The Works of Lord Byron Volume I Part 85

And LITTLE'S Lyrics s.h.i.+ne in hot-pressed twelves. [17]

Thus saith the _Preacher_: "Nought beneath the sun Is new," [18] yet still from change to change we run. 130 What varied wonders tempt us as they pa.s.s!

The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas, [19]

In turns appear, to make the vulgar stare, Till the swoln bubble bursts--and all is air!

Nor less new schools of Poetry arise, Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize: O'er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail; [xii]

Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal, And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne, Erects a shrine and idol of its own; [xiii] 140 Some leaden calf--but whom it matters not, From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT. [20]

Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew, For notice eager, pa.s.s in long review: Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace, And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race; Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode; And Tales of Terror [21] jostle on the road; Immeasurable measures move along; For simpering Folly loves a varied song, 150 To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend, Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.

Thus Lays of Minstrels [22]--may they be the last!-- On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.

While mountain spirits prate to river sprites, That dames may listen to the sound at nights; And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner's [23] brood Decoy young Border-n.o.bles through the wood, And skip at every step, Lord knows how high, And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why; 160 While high-born ladies in their magic cell, Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell, Despatch a courier to a wizard's grave, And fight with honest men to s.h.i.+eld a knave.

Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan, The golden-crested haughty Marmion, Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight, Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight. [xiv]

The gibbet or the field prepared to grace; A mighty mixture of the great and base. 170 And think'st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance, On public taste to foist thy stale romance, Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line? [24]

No! when the sons of song descend to trade, Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade, Let such forego the poet's sacred name, Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame: Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain! [25]

And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain! 180 Such be their meed, such still the just reward [xv]

Of prost.i.tuted Muse and hireling bard!

For this we spurn Apollo's venal son, And bid a long "good night to Marmion." [26]

These are the themes that claim our plaudits now; These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow; While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot, Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.

The time has been, when yet the Muse was young, When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung, 190 An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim, While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name: The work of each immortal Bard appears The single wonder of a thousand years. [27]

Empires have mouldered from the face of earth, Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth, Without the glory such a strain can give, As even in ruin bids the language live.

Not so with us, though minor Bards, content, [xvi]

On one great work a life of labour spent: 200 With eagle pinion soaring to the skies, Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!

To him let CAMOeNS, MILTON, Ta.s.sO yield, Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.

First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance, The scourge of England and the boast of France!

Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch, Behold her statue placed in Glory's niche; Her fetters burst, and just released from prison, A virgin Phoenix from her ashes risen. 210 Next see tremendous Thalaba come on, [28]

Arabia's monstrous, wild, and wond'rous son; Domdaniel's dread destroyer, who o'erthrew More mad magicians than the world e'er knew.

Immortal Hero! all thy foes o'ercome, For ever reign--the rival of Tom Thumb! [29]

Since startled Metre fled before thy face, Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!

Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence, Ill.u.s.trious conqueror of common sense! 220 Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails, Cacique in Mexico, [30] and Prince in Wales; Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do, More old than Mandeville's, and not so true.

Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! [31] cease thy varied song!

A bard may chaunt too often and too long: As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!

A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.

But if, in spite of all the world can say, Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way; 230 If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil, Thou wilt devote old women to the devil, [32]

The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue: "G.o.d help thee," SOUTHEY, [33] and thy readers too.

Next comes the dull disciple of thy school, [34]

That mild apostate from poetic rule, The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay As soft as evening in his favourite May, Who warns his friend "to shake off toil and trouble, And quit his books, for fear of growing double;" [35] 240 Who, both by precept and example, shows That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose; Convincing all, by demonstration plain, Poetic souls delight in prose insane; And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme Contain the essence of the true sublime.

Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy, The idiot mother of "an idiot Boy;"

A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way, And, like his bard, confounded night with day [36] 250 So close on each pathetic part he dwells, And each adventure so sublimely tells, That all who view the "idiot in his glory"

Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

Shall gentle COLERIDGE pa.s.s unnoticed here, [37]

To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?

Though themes of innocence amuse him best, Yet still Obscurity's a welcome guest.

If Inspiration should her aid refuse To him who takes a Pixy for a muse, [38] 260 Yet none in lofty numbers can surpa.s.s The bard who soars to elegize an a.s.s: So well the subject suits his n.o.ble mind, [xvii]

He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind. [xviii]

Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! [39] Monk, or Bard, Who fain would make Parna.s.sus a church-yard! [xix]

Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow, Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo's s.e.xton thou!

Whether on ancient tombs thou tak'st thy stand, By gibb'ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band; 270 Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page, To please the females of our modest age; All hail, M.P.! [40] from whose infernal brain Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train; At whose command "grim women" throng in crowds, And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds, With "small grey men,"--"wild yagers," and what not, To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT: Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please, St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease: 280 Even Satan's self with thee might dread to dwell, And in thy skull discern a deeper h.e.l.l.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir Of virgins melting, not to Vesta's fire, With sparkling eyes, and cheek by pa.s.sion flushed Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?

'Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day, As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!

Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just, Nor spare melodious advocates of l.u.s.t. 290 Pure is the flame which o'er her altar burns; From grosser incense with disgust she turns Yet kind to youth, this expiation o'er, She bids thee "mend thy line, and sin no more." [xx]

For thee, translator of the tinsel song, To whom such glittering ornaments belong, Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue, [41]

And boasted locks of red or auburn hue, Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires, And o'er harmonious fustian half expires, [xxi] 300 Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author's sense, Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.

Think'st thou to gain thy verse a higher place, By dressing Camoens [42] in a suit of lace?

Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste; Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste: Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore, Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.

Behold--Ye Tarts!--one moment spare the text! [xxii]-- HAYLEY'S last work, and worst--until his next; 310 Whether he spin poor couplets into plays, Or d.a.m.n the dead with purgatorial praise, [43]

His style in youth or age is still the same, For ever feeble and for ever tame.

Triumphant first see "Temper's Triumphs" s.h.i.+ne!

At least I'm sure they triumphed over mine.

Of "Music's Triumphs," all who read may swear That luckless Music never triumph'd there. [44]

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward [45]

On dull devotion--Lo! the Sabbath Bard, 320 Sepulchral GRAHAME, [46] pours his notes sublime In mangled prose, nor e'en aspires to rhyme; Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke, [xxiii]

And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch; And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms, Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings" [xxiv]

A thousand visions of a thousand things, And shows, still whimpering thro' threescore of years, [xxv]

The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers. 330 And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles! [47]

Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?

Whether them sing'st with equal ease, and grief, [xxvi]

The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf; Whether thy muse most lamentably tells What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells, [xxvii]

Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend In every chime that jingled from Ostend; Ah! how much juster were thy Muse's hap, If to thy bells thou would'st but add a cap! [xxviii] 340 Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest, All love thy strain, but children like it best.

'Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE'S moral song, To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!

With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears, Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years: But in her teens thy whining powers are vain; She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE'S purer strain.

Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine [xxix]

The lofty numbers of a harp like thine; 350 "Awake a louder and a loftier strain," [48]

Such as none heard before, or will again!

Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood, Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud, By more or less, are sung in every book, From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.

Nor this alone--but, pausing on the road, The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode, [x.x.x] [49]

And gravely tells--attend, each beauteous Miss!-- When first Madeira trembled to a kiss. 360 Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell, Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!--at least they sell.

But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe, Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe: If 'chance some bard, though once by dunces feared, Now, p.r.o.ne in dust, can only be revered; If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first, [x.x.xi]

Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst, Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan; The first of poets was, alas! but man. 370 Rake from each ancient dunghill ev'ry pearl, Consult Lord f.a.n.n.y, and confide in CURLL; [50]

Let all the scandals of a former age Perch on thy pen, and flutter o'er thy page; Affect a candour which thou canst not feel, Clothe envy in a garb of honest zeal; Write, as if St. John's soul could still inspire, And do from hate what MALLET [51] did for hire.

Oh! hadst thou lived in that congenial time, To rave with DENNIS, and with RALPH to rhyme; [52] 380 Thronged with the rest around his living head, Not raised thy hoof against the lion dead, A meet reward had crowned thy glorious gains, And linked thee to the Dunciad for thy pains. [53]

Another Epic! Who inflicts again More books of blank upon the sons of men?

Boeotian COTTLE, rich Bristowa's boast, Imports old stories from the Cambrian coast, And sends his goods to market--all alive!

Lines forty thousand, Cantos twenty-five! 390 Fresh fish from Hippocrene! [54] who'll buy? who'll buy?

The precious bargain's cheap--in faith, not I.

Your turtle-feeder's verse must needs be flat, [x.x.xii]

Though Bristol bloat him with the verdant fat; If Commerce fills the purse, she clogs the brain, And AMOS COTTLE strikes the Lyre in vain.

In him an author's luckless lot behold!

Condemned to make the books which once he sold.