"When florid youth impell'd, and fortune smil'd,
The Vocal Art my languid hours beguil'd.
Severer studies now my life engage,
Researches dull, that quench poetic rage.
"From morn to evening destin'd to explore
The verbal critic, and the scholiast's lore,
Alas! what beam of heavenly ardor shines
In musty lexicons and school-divines!
"Yet to the darling object of my heart
A short but pleasing retrospect I dart;
Revolve the labours of the tuneful choir,
And what I cannot imitate admire.
"O could my thoughts with all thy spirit glow,
As thine melodious could my accents flow;
Then thou approving might'st my song attend,
Nor in a Blacklock blush to own a friend."
AN EPISTLE
TO THE REVEREND MR. THOMAS BLACKLOCK.
Monstro quod ipse tibi possis dare; semita certe
Tranquillæ per virtutem patet unica vitæ.
Juvenal, Sat. x.
Hail to the Poet! whose spontaneous lays
No pride restrains, nor venal flattery sways.
Who nor from Critics, nor from Fashion's laws,
Learns to adjust his tribute of applause;
But bold to feel, and ardent to impart
What nature whispers to the generous heart,
Propitious to the Moral Song, commends,
For Virtue's sake, the humblest of her friends.
Peace to the grumblers of an envious age,
Vapid in spleen, or brisk in frothy rage!
Critics, who, ere they understand, defame;
And friends demure, who only do not blame;
And puppet-prattlers, whose unconscious throat
Transmits what the pert witling prompts by rote.
Pleas'd to their spite or scorn I yield the lays
That boast the sanction of a Blacklock's praise.
Let others court the blind and babbling crowd:
Mine be the favour of the Wise and Good.
O Thou, to censure, as to guile unknown!
Indulgent to all merit but thy own!
Whose soul, though darkness wrap thine earthly frame,
Exults in Virtue's pure ethereal flame;
Whose thoughts, congenial with the strains on high,
The Muse adorns, but cannot dignify;
As northern lights, in glittering legions driven,
Embellish, not exalt, the starry Heaven:
Say Thou, for well thou know'st the art divine
To guide the fancy, and the soul refine,
What heights of excellence must he ascend,
Who longs to claim a Blacklock for his friend;
Who longs to emulate thy tuneful art;
But more thy meek simplicity of heart;
But more thy virtue patient, undismay'd,
At once though malice and mischance invade;
And, nor by learn'd nor priestly pride confin'd,
Thy zeal for truth, and love of human kind.
Like thee, with sweet ineffable control,
Teach me to rouse or soothe th' impassion'd soul,
And breathe the luxury of social woes;
Ah! ill-exchanged for all that mirth bestows.
Ye slaves of mirth, renounce your boasted plan,
For know, 'tis Sympathy exalts the man.
But, midst the festive bower, or echoing hall,
Can Riot listen to soft Pity's call?
Rude he repels the soul-ennobling guest,
And yields to selfish joy his harden'd breast.
Teach me thine artless harmony of song,
Sweet, as the vernal warblings borne along
Arcadia's myrtle groves; ere art began,
With critic glance malevolent, to scan
Bold nature's generous charms, display'd profuse
In each warm cheek, and each enraptur'd muse.
Then had not Fraud impos'd, in Fashion's name,
For freedom lifeless form, and pride for shame;
And, for th' o'erflowings of a heart sincere,
The feature fix'd, untarnish'd with a tear;
The cautious, slow, and unenliven'd eye,
And breast inur'd to check the tender sigh.
Then love, unblam'd, indulg'd the guiltless smile;
Deceit they fear'd not, for they knew not guile.
The social sense unaw'd, that scorn'd to own
The curb of law, save nature's law alone,
To godlike aims, and godlike actions fir'd;
And the full energy of thought inspir'd;
And the full dignity of pleasure, given
T' exalt desire, and yield a taste of heaven.
Hail, redolent of heaven, delights sublime!
Hail, blooming days, the days of nature's prime!
How throbs the tir'd and harass'd heart, to prove
Your scenes of pure tranquillity and love!
But even to fancy fate that bliss denies;
For lo, in endless night the vision dies!
Ah, how unlike these scenes of rage and strife,
Darkening to horror the bleak waste of life!
Where, all inverted nature's kindly plan,
Man domineers, the scourge and curse of man.
Where, haply, bosom'd in tempestuous floods,
Or dark untrodden maze of boundless woods,
If yet some land inviolate remain,
Nor dread th' oppressor's rod, nor tyrant's chain;
Nor dread the more inglorious fetters, wrought
By hireling sophistry t' enslave the thought:
'Tis there, 'tis only there, where boastful fame
Ne'er stunn'd the tingling ear with Europe's name.
Too long, O Europe, have thy oceans roll'd,
To glut thy lust of power, and lust of gold;
Too long, by glory's empty lure decoy'd,
Thy haughty sons have triumph'd and destroy'd:
Or led by reasoning pride afar to roam,
Where truth's false mimic haunts the sheltering gloom,
Have plunged in cheerless night the wilder'd mind,
Th' abodes of peace for ever left behind.
Unwise, unblest, your own, and nature's foes;
O yet be still, and give the world repose!
Say, is it fame to dare the deed of death?
Is glory nought but flattery's purchas'd breath?
True praise, can trembling slaves, can fools bestow?
Can that be joy, which works another's woe?
Can that be knowledge, which in doubt decays?
Can truth reside in disappointment's maze?——
But quench thy kindling zeal, presumptuous strain;
Thy zeal how impotent! thy plaint how vain!
Hope not thy voice can tame the tempest's rage,
Or check in prone career a headlong age.
Far different themes must animate their song,
Who pant to shine the favourites of a throng.
Go, thou fond fool, thou slave to Nature's charms,
Whose heart the cause of injur'd Truth alarms;
Go, herd in Fashion's sleek and simpering train;
And watch the workings of her pregnant brain,
Prepar'd a sycophant's applause to pay,
As each abortive monster crawls to day.
Smit with the painted puppetshow of state,
Go learn to gaze, and wonder at the great.
Go learn with courtly reverence to admire
A taste in toys, a genius in attire,
Music of titles, dignity of show,
The parrot-courtier, and the monkey-beau;
And all the equipage of sticks, and strings,
And clouts, and nicknames—merchandise of kings.
Or, to amuse the loitering hour of peace,
When slander, wit, and spleen from troubling cease,
Warble th' unmeaning hymn in Folly's ear;
Such hymns unthinking Folly loves to hear.
Smooth flow thy lays, infusing as they roll
A deep oblivious lethargy of soul:
Let rill and gale glide liquidly along,
While not one ruffling thought obstructs the song;
So shall the gallant and the gay rehearse
The gentle strain, and call it charming verse.
But if an ampler field thine ardour claim,
Even realms and empires to resound thy name;
Strive not on Fancy's soaring wing to rise;
The plodding rabble gaze not on the skies;
Far humbler regions bound their grovelling view,
And humbler tracts their minion must pursue.
There are, who, grabbling in the putrid lake,
The glittering ore from filth and darkness rake;
Like spoils from Politics thou may'st derive:
The theme is dirty, dark, and lucrative.
Yet ah! even here the spoils are hard to win,
For strong and subtle are thy foes within.
The pangs of sentiment, the qualms of taste,
And shame, dire inmate of the Scribbler's breast,
The stings of conscience, and the throbs of pride,
(Hard task) must all be vanquish'd or defy'd.
Then go, whate'er thy wit, whate'er thy style,
Defame the good, and deify the vile;
Fearless and frontless flounce into renown,
For mobs and prudes by impudence are won.
Though Providence, still merciful and just,
Who dooms the snake to wallow in the dust,
Oft curb with grovelling impotence of mind
The venal venom of the rancorous kind;
Yet fear not; Faction's torch of sulphurous gleam
Shall fire the heart that feels not Fancy's beam.
Thus ... arose distinguish'd in the throng,
Thus Bufo plied a profitable song.
Proceed, Great Years, with steady glare to shine
Where guilt and folly bend at Fashion's shrine;
And ye, the vain and shameless of our days,
Approach with songs, and worship in the blaze.
For him, alas! who never learn'd the art
To stifle conscience, and a throbbing heart;
Who, though too proud to mingle in the fray
Whence truth and virtue bear no palms away,
Yet views with pity Folly's bustling scene,
Th' ambitious sick with hope, the rich with spleen,
The great exulting in a joyless prize,
Yea pities even the fop he must despise;——
For him what then remains?—The humble shed,
Th' ennobling converse of the awful Dead,
Beauty's pure ray diffus'd from Nature's face,
Fancy's sweet charm, and Truth's majestic grace.
Truth, not of hard access, or threatening mien,
As by the vain unfeeling wrangler seen;
But bland and gentle as the early ray,
That gilds the wilderness, and lights the way;
The messenger of joy to man below,
Friend of our frailty, solace of our woe.
Thus by Heaven's bounty rich shall he repine,
If others in the toys of Fortune shine?
Needs he a title to exalt his race,
Who from th' Eternal his descent can trace?
Or fame's loud trump to stun him to repose,
Whose soul resign'd no guilty tumult knows?
To roam with toil, in restless uproar hurl'd,
One little corner of a little world;
Can this enlarge or dignify the soul,
Whose wing unwearied darts from pole to pole?
Can glowworms glitter on the car of morn,
Or gold the progeny of heaven adorn?
How long, enamour'd of fictitious joy,
Shall false desire the lavish'd hour employ!
How long with random steps shall mortals roam,
Unknown their path, and more unknown their home!
Ah! still delusive the vain pleasure flies,
Or, grasp'd, insults our baffled hope, and dies.
Meanwhile behind, with renovated force,
Care and disgust pursue our slackening course,
And shall o'ertake; even in the noon of age,
Long ere the sting of Anguish cease to rage,
And long ere Death, sole friend of the distrest,
Dismiss the pilgrim to eternal rest.
Thus, wayward hope still wandering from within,
Lur'd by the phantoms of th' external scene;
We scorn, what heaven our only bliss design'd
The humble triumph of a tranquil mind;
And that alone pursue which Fortune brings,
Th' applause of multitudes, or smile of kings.
But ah! can these, or those afford delight?
Can man be happy in his Maker's spite?
Vain thankless man, averse to Nature's sway,
Feels every moment that he must obey.
Close and more closely clasp the stubborn chains,
And each new struggle rouses keener pains.
Thus stung with appetite, with anguish torn,
Urged by despair still more and more forlorn,
Till each fantastic hope expire in woe,
And the cold cheerless heart forget to glow,
We perish, muttering this unrighteous strain,
"Joy was not made for man, and life is vain."
Sweet peace of heart, from false desire refin'd,
That pour'st elysian sunshine on the mind,
O come, bid each tumultuous wish be still,
And bend to nature's law each froward will.
Let Hope's wild wing ne'er stoop to Fortune's sphere;
For terror, anguish, discontent are there;
But soar with strong and steady flight sublime,
Where disappointment never dar'd to climb.
O come, serenely gay, and with thee bring
The vital breath of heaven's eternal spring;
Th' amusive dream of blameless fancy born,
The calm oblivious night, and sprightly morn.
Bring Resignation, undebas'd with fear;
And Melancholy, serious, not severe;
And Fortitude, by chance nor time controll'd,
Meek with the gentle, with the haughty bold;
Devotion deck'd in smiles of filial love;
And Thought, conversing with the worlds above.
So shall my days nor vain nor joyless roll,
Nor with regret survey th' approaching goal;
Too happy, if I gain that noblest prize,
The well-earn'd favour of the Good and Wise.