Classic Poem

I sing to Disney: — justly may belong
To the kind friend the sympathising song;
He, taught to feel, and prompt the heart to cheer,
Knows the full value of a gen'rous tear.
Still may his hours in sprightly humour flow!
Still may his breast with love of freedom glow;
And still his candour shall my song commend,
And quite forget the author, in the friend.

She too commands, nor shall in vain command,
One sprig of satire from poetic hand,
Though keen, yet kind, benevolent, though free,
Bright with the pearly drops of liberty:
Such as might seem, hard task! resemblance fit
Of the keen raill'ries of a Blackburne's wit;
Of him, who labour'd long, ah! much in vain,
To save the priesthood from its foulest stain.
Oh! fruitless toil, while long experience tells,
That folly still must wear her cap and bells.

Yet take, my friend, this sympathetic lay,
And read it, like the follies of the day;
Smile, where thou canst; condemn it, where thou must;
Just to my song, nor to thyself unjust;
For, if my verse thy judgment fail to please,
Still shall thy heart approve the sympathies.

She too shall listen to the plaintive muse,
Nor the sweet tribute of a smile refuse.
Still shall the thought my studious hour beguile,
If friendship but approve, and beauty smile.
And though my song through many a wild may rove,
Beauty shall smile, and friendship shall approve.
For know, fair friend, that on that meekest eye
Where pity dwells, and gentlest sympathy,
Oft have I gaz'd, and felt the musing strong,
Till a strange softness stole into my song.
Take then the sympathies as justly thine;
Forgive the follies — for thou can'st — as mine.

T HE P OET'S Fate should I deem somewhat hard,
Think not I therefore call myself a bard.
Is it a crime? Heav'n knows, 'tis none of mine,
To claim high kindred with the tuneful nine.
No, no — some runic daemon in despite
Hatch'd in my head rude thoughts, and bade me write:
So I keep rhiming, whether right or wrong,
Now creep in elegy, now dare a song;
Now flutt'ring satirize, nor glow with shame,
And gave the town in luckless hour my name;
There ends my folly — should I die to day,
No muse would pour for me the plaintive lay.
Ah! hapless I! Oh! had I skulk'd in time
A nameless author, with a noisy rhime;
Had I, however dull, been bold enough,
To puff my rhime, or ask some friend to puff,
In magazine the question sly to raise,
Who is this bard of wing, though slow to praise,
Yet tow'ring high against the learned great,
Then pouncing on some minister of State?
Had I Pomposo's rule thus made my own,
Who knows but I had gull'd the gaping town?

Now, for my name is out — I know my place,
And durst attempt no wild aerial chace:
None envying, with no fretful passion glow,
But leave the laurel on some happier brow:
Hear Florio call my verses wretched stuff,
Hear Bibo hiccup, damme! quite enough.
The high-wrought song should sparkle like Champaigne,
And such as drink, still long to drink again.

But since for me Parnassus may not bloom,
Through native fields, unenvied still I roam,
Sipping from flow'r to flow'r, with chemic art,
Some honied sweets, and store them in my heart,
Or bear the treasure, tho' but small, along,
To cheer some future votary of song;
Blest with the hope, I shall not rove in vain,
Nor pour unheard the sympathetic strain;
That friendship I may, haply, please awhile,
And call to beauty's cheek th' approving smile;
Blest with the hope (so gracious heav'n permit),
To save, no wit myself, some future wit.

Come then, ye future bards, a wistful throng,
Who aim to dash at satire or at song,
May you, for nature works by steady laws,
Viewing effects, pursue the latent cause;
And, if the sigh of sympathy should rise,
Learn, that who pauses, ere he writes, is wife.

Some with no poet's ear, no poet's eye,
(The first great error, let who will deny,)
In spite of genius write; whose verse and prose
Creep, like some quack receipt, to make you dose;
Oh! had they, ere they wrote, but let precede
The chilling question, Are there who will read ?
Ne'er had they thrust their heads within the sky,
Nor shewn their nether parts, by climbing high.

" But scores will read. " — Perhaps, subscribing friends,
And there the glory of my poet ends.
Ah! hapless jangler, who from leaden brains
Hopes to produce the pure ethereal strains;
In whose dull mass of soul no secret fires.
Fill the whole space, and kindle vast desires;
No genius, into wild commotion wrought,
Invig'rates feeling, and expands in thought.
Go! — since you will — your sickly muse invoke,
Smooth your lean epigram, and feeble joke,
Soon shall you sleep, as thousands slept before,
Die like a drone, and ne'er be heard of more.

Were these the palms, to which your hopes aspire?
Was it for this you strung th' unwilling lyre?
Scorn'd the wise hints of parent, friend, and wife,
Perk'd at each honest art, that sweetens life?
Derided physic, and lampoon'd the law,
To scan old Byshe upon a school-boy paw,
Doggrel to scrawl; which shall but, soon or late,
Light a vile pipe, or curl a greasy pate?

But — you're a muse of fire — I hail thee then —
Go dip in vivid thought your eager pen,
Yet might the perils, that around conspire,
Damp e'en the ardour of a muse of fire.

Mark dullness first — with fat incurious eye,
She views no splendour in a summer sky,
Heeds not, when summer waves the golden grain,
Or winter binds the globe in icy chain:
In vain the flowery tribes embalm the spring,
Soft zephyrs breathe, and towering skylarks sing.
Warm nature breathes in vain through every grove,
And all creation hails the reign of love;
Through the mild air the feather'd warblers throng,
Clap the gay wing, and pour the softest song;
The cheerful cattle headlong currents dare,
And, wild in bliss, the general ardour share;
While, all around, the myriad swarms arise,
Glowing with life, and panting for the skies.
In vain for them the marshall'd billows roar,
Beat the stern cliff, and lash the sounding shore.
No Alpine grandeur lifts her groveling mind,
She hears no voice loud sounding in the wind;
Though through the day a thousand forms delight,
And worlds on worlds are glittering thro' the night,
All, all is lost: — she looks with stupid gaze,
No beauty charms, no grandeur can amaze.
Alike to her, in both alike untaught,
The world of matter, and the world of thought.
How mind is form'd, how strengthen'd, whither tend
Man's passions, virtues, energies, and end,
She never mark'd — nor can she curious spy
The soul's deep meaning in a speaking eye,
And thinks those ancients fools, or mad, who trace
The fleeting lines of character in face.

Ah! then, who truth and beauty's form descry;
Who mark each tint light passing through the sky,
Who as they view, describe gay natures green,
The speaking painters of each living scene,
How shall they fix that eye, which heedless roves
O'er seas of azure, and thro' golden groves?
How to his soul an unknown sense impart?
How warm? though warm himself, the frozen heart.

Hence without honour, Homer stroll'd along,
The times could not appreciate right his song.
Hence lay neglected Milton's mighty rhyme,
The times were canting, and the bard sublime.
Proudly obscure, they breath'd no sullen rage,
Secure of glory in some brighter age,
When hoary justice should, emerge from night,
And taste and genius hail the new-born light.

For think not thou the heav'nly art I sing
Some unconnected, solitary thing:
Allied to all he sees, and feels, and hears,
To all that mortal hopes, or loves, or fears,
The poet walks abroad with curious eye,
Pierces the deep, or ranges through the sky,
On Ætna's flaming top sees glory shine,
Or digs new wonders from Golconda's mine;
On the rough rock the crystal clear surveys;
Em'ralds of green, and topaz golden rays;
Or marks his species with a master's art,
And drinks instruction from the human heart:
Nature his guide, experience for his rule,
He looks around, and finds the world a school.
Hence each, to each endear'd, the other woos,
And, wisdom claims high kindred with the muse.

Yet think not, dullness, driv'ling on by rule,
Claims her exclusive privilege, as fool.
Witlings are often drones, unnat'ral things,
Drones in their judgment, though they carry stings;
Gay wriggling blades, mere wits for want of sense,
Most pleas'd themselves, where most they give offence:
" Scorn for a man of genius to be bail;
" For wits, like other rogues, improve in jail. "
Through dread of prison has some sufferer died?
Straight they pronounce the wretch a suicide:
" Who for a culprit well deserv'd to swing,
" Should forfeit book and book-case to the king:
" An iron stake should mark his baleful home,
" Who, even when living, seldom dar'd to roam. "

And who are they, thus hitching in a joke,
The man of genius in a threadbare cloak?
Creeping between the sick man and his prayers,
In hope to jostle out the lawful heirs;
Yet while they still besiege the miser's door,
Spend their small stock of wit upon the poor?
Who? the mere dregs of soul; alike unfit
As men of business, or men of wit:
Who? things just fit to be some villain's tools,
Pimps, smiling knaves, and parasitic fools;
Mere spendthrifts, soul and body damn'd at play;
Or chagrin'd jinglers, still more lost than they:
Each scribbling dunce, just hooted from the town,
That takes revenge in running genius down.
Oh! by the stroke of such vile things to bleed,
If worth can feel, is to be gall'd indeed!
No serpent fiend e'er nurs'd more venom'd spite,
Than such as thought, mistaking, they could write;
Just rising from the gulph of dark despair,
They blast the spring, and poison all the air.

Some would be poets, if they had but brains,
And blaze, all-dazzling bright, with borrow'd strains;
Dextrous and quick to catch a distant hint,
They know an author's meaning by his squint.
Poor creeping thing! e'er he can turn about,
These ready rhymsters, get his meaning out:
Then fine as peacocks, with their borrow'd plumes,
They sink his verse with Black more's, or with Broome's.
Ah! hapless they, who destitute of pence,
Fall among thieves, and lose their little sense.

O! when I ponder, tracing ancient days,
How strong the lust of money and of praise,
Creative fancy lifts my eager sight;
And O! what deeds of dullness rise to light!
I see some poet breathing epic song,
As Virgil polish'd, and as Homer strong;
Some Pindar, sounding high his various lyre,
Some female minstrel breathing Sappho's fire:
Yet though sweet song could soothe their secret breast,
They liv'd unknown, and sunk unseen to rest.
Ah! what avail'd their eager thirst of same,
They earn'd, and only earn'd, the poets name.
Their's all the labour of the polish'd lays,
While pilferers wore their well-earn'd wreathe of praise.
Thus the sly bird, still watchful, eyes the place,
Where toils a songster of the feather'd race,
Framing the nest, with mossy verdure strew'd,
In hope to cradle round his future brood;
Yet, while the little builder roves about,
The sly, vile, pilfering bird, has hedg'd him out,
Forc'd the poor exile to the woods to stray,
Spoil'd of his nest of moss, or house of clay.

Some men aspiring still to shine alone,
Would damn an Iliad, that was not their own.
Virgil! — his numbers, true, were soft and clear,
But still unfinish'd disappoint their ear.
Collins, when poor, perhaps they ask'd to dine,
But took revenge on every labour'd line.
And Milton, rashly deem'd of bards the chief;
What was he? — A mere Grecian, and a thief.
And rarely will they look at modern lays,
Except to injure those, whom others praise.

Are there by fortune blest, or poets born,
Who heed no critic's sneer, no coxcomb's scorn?
Who from kind heav'n a vig'rous nature share,
Could bloom on heaths, or smile in northern air?
(Thus Pope and Dryden gain'd a splendid name,
While snarling dunces did but spread their fame;
Thus Theban Pindar spurn'd a stupid race,
And pierc'd with eagle-eye th' aethereal space;
There sail'd majestic, scornful of each foe,
Chatt'ring unseen, or croaking still below.)
Know, while ye flourish, many a spirit dies,
Nipp'd by the scowling winds and angry skies:
Plants of meek growth, and strange mysterious form,
When touch'd, they close, and perish in a storm.

And ye, sage critics, who reclin'd at ease,
Write what you like, and injure whom you please;
Ye, who to selfish systems often slaves,
And, worse than dunces, who are sometimes knaves;
To you the praise, that many a rhyming wight
Took to his heels, and sav'd himself by flight,
Your's, too, that genius bled at every pore,
And some, though born to please, now please no more?
As the vile hawk pursues the chirping wren,
So did ye seize the rover of the pen,

Time was, when booksellers were somewhat hard,
And squeez'd, and squeez'd a supplicating bard;
When printers, while the rhyme was in the mint,
Would let some rival author take a squint;
Would err thro' malice, then those faults expose,
Publish as verse, what was but meant as prose;
Nay in those fiend-like, dark, bard-killing days,
Ev'n printers devils strangled infant lays.

Thank heav'n! those days are past, so Johnson says,
Successful trafficker in tuneful lays.
Ah! never may those days return again,
Nor mar the days of George's golden reign!

Time was, a bard was kept, some courtier's tool,
Like a king's jester, or a lord mayor's fool;
The lingering dog-days to beguile with fun,
Or cheer a winter's night with rhyme and pun:
Ah! hapless vot'ry of the tuneful nine,
Doom'd first to earn your dinner, ere you dine;
To purchase pudding with Sir Gosling's praise,
And court my lady's smile with pretty lays;
To wake the muse, when megrims fill her head,
To pray Lucina's aid, when she's in bed;
To waste whole days in sad poetic sighs,
When her cat sickens, or her lap-dog dies.

I, tow hose follies ev'ry creature's blind,
And patrons, critics, booksellers are kind,
Who dread no bailiff, and can feel no evil,
Sleep all the night, and dream not of the devil; —
Ah! do not think, when such a one complains,
He utters private wrongs, and secret pains: —
No, as a child throws up a random ball,
I chuck my rhymes up, and I let them fall;
— Go, honest rhymes; no, never may ye hit,
Dipt in the venom of malicious wit,
The breast to science, or to virtue dear,
Ne'er from the eye of virtue force the tear,
Or quench in critic scorn the youthful lyre,
Trembling with hopes, or kindling into fire.
The honest trader and the faithful friend
Proud to revere, and eager to commend;
Wit, honour, worth, in all the first to prize,
And none but fools and villains dare despise:
There, only there affix the pointed blame,
There, if ye can, imprint the blush of shame.

Now haste, from scenes of every sweet delight,
To shades, contiguous to the realms of night,
Where nature, as in wild disorder lies,
In climate various, and in shifting skies:
Here far retir'd is found a sullen cave,
And ocean rolls beside the boist'rous wave;
Wild the retreat; — and here a fiend is seen
With jaundic'd eye, and strange phantastic mien;
Her senses still declining from the right,
As though her soul was form'd in truths despite:
And many a sprite of strange delirious vein,
Fickle like her, as gender'd of her brain,
Flit round and round in gyres eccentric tost,
Or wander wild in endless mazes lost;
Till borne aloft at her supreme command,
They ride on mildew'd wings and blast a land.