The Poetry Corner

Table Talk.

By William Cowper

A. You told me, I remember, glory, built On selfish principles, is shame and guilt; The deeds that men admire as half divine, Stark naught, because corrupt in their design. Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears The laurel that the very lightning spares; Brings down the warriors trophy to the dust, And eats into his bloody sword like rust. B. I grant that, men continuing what they are, Fierce, avaricious, proud, there must be war, And never meant the rule should be applied To him that fights with justice on his side. Let laurels drenchd in pure Parnassian dews Reward his memory, dear to every muse, Who, with a courage of unshaken root, In honours field advancing his firm foot, Plants it upon the line that Justice draws, And will prevail or perish in her cause. Tis to the virtues of such men man owes His portion in the good that Heaven bestows. And, when recording History displays Feats of renown, though wrought in ancient days, Tells of a few stout hearts, that fought and died, Where duty placed them, at their countrys side; The man that is not moved with what he reads, That takes not fire at their heroic deeds, Unworthy of the blessings of the brave, Is base in kind, and born to be a slave. But let eternal infamy pursue The wretch to nought but his ambition true, Who, for the sake of filling with one blast The post-horns of all Europe, lays her waste. Think yourself stationd on a towering rock, To see a people scatterd like a flock, Some royal mastiff panting at their heels, With all the savage thirst a tiger feels; Then view him self-proclaimd in a gazette Chief monster that has plagued the nations yet. The globe and sceptre in such hands misplaced, Those ensigns of dominion how disgraced! The glass, that bids man mark the fleeting hour, And Deaths own scythe, would better speak his power; Then grace the bony phantom in their stead With the kings shoulder-knot and gay cockade; Clothe the twin brethren in each others dress, The same their occupation and success. A. Tis your belief the world was made for man; Kings do but reason on the self-same plan: Maintaining yours, you cannot theirs condemn, Who think, or seem to think, man made for them. B. Seldom, alas! the power of logic reigns With much sufficiency in royal brains; Such reasoning falls like an inverted cone, Wanting its proper base to stand upon. Man made for kings! those optics are but dim That tell you sosay, rather, they for him. That were indeed a king-ennobling thought, Could they, or would they, reason as they ought. The diadem, with mighty projects lined, To catch renown by ruining mankind, Is worth, with all its gold and glittering store, Just what the toy will sell for, and no more. Oh! bright occasions of dispensing good, How seldom used, how little understood! To pour in Virtues lap her just reward; Keep Vice restraind behind a double guard; To quell the faction that affronts the throne By silent magnanimity alone; To nurse with tender care the thriving arts; Watch every beam Philosophy imparts; To give religion her unbridled scope, Nor judge by statute a believers hope; With close fidelity and love unfeignd To keep the matrimonial bond unstaind; Covetous only of a virtuous praise; His life a lesson to the land he sways; To touch the sword with conscientious awe, Nor draw it but when duty bids him draw; To sheath it in the peace-restoring close With joy beyond what victory bestows Blest country, where these kingly glories shine! Blest England, if this happiness be thine! A. Guard what you say: the patriotic tribe Will sneer, and charge you with a bribe.B. A bribe The worth of his three kingdoms I defy, To lure me to the baseness of a lie; And, of all lies (be that one poets boast), The lie that flatters I abhor the most. Those arts be theirs who hate his gentle reign, But he that loves him has no need to feign. A. Your smooth eulogium, to one crown addressd, Seems to imply a censure on the rest. B. Quevedo, as he tells his sober tale, Askd, when in hell, to see the royal jail; Approved their method in all other things; But where, good sir, do you confine your kings? Theresaid his guidethe group is in full view. Indeed!replied the donthere are but few. His black interpreter the charge disdaind Few, fellow?there are all that ever reignd. Wit, undistinguishing, is apt to strike The guilty and not guilty both alike: I grant the sarcasm is too severe, And we can readily refute it here; While Alfreds name, the father of his age, And the Sixth Edwards grace the historic page. A. Kings, then, at last have but the lot of all: By their own conduct they must stand or fall. B. True. While they live, the courtly laureate pays His quitrent ode, his peppercorn of praise, And many a dunce, whose fingers itch to write, Adds, as he can, his tributary mite: A subjects faults a subject may proclaim, A monarchs errors are forbidden game! Thus, free from censure, overawed by fear, And praised for virtues that they scorn to wear, The fleeting forms of majesty engage Respect, while stalking oer lifes narrow stage: Then leave their crimes for history to scan, And ask, with busy scorn, Was this the man? I pity kings, whom worship waits upon, Obsequious from the cradle to the throne; Before whose infant eyes the flatterer bows, And binds a wreath about their baby brows: Whom education stiffens into state, And death awakens from that dream too late. Oh! if servility with supple knees, Whose trade it is to smile, to crouch, to please; If smooth dissimulation skilld to grace A devils purpose with an angels face; If smiling peeresses and simpering peers, Encompassing his throne a few short years; If the gilt carriage and the pamperd steed, That wants no driving, and disdains the lead; If guards, mechanically formd in ranks, Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks, Shouldering and standing as if stuck to stone, While condescending majesty looks on If monarchy consist in such base things, Sighing, I say again, I pity kings! To be suspected, thwarted, and withstood, Een when he labours for his countrys good; To see a band calld patriot for no cause, But that they catch at popular applause, Careless of all the anxiety he feels, Hook disappointment on the public wheels; With all their flippant fluency of tongue, Most confident, when palpably most wrong If this be kingly, then farewell for me All kingship, and may I be poor and free! To be the Table Talk of clubs up-stairs, To which the unwashd artificer repairs, To indulge his genius after long fatigue, By diving into cabinet intrigue (For what kings deem a toil, as well they may, To him is relaxation, and mere play); To win no praise when well-wrought plans prevail, But to be rudely censured when they fail; To doubt the love his favourites may pretend, And in reality to find no friend; If he indulge a cultivated taste, His galleries with the works of art well graced, To hear it calld extravagance and waste; If these attendants, and if such as these, Must follow royalty, then welcome ease; However humble and confined the sphere, Happy the state that has not these to fear! A. Thus men, whose thoughts contemplative have dwelt On situations that they never felt, Start up sagacious, coverd with the dust Of dreaming study and pedantic rust, And prate and preach about what others prove, As if the world and they were hand and glove. Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares; They have their weight to carry, subjects theirs; Poets, of all men, ever least regret Increasing taxes and the nations debt. Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse The mighty plan, oracular, in verse, No bard, howeer majestic, old or new, Should claim my fixd attention more than you. B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would essay To turn the course of Helicon that way: Nor would the Nine consent the sacred tide Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapside, Or tinkle in Change Alley, to amuse The leathern ears of stockjobbers and Jews. A. Vouchsafe, at least, to pitch the key of rhyme To themes more pertinent, if less sublime. When ministers and ministerial arts; Patriots, who love good places at their hearts; When admirals, extolld for standing still, Or doing nothing with a deal of skill; Generals, who will not conquer when they may, Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay; When Freedom, wounded almost to despair, Though discontent alone can find out where When themes like these employ the poets tongue, I hear as mute as if a syren sung. Or tell me, if you can, what power maintains A Britons scorn of arbitrary chains? That were a theme might animate the dead, And move the lips of poets cast in lead. B. The cause, though worth the search, may yet elude Conjecture and remark, however shrewd. They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim, Who seek it in his climate and his frame. Liberal in all things else, yet Nature here With stern severity deals out the year. Winter invades the spring, and often pours A chilling flood on summers drooping flowers; Unwelcome vapours quench autumnal beams, Ungenial blasts attending curl the streams: The peasants urge their harvest, ply the fork With double toil, and shiver at their work: Thus with a rigour, for his good designd, She rears her favourite man of all mankind. His form robust, and of elastic tone, Proportiond well, half muscle and half bone, Supplies with warm activity and force A mind well lodged, and masculine of course. Hence Liberty, sweet Liberty inspires And keeps alive his fierce but noble fires. Patient of constitutional control, He bears it with meek manliness of soul; But, if authority grow wanton, woe To him that treads upon his free-born toe! One step beyond the boundary of the laws, Fires him at once in Freedoms glorious cause. Thus proud Prerogative, not much revered, Is seldom felt, though sometimes seen and heard; And in his cage, like parrot fine and gay, Is kept to strut, look big, and talk away. Born in a climate softer far than ours, Nor formd like us, with such Herculean powers, The Frenchman, easy, debonair, and brisk, Give him his lass, his fiddle, and his frisk, Is always happy, reign whoever may, And laughs the sense of misery far away: He drinks his simple beverage with a gust; And, feasting on an onion and a crust, We never feel the alacrity and joy With which he shouts and carols, Vive le Roi! Filld with as much true merriment and glee As if he heard his king saySlave, be free. Thus happiness depends, as Nature shews, Less on exterior things than most suppose. Vigilant over all that he has made, Kind Providence attends with gracious aid; Bids equity throughout his works prevail, And weighs the nations in an even scale; He can encourage slavery to a smile, And fill with discontent a British isle. A. Freeman and slave, then, if the case be such, Stand on a level; and you prove too much: If all men indiscriminately share His fostering power, and tutelary care, As well be yoked by Despotisms hand, As dwell at large in Britains charterd land. B. No. Freedom has a thousand charms to shew, That slaves, howeer contented, never know. The mind attains beneath her happy reign The growth that Nature meant she should attain; The varied fields of science, ever new, Opening and wider opening on her view, She ventures onward with a prosperous force, While no base fear impedes her in her course: Religion, richest favour of the skies, Stands most reveald before the freemans eyes; No shades of superstition blot the day, Liberty chases all that gloom away. The soul, emancipated, unoppressd, Free to prove all things and hold fast the best, Learns much; and to a thousand listning minds Communicates with joy the good she finds; Courage in arms, and ever prompt to shew His manly forehead to the fiercest foe; Glorious in war, but for the sake of peace, His spirits rising as his toils increase, Guards well what arts and industry have won, And Freedom claims him for her first-born son. Slaves fight for what were better cast away The chain that binds them, and a tyrants sway; But they that fight for freedom undertake The noblest cause mankind can have at stake: Religion, virtue, truth, whateer we call A blessingfreedom is the pledge of all. O Liberty! the prisoners pleasing dream, The poets muse, his passion, and his theme; Genius is thine, and thou art Fancys nurse; Lost without thee the ennobling powers of verse; Heroic song from thy free touch acquires Its clearest tone, the rapture it inspires. Place me where Winter breathes his keenest air, And I will sing, if Liberty be there; And I will sing at Libertys dear feet, In Africs torrid clime, or Indias fiercest heat. A. Sing where you please; in such a cause I grant An English poets privilege to rant; But is not freedomat least, is not ours Too apt to play the wanton with her powers, Grow freakish, and oerleaping every mound, Spread anarchy and terror all around? B. Agreed. But would you sell or slay your horse For bounding and curveting in his course? Or if, when ridden with a careless rein, He break away, and seek the distant plain? No. His high mettle, under good control, Gives him Olympic speed, and shoots him to the goal. Let Discipline employ her wholesome arts; Let magistrates alert perform their parts, Not skulk or put on a prudential mask, As if their duty were a desperate task; Let active laws apply the needful curb, To guard the peace that riot would disturb; And Liberty, preserved from wild excess, Shall raise no feuds for armies to suppress. When Tumult lately burst his prison-door, And set plebeian thousands in a roar; When he usurpd authoritys just place, And dared to look his master in the face; When the rude rabbles watchword wasDestroy, And blazing London seemd a second Troy; Liberty blushd, and hung her drooping head, Beheld their progress with the deepest dread; Blushd that effects like these she should produce, Worse than the deeds of galley-slaves broke loose. She loses in such storms her very name, And fierce licentiousness should bear the blame. Incomparable gem! thy worth untold: Cheap, though blood-bought, and thrown away when sold; May no foes ravish thee, and no false friend Betray thee, while professing to defend! Prize it, ye ministers; ye monarchs, spare; Ye patriots, guard it with a misers care. A. Patriots, alas! the few that have been found, Where most they flourish, upon English ground, The countrys need have scantily supplied, And the last left the scene when Chatham died. B. Not sothe virtue still adorns our age, Though the chief actor died upon the stage. In him Demosthenes was heard again; Liberty taught him her Athenian strain; She clothed him with authority and awe, Spoke from his lips, and in his looks gave law. His speech, his form, his action, full of grace, And all his country beaming in his face, He stood, as some inimitable hand Would strive to make a Paul or Tully stand. No sycophant or slave, that dared oppose Her sacred cause, but trembled when he rose; And every venal stickler for the yoke Felt himself crushd at the first word he spoke. Such men are raised to station and command, When Providence means mercy to a land. He speaks, and they appear; to him they owe Skill to direct, and strength to strike the blow; To manage with address, to seize with power The crisis of a dark decisive hour. So Gideon earnd a victory not his own; Subserviency his praise, and that alone. Poor England! thou art a devoted deer, Beset with every ill but that of fear. The nations hunt; all mark thee for a prey; They swarm around thee, and thou standst at bay: Undaunted still, though wearied and perplexd, Once Chatham saved thee; but who saves thee next? Alas! the tide of pleasure sweeps along All that should be the boast of British song. Tis not the wreath that once adornd thy brow, The prize of happier times, will serve thee now. Our ancestry, a gallant Christian race, Patterns of every virtue, every grace, Confessd a God; they kneeld before they fought, And praised him in the victories he wrought. Now from the dust of ancient days bring forth Their sober zeal, integrity, and worth; Courage, ungraced by these, affronts the skies, Is but the fire without the sacrifice. The stream that feeds the wellspring of the heart Not more invigorates lifes noblest part, Than virtue quickens with a warmth divine The powers that sin has brought to a decline. A. The inestimable estimate of Brown Rose like a paper-kite, and charmd the town; But measures, plannd and executed well, Shifted the wind that raised it, and it fell. He trod the very selfsame ground you tread, And victory refuted all he said. B. And yet his judgment was not framed amiss; Its error, if it errd, was merely this He thought the dying hour already come, And a complete recovery struck him dumb. But that effeminacy, folly, lust, Enervate and enfeeble, and needs must; And that a nation shamefully debased Will be despised and trampled on at last, Unless sweet penitence her powers renew, Is truth, if history itself be true. There is a time, and justice marks the date, For long forbearing clemency to wait; That hour elapsed, the incurable revolt Is punishd, and down comes the thunderbolt. If Mercy then put by the threatening blow, Must she perform the same kind office now? May she! and if offended Heaven be still Accessible, and prayer prevail, she will. Tis not, however, insolence and noise, The tempest of tumultuary joys, Nor is it yet despondence and dismay Will win her visits or engage her stay; Prayer only, and the penitential tear, Can call her smiling down, and fix her here. But when a country (one that I could name) In prostitution sinks the sense of shame; When infamous venality, grown bold, Writes on his bosom, To be let or sold; When perjury, that Heaven-defying vice, Sells oaths by tale, and at the lowest price, Stamps Gods own name upon a lie just made, To turn a penny in the way of trade; When avarice starves (and never hides his face) Two or three millions of the human race, And not a tongue inquires how, where, or when, Though conscience will have twinges now and then When profanation of the sacred cause In all its parts, times, ministry, and laws, Bespeaks a land, once Christian, fallen and lost, In all that wars against that title most; What follows next let cities of great name, And regions long since desolate proclaim. Nineveh, Babylon, and ancient Rome, Speak to the present times and times to come; They cry aloud in every careless ear, Stop, while ye may; suspend your mad career; O learn, from our example and our fate, Learn wisdom and repentance ere too late! Not only Vice disposes and prepares The mind that slumbers sweetly in her snares, To stoop to tyrannys usurpd command, And bend her polishd neck beneath his hand (A dire effect by one of Natures laws Unchangeably connected with its cause); But Providence himself will intervene, To throw his dark displeasure oer the scene. All are his instruments; each form of war, What burns at home, or threatens from afar, Nature in arms, her elements at strife, The storms that overset the joys of life, Are but his rods to scourge a guilty land, And waste it at the bidding of his hand. He gives the word, and mutiny soon roars In all her gates, and shakes her distant shores; The standards of all nations are unfurld; She has one foe, and that one foe the world. And if he doom that people with a frown, And mark them with a seal of wrath pressd down, Obduracy takes place; callous and tough, The reprobated race grows judgment-proof: Earth shakes beneath them, and Heaven roars above, But nothing scares them from the course they love. To the lascivious pipe and wanton song, That charm down fear, they frolic it along, With mad rapidity and unconcern, Down to the gulf from which is no return. They trust in navies, and their navies fail Gods curse can cast away ten thousand sail! They trust in armies, and their courage dies; In wisdom, wealth, in fortune, and in lies; But all they trust in withers, as it must, When He commands in whom they place no trust. Vengeance at last pours down upon their coast A long despised, but now victorious, host; Tyranny sends the chain that must abridge The noble sweep of all their privilege; Gives liberty the last, the mortal, shock; Slips the slaves collar on, and snaps the lock. A. Such lofty strains embellish what you teach, Mean you to prophesy, or but to preach? B. I know the mind that feels indeed the fire The Muse imparts, and can command the lyre, Acts with a force, and kindles with a zeal, Whateer the theme, that others never feel. If human woes her soft attention claim, A tender sympathy pervades the frame, She pours a sensibility divine Along the nerve of every feeling line. But if a deed not tamely to be borne Fire indignation and a sense of scorn, The strings are swept with such a power, so loud, The storm of music shakes the astonishd crowd. So, when remote futurity is brought Before the keen inquiry of her thought, A terrible sagacity informs The poets heart; he looks to distant storms; He hears the thunder ere the tempest lowers! And, armd with strength surpassing human powers, Seizes events as yet unknown to man, And darts his soul into the dawning plan. Hence, in a Roman mouth, the graceful name Of prophet and of poet was the same; Hence British poets too the priesthood shared, And every hallowd druid was a bard. But no prophetic fires to me belong; I play with syllables, and sport in song. A. At Westminster, where little poets strive To set a distich upon six and five, Where Discipline helps opening buds of sense And makes his pupils proud with silver pence, I was a poet too; but modern taste Is so refined, and delicate, and chaste, That verse, whatever fire the fancy warms, Without a creamy smoothness has no charms. Thus all success depending on an ear, And thinking I might purchase it too dear, If sentiment were sacrificed to sound, And truth cut short to make a period round, I judged a man of sense could scarce do worse Than caper in the morris-dance of verse. B. Thus reputation is a spur to wit, And some wits flag through fear of losing it. Give me the line that ploughs its stately course, Like a proud swan, conquering the stream by force; That, like some cottage beauty, strikes the heart, Quite unindebted to the tricks of art. When labour and when dulness, club in hand, Like the two figures at St. Dunstans stand, Beating alternately, in measured time, The clockwork tintinnabulum of rhyme, Exact and regular the sounds will be; But such mere quarter-strokes are not for me. From him who rears a poem lank and long, To him who strains his all into a song; Perhaps some bonny Caledonian air, All birks and braes, though he was never there; Or, having whelpd a prologue with great pains, Feels himself spent, and fumbles for his brains; A prologue interdashd with many a stroke An art contrived to advertise a joke, So that the jest is clearly to be seen, Not in the wordsbut in the gap between; Manner is all in all, whateer is writ, The substitute for genius, sense, and wit. To dally much with subject mean and low Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so. Neglected talents rust into decay, And every effort ends in pushpin play. The man that means success should soar above A soldiers feather, or a ladys glove; Else, summoning the muse to such a theme, The fruit of all her labour is whippd cream. As if an eagle flew aloft, and then Stoopd from its highest pitch to pounce a wren. As if the poet, purposing to wed, Should carve himself a wife in gingerbread. Ages elapsed ere Homers lamp appeard, And ages ere the Mantuan swan was heard; To carry nature lengths unknown before, To give a Milton birth, askd ages more. Thus genius rose and set at orderd times, And shot a day-spring into distant climes, Ennobling every region that he chose; He sunk in Greece, in Italy he rose; And, tedious years of Gothic darkness passd, Emerged all splendour in our isle at last. Thus lovely halcyons dive into the main, Then shew far off their shining plumes again. A. Is genius only found in epic lays? Prove this, and forfeit all pretence to praise. Make their heroic powers your own at once, Or candidly confess yourself a dunce. B. These were the chief; each interval of night Was graced with many an undulating light In less illustrious bards his beauty shone A meteor, or a star; in these, the sun. The nightingale may claim the topmost bough, While the poor grasshopper must chirp below. Like him unnoticed, I, and such as I, Spread little wings, and rather skip than fly; Perchd on the meagre produce of the land, An ell or two of prospect we command; But never peep beyond the thorny bound, Or oaken fence, that hems the paddock round. In Eden, ere yet innocence of heart Had faded, poetry was not an art; Language, above all teaching, or if taught, Only by gratitude and glowing thought, Elegant as simplicity, and warm As ecstacy, unmanacled by form, Not prompted, as in our degenerate days, By low ambition and the thirst of praise, Was natural as is the flowing stream, And yet magnificenta God the theme! That theme on earth exhausted, though above Tis found as everlasting as his love, Man lavishd all his thoughts on human things The feats of heroes and the wrath of kings; But still, while virtue kindled his delight, The song was moral, and so far was right. Twas thus till luxury seduced the mind To joys less innocent, as less refined; Then Genius danced a bacchanal; he crownd The brimming goblet, seized the thyrsus, bound His brows with ivy, rushd into the field Of wild imagination, and there reeld, The victim of his own lascivious fires, And, dizzy with delight, profaned the sacred wires: Anacreon, Horace, playd in Greece and Rome This bedlam part; and others nearer home. When Cromwell fought for power, and while he reignd The proud protector of the power he gaind, Religion, harsh, intolerant, austere, Parent of manners like herself severe, Drew a rough copy of the Christian face, Without the smile, the sweetness, or the grace; The dark and sullen humour of the time Judged every effort of the muse a crime; Verse, in the finest mould of fancy cast, Was lumber in an age so void of taste. But when the second Charles assumed the sway, And arts revived beneath a softer day, Then, like a bow long forced into a curve, The mind, released from too constraind a nerve, Flew to its first position with a spring, That made the vaulted roofs of pleasure ring. His court, the dissolute and hateful school Of wantonness, where vice was taught by rule, Swarmd with a scribbling herd, as deep inlaid With brutal lust as ever Circe made. From these a long succession, in the rage Of rank obscenity, debauchd their age: Nor ceased till, ever anxious to redress The abuses of her sacred charge, the press, The Muse instructed a well-nurtured train Of abler votaries to cleanse the stain, And claim the palm for purity of song, That lewdness had usurpd and worn so long. Then decent pleasantry and sterling sense, That neither gave nor would endure offence, Whippd out of sight, with satire just and keen, The puppy pack that had defiled the scene. In front of these came Addison. In him Humour in holiday and sightly trim, Sublimity and Attic taste combined, To polish, furnish, and delight the mind. Then Pope, as harmony itself exact, In verse well-disciplined, complete, compact, Gave virtue and morality a grace, That, quite eclipsing pleasures painted face, Levied a tax of wonder and applause, Een on the fools that trampled on their laws. But he (his musical finesse was such, So nice his ear, so delicate his touch) Made poetry a mere mechanic art; And every warbler has his tune by heart. Nature imparting her satiric gift, Her serious mirth, to Arbuthnot and Swift, With droll sobriety they raised a smile At follys cost, themselves unmoved the while. That constellation set, the world in vain Must hope to look upon their like again. A. Are we then left?B. Not wholly in the dark; Wit now and then, struck smartly, shews a spark, Sufficient to redeem the modern race From total night and absolute disgrace. While servile trick and imitative knack Confine the million in the beaten track, Perhaps some courser, who disdains the road, Snuffs up the wind, and flings himself abroad. Contemporaries all surpassd, see one; Short his career indeed, but ably run; Churchill, himself unconscious of his powers, In penury consumed his idle hours; And, like a scatterd seed at random sown, Was left to spring by vigour of his own. Lifted at length, by dignity of thought And dint of genius, to an affluent lot, He laid his head in luxurys soft lap, And took, too often, there his easy nap. If brighter beams than all he threw not forth, Twas negligence in him, not want of worth. Surly and slovenly, and bold and coarse, Too proud for art, and trusting in mere force, Spendthrift alike of money and of wit, Always at speed, and never drawing bit, He struck the lyre in such a careless mood, And so disdaind the rules he understood, The laurel seemd to wait on his command; He snatchd it rudely from the muses hand. Nature, exerting an unwearied power, Forms, opens, and gives scent to every flower; Spreads the fresh verdure of the field, and leads The dancing Naiads through the dewy meads; She fills profuse ten thousand little throats With music, modulating all their notes; And charms the woodland scenes and wilds unknown, With artless airs and concerts of her own; But seldom (as if fearful of expense) Vouchsafes to man a poets just pretence Fervency, freedom, fluency of thought, Harmony, strength, words exquisitely sought; Fancy, that from the bow that spans the sky Brings colours, dippd in heaven, that never die; A soul exalted above earth, a mind Skilld in the characters that form mankind; And, as the sun, in rising beauty dressd, Looks to the westward from the dappled east, And marks, whatever clouds may interpose, Ere yet his race begins, its glorious close; An eye like his to catch the distant goal; Or, ere the wheels of verse begin to roll, Like his to shed illuminating rays On every scene and subject it surveys; Thus graced, the man asserts a poets name, And the world cheerfully admits the claim. Pity Religion has so seldom found A skilful guide into poetic ground! The flowers would spring whereer she deignd to stray, And every muse attend her in her way. Virtue indeed meets many a rhyming friend, And many a compliment politely pennd; But, unattired in that becoming vest Religion weaves for her, and half undressd, Stands in the desert shivering and forlorn, A wintry figure, like a witherd thorn. The shelves are full, all other themes are sped; Hackneyd and worn to the last flimsy thread, Satire has long since done his best; and curst And loathsome ribaldry has done his worst; Fancy has sported all her powers away In tales, in trifles, and in childrens play; And tis the sad complaint, and almost true, Whateer we write, we bring forth nothing new. Twere new indeed to see a bard all fire, Touchd with a coal from heaven, assume the lyre. And tell the world, still kindling as he sung, With more than mortal music on his tongue, That He, who died below, and reigns above, Inspires the song, and that his name is Love. For, after all, if merely to beguile, By flowing numbers and a flowery style, The tedium that the lazy rich endure, Which now and then sweet poetry may cure; Or, if to see the name of idol self, Stampd on the well-bound quarto, grace the shelf, To float a bubble on the breath of fame, Prompt his endeavour and engage his aim, Debased to servile purposes of pride, How are the powers of genius misapplied! The gift, whose office is the Givers praise, To trace him in his word, his works, his ways! Then spread the rich discovery, and invite Mankind to share in the divine delight: Distorted from its use and just design, To make the pitiful possessor shine, To purchase at the fool-frequented fair Of vanity a wreath for self to wear, Is profanation of the basest kind Proof of a trifling and a worthless mind. A. Hail, Sternhold, then! and, Hopkins, hail! B. Amen. If flattery, folly, lust, employ the pen; If acrimony, slander, and abuse, Give it a charge to blacken and traduce; Though Butlers wit, Popes numbers, Priors ease, With all that fancy can invent to please, Adorn the polishd periods as they fall, One madrigal of theirs is worth them all. A. Twould thin the ranks of the poetic tribe, To dash the pen through all that you proscribe. B. No matterwe could shift when they were not; And should, no doubt, if they were all forgot.