STILL must I hear?-shall hoarse* FITZGERALD
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch reviews
Should dub me scribbler and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme-I'll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.
Oh! Nature's noblest gift-my gray goose quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
"Semper ego auditor tantum? nunquamne reponam "Vexatus toties rauci Theseide Codri?"
Mr. Fitzgerald, facetiously termed by Cobbett the "Small "Beer Poet," inflicts his annual tribute of verses on the "Literary Fund;" not content with writing, he spouts in person after the company have imbibed a reasonable quantity of bad port, to enable them to sustain the operation.
The pen foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose,
Though nymphs forsake, and critics may deride,
The lover's solace, and the author's pride.
What wits! what poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to he forgotten quite,
With all the pages which 'twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet's shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day, no common theme,
No eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires-our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.
When Vice triumphant holds her sovereign sway,
And men through life her willing slaves obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Unfolds her motley store to suit the time;
When knaves and fools combin'd o'er all prevail,
When justice halts, and right begins to fail,
E'en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule though not from law.
Such is the force of Wit! but not belong To me the arrows of satyric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e'en for me to chace,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
*Cid Hamet Benengeli, promises repose to his pen in the last chapter of Don Quixote. Oh! that our voluminous gentry would follow the example of Cid Hamet Benengeli.
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed Pegasus !-ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!-have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A school-boy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed-older children do the same.
'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print ;
A book's a book, although there's nothing in't.
Not that a Title's sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMBE must own, since his Patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.*
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,†
Though now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review :
Not seek great JEFFREY's, yet like him will be
Self-constituted judge of Poesy.
A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure, Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skilled to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punning, call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie, 'twill seem a lucky hit,
Shrink not from blasphemy, 'twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling-pass your proper jest,
And stand a critic hated yet caressed.
*This ingenious youth is mentioned more particularly, with his production, in another place.
† In the Edinburgh Review,
And shall we own such judgment? no-as soon Seek roses in December-ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman, or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in eritics who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY's heart, or LAMBE's Baotian head.*
To these young tyrants, † by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the throne of Taste;
To these when authors bend in humble awe
And hail their voice as truth, their word as law:
While these are censors, 'twould be sin to spare;
While such are critics, why should I forbear?
But yet so near, all modern worthies run,
'Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our bards and censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, why I venture o'er The path, which POPE and GIFFORD trod before? If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
* Messrs. Jeffrey and Lambe are the Alpha and Omega, the first and last of the Edinburgh Review; the others are inentioned hereafter.
+"Stulta est Clementia, cum tot ubique
-occurras perituræ parcere charts.
"Cur tamen hoe libeat potius decurrere campo
"Per quem magnus equos Aurunca flexit alumnus:
Si vacat, et placidi rationem admittitis, edam."
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy isle, a POPE's pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain ;
A polished nation's praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people's, as the poet's fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE's scenes could cheer, or OTWAY's
For Nature then an English audience felt-
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire's self allow,
No dearth of bards can be complained of now:
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,
And Printers' devils shake their weary bones,
While SOUTHEY's Epics cram the creaking shelves,
And LITTLE's Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.
Thus saith the Preacher ;*" nought beneath the sun
Is new," yet still from change to change we run,
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, Gas
In turns appear to make the vulgar stare
Till the swoln bubble bursts-and all is air!
Nor less new schools of poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O'er taste awhile these pseudo-bards prevail;
Each country book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;
|