The Works of Lord Byron Volume I Part 107

And, blunt myself, give edge to other's steel, Nor write at all, unless to teach the art To those rehearsing for the Poet's part; From Horace show the pleasing paths of song, [lxix], And from my own example--what is wrong. 490

Though modern practice sometimes differs quite, 'Tis just as well to think before you write; Let every book that suits your theme be read, So shall you trace it to the fountain-head.

He who has learned the duty which he owes To friends and country, and to pardon foes; Who models his deportment as may best Accord with Brother, Sire, or Stranger-guest; Who takes our Laws and Wors.h.i.+p as they are, Nor roars reform for Senate, Church, and Bar; 500 In practice, rather than loud precept, wise, Bids not his tongue, but heart, philosophize: Such is the man the Poet should rehea.r.s.e, As joint exemplar of his life and verse.

Sometimes a sprightly wit, and tale well told, Without much grace, or weight, or art, will hold A longer empire o'er the public mind Than sounding trifles, empty, though refined.

Unhappy Greece! thy sons of ancient days The Muse may celebrate with perfect praise, 510 Whose generous children narrowed not their hearts With Commerce, given alone to Arms and Arts. [lxx]

Our boys (save those whom public schools compel To "Long and Short" before they're taught to spell) From frugal fathers soon imbibe by rote, "A penny saved, my lad, 's a penny got."

Babe of a city birth! from sixpence take [lxxi]

The third, how much will the remainder make?-- "A groat."--"Ah, bravo! d.i.c.k hath done the sum! [lxxii]

He'll swell my fifty thousand to a Plum." [47] 520

They whose young souls receive this rust betimes, 'Tis clear, are fit for anything but rhymes; And Locke will tell you, that the father's right Who hides all verses from his children's sight; For Poets (says this Sage [48], and many more,) Make sad mechanics with their lyric lore: [lxxiii]

And Delphi now, however rich of old, Discovers little silver, and less gold, Because Parna.s.sus, though a Mount divine, Is poor as Irus, [49] or an Irish mine. [lxxiv] [50] 530

Two objects always should the Poet move, Or one or both,--to please or to improve.

Whate'er you teach, be brief, if you design For our remembrance your didactic line; Redundance places Memory on the rack, For brains may be o'erloaded, like the back. [lxxv]

Fiction does best when taught to look like Truth, And fairy fables bubble none but youth: Expect no credit for too wondrous tales, Since Jonas only springs alive from Whales! 540

Young men with aught but Elegance dispense; Maturer years require a little Sense.

To end at once:--that Bard for all is fit [lxxvi]

Who mingles well instruction with his wit; For him Reviews shall smile; for him o'erflow The patronage of Paternoster-row; His book, with Longman's liberal aid, shall pa.s.s (Who ne'er despises books that bring him bra.s.s); Through three long weeks the taste of London lead, And cross St. George's Channel and the Tweed. 550

But every thing has faults, nor is't unknown That harps and fiddles often lose their tone, And wayward voices, at their owner's call, With all his best endeavours, only squall; Dogs blink their covey, flints withhold the spark, And double-barrels (d.a.m.n them!) miss their mark. [lxxvii] [51]

Where frequent beauties strike the reader's view, We must not quarrel for a blot or two; But pardon equally to books or men, The slips of Human Nature, and the Pen. 560 Yet if an author, spite of foe or friend, Despises all advice too much to mend, But ever tw.a.n.gs the same discordant string, Give him no quarter, howsoe'er he sing.

Let Havard's [52] fate o'ertake him, who, for once, Produced a play too das.h.i.+ng for a dunce: At first none deemed it his; but when his name Announced the fact--what then?--it lost its fame.

Though all deplore when Milton deigns to doze, [lxxviii]

In a long work 'tis fair to steal repose. 570

As Pictures, so shall Poems be; some stand The critic eye, and please when near at hand; [lxxix]

But others at a distance strike the sight; This seeks the shade, but that demands the light, Nor dreads the connoisseur's fastidious view, But, ten times scrutinised, is ten times new.

Parna.s.sian pilgrims! ye whom chance, or choice, [lx.x.x]

Hath led to listen to the Muse's voice, Receive this counsel, and be timely wise; Few reach the Summit which before you lies. 580 Our Church and State, our Courts and Camps, concede Reward to very moderate heads indeed!

In these plain common sense will travel far; All are not Erskines who mislead the Bar: [lx.x.xi] [53]

But Poesy between the best and worst No medium knows; you must be last or first; For middling Poets' miserable volumes Are d.a.m.ned alike by G.o.ds, and Men, and Columns. [lx.x.xii]

Again, my Jeffrey--as that sound inspires, [54]

How wakes my bosom to its wonted fires! 590 Fires, such as gentle Caledonians feel When Southrons writhe upon their critic wheel, Or mild Eclectics, [55] when some, worse than Turks, Would rob poor Faith to decorate "Good Works."

Such are the genial feelings them canst claim-- My Falcon flies not at ign.o.ble game.

Mightiest of all Dunedin's beasts of chase!

For thee my Pegasus would mend his pace.

Arise, my Jeffrey! or my inkless pen Shall never blunt its edge on meaner men; 600 Till thee or thine mine evil eye discerns, "Alas! I cannot strike at wretched kernes." [56]

Inhuman Saxon! wilt thou then resign A Muse and heart by choice so wholly thine?

Dear d--d contemner of my schoolboy songs, Hast thou no vengeance for my Manhood's wrongs?

If unprovoked thou once could bid me bleed, Hast thou no weapon for my daring deed?

What! not a word!--and am I then so low?

Wilt thou forbear, who never spared a foe? 610 Hast thou no wrath, or wish to give it vent?

No wit for n.o.bles, Dunces by descent?

No jest on "minors," quibbles on a name, [57]

Nor one facetious paragraph of blame?

Is it for this on Ilion I have stood, And thought of Homer less than Holyrood?

On sh.o.r.e of Euxine or aegean sea, My hate, untravelled, fondly turned to thee.

Ah! let me cease! in vain my bosom burns, From Corydon unkind Alexis turns: [58] 620 Thy rhymes are vain; thy Jeffrey then forego, Nor woo that anger which he will not show.

What then?--Edina starves some lanker son, To write an article thou canst not shun; Some less fastidious Scotchman shall be found, As bold in Billingsgate, though less renowned.

As if at table some discordant dish, [59]

Should shock our optics, such as frogs for fish; As oil in lieu of b.u.t.ter men decry, And poppies please not in a modern pie; [lx.x.xiii] 630 If all such mixtures then be half a crime, We must have Excellence to relish rhyme.

Mere roast and boiled no Epicure invites; Thus Poetry disgusts, or else delights.

Who shoot not flying rarely touch a gun: Will he who swims not to the river run?

And men unpractised in exchanging knocks Must go to Jackson [60] ere they dare to box.

Whate'er the weapon, cudgel, fist, or foil, None reach expertness without years of toil; 640 But fifty dunces can, with perfect ease, Tag twenty thousand couplets, when they please.

Why not?--shall I, thus qualified to sit For rotten boroughs, never show my wit?

Shall I, whose fathers with the "Quorum" sate, [lx.x.xiv]

And lived in freedom on a fair estate; Who left me heir, with stables, kennels, packs, [lx.x.xv]

To 'all' their income, and to--'twice' its tax; Whose form and pedigree have scarce a fault, Shall I, I say, suppress my Attic Salt? 650

Thus think "the Mob of Gentlemen;" but you, Besides all this, must have some Genius too.

Be this your sober judgment, and a rule, And print not piping hot from Southey's school, Who (ere another Thalaba appears), I trust, will spare us for at least nine years.

And hark'ye, Southey! [61] pray--but don't be vexed-- Burn all your last three works--and half the next.

But why this vain advice? once published, books Can never be recalled--from pastry-cooks! [lx.x.xvi] 660 Though "Madoc," with "Pucelle," [62] instead of Punk, May travel back to Quito--on a trunk! [63]

Orpheus, we learn from Ovid and Lempriere, Led all wild beasts but Women by the ear; And had he fiddled at the present hour, We'd seen the Lions waltzing in the Tower; [64]

And old Amphion, such were minstrels then, Had built St. Paul's without the aid of Wren.

Verse too was Justice, and the Bards of Greece Did more than constables to keep the peace; 670 Abolished cuckoldom with much applause, Called county meetings, and enforced the laws, Cut down crown influence with reforming scythes, And served the Church--without demanding t.i.thes; And hence, throughout all h.e.l.las and the East, Each Poet was a Prophet and a Priest, Whose old-established Board of Joint Controls [65]

Included kingdoms in the cure of souls.

Next rose the martial Homer, Epic's prince, And Fighting's been in fas.h.i.+on ever since; 680 And old Tyrtaeus, when the Spartans warred, (A limping leader, but a lofty bard) [lx.x.xvii]

Though walled Ithome had resisted long, Reduced the fortress by the force of song.

When Oracles prevailed, in times of old, In song alone Apollo's will was told. [lx.x.xviii]

Then if your verse is what all verse should be, And G.o.ds were not ashamed on't, why should we?

The Muse, like mortal females, may be wooed; [66]

In turns she'll seem a Paphian, or a prude; 690 Fierce as a bride when first she feels affright, Mild as the same upon the second night; Wild as the wife of Alderman or Peer, Now for His Grace, and now a grenadier!

Her eyes beseem, her heart belies, her zone-- Ice in a crowd--and Lava when alone.

If Verse be studied with some show of Art.

Kind Nature always will perform her part; Though without Genius, and a native vein Of wit, we loathe an artificial strain, 700 Yet Art and Nature joined will win the prize, Unless they act like us and our allies.

The youth who trains to ride, or run a race, Must bear privations with unruffled face, Be called to labour when he thinks to dine, And, harder still, leave wenching and his wine.

Ladies who sing, at least who sing at sight, Have followed Music through her farthest flight; [lx.x.xix]

But rhymers tell you neither more nor less, "I've got a pretty poem for the Press;" 710 And that's enough; then write and print so fast;-- If Satan take the hindmost, who'd be last?

They storm the Types, they publish, one and all, [xc] [67]

They leap the counter, and they leave the stall.

Provincial Maidens, men of high command, Yea! Baronets have inked the b.l.o.o.d.y hand!