Poetry.

by Thomas Oldham.

PREFACE.

The writer of the following pages has been in the habit, for many years, of amusing himself with the composition of Poetry. Often has he been advised by his friends to publish; and at length, influenced by their persuasion, and feeling a sort of paternal fondness for the offspring of his own brain, he ventures to present this small volume to the notice of the Public.

It contains Poems of many different kinds, composed, of course, in as many varieties of style; and the author has exerted his best endeavours to render them worthy of approbation. The present times--he is well aware--are unfavourable for the publication of poetical works. The booksellers complain generally of the little demand for them.

Nevertheless, it is very improbable that Poetry,--if excellent, (as it ought to be to deserve the name,) should ever be totally neglected. The seed of poetic taste is sown by the hand of Nature in the souls of all men; though in a small number only it is by culture brought to maturity.

The author has exalted ideas of Poetry, He deems it--decidedly--the first of the Fine Arts. It is the most intellectual,--the most comprehensive,--the most powerful,--the most delightful,--and, also,--hear it, Utilitarians!--the most useful. In remote antiquity, as is well known, it was chiefly instrumental in teaching and civilising the then-barbarous human race. To lure their wild minds into reflection, it invested truth and morality with the many-coloured garb of Fiction, and introduced them, through their delighted imagination, to their understanding and their heart; while, by the charm of harmonious numbers, it soothed their fierce and licentious pa.s.sions into submission to the laws of social life. It was believed to have something divine in its nature, and was universally held in the highest veneration. From ancient times, even to this day, it has continued to be a favourite study with many of the most ill.u.s.trious characters.

Finally,--and let this be for ever remembered, as conferring on it the highest honour! Poetry has been deemed worthy by the Sacred Writers to be made an instrument in the cause of Religion; and by its sublime descriptions it has a.s.sisted human imagination in forming grand, and awful conceptions of the Almighty Creator!

Park-Fields, Allesley, near Coventry, 22d January, 1840.

CONTENTS.

Page

The Muse's triumph 1 Elegy on the Death of Chatterton 5 Sylvia's Elegy on her dead Canary-bird 9 To Julia 13 Ditto 15 On seeing Mademoiselle ***** dance, &c. 17 Sonnet, on taking a favourite walk after recovery from sickness 20 Sonnet, written on my Birth Day 22 Eclogue--Spring 23 Eclogue--Summer 33 Epistle to a Friend 43 To Delille 48 Ode written on the night of the illuminations for Lord Howe's Victory on 1st June, 1793 51 Ode to Horror 57 Ode to Hope 62 Ode to the Duke of Wellington 66 Description of a Conflagration 80 To Spring 88 To Winter 93 The desperation and madness of Guilt 99 On hearing the Nightingale 103 To Paganini 108 To Fancy 111 A Summer-Evening 116 Prologue 122 Ditto 126 Epilogue 129 Lines on the death of the Rev. Mr. B ***, supposed to be written by his Sister 134 Lines to an Infidel, &c. 136 Lines on hearing a Young Gentleman, &c. 138 Lines to a Pedantic Critic 140 Lines on Shakspeare 142 Lines on Milton 145 Anacreontic 147 Ditto 149 Ditto 152 Song 157 Ditto 158 Song to Bacchus 159 On seeing the Apollo Belvidere 162 Inscription for ditto 162 Epitaph on Nelson 163 Ditto on Howard 164 Ditto on Voltaire 165 Ditto on Napoleon 166 Ditto on Lord Byron 168 Ditto on Sir Samuel Romilly 170 Ditto on Wilberforce 171 Epitaph 172 Translation from Anacreon 173 Epigrams from 174 to 200

THE MUSE'S TRIUMPH.

What adverse pa.s.sions rule my changeful breast, With hope exalted, or by fear deprest!

Now, by the Muse inspired, I s.n.a.t.c.h the lyre, And proudly to poetic fame aspire; Now dies the sacred flame, my pride declines, And diffidence the immortal wreath resigns.

Friends, void of taste, warm advocates for trade, With shafts of ridicule, my peace invade: 'A Poet!'--thus they sneeringly exclaim-- 'Well may you court that glorious, envied name; For, sure, no common joys his lot attend; None but himself those joys can comprehend.

O, superhuman bliss, employ sublime, To scribble fiction, and to jingle rhyme!

Caged in some muse-behaunted, Grub-street garret, To prate his feeders' promptings, like a parrot!

And what, though want and scorn his life a.s.sail?

What, though he rave in Bedlam, starve in jail?

Such trifling ills the Bard may well despise; Sure of immortal honour when he dies.

But, seriously--the advice of friendship hear: Stop short in your poetical career; O! quell the frenzies of your fever'd brain, And turn, at Wisdom's call, to trade and gain,'

Absorb'd in pa.s.sive sadness, I comply; Turn from the Muse my disenchanted eye, And deign to study, as my friends persuade, The little, money-getting arts of trade.

But soon the G.o.ddess, fired with high disdain To see me woo the yellow strumpet, Gain, Resuming all her beauty, all her power, Returns to triumph in the vacant hour; Weakly reluctant, on her charms I gaze, Trembling, I feel her fascinating lays; Roused from ign.o.ble dreams, my wondering soul Springs to the well-known bliss, regardless of control.

Say then, ye blind, profane! who dare to blame The heaven-born Poet, and his thirst of fame; Ye slaves of Mammon! whose low minds behold No fair, no great, no good, in aught but gold; Say! will the Captive of tyrannic sway, Restored to genial air, and boundless day, Turn to his dungeon's suffocating night?

Will the proud Eagle, who with daring flight Sublimely soars against the solar blaze, And eyes the inspiring G.o.d with raptured gaze, Stoop from his native kingdom in the sky, To share the breathings of mortality?

How, then, can he, whose breast the Muse inspires, Restrain his soul, or quench those hallow'd fires?

How can he quit the world of mental bliss, For all the riches,--miseries!--of this?

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

When to the region of the tuneful Nine, Rapt in poetic vision, I retire, Listening intent to catch the strain divine-- What a dead silence hangs upon the lyre!

Lo! with disorder'd locks, and streaming eyes, Stray the fair daughters of immortal song; Aonia's realm resounds their plaintive cries, And all her murmuring rills the grief prolong.

O say! celestial maids, what cause of wo?

Why cease the rapture-breathing strains to soar?

A solemn pause ensues:--then falters low The voice of sorrow: 'Chatterton's no more!'

'Child of our fondest hopes! whose natal hour Saw each poetic star indulgent shine; E'en Phoebus' self o'erruled with kindliest power, And cried: "ye Nine rejoice! the Birth is mine."

'Soon did he drink of this inspiring spring; In yonder bower his lisping notes he tried; We tuned his tongue in choir with us to sing, And watch'd his progress with delight and pride.

'With doting care we form'd his ripening mind, Blest with high gifts to mortals rarely known; Taught him to range, by matter unconfined, And claim the world of fancy for his own.

'The voice of Glory call'd him to the race; Upsprung the wondrous Boy with ardent soul, Started at once with more than human pace, And urged his flight, impatient for the goal:

'Hope sung her siren lay; the listening Youth Felt all his breast with rapturous frenzy fired, He hail'd, and boasted, as prophetic truth, The bright, triumphant vision Hope inspired:

'But short, alas, his transport! vain his boast!

The illusive dream soon vanishes in shade; Soon dire Adversity's relentless host, Neglect, Want, Sorrow, Shame, his peace invade:

'Glad Envy hisses, Ridicule and Scorn Lash with envenom'd scourge his wounded pride; Ah! see him, with distracted mien forlorn, Rush into solitude his pangs to hide.

'There to the Youth, disguised like Hope, Despair Presents the death-fraught chalice and retires: In vain, alas! Religion cries, forbear!

Desperate he seizes, drains it, and expires.'

ELEGY, (WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF A YOUNG LADY.) SYLVIA ON HER DEAD CANARY-BIRD.

Sweet little warbler! art thou dead?

And must I hear thy notes no more?

Then will I make thy funeral bed; Then shall the Muse thy loss deplore.

Beneath the turf in yonder bower, Where oft I've listened to thy lay, Forgetting care, while many an hour In music sweetly stole away;--

There will I bid thy relics rest; Then sadly sigh my last farewell; But long, oh! long within my breast Thy memory, poor bird! shall dwell.