Proud of our lyric Galaxy, I hear Of faded Genius with supreme disdain; As when we see the Miser bend insane O'er his full coffers, and in accents drear Deplore imagin'd want;--and thus appear To me those moody Censors, who complain, As [1]Shaftsbury plain'd in a now _boasted_ reign, That "POESY had left our darken'd sphere."

Whence may the present stupid dream be traced That now she shines not as in days foregone?

Perchance neglected, often shine in waste Her LIGHTS, from number into confluence run, More than when _thinly_ in th' horizon placed Each Orb shone separate, and appear'd a Sun.

1: Of the Poets, who were cotemporary with Lord Shaftsbury, Dryden, Cowley, Pope, Prior, Congreve, Gay, Addison, &c. in the Period which _this_ Age styles AUGUSTAN, his Lordship speaks with _sovereign scorn_. In his Characteristics he, without making any exception, labors to prove, that the compositions of Dryden are uniformly contemptible. See his advice to an Author in the second Volume of the Characteristics, and also his miscellaneous reflections in the third Volume; "If," says he to the authors, "your Poets are still to be _Mr. Bayses_, and your prose writers _Sir Rogers_, without offering at a _better_ manner, must it follow that the manner is good, and the wit genuine?"

Thus it is that the jealousy People of literary fame often feel of each other, produces the foolish, and impolitic desire of decrying the general pretensions of the Age to Genius. Their narrow selfishness leads them to _betray_ the common cause, which it is their _true_ interest to _support_. They persuade the credulous Many, with whom envy of superior talents increases their willingness to despise, that Imagination is become enervated; designing, however, to have it understood, that in their individual instance exists the sole exception,

"For they wou'd each bestride the narrow world Like a Colossus."

SONNET XXII.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

You, whose dull spirits feel not the fine glow Enthusiasm breathes, no more of light Perceive ye in rapt POESY, tho' bright In Fancy's richest colouring, than can flow From jewel'd treasures in the central night Of their deep caves.--You have no _Sun_ to show Their inborn radiance pure.--Go, Snarlers, go; Nor your defects of feeling, and of sight, To charge upon the POET thus presume, Ye lightless minds, whate'er of t.i.tle proud, Scholar, or Sage, or Critic, ye a.s.sume, Arraigning his high claims with censure loud, Or sickly scorn; _yours_, _yours_ is all the cloud, Gems cannot sparkle in the midnight Gloom.

SONNET XXIII.

TO MISS E. S.

Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown, That the brook's verge is green;--and bid thee hear, In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear, At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone, Choiring [1]the hours of prime? and call thine ear To the gay viol dinning in the dale, With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone To merry Shearer's dance;--or jest retail From festal board, from choral roofs the song; And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile The caustic memory of a cruel wrong?-- Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile, And bid me still the effort kind prolong; But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile.

1: "While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime." MILTON'S PAR. LOST.

SONNET XXIV.

TRANSLATION.

Behold the Day an image of the Year!

The Year an image of our life's short span!

Morn, like the Spring, with growing light began, Spring, like our Youth, with joy, and beauty fair; Noon picturing Summer;--Summer's ardent sphere Manhood's gay portrait.--Eve, like Autumn, wan, Autumn resembling faded age in Man; Night, with its silence, and its darkness drear, Emblem of Winter's frore and gloomy reign, When torpid lie the vegetative Powers; Winter, so shrunk, so cold, reminds us plain Of the mute Grave, that o'er the dim Corse lours; There shall the Weary rest, nor ought remain To the pale Slumberer of Life's checker'd hours.

SONNET XXV.

[1]PETRARCH to VAUCLUSE.

Fortunate Vale! exulting Hill! dear Plain!

Where morn, and eve, my soul's fair Idol stray'd, While all your winds, that murmur'd thro' the glade, Stole her sweet breath; yet, yet your paths retain Prints of her step, by fount, whose floods remain In depth unfathom'd; 'mid the rocks, that shade, With cavern'd arch, their sleep.--Ye streams, that play'd Around her limbs in Summer's ardent reign, The soft resplendence of those azure eyes Ting'd ye with living light.--The envied claim These blest distinctions give, my lyre, my sighs, My songs record; and, from their Poet's flame, Bid this wild Vale, its Rocks, and Streams arise, a.s.sociates still of their bright MISTRESS' fame.

1: This Sonnet is not a Translation or Paraphrase, but is written in the Character of Petrarch, and in imitation of his manner.

SONNET XXVI.

O partial MEMORY! Years, that fled too fast, From thee in more than pristine beauty rise, Forgotten all the transient tears and sighs Somewhat that dimm'd their brightness! Thou hast chas'd Each hovering mist from the soft Suns, that grac'd Our fresh, gay morn of Youth;--the Heart's high prize, Friendship,--and all that charm'd us in the eyes Of yet unutter'd Love.--So pleasures past, That in thy crystal prism thus glow sublime, Beam on the gloom'd and disappointed Mind When Youth and Health, in the chill'd grasp of Time, Shudder and fade;--and cypress buds we find Ordain'd Life's blighted roses to supply, While but _reflected_ shine the golden lights of Joy.

SONNET XXVII.

See wither'd WINTER, bending low his head; His ragged locks stiff with the h.o.a.ry dew; His eyes, like frozen lakes, of livid hue; His train, a sable cloud, with murky red Streak'd.--Ah! behold his nitrous breathings shed Petrific death!--Lean, wailful Birds pursue, On as he sweeps o'er the dun lonely moor, Amid the battling blast of all the Winds, That, while their sleet the climbing Sailor blinds, Lash the white surges to the sounding sh.o.r.e.

So com'st thou, WINTER, finally to doom The sinking year; and with thy ice-dropt sprays, Cypress and yew, engarland her pale tomb, Her vanish'd hopes, and aye-departed days.

SONNET XXVIII.

O, GENIUS! does thy Sun-resembling beam To the internal eyes of Man display In clearer prospect, the momentous way That leads to peace? Do they not rather seem Dazzled by l.u.s.tres in continual stream, Till night they find in such _excessive_ day?

Art thou not p.r.o.ne, with too intense a ray, To gild the hope improbable, the dream Of fancied good?--or bid the sigh upbraid Imaginary evils, and involve All real sorrow in a darker shade?

To fond credulity, to rash resolve Dost thou not prompt, till reason's sacred aid And fair discretion in thy fires dissolve?

SONNET XXIX.

SUBJECT CONTINUED.

If GENIUS has its danger, grief and pain, That Common-Sense escapes, yet who wou'd change The Powers, thro' Nature, and thro' Art that range, To keep the bounded, tho' more safe domain Of _moderate_ Intellect, where all we gain Is cold approvance? where the sweet, the strange, Soft, and sublime, in vivid interchange, Nor glad the spirit, nor enrich the brain.

Destructive shall we deem yon noon-tide blaze If transiently the eye, o'er-power'd, resign Distinct perception?--Shall we rather praise The Moon's wan light?--with owlish choice incline That Common-Sense her lunar lamp shou'd raise Than that the _solar_ fires of GENIUS shine?