“At this season,[126] when the leaves are falling fast, booksellers, as well as trees, get cold-hearted—they will not purchase; nor can I blame them, for if the tide of public opinion sets in against poetry, they would be wrong to buy what they cannot sell. Yet they might, some of them at least, treat an author more respectfully; they might look at his work, it would not take them a long time to do so; and they could then tell if it would suit them or not. Unfortunately, a manuscript need but be in verse, and it will be worth nothing. I fancy the booksellers are like the horse in the team, they have carried the poet’s bells so long that they have become weary of the jingle. Be this as it may, I have tried, and could not get a purchaser. It was true I had published before, but my productions came out unaided, and remained unnoticed. I had no patron’s name to herald mine. I sent copies to the Reviews, but, with the exception of the Literary Chronicle and Gentleman’s Magazine, they were unnoticed. The doors to publicity being thus closed against me, what could I do, but fail, as better bards have done before me——”
There is an affecting claim in the versified conclusion of the preface.
“’Tis done! the work of many a pensive hour
Is o’er: the fruit is gather’d from the tree,
Warm’d by care’s sun, and by affliction’s shower
Water’d and ripen’d in obscurity.
Few hopes have I that it may welcome be;
Yet do I not give way to black despair;
Small barks have liv’d through many a stormy sea,
Small birds wing’d far their way through boundless air
And joy’s sweet rose tow’rd o’er the weeds of envious care.
“With these feelings I submit my poem to notice, and but request such patronage as it may deserve.”
The following invocation, which commences the poem, will arrest attention.
“God! whom my fathers worshipp’d, God of all,
From mid thy throne of brightness hear my call:
And though unworthiest I of earthly things,
To wake the harp of David’s silent strings;
Though, following not the light which in my path
Shone bright to guide me, I have brav’d thy wrath,
And walk’d with other men in darkness, yet,
If penitent, my heart its sins regret—
If, bending lowly at thy shrine, I crave
Thy aid to guide my bark o’er life’s rough wave,
Till all the shoals of error safely past,
In truth’s calm haven I repose at last:
O, let that sweet, that unextinguish’d beam
Which fondly came to wake me from my dream,
Again appear my wand’ring steps to guide,
Lest my soul sink, and perish in its pride.
I ask not, all-mysterious as Thou art,
To see Thee, but to feel Thee in my heart;
Unfetter’d by the various rules and forms
That bound the actions of earth’s subtle worms,
From worldly arts and prejudices free,
To know that Thou art God, and worship Thee.
And, whether on the tempest’s sweeping wing
Thou comest, or the breath that wakes the spring,
If in the thunder’s roar thy voice I hear,
Or the loud blast that marks the closing year;
Or in the gentle music of the breeze,
Stirring the leaves upon the forest trees;
Still let me feel thy presence, let me bear
In mind that Thou art with me every where.
And oh! since inspiration comes from Thee
To mortal mind, like rain unto the tree,
Bidding it flourish and put forth its fruit,
So bid my soul, whose voice has long been mute,
Awaken; give me words of fire to sing
The deeds and fall of Israel’s hapless king.”
Perhaps the reader may be further propitiated in the author’s behalf by the
“Dedication.”
“To the Rev. Christopher Benson, M. A. Prebendary of Worcester, and Rector of St. Giles in the Fields.