EPODE II

The Voice had ceas'd, the Phantoms fled, Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread.

And even when the dream of night Renews the vision to my sight, Cold sweat-damps gather on my limbs, My Ears throb hot, my eye-b.a.l.l.s start, My Brain with horrid tumult swims, Wild is the Tempest of my Heart; And my thick and struggling breath Imitates the toil of Death!

No uglier agony confounds The Soldier on the war-field spread, When all foredone with toil and wounds Death-like he dozes among heaps of Dead!

(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled, And the Night-wind clamours hoa.r.s.e; See! the startful Wretch's head Lies pillow'd on a Brother's Corse!) O doom'd to fall, enslav'd and vile, O ALBION! O my mother Isle!

Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers; Thy gra.s.sy Upland's gentle Swells Echo to the Bleat of Flocks; (Those gra.s.sy Hills, those glitt'ring Dells Proudly ramparted with rocks) And Ocean 'mid his uproar wild Speaks safely to his Island-child.

Hence for many a fearless age Has social Quiet lov'd thy sh.o.r.e; Nor ever sworded Foeman's rage Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore.

Disclaim'd of Heaven! mad Av'rice at thy side, At coward distance, yet with kindling pride-- Safe 'mid thy herds and corn-fields thou hast stood, And join'd the yell of Famine and of Blood.

All nations curse thee: and with eager wond'ring Shall hear DESTRUCTION like a vulture, scream!

Strange-eyed DESTRUCTION, who with many a dream Of central flames thro' nether seas upthund'ring Soothes her fierce solitude, yet (as she lies Stretch'd on the marge of some fire-flashing fount In the black chamber of a sulphur'd mount,) If ever to her lidless dragon eyes, O ALBION! thy predestin'd ruins rise, The Fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, Mutt'ring distemper'd triumph in her charmed sleep.

Away, my soul, away!

In vain, in vain, the birds of warning sing-- And hark! I hear the famin'd brood of prey Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind!

Away, my Soul, away!

I unpartaking of the evil thing, With daily prayer, and daily toil Soliciting my scant and blameless soil, Have wail'd my country with a loud lament.

Now I recenter my immortal mind In the long sabbath of high self-content; Cleans'd from the fleshly Pa.s.sions that bedim G.o.d's Image, Sister of the Seraphim.

WITHER'S "_SUPERSEDEAS_ TO ALL THEM, WHOSE CUSTOME IT IS, WITHOUT ANY DESERVING, TO IMPORTUNE _AUTHORS_ TO GIVE UNTO THEM THEIR _BOOKES_"

FROM A COLLECTION OP EMBLEMS, 1635

(See _Letter_ 35, _page_ 123)

It merits not your Anger, nor my Blame, That, thus I have inscrib'd this _Epigram_: For, they who know me, know, that, _Bookes_ thus large, And, fraught with _Emblems_, do augment the Charge Too much above my _Fortunes_, to afford A _Gift_ so costly, for an _Aierie-word_: And, I have prov'd, your _Begging-Qualitie_, So forward, to oppresse my _Modestie_; That, for my future ease, it seemeth fit, To take some Order, for preventing it.

And, peradventure, other Authors may, Find Cause to thanke me for't, another day.

These many years, it hath your _Custom_ bin, That, when in my possession, you have seene A _Volume_, of mine owne, you did no more, But, _Aske_ and _Take_; As if you thought my store Encreast, without my Cost; And, that, by _Giving_, (Both _Paines_ and Charges too) I got my living; Or, that, I find the _Paper_ and the _Printing_, As easie to me, as the _Bookes_ Inventing.

If, of my _Studies_, no esteeme you have, You, then abuse the _Courtesies_ you crave; And, are _Unthankfull_. If you prize them ought, Why should my _Labour_, not enough be thought, Unlesse, I adde _Expences_ to my paines?

The _Stationer_, affoords for little Gaines, The _Bookes_ you crave: And, He, as well as I Might give away, what you repine to buy: For, what hee _Gives_, doth onely _Mony_ Cost, In mine, both _Mony_, _Time_, and _Wit_ is lost.

What I shall Give, and what I have bestow'd On Friends, to whom, I _Love_, or _Service_ ow'd, I grudge not; And, I thinke it is from them, Sufficient, that such _Gifts_ they do esteeme: Yea, and, it is a _Favour_ too, when they Will take these _Trifles_, my large _Dues_ to pay; (Or, Aske them at my hands, when I forget, That, I am to their _Love_, so much in debt.) But, this inferres not, that, I should bestow The like on all men, who my _Name_ do know; Or, have the Face to aske: For, then, I might, Of _Wit_ and _Mony_, soone be begger'd, quite.

So much, already, hath beene _Beg'd_ away, (For which, I neither had, nor looke for pay) As being valu'd at the common Rate, Had rais'd, _Five hundred Crownes_, in my Estate.

Which, (if I may confesse it) signifies, That, I was farre more _Liberall_, than _Wise_.

But, for the time to come, resolv'd I am, That, till without denyall (or just blame) I may of those, who _Cloth_ and _Clothes_ do make, (As oft as I shall need them) _Aske_, and _Take_; You shall no more befoole me. Therfore, _Pray_ _Be Answer'd_; And, henceforward, keepe away.

Pa.s.sAGE FROM GEORGE DYER'S "POETIC SYMPATHIES"

FROM _POEMS_, 1800

(_See Letter_ 83, _page_ 218)

Yet, Muse of Shakspeare[1], whither wouldst thou fly, With hurried step, and dove-like trembling eye?

Thou, as from heav'n, that couldst each grace dispense, Fancy's rich stream, and all the stores of sense; Give to each virtue face and form divine, Make dulness feel, and vulgar souls refine, Wake all the pa.s.sions into restless life, Now calm to softness, and now rouze to strife?

Sick of misjudging, that no sense can hit, Scar'd by the jargon of unmeaning wit, The senseless splendour of the tawdry stage[2], The loud long plaudits of a trifling age, Where dost thou wander? Exil'd in disgrace, Find'st thou in foreign realms some happier place[3]?

Or dost thou still though banish'd from the town, In Britain love to linger, though unknown?

Light Hymen's torch through ev'ry blooming grove,[4]

And tinge each flow'ret with the blush of love?

Sing winter, summer-sweets, the vernal air, Or the soft Sofa, to delight the fair[5]?

Laugh, e'en at kings, and mock each prudish rule, The merry motley priest of ridicule[6]?

With modest pencil paint the vernal scene, The rustic lovers, and the village green?

Bid Mem'ry, magic child, resume his toy, And Hope's fond vot'ry seize the distant joy[7]?

Or dost thou soar, in youthful ardour strong, And bid some female hero live in song[8]?

Teach fancy how through nature's walks to stray, And wake, to simpler theme, the lyric lay[9]?

Or steal from beauty's lip th' ambrosial kiss, Paint the domestic grief, or social bliss[10]?

With patient step now tread o'er rock and hill, Gaze on rough ocean, track the babbling rill[11], Then rapt in thought, with strong poetic eye, Read the great movement of the mighty sky?

Or wilt thou spread the light of Leo's age, And smooth, as woman's guide, Tansillo's page[12]?

Till pleas'd, you make in fair translated song, Odin descend, and rouse the fairy throng[13]?

Recall, employment sweet, thy youthful day, Then wake, at Mithra's call, the mystic lay[14]?

Unfold the Paradise of ancient lore[15], Or mark the shipwreck from the sounding sh.o.r.e?

Now love to linger in the daisied vale, Then rise sublime in legendary tale[16]?

Or, faithful still to nature's sober joy, Smile on the labours of some Farmer's Boy[17]?

Or e'en regardless of the poet's praise, Deck the fair magazine with blooming lays[18]?

Oh! sweetest muse, oh, haste thy wish'd return, See genius droop, and bright-ey'd fancy mourn, Recall to nature's charms an English stage, The guard and glory of a n.o.bler age.

[Footnote 1: It is not meant to say, that even Shakspeare followed invariably a correct and chastized taste, or that he never purchased public applause by offering incense at the shrine of public taste.

Voltaire, in his Essays on Dramatic Poetry, has carried the matter too far; but in many respects his reflections are unquestionably just. In delineating human characters and pa.s.sions, and in the display of the sublimer excellencies of poetry, Shakspeare was unrivalled.

There he our fancy of itself bereaving, Did make us marble with too much conceiving.

MILTON'S SONNET TO SHAKSPEARE.]

[Footnote 2: Pomp and splendour a poor subst.i.tute for genius.]

[Footnote 3: The dramatic muse seems of late years to have taken her residence in Germany. Schiller, Kotzebue, and Goethe, possess great merit both for pa.s.sion and sentiment, and the English nation have done them justice. One or two principles which the French and English critics had too implicitly followed from Aristotle, are indeed not adopted, but have been, I hope, successfully, counteracted by these writers; yet are these dramatists characterised by a wildness bordering on extravagance, attendant on a state of half-civilization. Schiller and Kotzebue, amid some faults, possess great excellencies.

With respect to England, it has long been noticed by very intelligent observers, that the dramatic taste of the present age is vitiated. Pope, who directed very powerful satire against the stage in his time, makes Dulness say in general terms,

Contending theatres our empire raise, Alike their censure, and alike their praise.

It would be the highest arrogance in me to make such an a.s.sertion, with my slender knowledge in these matters; ready too, as I am, to admire some excellent pieces that have fallen in my way; and to affirm, that there is by no means a deficiency of poetic talent in England.

Aristotle observes, that all the parts of the Epic poet are to be found in tragedy, and, consequently, that this species of writing is, of all others, most interesting to men of talents. [Greek: Peri ooiaetikaes]

And baron Kotzebue thinks the theatre the best school of instruction, both in morals and taste, even for children; and that better effects are produced by a play, than by a sermon. See his life, written by himself, just translated by Anne Plumptre.

How much then is it to be wished, that so admirable a mean of amus.e.m.e.nt and instruction might be advanced to its true point of excellence! But the principles laid down by Bishop HURD, though calculated to advance the love of splendour, will not, I suspect, advance the TRUE PROVINCE OF THE DRAMA.]

[Footnote 4: Loves of the Plants, by Dr. Darwin.]

[Footnote 5: The Task, by Cowper; written at the request of a lady. The introductory poem is ent.i.tled, The Sofa.]

[Footnote 6: Dr. Walcot [Wolcot: Peter Pindar], whose poetry is of a farcical and humorous character.]

[Footnote 7: The _Pleasures of Memory_, by Rogers; and the _Pleasures of Hope_, by Campbell.]

[Footnote 8: Joan of Arc, by Southey;--a volume of poems with an introductory sonnet to Mary Wolstonecraft, and a poem, on the praise of woman, breathes the same spirit.]

[Footnote 9: Alludes to the character of a volume of poems, ent.i.tled Lyrical Ballads. Under this head also should be mentioned Smythe's English Lyrics.]

[Footnote 10: Characteristic of a volume of poems, the joint production of Coleridge, Lloyd, and Lamb.]