Classic Poem

Oh! isle by genius lov'd, by science crown'd,
And through the world for freedom long renown'd,
Britain, I love thee; — Why should fiends like these,
On realms so rich with harpy talons seize?
O'er the dimm'd eyes their baleful influence throw,
And blight the buds of genius, ere they blow?
Are soils, that nature's love the most have shar'd,
Soonest for venom — breathing broods prepar'd?
Do bodies, that exhale the purest breath,
First catch disease, and drink disease and death?
Do waters, that in healthiest current flow,
Imbibe the herbs empoison'd, as they grow?
Or, rather, is it? — Ah! inquire no more;
But turn with grateful eyes to Grecia's shore.
— Hail! Athens, nurse of arts, to thee belong
Music's rich voice, the magic charm of song;
Each art, that sooths, and elevates the mind;
Each science, that ennobles human kind:
Thine all the praise, through distant climes to roam,
And lead the strangers to thy fostering home;
Thine through thy mystic temples, sacred groves,
To join the muses with the playful loves.
Wisdom the union saw — and deign'd to smile,
While freedom hail'd them to her peaceful soil.
What though with motley lore contending schools
Fix'd the bold law, and laid the steady rules?
Still eloquence, with glowing thought inspir'd,
By all was heard, and all who heard admir'd.
The breathing statue breath'd not long in vain,
Nor the foil'd sculptor curse his fruitless pain.
Did painting finish well the glowing line?
The people view — and bless the fair design.
No party fiend belies the tuneful throng;
No haughty theologue durst curse the song;
The people hail the poet grave, or gay,
And give the laurel ravish'd with his lay.

But lo! to Britain flew this baneful band,
With pestilential vapours through the land.
Bold in reform the rev'rend Lollard rose;
Papist and Lollard soon are clam'rous foes.
With alter'd name, the protestant appears;
Lo! he and papist now are pulling ears;
While surplices, rings, copes, and hoods, and prayers,
Bowings, and kneelings, altars, organs, airs,
The splittings nice of controversial hairs,
Rouse pious zeal, and swell to mighty rage,
As loud polemics in the broils engage.
'Gainst protestant see protestant conspire,
With high-church pride, and puritanic fire!
All spit their venom in the pontiff's face,
Then curse each other with as good a grace.
Nor on the church alone these harpies fix;
Lo! civil with religious brangles mix:
Proud of their cause, and eager to advance,
Roundheads and cavaliers now crack a lance,
Till soon new names are bandied through the town,
And whig and tory hoot each other down.

And still through Britain endless bickerings ring,
And hence inveterate wrath, and hatred spring;
For where these fiends alight, they leave behind
Some brooding evil, festering in the mind,
Perverting every passion, every sense,
Till, spite of being pleas'd, we take offence;
Priest hates the priest, each artist scorns his brother;
And hence the poets, plucking one another,
Calling, like rivals in a sordid trade,
Each other rhymester, and his muse a jade.
Thus magpies oft, a fly, pert, chattering race,
Perk up their bills in one another's face,
Or, seize, in turn, each other by the throat,
And curse, for magpies can, with coarsest note.
Ah! what can magpies thus to bick'rings draw?
A rotten bone, a maggot, or a straw.

There are, who think, that genius, wanton child,
Errs, as by nature's law, to regions wild,
Like a too darling boy, to weakness nurs'd,
And by a partial mother's fondness curs'd;
That where superior talent shines confest,
Tumultuous passions urge the swelling breast;
Hence the wild loves, the unrestrain'd desires,
Hence the wild rage of bacchanalian fires;
As though a fever from Anacreon ran,
Down to the days of drunken Carolan.

Is there, in meanness proud, who would propose
The frailties of each brother to disclose?
Dark is that eye, which none but faults can scan,
And hard the heart, that never felt as man.
Low may he sink, that wounds another's name,
And such as live on scandal, die in shame.
Yet will I still in secret drop a tear,
And heave a sigh that pity's son shall hear,
While I recall, how some of ancient time,
Who still inspire us with their rapt'rous rhyme,
Have err'd, have madly err'd, from nature's plan,
And lo! these more than mortals, less than man:
As though, forsooth, the rich high-season'd strains
Flow but from strutting paunch, and drunken brains.
Yet tell me, when yon bird of fairest wing
Deigns through the woodland sweetest notes to sing,
Whence does he draw the wildest, boldest strain,
From greasy strutting paunch, and drunken brain?
He does but range through nature's quiet groves,
His the pure gales, and his the chastest loves;
In quest of fiery draughts he never goes,
But sips the stream that babbles as it flows.
And mark yon steed of swiftest, strongest flight,
First in the chace, and foremost in the fight:
Whence his high mettle, whence his breath of fire,
(Some noble blood he draws from noble fire,)
But when his force he durst not to repress,
Gains he his ardour from some foul excess?
What owes that steed to fiery drunken brain,
With light'ning speed, when bounding o'er the plain?

Degen'rate thought! but hence a doctrine sprung;
That gain'd a dang'rous credit with the young;
Yet the true fires to youth kind nature gives,
And age from mod'rate draughts new life receives:
But genius tow'rs with unknown vigour strong,
And asks no inspiration, but its song.
Oh! rest content with spirits warm and even,
And all the rich nectareous gifts of heav'n.
Nor think unhurt by bottle or by pot,
To live by suction, a mere poet-sot.

Now with magician's skill, and poet's guile,
Oh! bear me, fancy, to your vision'd isle;
That isle, where flit the shapes of fairy land,
Witches, and Goblins, Elves, a motley band;
Where all the Loves, and Cares, and Woes are seen,
Of dev'lish, mortal, and celestial mien:
That isle, where heav'n rains down ambrosial showers,
And ready genius crops the richest flowers;
Where zephyr breathes his balmy sweets around,
And seraph-songsters wake the soul of sound,
Through groves more rich than o'er Amana glow,
Near streams, by Ganges, that more proudly flow;
Nor could more beauteous, nectar'd flowers be found,
Though a blest Eden blossom'd all around.

There oft the the poet speeds with eagle flight,
And lies entranc'd in deep prophetic sight;
There dead to mortal cares th' enthusiast sings,
And sees, and hears, unutterable things:
Ah! heedless he 'mid dreams phantastic toss'd,
And in the muse's raptures proudly lost,
Of ways, and means, the common cares of man,
The prudent forethought, and the settled plan.
There rev'ling still, unknowing and unknown,
Rapt in some bright creation of his own,
Walking in bardic pride his airy round,
He treads, or seems to tread, empyreal ground.
But see! around what busy swarms arise
With watchful ears, and ever-wakeful eyes:
Dup'd by the selfish, juggled by the grave,
The ready reck'ner, and the thoughtful knave,
Behold him craz'd with care, now creep along,
In lonely musings, and in listless song.
Ah! rouse thee, child of fancy, from thy dreams,
And the wild phrenzies of Parnassian themes.
Oh! learn to seize the purest gift of heav'n,
Nor lightly prize the pow'rs in bounty giv'n.
By genius form'd rich treasures to dispense,
Lose not thyself for want of common sense;
Mid thy bold flights let fancy still preside,
In common matters reason be thy guide;
Reign, if thou canst, the master of the pen,
But use thy eyes, and ears, like other men.
Yes! e'en when genius urges thee to write,
Reason and fancy may at once unite.
Take, then, experience for your guide and rule,
And blush to hear a knave proclaim thee fool;
For, though still charm'd by soul-bewitching rhyme,
Thou shalt not stoop to learn the art to climb;
Enrich'd by tricks, thro' which mere worldlings thrive,
Still must thou learn the common art, to live.
Not too disturb'd, as troubled waters flow,
Not like the standing pool, becalm'd and flow,
Let life's gay current sweetly glide along,
Brisk as thy wit, and daring as thy song.

Yet, Muse of Shakspeare, whither wouldst thou fly,
With hurried step, and dove-like trembling eye?
Thou, as from heav'n, that couldst each grace dispense,
Fancy's rich stream, and all the stores of sense;
Give to each virtue face and form divine,
Make dulness feel, and vulgar souls refine,
Wake all the passions into restless life,
Now calm to softness, and now rouze to strife?

Sick of misjudging, that no sense can hit,
Scar'd by the jargon of unmeaning wit,
The senseless splendour of the tawdry stage,
The loud long plaudits of a trifling age,
Where dost thou wander? Exil'd in disgrace,
Find'st thou in foreign realms some happier place?

Or dost thou still, though banish'd from the town,
In Britain love to linger, though unknown?
Light Hymen's torch through ev'ry blooming grove,
And tinge each flow'ret with the blush of love?
Sing winter, summer-sweets, the vernal air,
Or the soft Sofa, to delight the fair?

Laugh, e'en at kings, and mock each prudish rule,
The merry motley priest of ridicule?
With modest pencil paint the vernal scene,
The rustic lovers, and the village green?
Bid Mem'ry, magic child, resume his toy,
And Hope's fond vot'ry seize the distant joy?

Or dost thou soar, in youthful ardour strong,
And bid some female hero live in song?
Teach fancy how through nature's walks to stray,
And wake, to simpler theme, the lyric lay?
Or steal from beauty's lip th' ambrosial kiss,
Paint the domestic grief, or social bliss?
With patient step now tread o'er rock and hill,
Gaze on rough ocean, track the babbling rill,
Then rapt in thought, with strong poetic eye,
Read the great movements of the mighty sky?

Or wilt thou spread the light of Leo's age,
And smooth, as woman's guide, Tansillo's page?
Till pleas'd, you make in fair translated song,
Odin descend, and rouse the fairy throng?
Recall, employment sweet, thy youthful day,
Then wake, at Mithra's call, the mystic lay?
Unfold the Paradise of ancient lore,
Or mark the shipwreck from the sounding shore?

Now love to linger in the daisied vale,
Then rise sublime in legendary tale?
Or, faithful still to nature's sober joy,
Smile on the labours of some Farmer's Boy?
Or e'en regardless of the poet's praise,
Deck the fair magazine with blooming lays?
Oh! sweetest muse, oh, haste thy wish'd return,
See genius droop, and bright-ey'd fancy mourn,
Recall to nature's charms an English stage,
The guard and glory of a nobler age.

Time was, — but cease, my heart, the plaintive lay,
Lest cheerful youths, and virgins fair and gay,
Should view thee, while thy woeful verse they scan,
Like some poor limping Gaberlunzie man;
Praying, for mercy's sake, some small relief,
Till mirth's light heart is melted into grief;
Or like some spirit, stalking o'er the green,
Whose ghastly eyes have marr'd the village scene,
Till freezing horror chills the rustic throng,
And love and beauty quite suspend their song.

But, ere my sympathies quite melt away,
The female poet claims my plaintive lay:
" The female poet! oh! in time beware; —
" Descend from Pegasus, ye helpless fair.
" Should gentle hands the daring courser guide?
" Born but to walk, will ye presume to ride?
" Who flourish'd but the fan, now seize the pen,
" The rhyming conq'rors of too easy men?
" To please, learn, gentle dames, is yours alone;
" Know, that the realms of wit are all our own.

Thus priests too long confin'd the simple schools,
And bound lay-hands by tricks and juggling rules,
Gave them the wafer (just their faith to prove),
But guzzled all the wine in Christian love;
Told the poor lubbers, not to read, but pray,
Hoodwink'd them all, then stole their lands away.

Yet female hands have struck the boldest lyre,
Rous'd by the warmest loves, by heavenly fire,
Wak'd in the poet's breast the rapturous flame,
And pointed out the path to honest fame.
Thus gay Anacreon felt the Lesbian's strain,
Till the soft influence stole through every vein;
Longinus hail'd the verse with genius fraught,
With nice expression, and with crowding thought:
And pondering well the soul-inspiring rhyme,
In spite of critics, hail'd the song sublime.
Thus, ere the Theban swan of stately wing
Cleav'd the proud wave, and dar'd aspire to sing,
First was held captive by the soften'd note,
Borne from a songstress bird's mellifluous throat;
And hence Aspasia, pow'rful in her strains,
Bound wisdom's sons, and warrior-hearts in chains;
Thus, too, Corinna, tuneful in her grief,
Found in the sweets of song her best relief;
And Deshouilliers awaken'd generous fire,
The gentlest Sappho, and the softest lyre;
While Dacier brought to France rich treasures home,
Rifling the sweetest flowers of Greece and Rome.

Thus, too, in Britain Barbauld's verse shall please,
Pointed with brilliant thought, and polish'd ease;
And still, perhaps, tho' yet unknown to fame,
Some female heart has nurs'd the secret flame,
That, breaking through restraint, shall bear along
The proudest bosom with her blaze of song:
No light of Will-a-wisp, o'er streams and groves
Dancing to gaping dames, and brainless loves;
But piercing fires, that dazzle while they flow,
Glowing themselves, and making others glow;
As round th' Ægyptian's neck the sapphire stone,
Emblem of truth, in vivid splendour shone:
Nor was the judge or priest alone imprest;
The radiant glory stole from breast to breast.
Thus may some poetess still lift along,
Sparkling with living light, the fire of song,
Feeling, and making other bosoms feel,
Love's thrilling raptures, freedom's holy zeal,
Strong in herself, the critic's sneer despise,
Too strong to need POETIC SYMPATHIES .