Savage the Poet.
Life of Savage.
It is related in proof of the deep interest with which Johnson’s life of Savage must be perused, that Sir Joshua Reynolds, during a visit at a friend’s in Devonshire, took it up one day by accident, and so intensely did the work occupy his attention, that he continued in the same position, leaning his elbow on the chimney piece till he had read it through, when attempting to move his arm it was benumbed.
A Fable—The Hon. Henry Erskine, late Lord Advocate of Scotland.
The Musical Instruments.
A Fable.
The Beaux and Belles were gone, the Concert o’er,
And Kelly’s sprightly strains were heard no more;
Thro’ the deserted room dead silence reign’d,
And still and dumb each tuneful string remain’d;
When from the case in which a Fiddle lay
Arose a voice that said or seem’d to say:
“Basses and Tenors, Kettledrums and Flutes,
Trumpets, and Horns, Fiddles, Flageolets,
From you that solemn groan to you that squeak,
Patient attend and hear a brother speak:
Oft have I mused with sorrow and regret,
Since here confined I mourn’d my captive state,
That tho’ from Harmony our being rose,
We unconnected live, nor friends nor foes;
Nor know society, till in the band
We yield our music to the master’s hand;
Those happy moments o’er, confined again,
Silent and un-united we remain:
Let us for mutual interest then combine;
To each his different share of power assign;
And from our choice that no dissension spring,
Speak, all, and let the worthiest be our King,
Under whose reign, by man when unemploy’d,
Peace, harmony and bliss may be enjoy’d.”
He spoke, thro’ all melodious accents ran,
And the slow solemn Organ thus began:
“Much I approve my four string’d brother’s scheme,
And own it oft has been my silent theme,
And since harmonic merit mounts the throne,
I claim the royal title as my own.
Observe me well when glorious here I stand,
And with a look alone respect command.
On me has man bestow’d his utmost care,
And as he found me great he found me fair;
My front with pipes of radiant gold array’d
Above the painter’s utmost art display’d;
This made a thousand instruments combine
And all in one great, glorious whole conjoin:
Nor do I boast of outward form alone,
For Harmony has mark’d me as her own;
Has taught my sweetly solemn sounds to flow
In all the pomp and majesty of woe;
Has taught my notes on seraph’s wings to fly,
And raise the ravish’d soul above the sky;
Has made in Heaven’s own that voice rever’d,
And kings to kneel whenever it is heard.
To whom then but to me shall pow’r be given,
Who rule on earth and lead the way to heaven?”
The Organ spoke majestically slow,
And thus the brazen Trumpet ’gan to blow:
“Were size enormous or were colours bright
To strike the judgment as they strike the sight,
The world’s great empire would disputed lie
’Twixt the huge whale and gilded butterfly;
But the gay peacock vainly strives to sing,
In vain the unwieldy ostrich spreads his wing,
While music swells the homely linnet’s throat,
And on the yielding air the little swallows float.
I boast no beauty then, I boast no size,
Since nought but merit true can gain the prize:
If so, I boldly call that prize my own,
And claim, whoe’er oppose that claim, the throne.
If warlike feats, if deeds of high renown,
Bravely perform’d, on men bestow the crown,
Like right is mine, who still am heard afar,
The dreadful harbinger of glorious war;
At whose loud voice, heroic ardour springs
In the bold hearts of heroes and of kings.
With them where’er they go, I brave my fate,
With them victorious share their royal state;
Till men whene’er my glorious voice they hear,
Know that a hero or a prince is near.
Such are my claims, let me your ruler be,
Receive a hero and a King in me.”
He ended, and the silver sounding Flute
Thus strove the boaster’s title to confute:
“Brothers of Harmony, whose breathings move
The human soul to virtue, peace, and love,
Shall we be ruled by one whose dreadful breath
Spreads thro’ the world division, discord, death?
Let kings for fame forget their people’s good,
And butchering heroes wade in harmless blood,
While we endeavour, as by Heaven design’d,
To soothe and not inflame the human mind.
In the sweet shade, and by the silent stream,
I softly sing, and peace and love my theme.
To my gay notes, beneath the checker’d shade,
Dance the blithe shepherd and the harmless maid.
Far from destroying war or faithless courts
I seek the scenes where innocence resorts,
There have I learnt betimes, in virtue’s school,
The art, do you bestow the power to rule.”
Soon as the gentle Flute had spoke his claim
From every corner mingling murmurs came:
With loud commanding note the Fiddle swore
Ne’er was his preference denied before;
’Twas he that still employed the master’s hand,
Follow’d obsequious by the list’ning Band;
Nay swore, that Kelly learnt from him the art
To rule with magic sounds the human heart!
The Harpsichord, the fav’rite of the fair,
Talk’d much of them, and plac’d his merits there.
Clamour on clamour grew, each prais’d his own,
And strove his neighbour’s merits to run down;
Till frightened Harmony forsook the room,
And crashing Discord shook the lofty dome;
Up rose at last a chief of little fame,
Yet mighty use, and Pitch pipe was his name;
In steady unison he thus began,
While wonder thro’ the place in murmur ran:
“Brethren of melody, to whom ’tis given
By man, first taught the glorious art by Heaven,
The various passions of the human soul,
To raise, to soothe, to heighten, to controul;
To thrill with softest sounds the lover’s heart,
To raise his transports, or to soothe his smart;
To cheer the sinking soul with liveliest air,
To soften madness or to calm despair;
To rule the thousand sympathies that bind,
With strongest, sweetest ties, the human mind.
Such are your powers while Harmony shall reign,
By her forsaken, all those powers are vain.
His hallow’d notes in vain the Organ blows,
The Fiddle’s tone with sweet expression glows;
In vain the Flute soft blows his am’rous breath,
The strepent Trumpet speaks the sounds of death;
Vainly they strive to move the feeling soul,
Till heaven-born Harmony conduct the whole.
For me one note does all my power confine,
Employ’d for others’ uses, not for mine;
And yet, however small my compass be,
Harmonic Union you must owe to me;
For still by me, whene’er you sound alone,
Or mix in concerts, must be fix’d your tone.
Then strive no more but fix on me your choice,
Who save from discord, strife, confusion, noise;
So shall the powers of music matchless reign,
Nor has divine Cecilia come from heaven in vain.”
He said, and straight his tone, tho’ simple sound,
Conviction follow’d, and himself was crown’d.
’Tis thus, my friend, that in the human soul
The various movements Reason should controul,
While headlong sallies Prudence should restrain,
And fancy yield to Judgment’s shady reign;
If the kind muse poetic rage inspire,
Or glows the breast with patriotic fire,
If wit, that seldomer does good than harm
’Midst social scenes, shall teach the tongue to charm,
If love with sweet sensations fills the mind,
Or sacred friendship mutual bosoms bind,
Howe’er with genius, fancy, feeling blest,
’Tis Prudence must direct, or vain are all the rest.