That none appear at court the poet's friend;
That books are all their wealth, their only rule
Some village pulpit, or some country school;
That all have toil'd in vain mid rural scenes,
Gleaning with patient labour scanty means;
That none of soul sublime, in learning great,
E'er rose to shine with ministers of state;
Or that would take, in fancy's amplest-scope,
A thousand years to find one tuneful Pope.

Emp'rors, and conquerors, princes rob'd in state,
Such, if I read aright, are reckon'd great;
All that is great and glorious is their due;
Well, I, for once, will strive to think so too.
Should we not then advance the poet's name?
The mightiest souls have felt the glorious flame;
Emp'rors, whom crouching slaves proclaim the great,
And nobles, glittering in the pomp of state,
Conq'rors, who live but for the world's applause,
And statesmen, rais'd to fix a nation's laws:
Yes, such, with high imperial honours crown'd,
Have sought fresh-laurels on Parnassian ground,

Such thou, who, splendid as yon golden sun,
Through fields couldst radiate, which thy valour won,
Imperial Caesar, born at once to claim
The hero's, poet's, and historian's name.
Such thou, to whom Rome's lyrist wak'd the string,
Patron of poets, and a poet king;
But, ah! too flatter'd by thy Maro's strain,
Till Roman hearts endur'd th' inglorious chain;
And thou, who could'st attempt the tragic art,
And play so well thyself, the tyrant's part;
Thou Titus, too, with love of glory fir'd,
Felt thy heart soften, as the muse inspir'd.

Still charms the bard, who liv'd fair virtue's boast,
Too soon matur'd, and ah! too early lost;
Who wak'd to liberty th' heroic strains,
Lofty in youth, along Pharsalia's plains.
Nor less the sage, who mus'd in thought profound,
But sung enliven'd by the charm of sound.
And he, who 'mid his country's fatal jars,
Laurell'd with honours, sung the Punic wars.

Nor less, where glows the sun's more eastern beam,
And bards unnumber'd wake the glowing theme,
Have heroes struck the soul-subduing lyre,
And princes kindled at the muse's fire.
There too Almansur liv'd, a generous name,
Himself a stranger to the holy flame,
Yet proud of such as pour'd the rapt'rous lays,
And blest to lift their names to future days.

And sing, oh Solyma, in loftier strains,
Mid soft-ey'd virgins, and enraptur'd swains,
How the rich nectar flow'd from Moses' tongue,
And he, who gave you law, inspir'd your song;
How from your altar rose the strain sublime,
How from your grove love breath'd the liquid rhyme;
How David struck his harp of strongest chord,
Not less his people's minstrel, than their lord;
How he, whom woman's glowing beauties fir'd,
Was crown'd with wisdom, and with song inspir'd.

Ye northern climes, where, 'midst a frozen sky,
Genius was fated, ere it bloom'd, to die;
Where rov'd the warlike Scythian far renown'd,
And but with virtue's modest chaplet crown'd,
(Arts flourish'd not) ev'n ye one name have known,
Whose wisdom, deck'd in graceful numbers shone;
Law took its vestment from the muse's hands,
And Anacharsis gave to Scythian lands.

Was Alfred great? Yes, still he lives in fame,
And oh! may Britons long adore his name;
Ah! more than monarch he, of gentle arts,
The generous sovereign of a people's hearts;
Warm was his soul in freedom's sacred cause,
And all his pride, to rule by equal laws;
More skill'd in peace, though not unskill'd in fight,
Science and virtue still his dear delight;
And he shall shine in fame's elysium long,
Crown'd with his own, and with the people's song.

And, mid the bards whom Scotia holds to fame,
She boasts, nor vainly boasts, her James' name:
And, less sweet bard! a crown thy glory shews,
Than the fair laurels that adorn thy brows.

Was Frederick great? Yes, Prussia's mighty shield,
A warrior-prince, all-powerful in the field;
Europe proclaim'd him great, as skill'd in fight,
But Frederick thought it greater still, to write.
Form'd in the camp, and nurs'd in war's alarms,
He led to glory, while he sung of arms.

Ask ancient times, while poesy was young,
Ere barbarous man to social order sprung,
How first the sage, who tam'd the savage throng,
Call'd to his aid the soft delight of song,
How, temp'ring vigour with the tuneful art,
Made a sure conquest of the human heart.

Oh! lyre of Orpheus, be thy glory known,
Whose warbling charm'd the forest, soften'd stone,
Rivers arrested in their headlong course,
And hush'd to rest the growling whirlwind's force;
Ye guardians, patrons of the human race,
In fame's elysium yours the lofty place,
Who, fond to trace that curious world, the mind,
Fix'd the wild vagrant tribes of human kind;
And ye, who sounding high the martial song,
Rous'd mighty passions in the warrior-throng;
While arts shall flourish, poesy inspire,
For you succeeding bards shall strike the lyre;
Fame, with proud clarion your behests proclaim,
And, hov'ring round you, love to guard your name.

In ancient times, and sacred was the name,
Philosopher and poet were the same;
All that was great and glorious beam'd from one,
As life, light, heat, from you imperial sun:
And still, if wisdom's circuit we pursue,
From India's utmost limits to Peru,
Wherever Science spread her glories bright,
There, first, the muse broke forth the rosy light,
Like the fair morning star, whose trembling ray
Ushers, in bright presage, the light of day.
And ask each sage of still succeeding time,
Who rang'd, as nature led, each various clime,
Where mind prolific spread her copious stores,
Where science mus'd in still sequester'd bowers,
How the gay song first warm'd the youthful heart,
How playful fancy tried each tuneful art,
Till the mind strength'ning by poetic rage,
Who charm'd as poet once, now rose a sage,
When, soon, the bold advent'rer dar'd explore
The soul's deep maze, and worlds untried before.

Yes! wondrous sages, Grecia's noblest pride,
Rais'd o'er her schools of science to preside,
Ere Pallas deign'd your reason to refine,
Pure were your off'rings at the muses' shrine,
First in your souls did sacred fury rise,
And vision'd glory dance before your eyes,
Ere wisdom beam'd upon the lab'ring mind,
And form'd you bright exemplars of mankind.

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

And ye wise critics, who have shap'd the rules,
That guide our taste, and fix our wav'ring schools,
Say, what is genius? Truth's harmonic light:
And what is judgment, but the rule of right?
Hence, such as gave the law with best success,
First breath'd in song, and oft with good address:
Till taught each secret movement of the breast,
They found, who most have charm'd, have taught the best,
Sanction'd by sage experience, what they thought,
And as the poet felt, the critic taught.

But still 'tis ask'd, though I could bring a host
Of royal rhymsters, and should proudly boast
Of great, and rich, and wise in every tongue,
Rapt in the soft elysium of their song;
What then? If men of prouder birth may choose
To woo in learned ease some gentle muse,
If rich men love to trifle life away,
And play at sing-song, without danger, gay;
If wisdom's sons, of soul still more sublime,
Their nobler truths have deign'd to clothe in rhyme;
Still is not Petrarch's plaintive maxim true,
" Who hopes to live by verse, his fault may rue? "
The stream of Helicon is fed with care,
The muse is barren, and the wreath is bare;
All arts may flourish, every trade prevail,
Yet a mere trading bard is sure to fail.

See you a cit, who makes his sports a trade,
Who keeps his nag, and pretty chambermaid,
Treats with Champagne, and ever prone to bet?
You look to find him soon in the gazette:
Thus he, 'tis said, who traffics with his lyre,
Though he should boast Apollo as his sire,
The gainless calling may repent too late,
And curse, with dying breath, THE POET'S FATE ;
Barbarius tell, where once the sufferer sigh'd,
Some future Tollius, where he starv'd, and died.

Ancient and modern story both proclaim,
How poor the poet's trade, though proud the name;
Shew proud advent'rers, hurl'd from regions bright,
Absorb'd and blasted by excess of light.
Did mighty Homer traffic with his lay?
He sometimes earn'd a dinner for his pay.
Thus liv'd the bard; and how the muse has sigh'd,
When she recorded how the poet died!

In Italy each high-born songster gay
Trimm'd the spruce sonnet, and light roundelay.
Tasso was learn'd, and labour'd much and long,
And Ariosto traded with his song;
Yet, ah! their learned toil how ill repaid!
How mean their earnings from the tuneful trade!
Nor couldst thou, Portugal! thy Camoens save
From pinching want, and an untimely grave.

And did not Chatterton, that child of care,
Still plough in hope, and only reap despair?
And Butler, piper to that laughing age,
Starve before kings, and curse his merry page?
And how in secret Pity droop'd the head,
As pining Otway rested with the dead!

What boots the gentleman, who deigns to write,
Your squire of epigram, and rhyming knight,
Such as with am'rous hearts, and lucky vein;
Penn'd the light song in Charles's merry reign?
Of such could I with ease collect a score,
And throw you in some lords, as many more.
But what mere poetry in trade will do,
Let Spenser tell, and learned Milton too.

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

And thus between extremes I take my stand,
And hold the B ALANCE with impartial hand:
The scale, in which the weight's prepond'rance lies,
Wants not my humble mite of sympathies,
The scale that mounts aloft, and kicks the beam,
Claims the poor tribute of my soothing theme;
Counsels, that sad experience can dispense,
And all my little stock of common sense.

And, may some bard of future times attend,
Nor rashly slight a sympathising friend:
For I, by rhyming, much have sinn'd, I own,
And ere I die, would for my crimes atone;
Just as some hapless sinner, doom'd to swing,
For clipping the fair image of our king,
Would, ere he launches, some atonement make,
With, " Pray, good people all, now warning take. "
Oh! what avails his folly past to rue;
To pray, to warn, is all he now can do.
Thus I, though guilty, would my conscience ease,
And, after all my follies, die in peace,
Point the dire rocks, on which their vessel tost,
Full many a bard has founder'd, and been lost.

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